#like...people say 'I want to study you' when they look at him for MYRIAD reasons ok

[fuckyeahalfredmolina]

...Speaking of Instagram (Or Social Media)

*warning long post ahead*

There’s another GIF at the end of the post

There’s nothing more I hate than people gatekeeping something. Or trying to shove their ideology down other people’s throats. I’m not talking about human rights and beliefs such as feminism or being an LGBTQ+ community ally because these are the things you believe in and stand up for. I’m talking about people projecting their own insecurities on others and trying to police how they think and act. 

There’s a reason the Ask button is disabled (yes I did it on purpose, it’s not a glitch) and the fact that I don’t check the notes nor follow anyone. 

As someone who was in a lot of fandoms on platforms that don’t even exist anymore and witnessed the rise in popularity of multiple celebrities, there are always dumb fans who ruin the fun for the rest. Always. This fandom is no different.

But just before I start, I want to link this study because it will help in understanding what I’m trying to say:

People Who Worship Celebrities Have Lower Cognitive Abilities, Study Suggests

For probably a year now, I’ve come across so many fans who try to forcibly shift the fandom in its entirety to fit their outlook. And try to make Freddino something he is not. This could be done in a respectful manner or even a fun way but no - those type of fans are borderline unhinged to say the least.

I’ve witnessed fights ensuing over trivial matters that are completely based on pure speculations or over things that are just personal opinions. 

How dumb you have to be to get upset over something someone said and it doesn’t harm anyone? How much years of brain development do you need to understand that everyone thinks differently and everyone has the right to say their piece? And most importantly: how hard is it to understand that you don’t have to chime in with your unsolicited opinion over every fucking matter? 

Social media really made people think that they have to have a say in what other people share and that what they think is important. It is not. Especially when a person is in their own space/platform/domain and didn’t specifically ask for opinions. Because of that, I’m not interested in interacting with anyone in this fandom on this platform. I’m just here temporarily to have fun and talk about Freddino in a way I like. It is okay if you don’t like what I share. I’m past the age where I look for social approval especially from people I don’t know. If one thing the internet has taught me is that  anonymity brings out the worst in people.

Previously, there were many message boards and platforms where we gathered as fans of Freddino, most notably IMDb message board (the website had a message board for every single person and every movie) which was one of the best places to talk about Freddino, his work, and life. Back then, it was so much fun! We could discuss anything and share everything we like. Of course there were annoying people, but not the extent that is happening currently. 

I’ve seen sheer absurdity by people who obviously still don't have their shit together or their prefrontal cortex is not fully developed yet or still need years of life experiences. Or probably just dumb. I use the word dumb, not stupid because to me stupid is a term I use for endearment. 

Here are a few things I’ve seen and I was taken aback by the unintelligence that the people exhibited:

-Salma Hayek and Harvey Weinstein:

There was an upsurge in this matter though it happened in 2017 but as you guessed - it’s the new fans who made a big deal out of it. Some blamed Freddino or questioned his stance on this matter or the #MeToo movement in general. Until someone dug up an old video of him talking about it and supporting Salma. Still, some people continue to make a fuss about it. Going around attacking him based on something unrelated to him that happened years ago is ludicrous. 

-Why does Fred talk about p*rn a lot?

Personally I dislike p*rn for myriad of reasons unrelated to religion or stigma (you can Google how predatory the industry is or the psychological effects of p*rn if you want to read more) but if Freddino watches p*rn, what is the problem? He likes to joke around and this topic is fun to him. Also these videos are old so maybe he changed his stance. Either ways, there is no problem unless you view p*rn or s*x workers in a bad light. And frankly that is “A You Problem” you need to keep for yourself. 

-“Don’t sexualize Fred! He is a human!”:

Oohhhh this one is my favorite! While I agree there’s a degree of sexualization happening in Hollywood, it is natural at the same time to find someone sexually attractive. Did we go out of our way to solely sexualize him? Did we stalk and harass him in any way? Are we focusing on his looks and ignoring his career? Do we acknowledge his acting chops or just stare at his titties?

The one person who I’ve seen cry the most about sexualizing Freddino is the same person who has written unhinged posts about meeting Freddino and how they spend their day “Reality Shifting”. Google this term. No seriously, do it and read about it from a psychological standpoint.

-Body Shaming:

This is where a lot of people are projecting their insecurities on Freddino. “Stop talking about his boobs! Fred is not fat! Don’t shame his body!” - when Freddino himself used to joke about nothing but his “moobs” in Spider-Man 2? A lot of his interviews are lost and so many information and websites are not available anymore during the era when the movie was released. He still openly talks about his figure, he’s not ashamed whatsoever. Actually, he comes off as confident. It’s you (I’m using generic you here) who actually have a problem and projecting your problem onto Freddino. Having a meltdown and fighting people because they said Freddino is fat? Guess what? He IS fat! And it’s totally okay. Because that’s how people actually look. He’s normal. He looks like a lot of people around us-- he looks like us.

Social Media really ruined people’s perspective regarding bodies and I’m glad I was born before all that craze (Google Social Media and Body Image). I’m not saying that this problem is exclusive to certain demographic groups or that old(er) people can’t have body image issues because of course they can but I believe when you’re basically born into the era of social media and perfect body depiction, it affects you deeper. This problem is so prevalent now more than ever. So people go around and demand others adhere to certain rules they have put for themselves based on their insecurities or beliefs. You see people on social media with *perfect* bodies and expect everyone who doesn’t look like that to be defenseless or a victim or need special treatment? You may be the one who needs a special treatment and likes to be addressed in a certain way but does that apply to everyone? If a certain word (if it isn’t a slur) hurts you and you don’t like it being used to describe you, does it mean it will hurt another person?

Some people like to argue semantics and say “don’t call him fat, use the term overweight”. It’s the same thing, you’re just projecting and actually defending someone over something he has no problem with.

- The Pronouns Battle:

I’ve seen horrendous fights over what pronouns Freddino uses. Pronouns are important no argue about that, but did he say what pronouns he uses? If he did, then great, if he didn’t, why are you speculating? Why lose your shit fighting people? Hell, why does it matter to you? He can use whatever he likes, why are trying to specifically determine his choice?  This was such an amazingly disgusting thing to witness because it showed me how some people invest in celebrities’ lives and how much they try to forcibly connect to them. 

I mean I did start a silly blog and I’m sort of investing an hour or so daily but I don’t go out of my way fighting people over something that isn’t related to me. It’s one thing to look up to someone famous but it’s a whole different thing to claim they are like you and you have similarities based on your false narratives. This leads me to my next point:

-“I know Fred! I truly do!”:

Nope, you don’t. Yes even if he “changed your life” and even if you really feeeel it in your heart that you do -you don’t. Whether you’re a new fan or an old one, you simply can’t know someone based on what they chose to show the world as an actor and entertainer. Believing you know someone because “you feel it deep down” is such an immature way of dealing with people and this will get you hurt. We all think he’s funny, sweet, gentle, sexy but we can’t claim to actually knowing him as his family and friends do. This is such a weird hill to die on and I’ve seen so many immature people chose to do so.

-Harassing other fans around because “that’s so mean” or they didn’t get the joke:

I once joked that I want to live inside Freddino and I’ll share the rent and utility bills. It’s an obvious joke, right? Right? WRONG! One fan went ballistic on me and cried over a joke they didn’t understand.

Many others try to police how people speak of Freddino and will not accept any criticism or a lighthearted joke or any comment that doesn’t adhere to their own views. God forbid someone isn’t worshiping your favorite actor and sees them as a normal human being with flaws.

And how about you allow people to say what they want, granted that they are not being awful? I’ll never use slurs or insults regarding sensitive matters but it’s totally fine to joke around. I call Freddino many things as a sign of my love and admiration because it is okay. I’m not accusing him of murder or diminishing his value as a human.  If this concept is so hard to grasp and if your prefrontal cortex is not fully developed, please log off or try not to bother people. He’s a grown man and doesn’t need you “defending” him. Both of us are insignificant to him, it’s not like he’ll acknowledge your existence for defending him over something so trivial. God some of you need a lot of growing up to do. I’m pretty sure someone must have had a complete meltdown over one of my posts or will in the future.

Do you know how ya’ll sound like when you take things seriously and start defending a celeb over something everyone else understands it is a joke? How absolutely smooth-brained you appear to be for “fangirling” in an obnoxious way? Have a look and if you don’t see anything wrong with what those fans said then yup - you’re one of them:

Tom Holland's Rude Fans Insult Sebastian Stan & Anthony Mackie Shuts Them Down

There’s a reason a lot of Discord servers and many places actually have kicked out a lot of sudden, new fans of Marvel and/or Spider Man or superheroes in general. So much drama, fuss, hurt over basically people sharing their opinions and engaging in conversations. This is not “passion”; this is mere obtuseness.

The silliness from some of the fans is ridiculous. However, to not contradict myself, I’ll never gatekeep so you do you boo but you do that away from me though.

Please stop being dumb. Thank you.

#alfred molina #alfredmolina #alfred #molina #stan #does it really hurt when someone share something you don't agree with #it's an opinion #it's also corn! #it's corn! #gif posts #text posts #gifs

[waukrife]

yoda question: what was yoda's knighting like? was he very old for a padawan, and therefore a little impatient, or maybe young for his species so still felt a little unprepared? did he go through the trials or did he fall into some dramatic trouble like Obi-Wan and Anakin and they kindof had to knight him after?

Ok, well, I saw this and my impulse was to go ‘back in Yoda’s day they Didn’t Do It Like That’ and this whole time he’s just been coasting along like...yeah I’m a master....master of disguise. 

That aside, I think it really is tragic in the context of trying to raise a child that will always be older than you but also will live to see you die. Not to be a downer or anything but I really think his species shapes any character study/casual anecdote about his childhood. He’s GREAT at forming non-attached bonds with people because he HAS to let them go. Probably the first person he had to learn that lesson with was his (first) Master. I’m assuming that, as a traditionalist ‘9 is Too Old’ kind of councillor, he was adopted into the Jedi as a baby- or at least by his species’ standard. Judging by The Mandalorian, he would have still been in the creche at 50, probably. I was going to do a chart to figure out how old he would have been at milestones like knighthood, full maturity etc but honestly if I have to look at NUMBERS I'll spontaneously combust. 

I’m going to guess that he had multiple masters, going with both long-living species (still nothing on 900 years) and some shorter lived (because the force said so). I reckon to avoid making this too sad, that at some point he just...became a knight. Like, at some point between Masters he just stopped feeling the pull in the Force to pair up with a new one and went..oh huh. I’m ready then I guess. Which is still sad, because well...he didn’t really get to have a ceremony and all that what with his dead masters, but it would reflect the almost unique nature of his relationship with the Force and himself, and how that shapes his bonds with others. 

I would imagine that the way he was responsible for his own journey between Masters rather than having a single, reliable caretaker/teacher like most others would make him VERY good at following the will of the Force because it would be his only reliable authority in his way. And also, the independence made him wild enough to just....be willing to trust in the Force and GO FOR IT when he was ready without checking it was actually allowed. Like there wasn’t anyone overseeing to ask whether he’d done some form of trials (or, like Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon in many people’s headcanons, to keep him waiting for some grand test or approval when actually he’s been ready for a while), and after a few generations, people just forgot he just...decided to change his title one day. 

Years later he wakes up, notices his first grey hair and says “huh...MASTER Yoda, I am”. By this point as a knight he is both wildly eccentric, but young enough that it is entirely insufferable, so everyone just goes with it. In another 50 years, no one knows any better. Well... the older Jedi (in their early hundreds, while he is still young enough for his elders to be elderly) DO remember. You thought Yoda was conservative? The REAL traditionalists HATE him. 

So yeah, ancient for a normal Jedi, young for one of him. And more like....brushing loose strands from your hair, rather than cutting a braid; settling into himself and accepting the loss his position implies rather than an external trial and reward. Really not dramatic at all, exactly when it was due, and only traumatic in the quiet way. 

#ask #nevertheless-moving #star wars #yodaposting #long post #this is character is so compelling and really interesting to study #but also...a frog #like...people say 'I want to study you' when they look at him for MYRIAD reasons ok? #one of them is the tragedy inherent to his lifestyle- or rather to his life and managed in some ways by his lifestyle- and the other is that #he literally drinks swamp water and pretends to be finally going senile at least once a year to stress Windu out #not proofread this as it is late and im too busy thinking about theodicy in dw to also have yoda angst..but thats an issue for another day #I LOVE THE SWAMP CREATURE YOUR HONOUR

[therewasatale]

his scars

On Ao3.

Summary:  Each Lord had their own rules, and you have broken Lord Heisenberg's.

Note: I saw a bunch of fanarts with Heisenberg having a lot of scars, so I played with the idea.

Each Lord had their own rules. Which if their servants did not follow, they had to pay a heavy price.

Rules like that; you must not go to the lower levels of the factory alone. If Lord Heisenberg said something, you had to do it without question, especially for your own safety. And if you visited his private room, you always had to knock before entering.

You’ve always followed two of them. However, your attention slipped over the last one as you hurried out of the elevator to Heisenberg's room. At each step, you could feel the slow, rhythmic thumping of the factory from behind and below you as the various machines and tools worked non-stop. Every click, tap, or squeak has become as familiar to you as your very being.

Pulling closer the book you got from him a month ago, you tried to gather your thoughts about what you wanted to say. You'd have never thought a darker fantasy would appeal to you so much. It had a mystery, a bunch of different, but still interesting characters, and an oppressive background that the story slowly began to bring to light by the end of the first book. The ending was open for a promising sequel.

And you entered his room. Without knocking.

Inside, the smell of thick tobacco and oil rushed your senses.

"Heisenberg, I brought back the book! And imagine it's already-"

"WHAT IN THE LIVING HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" He yelled.

You froze in place in the doorway. The sudden shout shook you up completely and you gripped the book tighter in your hand so you wouldn’t drop it.

Your gaze was immediately drawn to the man, as he was standing by the bed.

Heisenberg's shirtless upper body was covered in a myriad of thin scars, like cobwebs across his entire body. Starting at his neck, they ran down his chest all the way to his waist, and probably continued under the pants. The scars on his arms were gnarly, from long healed injuries, which were most likely the results of fights. However, some of those on his chest were too straight and clean to come from an accident.

"Get. Out." He didn't look into your eyes. Objects trembled around him. A knife rose into the air from his desk. "NOW!"

You didn’t look back when the door slammed close behind you. Not when the elevator was already climbed up a few levels. And not even when you got to your own room and threw your back at the door. You felt like a hand was wrapped around your throat and it began tightening its fingers, ever so slowly.

Long minutes passed and yet you still felt as if your heart was trying to break out of your chest. The only thing you could clearly hear besides the beating of your heart, was your own panicked breathing.

"Shit..." you slid down with trembling legs. You had to wrap your hands around your body to try stop the trembling.

It was over.

You broke his rule. And now he's going to kill you, if you're lucky, he will make it quick.

Each Lord had their own rules, and now you have broken Lord Heisenberg's. Like a stupid fucking kid.

"Shit!"

You were aware of the fact that the people in the Dimitrescu castle disappears and got replaced very often, and you were really surprised how different Heisenberg was from what you imagined. He shouted a lot and swore even more, but he never tried to hurt you, even on his worst days, he just grumbled impatiently and vented his frustration on his machines.

He was loud, but understanding in his harsh way. Impatient, but still a good listener on his good days. He was rough, but you knew he cared about you, in his own grumpy way.

You were happy. You enjoyed living here.

But now...

Now you had to get out of here.

The sudden thought helped to clear your head with such force that you have managed to get on your feet. You didn't want to die. You didn't deserve death for a complete nonsense.

You had to get away.

Heisenberg waited while as the elevator started upwards.

He didn't even have to move his hand. The knife spun around its axis then it slammed into the wall with tremendous force, then again and again and again. It didn't stop until the blade bent from the force. His fingers trembled, bolts and gears threw themselves around him in all directions. The legs of his bed buckled as the springs in his mattress straightened, pierced trough the material and then snapped and shot themselves into the ceiling.

"Fuck!" He grabbed his dirty-gray hair and pulled it hard enough so the pain would clear his head a bit. He needed to calm down before he smashed everything around him. The bed creaked behind him, as two of its legs finally gave up and fell to the ground with a thud. Then there was silence again. This snapped him out from his blind anger.

He shut his eyes tightly. Letting his shoulder sunk, he took a step back and threw his back against the cold wall. He needed to take a few deep breaths to slow down his pounding heart.

When he opened his eyes the first thing that caught his eye, was a scar running through his forearm. He clearly remembered getting it in a fight against a bunch of lycans. Years ago, when he started constructing his factory the territory of the lycans stretched all the way to the area where the main building would be. At the time, they didn’t even know who they were facing and sometimes they ventured through the fence. That evening, Heisenberg did not expect them in such numbers, let alone that they will attach wooden spears on their arm to counteract his powers.

With a sharp exhale he lowered his arm.

Those creatures became what they were thanks to Cadou. Technically, they were all related. He took a deep breath, knowing it well that these thoughts didn’t help and were not important right now.

He gave himself a disgusted look before he got dressed. When he buttoned the last button on his shirt, only then he let his thoughts wander again. An unpleasant feeling settled into his chest.

You saw him. And now you will run away.

It was over.

He knew that the body he had to live in was utterly repugnant. The body which was experimented on by Mother Miranda, conducting studies and surgeries until she was satisfied with it. The body she put the parasite in and which cursed him with this fate. He hated her for making him this way, and he hated himself for being her child.

He still woke up time to time drenched in sweat from nightmares where he has been implanted with the parasite over and over again.

It spread throughout his body and turned his existence into pure hell. His thoughts burned away by the eruption of the unbearable pain, he felt as if his chest would open up and his heart would tear itself out of its place. However, the worst part of it all, was the realization that something was trying to subsume his consciousness. Claws tore into his brain and tried to suppress part of his being. It was almost successful, but Heisenberg held on.

And when he woke up after the procedure, he found himself in a whole new hell.

You were the only thing, along with the constant building, that kept him happy day by day, and helped suppress his raging hatred. On the worst days he still could felt the Cadou trying to making its way into his head. But you always were there to help him, or at least, you tried and he was grateful, even when he didn't say anything.

He knew full well that this would not last forever. Because why would it last? In this godforsaken horrible place everything fell to pieces and rotted apart eventually.

He took out a cigar from the depths of his coat.

He didn't want anything; he didn't ask to being like this. And yet you stayed with him. He had you. But now, you saw him.

The bitter smoke slowly rose from his lips.

Everything was over.

 Hours have passed. Night arrived, or just the tiredness told you that.

You thought about running away again and again trying to figure out how, and when you should do it. The first thing you thought was that you had to find a way to do it as soon as possible. The elevator was an option, but you would have risked running into Heisenberg, or, more dangerously, into his servants. He could send them after you at any time.

It was risky.

Or there was a ventilation system that weaved through the factory. You could use that, though you were afraid of getting lost inside of it forever rather than getting out. Escaping trough, the dumpster promised only similar chances.

You even started to think that maybe first, you should talk to the man. Or at least try to talk to him. Though your reasonable-self protested profusely against this emotional suggestion.

However, your pride also spoke up and somehow, it made you stay. You're not going to run. Not anymore. Not from him.

So, you waited.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you hoped you would have a chance to talk to him. You just couldn’t decide when to go to him. Every part of your body shivered as Heisenberg's angry voice echoed in your head. You had to go to talk to him, but you were simply unable to leave your room, at least for now.

Fortune was on your side for once.

Your door opened slowly. You felt your shoulders tense up and you swallowed dryly. You couldn’t look up at him.

"I thought you would have left already." His voice didn't sound as harsh, as you would have expected.

You glanced up at the man who was leaning against the doorframe. He folded his arms in front of his chest, his eyes were hidden behind his black sunglasses.

"Why should I leave?"

"Well," despite his words his voice sounded surprised "I yelled at you."

"You've yelled before."

Heisenberg snorted a little and rubbed his hair under his hat. This didn’t go as he thought it would. "Well yeah, but..." his words let him down.

"What happened to you? I mean your body…?" You got up from your bed. He was just a few steps away from you.

The man drummed with his fingers a couple of times on his arms. "I fell."

"Heisenberg..." you took a careful step towards him.

"Lord Heisenberg." He corrected you. "If my bitch mother is forcing this prestigious bullshit then we should keep to it." He sounded more annoyed than angry. He continued to drum slowly with his fingers, but you could also feel his eyes watching you from behind his glasses.

"I'm sorry that I didn't knock."

For long minutes, the only thing could be heard was the rhythmic thumping background sounds of the factory.

"Well...Yeah..." He scratched his graying hair slowly as he pushed himself away from the doorway. "Listen, if you want to go, then go. I'm not going to stop you, just don't ever comeback. All right? Have a nice life, or whatever. That giant trash is actually looking for new maidens," He turned around.

You managed to stand up and hurried after him stopping him in front of the elevator.

"What?" Heisenberg glanced down at your arms as you hugged him. "(Y/N)?"

"I'm sorry." You snuggled closer to his back, hiding your face in the fabric of his coat.

"For what?" His hands shook, he had to stop himself from touching your arms. The thought made him tremble a bit, but he realized that you were trembling too. You were so close to him, he could felt your body against his, your finger griped into his clothes.

"For not knocking. And not saying sorry. And for not trying to talk to you." His coat smelt like tobacco and oil, just like everything around him did in this place. For you, it felt like home.

When he didn't answer, you spoke again.

"I don't want to leave. I'm sorry."

There was another quiet minute. You were about to let him go when he finally found his voice.

"Are you sure? But you saw me." He carefully caressed your hand with his fingers. "You saw what that bitch did to me."

So, you were right, those wounds were too straight to be from some kind of accident.

With your eyes closed you enjoyed the gentle touches, as he run his fingers along the top of your hands, and then slowly moved up on your arms as well. He slowly relaxed between your arms and leaned closer to your body. Even his breathing became more even.

When he sighed, you let him out from your hug and stepped beside him, looking up at him "Come with me, Lord Heisenberg." You gently took his hand and pulled him after you. heading back to your room.

"Hm?"

"I need some rest, and you too. And I'm sure you've destroyed half of your room."

Heisenberg pulled down his hat into his eyes. Damn.

"Why would I have done that?" Oh, for the love of god, shut up you, idiot! He snorted to himself.

"Because you care about me, just as much I care about you. Come." You pulled him all the way to your bed. Turning towards him you took off his hat and glasses.

"Mh, what?" His tired eyes looked straight into yours.

"Your eyes are really beautiful."

"Oh shut up." Stepping next to you, he threw himself on the bed.

You never dared to ask why you got a bed which was big enough for two people. Whether someone owned this room in the past, or the man had some kind of plan for you. But right now, as he leaned back to the bed, you haven’t really found a reason to worry about that. Climbing next to him, you hid under his arm. Leaning your head against his shoulder, you sighed deeply.

"Well, I hope you're happy."

"Very much, thank you."

He snorted and listened quietly to your steady and calm breathing as he tried to ignore his own pounding heart. He fervently hoped you wouldn't notice this. This hope was unfortunately false considering that you were only a couple of centimeters away from his heart.

The redness spread through his face even more so than before.

He didn't imagine this could happen. You shouldn't have been here anymore. You should have gone to the village a long time ago and not looked back. You should have left everything...and everyone behind.

Instead, you were here. And you laid next to him so damn close. His skepticism struggled against the notion.

Like anything would just become magically fine after this.

"You know, you can't fix me with cuddling, right? I'm messed up in the head and even more fucked up in my body." He swallowed dryly.

"What are you talking about?" Raising your head, you looked straight into his eyes.

"I just told you." He let out an impatient huff. "You can't fix me, I'm this fucked up. And it won't go away after some warm cuddling and snuggling. Sorry to ruin your hopes."

"I don't want to fix you, Heisenberg."

"What?" Every answer of yours caught him off guard.

"Why would I want to fix you when I like you this way?" You leaned closer, slowly kissing him. His body tensed, you could feel his grip tighten on your shirt, then his lips gently kissed you back. The kiss tasted bitter, like his cigar. He pulled you closer and didn't let go until you yourself pulled back.

Looking into his eyes you smiled gently. "Besides, I've been here a long time, so I'm pretty sure I'm just as messed up in the head."

"Damn." His grey eyes almost sparkled. "God damn."

You let him pull you closer, snuggling up to his shoulder.

"So, we're messed up together."

"Pretty much, yeah. But somehow it doesn't bother me."

Heisenberg was sure by then that you could feel the pounding of his heart, but he didn't mind it now. He gently caressed your face with his fingertips from your forehead through the line of your nose all the way to your chin. He spent a lot of time under your eyes.

"Listen, I know she did something to you." You placed your palm carefully on his chest. "But your body isn’t scaring or disgust me." You gently caressed around his heart trough his shirt. "It's your body, it belongs to you and I like it. I mean it's yours and it's fine."

"Mh," he replied tellingly.

His heart finally started to quiet down. Good. He needed to think with his god damn head and not with his heart. Everything happened differently. For hours he believed, no, he knew, that you have already ran away. He wanted to give you time, that was one of the reasons he didn’t come after you for so long. And yet, deep within him he felt he can't just let you go. Who knew what he would have done if you would have told him to his face that you are leaving him? He felt as if his whole world started to tremble.

It was as if you could feel what he was thinking you snuggled closer and rubbed your head against his shoulder.

The man sighed softly.

But you stayed. You were here, and you were honest. Maybe he could be a bit honest too.

"Sometimes, I dream that I'm just a machine myself." He gently played with your hair. It was a long time ago when he touched something this soft. "That I'm lying on one of Mother Miranda's experimental tables, and when I look down at myself I see nothing but gears and bolts that work together inside me. It's not my body anymore, I lost my real one. Then I start to lose my mind as well. And she just watches me, every damn time. Calling me his son. " He rubbed his face into his hands.

Raising your head a little you laid it back on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

"What are you-"

"Sh."

The man snorted, in confusion and embarrassment.

"Hm, all I can hear is your flesh heart beating in your chest. The rhythm is pretty fast but maybe because of the many cigars."

"Oh, shut up." He hid his face in his hands and tried to rub the crimson of his face away.

"All right, all right." You snuggled back to his shoulder. "Still, I'm not going anywhere."

"You can be a stubborn bastard sometimes."

You chuckled, clearly proudly and as you embraced him a smile remained on your face.

The room around you was filled with the sounds of the thumping factory. It felt comforting. Your heart started to quiet down as you let your consciousness relax from the rhythmic noises around you two. His hand drew gently circles on your shoulder.

"Can we stay like this for a while?" You asked, what he didn’t dare to ask.

"Sure." He pulled you even closer and buried his face into your hair. He seemed to relax even more. He raised a finger, and his sunglasses slipped off, levitated under his coat, and raising it up gently laid it on the two of you, before it landed itself on your nightstand with a small clink.

"Thank you." You muttered as you gently drifted towards sleep.

"Yeah-yeah." He kept his face hidden in your hair.

You won't leave him, at least not now. Maybe you will actually stay with him, maybe you were stubborn enough to do it. He ignored his worries about the future, instead, to his own surprise, he let himself be happy for once. He slowly fallen asleep with you on his side, listening to your breathing.

#resident evil #resident evil village #resident evil heisenberg #resident evil 8 #karl heisenberg #lord heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #heisenberg imagine #heisenberg x reader #reader #re village #copper #heisenberg x you #house heisenberg

[ironhusband]

Read on AO3 

Honestly, Bucky had expected that dating Sam would be easier than this.

With everything that he and Sam had gone through to finally get together, he had wanted everything to be smooth sailing once he finally had Sam. Their perfect happy ending, cut straight from the movies and into their lives. They deserved it.

That wasn’t real life, however.

When Bucky finally had Sam in his arms, there were a myriad of relationship things that Bucky had to learn. He had to get used to all of Sam's quirks and he had the entirety of Sam’s family to win over. He had to learn the way to this obscure place where Sam liked to buy his orange juice and he had to study for days to remember that Sam’s aunt liked orange jewelry. But if Bucky was honest? He didn’t mind that part. He didn’t mind getting to know what Sam was like in a relationship or meeting Sam’s family. That would never be a hardship for him.

What he did mind was that stupid fucking drone.

It all started with Sam and Bucky making out on the couch. This wasn’t unusual in itself; sometimes the news was boring and Sam and Bucky got distracted. Sucking on Sam’s tongue was more interesting than anything else, frankly.

Sam was pressed against the couch by Bucky’s hips, his hands wandering under Bucky’s shirt as Bucky took Sam’s lips between his teeth. Sam removed his hand from Bucky's shirt to run his fingers through Bucky’s hair, causing Bucky to pinch Sam’s waist. Bucky was coming up to change the angle of the kiss and-

When he looked up the drone was staring directly at them.

It took a long time for Bucky to recognize that their home was safe and not, as a reflex, shoot at any sort of intimidating sight and sound. Still, he startled and yelled, “why the fuck is your pet staring at us?!”

Sam looked back at what made Bucky exclaim and smiled at Redwing. “Oh, hi, there, little guy,” he cooed, “enjoying the show?”

“Sam,” Bucky hissed, annoyed at his boyfriend’s reaction, glancing back and forth between the drone and Sam, “he is staring at us."

Sam shrugged, wrapping his arms around Bucky's shoulders, "so?"

Bucky spluttered, exasperated, "He is recording us. How can you be so calm about this? What if he puts this on the internet?”

“He won’t put this on the internet,” Sam rolled his eyes.

“Why not?” Bucky challenged, knowing the real reason. Sam was still insisting it was Redwing who put the footage of him falling through the tree on the internet, and he was determined to make him confess it was his doing (that video got 1000000 likes!).

“Well, first of all,” Sam explained, straightening up, smug grin on, “because no one wants to see you kissing.”

“You want to see me kissing,” Bucky countered.

“My one flaw,” Sam teased, “and two, his camera isn’t on. He just likes flying around sometimes.”

Bucky glanced at the drone, whose cold, robot eyes, peeking just beneath the shell on the drone, stared back at him. “Can’t you make him stop?”

“I wasn’t listening when Stark did the seminar about the AI inside him. Lost the manual too.”

Bucky looked at the drone again, and then quickly turned away while he muttered, “there must be a deactivation code.”

“I sorta don’t want to find it,” Sam confessed, “I like his quirks.”

“But he isn’t supposed to be flying around with his camera off. It isn’t what he was made for.”

“He’s sleepwalking,” Sam said, fondly.

“He’s creepy.”

Sam gasped, “how dare you say that?!”

“Robots shouldn’t sleepwalk!”

“Redwing isn’t a robot! He’s a drone!”

“Same difference!”

“It is so not same difference. Besides, Redwing is better than just a normal robot, he is-”

He and Sam bickered for the rest of the evening and Bucky forgot all about the drone when they moved into the bedroom. But it began like this.

~~~

Bucky woke up to get milk the next morning. Sam usually got up earlier than Bucky, waking to go run. He would accidentally wake Bucky up by kissing his cheek before he went out (running reminded Sam of Steve and sometimes he needed a little reassurance), and then Bucky would burrow into the blankets for half an hour before getting up to eat cereal. Bucky liked the early hours of the day when he had the house to himself and could wake up properly before Sam would get home. Before they moved in together, Bucky had made the mistake of getting up after Sam had already returned from his run, and he didn’t have the brainpower to retort when Sam called him a heathen for pouring his milk before his cereal.

When he got up this morning, the drone was there, staring at him.

Bucky was mid-yawn when he yelped at the flying thing in front of his face.

“Holy fucking shit, man, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” he exclaimed at the drone, clutching at his chest.

“That’s not good,” the imaginary Sam in his head said, looking, amused, at Bucky’s clutching-his-pearls position, “you need to watch your heart at your age.”

The drone didn’t say anything. Bucky rolled his eyes. “What are you looking at?” he challenged.

The drone still didn’t say anything.

Bucky moved cautiously, one leg in front of the other while he watched the drone, “I’m just getting breakfast.”

The drone turned his head towards him with his every moment. The whirring, easier to hear in the quiet morning, gave Bucky chills.

He glanced once at the drone and then once at the refrigerator before deciding to ignore the robot. Even if it was creepy that his camera wasn't on but he could still follow him, what would he do? Shoot him? Sam disarmed the drone every time he was off duty. So Bucky opened the fridge and got out his milk, blocking the drone from his view with the door.

Sam hated it when he did it, but he unscrewed the milk and drank some of it (”we exchange spit regularly, I don’t see the big deal.” “You put it so romantically~”). Cold milk always helped Bucky wake up and he “ahh”ed when he stopped feeling the thirst he always felt when he was just waking up.

He shut the door of the refrigerator, and apparently, Redwing has gotten twenty steps closer.

He screamed at the drone near his face and threw the cap at him.

~~~

Turns out, Redwing’s camera was on and Sam laughed for 20 minutes at the footage.

~~~

The next time it happened, Bucky was coming home from one of his therapy appointments. The BARF sessions were always a pain in the ass (reliving his past wasn’t remotely fun) but Bucky knew he sometimes had to go to them to make sure he wouldn’t go all Winter Soldier again. Anything to keep Sam safe.

Bucky liked to come home and cuddle with his boyfriend (who usually also had an exhausting day of being Captain America) when he got home, but today was different.

A purring Redwing was found in Sam’s lap when he went into the living room.

“Hey!” Sam greeted, seeing unable to give him a welcoming kiss due to the robot in his lap, “how did it go?”

“The usual,” Bucky replied casually. He eyed the drone, “does he usually... do that?”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, “he noticed I was bummed so he came to cheer me up. Isn’t that right, Red?”

Sam pet Redwing’s red-paint-coated shell and the robot buzzed happily.

“Weird...” Bucky mumbled under his breath and then flopped next to Sam, “why were you bummed?”

“I fucking hate the UN,” Sam announced, “excuse me for not wanting to end up at jail for accidentally scratching some rich dude’s car.”

Bucky kissed Sam’s cheek, “I’m sorry you had a bad day.”

“’ Is okay. We’ll settle it all eventually. Just wish that I didn’t have to do it.”

“No, you don’t,” Bucky pointed out, knowing how much his boyfriend loved being Captain America.

Sam smiled shyly, that smile of his that made Bucky fall head over heels for him, “no, I don’t.”

Bucky kissed Sam’s neck. Sam’s smiles would always get him soft, which meant he had to kiss every inch of him. Sam giggled at Bucky rolling the skin between his lips and he brought a hand to the back of Bucky’s head to caress his nape. Bucky kissed further down his neck, reaching Sam’s collarbone and-

Sam gently pushed him away. Redwing was buzzing irregularly in his lap.

“Hey, there, little fella, don’t be mad,” Sam tried to appease him by stroking him, “Bucky just distracted me for a moment.”

Bucky huffed, disappointed at the interruption. “Not fair,” Bucky grumbled, “I had Sam cuddling dibs.”

“Awww,” Sam teased, his trademark smug grin on his face, “are you jealous?”

Bucky huffed and pushed his shoulder, “no, I’m not jealous. I love you and your weird robot.”

Sam laughed and didn’t retort, resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder as they turned on the TV.

~~~

Bucky did get a little jealous when Sam had to sleep on the couch because he didn't want to disturb Redwing ‘napping’ on his lap. He was still jealous, despite how adorable Sam looked with the blanket around his shoulders and drooling on the backrest of the couch.

~~~

Bucky could have handled hogging Sam or Redwing hovering or wondering if the drone was recording while he and Sam were just being domestic, but he drew the line at forcing him to stay in his apartment.

“Okay, freak,” Bucky announced to the drone, “I’m going shopping. Do you need anything?”  

The drone didn’t respond. Bucky pulled the jacket on and stuffed his keys in one of the pockets. The drone followed his movements as he got ready to go outside. “I’m going out now,” Bucky informed him before he turned around to leave the apartment.

The drone was staring right back at his face as he moved towards the door. Bucky didn’t jump this time, long used to how Redwing could sneak up on people. “God, how do you do that? Did Stark figure out teleportation or something?”

The drone flew mute, as always. Bucky sighed and went to open the door but Redwing blocked his hand before he could reach the knob. “Ow! Son of a bitch!” he cursed as his hand crushed against the drone, “what, what’s the matter? I can’t leave my home now?”

The drone didn’t respond.

“You know, most pets beg for their owners to take them outside.”

The drone still didn’t respond.

Bucky sighed, and reached for the door, more gently this time, and managed to successfully open the door.

Bucky cheered triumphantly, “not so tough now, huh?”

The drone didn’t show any sign that he understood but when Bucky tried to exit he blocked his way.

“Seriously?” Bucky huffed. He moved an inch to the left quickly and the drone zoomed towards him. “Seriously?” he complained and tried to move another inch, slower this time. The drone followed his painstakingly slow movements, centimeter for centimeter. “You motherfucker.”

He tried to get through the door from the left side and the right side, but wherever he went, Redwing followed him. “I’m going to walk out of this door like a normal person,” he told Redwing, “I’m not going to limbo under you, or jump over you, or fight you or anything like that, so. Get. Out. Of. My. Way.”

Three minutes later, Bucky found himself on his knees, face to face with the drone, “you know, if Sam didn’t like you so much, I would dismantle you piece by piece.”

~~~

Sam paused at the open doorway, looking at his boyfriend and his drone staring at one another.

“Are you having a staring contest?” Sam quipped, “because that’s our thing.”

“It won’t let me leave,” Bucky complained.

Sam raised an eyebrow, walking through the front door, “it? You used to call him him.” Redwing followed him, softly nudging Sam’s head and asking to be pet.

Bucky threw his hands in the air in frustration, “him is for things who aren’t menaces!”

“That’s not my experience,” Sam joked, petting Redwing as it asked.

Bucky glared at him, “that’s not funny. That drone is the executor of Tony Stark’s will and it is trying to kill me!”

Sam laughed, “don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”

“Two days ago, I swear I saw it give me a withering stare while it was on your chest.”

“He’s a drone, Bucky,” Sam emphasized, “they don’t have expressions.”  

“Doesn’t stop him from doing all the other human stuff!”

“Bucky,” Sam shook his head, “Redwing likes you.”

Bucky scoffed, “if Redwing was armed, it'd kill me in my sleep.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“When’s our next battle? I bet it'll finish the job then!”

“If only I had a schedule of that...”

“That thing drives me crazy!”

“Bucky!” Sam exclaimed, “all those things Redwing does, he does because he likes you.”

Bucky blinked.

“Think about it,” Sam began explaining, “for weeks after you moved in, he hasn’t moved from his spot, but now he has suddenly decided to move?”

“It has decided it can no longer be passive about me anymore?” Bucky suggested.

“Or-” Sam suggested his interpretation, “-he decided he can trust you and he wants to get to know you.”

Bucky peaked at Redwing behind him, “seems unlikely.”

Sam raised his hands, “don’t ask me to explain his bad taste.”

Bucky looked at the drone, “it likes me.”

Sam nodded, “and unfortunately, so do I.”

"It has a weird way of showing it," Bucky pointed out.

Sam grinned, "well, so do you."

~~~

“What do I do?” Bucky whispered to Sam, panicked.

Sam shook his head. "Pet him, you moron," he told him fondly.

The drone has decided to land in his lap. Changing Redwing’s batteries was like feeding a dog, and now Redwing has decided that Bucky deserved affections. Bucky carefully put his hand on top of the drone’s surprisingly warm metal and started rubbing his hand on the shell.

“There you go,” Sam congratulated him and put his head on Bucky’s shoulder, his hand on the drone, joining the petting. He turned on the TV, “what do you want to watch tonight?”

Bucky looked at Sam, at how calm and happy he looked because of Bucky and Redwing getting along. He looked down at the drone steadily purring louder in his lap.

“Yeah,” he thought, “this is a happy ending.”

#sambucky #winterfalcon #sam wilson #Bucky Barnes #redwing #winterfalcon fic #sambucky fic #winter falcon #falcon #winter soilder #captain america #druwrites #bucky barnes x sam wilson #sam wilson x bucky barnes #marvel #MCU #fatws #falcon and the winter solider #userpavi

[yanderart]

He caught you when no one else did; defeated you when no one else could. Whether you liked to admit it or not, Eraserhead had clearly proven his worth.

So why didn't you prove yours, little villain?

Another portrait for my POV yandere series, this time of Aizawa. Got a few people requesting me to draw/write for him so hopefully y'all enjoy it 🖤

Below the cut, as customary for the series, is a longshot one-shot that delves further into the backstory (Aizawa x Villain Reader, nsfw, dark themes, 8k).

TWs: dub-con, graphic smut, Bad Bondage Etiquette, degradation/humiliation, brat (villain) taming, cumplay and slight bimbofication. Scumbag Aizawa is real.

— — —

   The day you met Eraserhead, looking back, saying your worries had been misplaced would be an understatement. With not being apprehended and losing street cred at the very top of your list, it was decidedly easy to skip over any of the other big red-lettered warnings.

   You first felt the tickle in your nape while you carried your acquisitions across downtown Musutafu, accompanied by the familiar presage of someone watching your every movement. The city around you was bustling, as was the norm, as loud and meandering in its complaints as a chronically diseased elder, yet the alleys you took as shortcuts grew quieter and quieter with each step. 

   It was eerie, alarming, and a platitude of other adjectives you shamefully chose to neglect. 

   “So this is the great V/N in the flesh,” the lazy cadence of someone calling out your alias froze you mid-step, the way his owner dragged each syllable telling you he hadn’t yet decided whether you were worth wasting his breath on. 

   Your body was responding before you even had a chance to properly process the threat, running on instinct and muscle memory as you twirled to face the mysterious man and prepared to...

   “Cute dress, kid.” Eraserhead in the flesh stood barely a few feet away, glowing scarlet orbs illuminating his preternaturally blank expression and transforming it instead into a visage of pure intimidation. “Didn’t pitch you for the frilly type.”

   The growing panic in your chest put a hitch in your breath as you stared back. Yet you couldn’t help but still try, fruitlessly hoping—hands clenched, nails puncturing your own flesh as you tried to force your dormant quirk awake. And all for naught, considering your efforts were only repaid by the hatchet of your sinking realization being buried even deeper. 

   Although, the Pro-Hero also appeared to notice your meager attempts, taking a few steps closer to your form with a condescending gleam in his otherwise somber features. 

   Before you were conscious of what you were looking at (and before you had half a mind to attempt a quirkless attack on the hero), you observed the weapon wrapped around his neck unfolding fluidly, the extensions of fabric reaching out to envelop you in a forceful embrace that left your arms tucked to your sides and your back uncomfortably straightened. 

   “Better to trap you before you get any wild ideas. It’s your fault you’re in this position in the first place anyways,” he was taunting you, prodding you and poking you as you found yourself completely at his mercy, uselessly struggling much in the same way many of your victims had surely felt in their last few moments at your hands. 

   "Eraserhead," his pseudonym resembled an insult on your tongue, your rage and resentment making for rather colorful enhancements. "Don’t you have anything better to do than trapping helpless girls with this weapon of yours? Didn't peg you for a pervert."

   Usually, you managed to reign in some of your nastier attitudes, channeling them into your quirk and the violence you could inflict with it…

   But tied up and under the influence of his own ability as you were? All you had was pettiness. 

   "You can dress up as a civ all you want. Won't be fooling me." He took several steps, closing the distance between you two with barely the hint of a smile morphing his stern expression.  

   You could see the faint stubble on his handsome face from this up close, blood-shot eyes that refused to blink as they studied you in ample detail. Could even see the scar carved onto one of his cheekbones, a textured promise of the fight he had survived and now wore as a medal. 

   Such was your luck, that the Pro to finally catch up with you had to be this rugged scumbag. 

   "I'm not even engaging in any criminal activities, Eraseridiot." Your insult was terrible, but you were never much of a verbal sparrer. Not when you could use your fists instead. "What are you gonna send me to the pigs for? I know my rights."

   And you did. So when the condescension on the lazy hero's face turned into a full-on expression of mockery as he approached your "bag of acquisitions," you audibly gulped. Goddamn stalker couldn't have been following you for that long? Could he? 

    If only you knew. 

   "Then," he held up the bag with an indolent brand of interest, the contents dangling tauntingly from his clutch. "How do you explain this over here? I reckon even dirt like you knows what stealing qualifies as." His other hand dived for the contents and before you could voice any protest, cheeks blushing furiously, a slow hint of a chuckle was bobbing his adam's apple. "It would be a fun thing to peg you down for, though."

   That damned weapon of his didn't give out an inch as you started to furiously struggle, becoming instead impossibly tighter with each futile attempt at freeing yourself.

   "You fucking psycho, is this your sick way of trying to pick me up or something?"

   But your quip did not deter him at all (if anything, it spurred him on). The hand inside the bag tensed for a moment before he was retrieving the sole object inside. To say mortification was written all over your face would be an understatement. 

   A dark pantyhose now hung from Eraserhead's nimble fingers, not a second being wasted by the Hero before he proceeded to bring it up to his face, carelessly stretching the garment until you could see every single one of his features through the sheer material. The way the moonlight caught in it, bouncing off and bathing his patronizing face, made for uncomfortably intimate imagery. 

   (Yet a part of you, one you would never admit existed if further questioned, also could not help but notice the striking attractiveness of it all, making you want to squirm for completely different reasons while the man continued to exert his quirk on you through the fabric of your fucking lingerie.)

   "Gotta say, didn't take you for a pantyhose kind of gal either. Girls like you…" He uttered the last part more like an afterthought, tossing the bag aside before his hands continued toying with the tights absentmindedly. "Are suited for something like fishnets much more."

   By that point, you were sure he was just playing with you. You were such a harmless joke, restrained and showcased like a prize for his viewing pleasure.

   "Reckon you must own quite a few pairs, uh?" He continued egging you on when you failed to give a timely enough answer. 

   (Perhaps the fact that he so easily guessed that detail should’ve been your first real warning, too.)

   Yet you couldn’t help how his condescension and the downright dirty way he stared at you sent dark shivers up your spine, the threat he represented turning strangely alluring under the dim street lights illuminating you both. 

   As a villain, you had robbed, murdered, set people ablaze, and even stolen a popsicle or two from some crying kids. So why were Eraserhead's words having such an effect on you? Why did, a part of you deep down, seemed enthused by the awful way in which he was speaking to you?

   "You don't have any proof I stole them. I just threw away the receipt after I bought them. Very environmentally unconscious of them, too, when electrical ones are a thing."

   Now you were just rambling. What an adorable sight. 

   "Hmm, never thought I'd hear "environmentally unconscious" being uttered by a two-bit criminal." He stopped stretching the lingerie for a moment, thoughtfully scratching at his incipient stubble with his free hand instead, "Are you really trying to sell me the good samaritan angle?"

   To his credit too, he seemed genuinely puzzled by your approach for an instant. Guess even an experienced pro like him still had room to be shocked. 

   "I'm not trying to sell you anything, imbecile." The snobbishly controlled tone of yours was back, the shaking of panic subsiding while you held onto your only hope of leaving this confrontation unscathed. "And my rights clearly state you need proof to apprehend me. Need causality to exert your quirk on me, too, or you would be the one breaking the law." 

   Now, Eraserhead wasn’t annoyed per se. You could tell from what little he had already spoken (and from the myriad of cautionary tales you had been told) that little could rattle the man at all, but your comment definitely appeared to intrigue him. It made you feel like an animal being studied, pinned down, and ready to be dissected for his own morbid curiosity.

   "Isn't this just rich?" His tone was almost lethargic, words dragging on with a faint rumble. "Are you going to run off to the police, then? Tell them how a Pro trapped you and tried turning you in for a very obvious act of theft?", his eyebrows were raised, eyes more awake despite his monotone voice carrying on. "Be my guest then."

   Because of course you were all bark, no bite and he was more than willing to call you out on your shit. So instead of continuing down that route, you decided to veer for a new approach, switching from your assortment of insolent tactics. 

   "Do you get off on this, then?" Your voice morphing into meekness while you adopted an expression of distress, bottom lip jutting out with the sparkle of thinly veiled sarcasm glimmering in your eyes. "Do you like thinking of yourself as the Big Bad Hero, maybe?" And you could tell by the way the incipient smile froze on his lips that your question had caught him off guard. Made you wanna press even harder, "Do you like the idea of taking a defenseless little girl into an alley and showing her just how bad you can be? Maybe planned on teaching me a lesson, is that it?"

   His frown mimicked yours now, no longer any hints of cruel enjoyment on his part. His eyes still glowed red, but he was now squinting ever so slightly, zeroing in on you not only due to the limits of his quirk but also due to the words rapidly continuing to escape your impudent mouth. 

   "Does Eraserhead like to fuck his lays into being law-abiding citizens? Is the power over someone else what really gets you off, perhaps?"

   It was like a spell was cast on the both of you. He couldn't drift his attention, his eyes couldn't stop scanning your face — quickly flickering from the hatred coloring your gaze to the slight quiver of frustration shaking your lips. The hand which he still used to grab your stockings was now a closed fist, knuckles growing pale from the poorly contained strength.

   "Bet you plotted this entire thing, you creep. Wanted to take me behind an alley and show me my place." Your taunts were becoming increasingly more risqué, the anger blurring your sense of preservation—and the hint of something else too, a secret excitement you were unwilling to recognize. "Wanted to have me all submissive and obedient under you, surely. Show me what a scary hero cock can do, is that it?"

   But instead of earning another entertaining grimace, you had a first-row seat to the rapidly darkening expression on his face. Eyes squinted at the same time that the bandages settled even tighter around you, cutting off your breath for a moment before relenting just enough not to suffocate you. 

    And that's when you first felt it for the first time, just when your jests died on your lips and you drank on his foreboding reaction. The grip of Eraserhead's quirk, more constricting than any ropes, wavering faintly around the prison he had constructed around you; the distinct buzzing in your hands returning for a mere instant before flickering out again.

   Now that was interesting.

   "Should watch what you're saying," the pro-hero sounded gruff, voice tinted by a new kind of intensity.

   Like a shark smelling the smallest whiff of blood, you couldn’t help your instincts urging you to dial down. 

   "Always knew you hero types had a hard-on for the power trips. Bet you were using all of this as a decoy. Is this when you strip me and hold me down? When you plow me into the floor of this alley and tell me to "behave or else"?" 

   You knew your jabs were going too far, getting too brazen… yet as much as you enjoyed making the Pro visibly uncomfortable, once he decided to close the distance between you two there was little you could do to stop yourself from flinching. A fire inhabited his expression, the vivid brightness emanating from his stare not only intimidating, but downright frightening too.

   "Are you trying to rile me up?" His hand gripped your face with force, bandages shifting until they were enveloping your neck, holding you up and forcing you to reciprocate his glare, "What do you think will you achieve by antagonizing me even more, V/N?"

   You just looked at him through your eyelashes, still somehow managing to play up the innocent act through the layers of fear settling in. And as expected, it only served to further his irritation, calloused fingers digging even deeper into your cheeks and coaxing the claws of terror to continue trailing their nails all around you. 

   "I’m just trying to understand you, Eraserhead." The way you smiled at him was defiance personified despite it all, your tongue wetting your lips while you caught his eyes following the movement. There was the slightest give of his quirk again, a fluctuation in his concentration informing you that you were finally on the right track. "And I think, given the fact that I haven’t been cuffed yet, that we can both still come to a mutual agreement."

   Fingers twitched around your jawline, muffling your words while your sides were squished together harshly. But even manhandling you, the Hero couldn’t hide the spark in his eyes, an interest you foolishly believed to be ignited by your former comments. 

   "So you are indeed trying to rile me up then." It was an assertion, not a hint of doubt in his leisure intonation. 

   Instead of replying this time, you just slowly blinked his way, observing your imitation of meekness reflected in a gaze that refused to abandon yours. It had been so long since you last tried to play coy, so long since you needed to depend on anything besides your own strength and ruthlessness. You couldn’t help the thrill you got from playing the role. 

   "Think you’ll get me distracted enough to break away, I bet." He was whispering directly against your skin after getting dangerously closer, the heat from his cushioned lips provoking an involuntary shiver. "Do you believe nobody else tried this approach before, little villain?"

   You gulped, feeling caught before you even had time to properly set the stage. 

   "I wasn’t..."

   "Weren’t what, trying to seduce me?" There was a sense of levity hidden somewhere under his timbre, stored between words that kept dragging on in a mantle of aloofness. "Or did you not mean any of your words?"

   When you didn’t reply, you could feel the cruel smile resurfacing against your earlobe. 

   "If I lift your dress right now, do you think I’ll have my answer?" His question sounded almost casual, as weightless as your alias had been when he first called you out. 

   Your heartbeat sang in your chest, an anxious hummingbird trapped inside your ribcage. Because you knew the answer, you both did. 

   When the hand still clutching your bunched hosiery came up to press the fabric against your thighs, you could not help the gasp that escaped you.

   "I bet all those things you were just saying…" His tone drifted off as the stockings were slowly guided up the vastness of your legs, fingers barely grazing you through the thin layer of the stolen undergarments. He was thoroughly teasing you, enjoying the manner in which your expression contorted in response. "You just want me to do them to you, don’t you?"

   Even if you would’ve wanted to object, the pressure of his nylon-covered digits finally reaching your dampened panties was enough to kill any possible refusal. He traced the outline of your slit, soft touches running across it with deceitful lightness, and your mind became positively staggered as you were rendered overwhelmed by his actions. 

   You didn’t have to worry about his next move for long, either, because barely a moment’s notice passed before his entire palm was eagerly covering your crotch. And the new way in which he groped you was demanding, the heel of his wrist putting just enough pressure to drag a shamefully loud mewl from you. 

   The douchebag even had the gall to laugh at your reaction, the sound of his mirth prompting you to writhe even harder as he continued to feel you up through your rapidly soaking underwear. 

   "Knew you’d be a slutty one." His breath was hoarse against the side of your face, the stubble on his jaw scratching against your skin in a way which made you wonder how it would feel pressing elsewhere. "So fucking wet, it must hurt being this eager."

   He didn’t specify what exact kind of pain he meant, whether your growing need for release or the insufferable blow all of this represented to your pride. Somehow, though, you had an inkling that he was referencing both. 

   "Wanna show me just how needy you are?" His words echoed with each laboured breath of his, one of the few signs you had that he was clearly very much into the whole affair despite his detached demeanor. "Maybe you could show me more of your adorable little cries." 

   As Eraserhead rutted his palm against you another time, you found your hips lowering down to chase the feeling much to your own chagrin, more moans making their way out of your panting mouth while he coaxed you to sing the notes of his preferred melody. 

   It was true that you hated his guts… but another fact was that you hadn’t had action in a long while either. Even with the threat of imprisonment hanging over you, you could not deny how desirable the idea to get to cum against that veiny hand of him was, to grip those muscular shoulders as you reached the perdition he was so tantalizingly offering. 

   Decidedly forgotten was your plan of you being the one distracting him. For fuck’s sake, you really were a needy whore. 

   "Why not show me how you cum for me in this alley, if you’re really that desperate?" His words kept getting cruder, his tongue tracing a languid stripe from your earlobe down to the side of your neck, a beautiful path of distractions threatening to dip your sanity even lower. "Be the dirty little villain that I know you are, doll."

   But just as soon as the stimulation was hitting you a second time, so it suddenly disappeared. One second fingers were flexing against your tender flesh, coated by your arousal through the layers of fabric separating you and fluttering with the promise of an impending release, and then the very next instant you were left to whimper (a villain like you, actually whimpering!) in the unbearable wake of their absence. 

   When your eyes searched for the Hero’s again, in his blown out pupils you could only dare interpret part of the enjoyment he was getting from watching you scram for his touch, beautifully bold handwriting spelling out arousal for all to read.  

   Watching you so easily betray your own ego after all of your lip service? More than simple music to his ears, it was an entire sonnet. 

   "But, now that I think of it, you were the one trying to walk away free from this. So why should you be the one getting pleasured?"

   Even in your precarious situation, you couldn’t help rolling your eyes. 

   "Are you fucking kidding me?" Apparently, your discomfort at being denied was enough to forego your better senses.

   The bindings contracted around you in quick response to your insolence, your neck being craned even further and your arms mishandled until they were behind your back instead of at your sides, a sharp pain blooming from your shoulders as you struggled to adjust.

   Treated like this, he really did make you feel like a helpless little doll. (Goddamn, that thought alone was enough to have your juices gushing again, the trails of your excitement starting to make a mess of your inner thighs.)

   "You don’t get it, do you?" He asked in a despondent voice, unblinking eyes still refusing to abandon your face as he elaborated, "you should already be on your way to some second-rate villain prison, cuffed and muzzled and someone else’s problem."

   At his reminder of what you believed to be your impending fate, the mocking pout on your face transformed into a retelling of real horror. Because your spotless reputation was the one trick in your book that had managed to give you a sliver of notoriety over the rest of the unremarkable criminals, much more significant than any quirk or grandiose crime. 

   So for someone like you to lose that? You might as well hang up the villain costume and retire, for all anyone would care. (And yes, you had been called an attention whore a lot throughout your life, but who could blame you when you couldn’t help but thrive on it?)

   Sensing your spiraling thoughts, the Pro raised his eyebrows in an almost pitiful stint, as if he was truly empathizing with the agonized look of your face. 

   "I know you don’t want that, doll." As his declaration dragged on, the grip that had been steadying your jaw was swapped instead for the peculiar feeling of damp fabric —your pantyhose being pushed against your cheek and spreading your own juices around, all while Eraserhead intently studied the new wave of disgust coloring your features. "So why not show me that even a villain slut like you can behave? Give me a reason to believe that and..." The slickered garment was now pressing to your closed lips, your eyes starting to water with the weight of the humiliation you were being made to endure. "Maybe then I’ll consider letting you go."

    You knew he was lying, had every right to doubt the sincerity of his promise and, in its place, conclude he just meant to take advantage of you in your desperate state and then leave you for the pigs to find anyway. 

    You knew all of that, and yet you still opened your mouth and allowed him to do as he pleased. When he worked the pair of soiled stockings inside, you had troubles recognizing the pathetic sight being reflected your way from the wild hue of his gaze. 

   For someone who had always prided herself in being a predator, you had never looked more like prey.

   "Fuck, that’s it, doll." He pushed the piece further with his fingers, forcing you to stretch your lips until your jaw started to hurt from the strain. His fingers swirled inside, pressing the soaked material against the flat of your tongue and instructing you to eagerly lick it.

   You had never felt as debased in your entire life, being forced to choose between savoring your own arousal while tied up in an alley or ruining a reputation you had fought so earnestly to maintain. 

   (And yet your thighs were pressing together now, attempting to create some meager friction to alleviate a yearning that did nothing but shift, demand, grow.)

   "Look at you cleaning up your own mess," he almost sounded proud of you as you kept dutifully sucking, his other hand brushing your hair away from your shoulders in a strangely consoling way. "Seeing you all obedient like this, one could be fooled into thinking there is yet hope for reform."

   By the time the Hero finally took his hand away, bunching up the stockings before fitting them into one of the hidden pockets of his dark costume, you thought you could discern a mocking smile through the clouds of tears.

   "But now, now, doll… are you gonna keep crying or do you wanna try and take proper care of me next?"

   Not finding it in yourself to raise your voice again, you instead opted to wet your lips hesitantly as you awaited for him to elaborate further. There was a question dying to be asked, struggling somewhere alongside the myriad of insolent retorts and insults you wished you could swing the Hero’s way without being harshly reprimanded. 

   "I wouldn’t call that proper exactly," a chuckle reverberated from the back of his throat, gravely and dark as he misrepresented your movements. Fingers still slick from your saliva caressed your bottom lip, massaging it in a way which played straight into the undermining tilt of his words. "Although I’m sure you must be dying to wrap your pretty lips around my cock. Would give you a good reason to stay quiet, uh?"

   You really had been intending not to fall for his obvious goading, not trying to give the Pro anymore reasons to be harsh with you (or even worse, give him an excuse to leave you alone and to a fate worse than his company ever would be). 

   Had tried so hard too, but the cocky villain in you could only take so much degradation before it snapped. 

   "Goddamn it, are you trying to fuck me or bore to death?" As for the slight quivering in your voice, you dearly hoped he wouldn’t pick up on it. 

   Predictably enough, that slip earned you another harsh tug from the capture weapon, your whole body pulled back until you thought you were about to be snapped. 

   "I was just about to praise you for being all sweet for me, V/N." The switch from his pet names to your alias felt like a bucket of ice being dumped on you, voice a slow drawl while he tugged once more from your bottom lip, but this time harsh enough to have you wincing. "I’m trying to teach you how to be a proper girl, so don’t make me regret it. Or would you prefer to go take a prolonged vacation in a holding cell?"

   He already knew your answer judging by the way his eyes coldly studied you, unearthing the secrets you uselessly attempted to hide with an ease that unnerved you (and, as much as you loathe to admit, fascinated you). 

   When he tugged at your mouth again, nails sinking just enough to be noticeable, you knew he was expecting a verbal answer. And a nice one, at that. 

   "Then fucking get on with it…" Words slurred at the end, caught up in the increasingly somber aura of your captor before you swallow thickly, quickly adding as an afterthought, "Please."

   At that, his scowl receded enough for some satisfaction to find its way back into his grimace.

   The more you struggled, the sweeter your surrender became.  

   "Not perfect, but better," he conceded with a thoughtful hum.

   If you had properly studied just who he was beyond his active Heroism, then you would’ve understood just how accustomed he was to insubordination. If anything, your act only served to make him feel more at home.

   You had barely any time to wonder about whatever he had planned next though, because in an instant that damned contraction of his was moving you around once more, twisting you until you were facing the brick wall of the alleyway with heaving breaths. 

   Your legs were now maneuvered until you were forced to keep them apart just a smidgen, the new inviting space between your thighs surely a most intoxicating promise for the sick man manhandling you. And your back experienced pain afterwards too, harshly pushed until you had no option but to allow yourself to be pressed against the dirty walls; As a result, you found yourself with your ass backed up and for the world to see, the frilly skirt of your dress caught somewhere between all the movements.

   Yet even being roughed up as you were, when a hand reached out to tug your ruined underwear away you couldn't help greedily rutting into it, too worried by the fire gathering in your lower belly to care about maintaining a semblance of the reluctance you would later claim to have experienced. 

   It was almost comical for the Hero to observe the pathetic image you were now serving up on an ornate platter —especially when compared to the list of deviant crimes and horrors your spreadsheet of accomplishments preached. For all intents and purposes, you really were a horrible, messed up individual…

   So it was a wonder why his mind had kept supplying him with the same descriptor ever since he first saw you, the same sweet little word that he thought might as well be written all over your skin for how accurate it described you.

   A cute little doll (soon to be his cute little doll). Despite believing himself to be a fairly responsable Hero, the man had never wanted to play with anything as much as he did with you.

   The sound of a zipper being lowered was alarmingly loud in the emptiness of your surroundings, as loud as a wail to your sensitive ears. When you squirmed below your restraints, nonetheless, you could no longer pinpoint whether it was from unadulterated fear or a sick sense of anticipation.

   How easy it had been to break you, even if you would never recognize it openly.

   "Knew you were into it, and now watch your ass trembling in excitement for me." He was chuckling again, not pretending like the cruelty coating his words had any other intention but to degrade you further. It had been just his luck, to find the one villain who just so happened to enjoy it. "I really hit the jackpot with you, didn’t I, doll?"

   When the lewd sound of one of his fists pumping his cock reached your ears, you didn’t even bother disguising the whines of complaint refusing to be contained any longer. 

   "Stop..." Words spilled from clenched teeth, growled out with an annoyance that no longer sought to defy, "Fucking..." but to demand instead, "Teasing."

   "Hmm, that’s cute. Why don’t you try begging me though?" His cadence was growing as bated as his breath, littered by intermittent curses as his eyes dined on the sight of your glistening core, held up and offered up for him to do as he pleased. "Beg for me to use you, and if you put on a good enough show I might just let you off."

   Another shiver rampaging it's way through your body, an exhilaration that could not be entirely pinpointed. 

   "Please…" You started, rough intonation dripping with venom —But Eraserhead didn't seem to mind the sardonic nature of your pleading though, not as you heard the litany of damnations being spilled from his lips. Your shameful excitement, your bitterness, your hatred… he would feast on it all and do it gladly. "Get on with it, bastard. Didn't anyone tell you never to toy with your food?"

   A low murmur was your only response at first, followed by the lewd sound of his pre-cum covered cock being harshly jerked.

   "Hmmm, aren't you being a bit too demanding…" His steps echoed again behind you, his unoccupied hand coming up to massage your ass with a rather firm grip. "Even with the begging, I don't think you've learned your place yet."

    When he planted a slap in the same place he had been eagerly caressing before, sharp and flaring up your nerves with the sting of pain and humiliation, you couldn't stop your scream from turning into a wanton little moan halfway through. 

   Even if he was hitting you, it still meant he was touching you, and so enticingly close to the place you actually needed tended to.

   "Do it…" your breathing was too heavy to speak in full fluid sentences, body flushed and mind filled with the buzzing of desire. "Do it again, fuck."

   You were still not begging him like he asked, but it seemed like your choice of words still greatly pleased him. Another slap rained on your ass, his big warm palm massaging the same reddening spot right after.

   And he kept going, the spanking echoing through your body and sending both pain and pleasured shivers up your spine—lewd sounds mixing in with the increasing pace of his other fist pumping his cock. Even without directly touching you, your pussy clenched and weeped with each firm hit. 

   "Damn, it's my first time meeting such a masochistic whore." Punctuated by his most painful slap yet, the globes of your ass left trembling and a furious shade of crimson to match his lust-filled eyes. "I can see why you've managed to stay free for so long, little villain." The debasement, paired with the pain of his firm strikes, had you moaning even louder. You couldn't even recognize your own sounds, nor the thrills you felt at this entire fucked up ordeal. "Wonder how many other Pros you showed this beautiful sight to."

   Even through the fog of sensations impeding you from being wholly coherent, though, you still couldn't help but want to set the record straight. 

   "None, fuck…" Words merging into another expectant whine when you felt his hand gripping your flesh again, only this time he was kneading you in an oddly tender way —Urging you on, fingers creeping closer to your needy hole. "I'm not… usually in the business of fucking Heroes. Shit, I hate this…" 

   But you didn’t, and when you were surprised by the warmth of his naked erection barely grazing the sensitive outer lips of your cunt, you couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped you. 

   "Goddamn, V/N, even while you're an ill-mannered brat you still manage to know just what to say." 

   And then the older man was sliding his cock in the juncture of your thighs, teasing your core by pressing against it while grunts began to escape him. You thought you could cry from having him so close yet still not where you wanted him, but then his shallow thrusts against your legs proved to be much more stimulating than you first expected. 

   The fat head of his cock even managed to somewhat stimulate your puffy clit with its movements, pushing in its direction as your essence continued to leak out and cover you both. And It was so absolutely debauched, to think a Hero was using your thighs like a fucktoy while you were tied down and unable to stop it....

   But it felt so good. Even without him actually in you, you had never been this turned on before. 

   "More… ughhh," you were now screaming with the side of your face pressed flush against the disgusting brick walls, needy sounds filling the night and making it privy to your descent into madness.

   Another thrust, this time angled just precisely enough not to caress your pleasurable areas. Punishment, you feverishly thought while you attempted to wiggle your ass, eager to force more of that delicious friction you were quickly becoming hypnotized by. 

   "Now, V/N," his gruff voice had adopted a mocking tone of reprimand as he continued to rut against the soft skin of your thighs. "Haven't I taught you anything, yet? If you want something…" The hand returned to your heated skin, digits underneath you both spreading your pussy enough for the chilly night air to send shivers straight to your core. "You gotta say please."

   And say please you did. Screamed it even, so eager for more and already far beyond feeling any embarrassment. 

   He didn't fuck you, not like you really wanted, but suddenly his thick shaft was sliding between your lips as his capture weapon aided him in angling your body just right, pulsing against your hole while he found a new rythimn. When both of his hands returned, one of them held you back to make the process even easier while the other swiftly joined his cock in tending to your eager pussy.

   So lost were you in the new raw excitement seizing you, in the knowledge of just how messed up you both were for engaging in such debauchery —so distracted that you didn't even notice the faint buzzing returning to your arms, the vibrancy of an old frequency being reactivated and allowed to encapsulate you again.

   (You didn’t notice, but fuck if it didn’t made your orgasm all the sweeter.) 

   You were cumming like that, your moans resembling squeaks, your body feeling closer to a used fucktoy than a human being. The hero kept rutting against you, the joint efforts of his cock and hand mercilessly continuing to abuse your spasming cunt while your cries filled the space with their decadence. 

   You felt dirty, guilty, maybe even a little ashamed as the orgasm briefly gave you a clarity of mind your arousal had clouded.

   And yet, despite it all, it had been the best you felt in years, possibly ever. As the Pro now tugged your hair, forcing you to wrench your neck just enough to look at him over your shoulder, you couldn't help licking your lips in expectation of what he had in store next.

   "You're gonna show me your face next time you come, little villain." He gave you just enough time to nod, eyebrows drawn as your pleasure got impossibly dragged out by the stimulation he still bathed you with. "And you're gonna keep begging me, keep showing me why you deserve to stay free, okay?"

   It was commendable, how collected he managed to sound while thrusting into your thighs like that, the sounds of skin slapping against skin driving each of his words home. 

   "Yes, fuck, whatever you want…" Despite your senses shortly coming back earlier, you were still too far gone to rethink your poor choices. You just knew you wanted more, and so you asked for it. "Just give me more, please."

   So fucking obedient. If your parents could see you know, their failure of a villain daughter being all proper and learning to beg for what she wanted? Well, perhaps saying they'd be proud was a stretch, considering you were also the one getting fucked in the middle of a filthy alley. 

   What you hadn’t expected, however, was just how well your begging would work. 

   Because the next thrust of his shaft was not between your legs, but aimed to finally breach your needy cunt instead, easily filling you up in one go with how utterly soaked in both of your juices you already were. The girth of him had you already clenching with renewed vigor, his hand stopping his assault on your clit just to give you enough time to truly savor the new intoxicating sensation.

   And when your eyes found his again, so drunk on the waves of pleasure you were that you also failed to notice the lack of scarlet coloring the orbs boring into yours, now inescapable voids of dark desire and a type of intense fixation you thought hadn't been there moments ago. 

   (Or maybe it was always there, and you had been too busy with your own turmoil to notice the clues being left by your so-called enemy).

   "Want me to stuff you properly?" His guttural question hit you at the same time as his sharp movements found your tender spot with experienced ease, walls tightening around him while your entire body struggled to continue holding yourself upright, relying more and more on the capture weapon to keep you from toppling over. 

   The binds still hurt from how tightly they wrapped around you, bruises sure to be left on their wake, but by that point you weren't so sure anymore the sting was an entirely bad thing. If anything, it just made the pleasure all the sweeter by comparison.  

   "Want me to fill you with so much cum that you reek of hero cock for the rest of the week?" He laughed while he regurgitated some of your words from earlier, the hand pressing against your lower stomach caressing you with a distinct sense of ownership as he elicited another loud moan with a sharp movement of his hips. 

   Noticing you reacting not only to his actions but to his quips, you could practically hear the self congratulatory smirk as he spoke next.

   "Bet the other villains would love knowing how much of a cockhungry whore you turned into too, doll. Talk about fraternizing with the enemy."

   And he was right, in a way. Because what would your fellow villains think, seeing you being wrecked by one of the most infamous Pros in the business, lowering yourself to pleading and screaming as he rearranged your insides. 

   Would you get called a disloyal whore or just a plain traitor? Not only would your spotless reputation and the myth you had fought to build collapse, but from its ashes your eternal shame could be erected. 

   A shame that would tower over you, looming around you while the eyes of your peers followed you everywhere. You could even picture the jests veered your way, the looks of utter disgust and ridicule...

   Somehow, the idea of anyone finding out only made your screams grow louder, impossibly more fervent. 

   "Fucking… get on with it."

   However, his rhythm was rapidly interrupted after your jab, his cock pulling out almost entirely as your core convulsed with the sudden staggering emptiness it was left to grapple with. More whimpers, struggling against the set of eternally unforgiving ties encasing your body. 

   "But you're making me do all the work, little one" Another slap shook your entire frame as it landed heavily on your still pained cheeks. You were so sore, both from the previous set of hits and from the sheer exhaustion starting to set in, muscles tight and resentful from the awkward positions your body had been manhandled into. "If you really want to continue this, how about you start doing some of the heavy lifting, uh?" Just like before, his palm started massaging the tender spot he had just smacked, fingers digging into your supple flesh being as close to comforting as the Pro seemed capable of. "Show me just how good you can be."

   And you could've argued, truly, could've even attempted to hold onto the last vestiges of your pride…

   You could’ve done a lot of things, but the truth was that when his weapon relented its hold at last, retreating from the underside of your knees and giving in just a smidge for the first time since you had been captured, you didn't waste any seconds before you were chasing after your high with renewed vigor.

   Greedily sinking into him with an obscene sigh, you audibly marveled at the curve of his member being deliciously imprinted in your insides. While you copied the cadence the Hero had previously employed, his grip on your lower belly fluttered, almost like he couldn't decide whether to take control back or allow you to humiliate yourself further with your own zealousness. 

   It seemed like the later prospect won him over in the end though, because he remained almost impassively still as you did all the work needed to bring you both deliriously close to your peaks. 

   The sight must've been spectacular, watching you, renown villain V/N, so thoroughly broken and willing to heed his every command. Impaling yourself on his cock, moaning and continuing to beg him for something you were already taking for yourself. 

   If he died right then and there, he doubted Heaven wouldn't have as much appeal as the scene still unfolding before his eyes. (But again, considering his actions, Heaven wouldn't really be the right place for either of you.)

   You were just about to reach your second orgasm, toes curling inside your shoes, fists clenched and a face that spelt poetic extasis. Angling the way you took his cock, every single movement driving him painstakingly deeper, slamming against a spot that made you imagine the stars falling from the sky all around you, their light being the one bathing you instead of the malfunctioning street lamps. 

   So goddamn close…

   Only to have him pull out again, this time completely. You were clenching against nothing, all stimulation stolen from you, and the bitterness of a ruined orgasm promptly dragged curses and complaints out of you before you could even think to stop them. 

   Eyes searched his, urgently seeking an explanation for his withdrawal only to find his glare fixated instead on that same dirty pair of stockings that had started it all. 

   Eraserhead must have taken the garment out of his pocket sometime while he fucked you, unfolding it from its scrunched up state until the crotch was visibly presented for both of you to admire, dark sheer fabric still stained from a mix of your arousal and spit. 

   When the Pro looked at you again, a beautifully dark smile topped his attractive face. He looked painfully content, the way he studied your own mortified expression reminding you of an artist studying his masterwork. 

   "Only the truly obedient ones get their cunts filled." You noticed then how his other hand was jerking him off again, erection rubbing against the nylon undergarments in a most obscene depiction. Too bad you were too frustrated to appreciate any of it. "I don't think you've… hell, you haven't earned it yet, V/N."

    You didn't even notice you were tearing up from the annoyance until it was too late. And maybe that was what finally did it, seeing you actually crying at his refusal to breed you like the slut you both knew you were, writhing in exaggerated despair as you found yourself feeling jealous of a stupid pair of tights, because not long after your pathetic reaction the man was letting out a pained groan of his own and spilling himself all over the damned garment. 

   But instead of rubbing your wailing in your face after he came down from his own delicious high, last few spurts of cum slowing down to a halt, you were surprised instead by the weapon that had been binding you for the longest time finally retreating.

   As expected, you unceremoniously collapsed to the floor, feet now unprepared for supporting your weight and your entire being wholly exhausted after enduring the roughest fuck you had ever experienced. It hurt all over, although you weren't sure whether your still present longing wasn't what pained you the most. 

   When you looked up to the Pro again, trying to find an answer to the new freedom you were experiencing, you were surprised by having the cum-dripped stockings thrown in your face. 

   And quite literally so, the still wet seed dribbling down your cheek and into your trembling lips, all before you collected enough wits to grab the offending item and pull it down with an expression of unadulterated disgust. 

   "Sorry, doll, but you were pouting so irresistibly," The Eraser user actually laughed, this time the sound coming with an untroubled merriment you did not think he was capable of.

   He actually looked worn out while he tucked himself back into his costume, accommodating the pieces of clothing until all hints from your ravenous affair disappeared. The bandages were wrapping themselves around his neck once more, looking more like an extravagant scarf than the most precise set of inmovilazing gear you had ever endured. 

   However, something about his attitude had you forgetting all about his newest slight, much too worried by a new cause of worry. 

   "Hold on..."

   Eraserhead looked down at you from his place after you raised your voice, urging you to continue as he finished getting himself presentable. The air of nonchalance around him was almost more intimidating than any of the actual threats or vulgar comments he had voiced prior. Almost.

   "Are you…" you swallowed the sudden lump in your throat, voice still raspy and hoarse after what had just transpired. "Are you really letting me go?"

   The man just raised one of his eyebrows at that, eyes crinkling for the first time and looking strangely amused. 

   "Doll, I stopped exerting my quirk on you while I was still teasing you good and proper," he declared bluntly. When his orbs glimmered again, you now felt like an imbecile as you finally realized they had completely lost the reddish hue to them. "So you know what? I thought you deserved to get an out of jail free card for behaving yourself… even if you still need to work some more on your manners."

   To call your shocked expression dumbfounded would be a disservice. 

   When his now bottomless eyes bore into yours for one final time, all you could do was stare back in dazzled shock. Your quirk was back, the Pro himself had just confirmed it, and yet you were still nailed to the spot, still anticipating his next words without even thinking of attacking him in the meantime.

   One little tumble and you were already his brightest pupil yet. He was now so glad to have waited that long, it only made the outcome all the more fulfilling. 

   "You don’t need to be so surprised, Y/N, we'll be seeing each other soon,” He kneeled in front of you for an instant, both hands reaching out to hold up your face in a gesture more resembling a lover than… well, whatever the hell you two were. So entranced you were then, that the use of your real name barely even registered. “It’s been difficult to keep you away from trouble thus far,” his acknowledgment reverberated in the alley, its meaning something else lost to you as you couldn’t help but become entranced by the new peculiar softness he addressed you with, “but getting you like this now, seeing you break so easily… fuck, I’ll mold you right back up, doll, you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about anything else.”

   And just then, for the first time you realized, the Hero’s lips were brushing against yours gently, uncharacteristically careful as he kissed you slowly. Even his hands were tender while they guided you, treating you as if you truly were a doll that could just be snapped with a mere wrong movement. As if he hadn’t just been treating you like a dirty hole for him to use and abuse just short instants ago. 

   But at least he did not seem to care about the mess that was your face at the moment, about the cum stains or the still damp trails of tears. And, for whatever reason, you found yourself returning the gesture in kind, melting into the oddly affectionate touch of a man you were still halfway sure you loathed. 

   Even after he left you, alone and a mess still toppled over on the floor with the shadow of humiliation cloaking your shoulders, your fingers couldn’t help but touch your lips with a bizarre mixture of bewilderment and horror.

   He told me I would see him soon, your mind supplied as you found yourself irreparably fixating your stare on the pair of now completely ruined tights you were still holding onto. The fact that you felt any type of excitement about the notion did not fail to mortify you. 

   God, even for villain standards you were fucked. 

But it was okay, because misery loved company and, with time at his disposal and the right amount of coaching, Shouta was sure he could teach you to properly crave his soon enough.

— — — 

And, 8k of foul smut later, if y’all read through that whole thing... drop by my ask to recieve your congratulatory gold stars! ⭐ (jk but I do appreciate hearing y’alls thoughts, it’s what keeps me halfway productive 🖤)

Last but not least, very special thanks to my best pals @reinawritesbnha​, @snappysnapo​ and @drxwsyni​ (who actually proof read this and helped me out immensely with her Big Brain Feedback. A TALENTED ANGEL). 

#bnha fanart #aizawa #yandere aizawa #aizawa x reader #yandere bnha #bnha imagines #mha fanart #bnha x reader #aizawa fanart #aizawa smut #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #anime fanart #aizawa shouta #bnha art #eraserhead #artists on tumblr #just art tingz

[lupismaris]

I know no one follows me for work related updates but as i am on the verge of unraveling from emotions right now you're gonna have to bear with me

The university i work at is the same i dropped out of about 9 years ago, for a myriad of reasons. When I left i was studying English and Film, and had worked at the University Library and Film Department Office. At the Library I worked for a guy called Chris who also became one of my Film professors, he's an avant guard loving philosophical punk who spent most of our intro to film classes showing us art films and documentaries and anything he could to break us away from the convention of American Hollywood film making.

But he was also incredibly supportive, if you wanted to make a superhero movie (like i did) or a fantasy (like i did) he would sit and listen for ages to help you fill out your ideas.

He was also one of two professors, two of the only people, who knew i was struggling and worked with me to structure my workload and projects in a way that meant i could succeed. He just got it, you know? I genuinely credit him with keeping me alive in a way

When I dropped out i didn't get the chance to tell him i was leaving or properly say goodbye. I hated myself for it.

Over the past 9 years we've crossed paths a few times, briefly, our city isn't big and it operates on the universal karmic energies of small towns, so we orbited each other, ships in the night, etc, never reconnecting.

Cut to today- it's rainy, it's miserable, I'm depressed and dissociating and there's barely any work to be done.

And the library has both volumes of Kafka's Diaries and the collected stories.

So I take a walk. I find the books. I go to circulation. I know, objectively, that Chris still works at the Library in the Reserves and Research department and still teaches, he's listed in the directory. I haven't been brave enough to go find him.

The student tries to check me out but makes an error and calls for her supervisor who's at one of the other computers. Older guy walks over- he looks familiar, still in skinny jeans and flannel but his dark curly hair is short and starting to grey- and he corrects the error and looks up at me.

A pause. We're both wearing n95 masks and almost a decade has passed. He doesn't know my name any more.

All i can manage is a feeble "hey chris-"

"Holy shit kid, where have you been huh?" He says.

He's trying not to laugh in surprise, I can tell, his eyes are crinkling and bright the way they used to get in class. He comes around the counter to hug me and pulls me aside and wants to know I'm okay and how I've been and "you know it's funny i was thinking about you lately and now here you are and you're my colleague again no less holy shit"-

And now i have his email and cell number and there's talk of lunch dates and end of shift walks to discuss the lipstick line from Dadaism to Punk and Anaïs Nin's Diaries and Kafka and what I'm working on these days and what it's like being poly at different stages of our lives and he has a film project he'd love to have me come to Philly and help out on because he remembers how well I fell into it and wants me back behind a camera and wants to help me figure out my writing and if/when i come back to school.

And I'm-

It's so easy to feel so incredibly alone in this world. It's so easy to feel isolated and cut off from everyone, even when you have people who love you and understand you. It's so fucking easy to fade into the background and feel like you could vanish entirely and nothing would change.

And then this happens. Someone sees you, with your new name, new hair, in a new decade, and still sees you, still recognizes you. And you feel solid, tangible again, real and honest, and seen. It's terrifying and vindicating in a way little else is.

I'm gonna go cry a bit now.

#long post jic #jamie rambles #this man taught me to book bind with random supplies we found in the damaged book bin in the library office #he first got a camera in my hands and let me story board my ideas because i could do it more coherently than verbally #he'd sit and let me work through the philosophical aspects of what i thought was high cinema and true art but was just ny hyperfixations #and he'd treat it with the same dignity as any classic or art film he loved #i just mentioned to him that the only camera work ive been doing it atmospheric and ambient based to capture the environment around a story #and most films guys ive mentioned that too have laughed it off as pointless but chris? he got excited! he got ao excited #and said hed love to tag along with me on one of my walks when i go filming in the woods or downtown just to see what catches my eye #god im so fucking emotional right now jfc

[idontlikeem]

For the ask game, perhaps "sleep intimacy" and "royal AU"? I love your ideas and writing!

you can find the fic tropes mashup game here!

ahhh anon thank you so much!

i had a lot of fun with this one—i so rarely dream up ideas where at least one of them isn't still a hockey player, so this was a blast!

So for this one, I think our setting is the Kingdom of Canada, a modern-day semi-constitutional monarchy that wrested its independence from Britain at some point and promptly established its own royal family.

Canada is known for its educational institutions—so much so that a young man from Siberia, from a good family but not a great one, might travel across land and sea to the capital of Canada for university, as opposed to attending one of the myriad of options in Moscow.

Zhenya likes Canada. The elected officials mean the people are represented, more or less, and the Crown is less prone to the wild excesses of Russian’s ruling class (although, to be fair, Zhenya is not sure how much of that is the absolute nature of the monarchy, and how much of it is down to Sasha just being...Sasha). The King and Queen are fair, and kind, and the Crown Prince…

Well. Zhenya met him at school, in a math class they were both taking out of requirement and not interest, and he was immediately infatuated.

Sidney is kind, and quiet until you get to know him, and perhaps a little too serious, but—he’s got the weight of an entire country on his shoulders, after all. It’s understandable.

Zhenya still thinks he needs to laugh more.

After graduation, Zhenya had always planned to return to Russia, to take his shiny new degree and put it to use, but when he talked about his plans with Sidney, and Sidney had looked at him like his world was crumbling and said, what if you stayed here instead, and you could come work for me, well not for me, for the palace, and you could keep going to school, like you’ve talked about—

Zhenya breaks his father’s heart, when he announces his intention to stay in Canada and keep going with his studies, but his mother understands, he thinks. Even if she didn’t, Zhenya was never going to say no to Sidney, not when he really asked for something. He so rarely asks for anything.

And so Zhenya starts earning a salary. His official title is Personal Aide—what it means in practice is that he’s set up in a suite of rooms connected to Sidney’s through a shared sitting room. He has Sidney’s calendar on his phone, and he’s copied on all sorts of emails, but his main responsibility is essentially making sure Sidney doesn’t worry himself into an early grave (he’s already started on the grey hairs). Since this is something Zhenya has been doing since they met, he finds his job entirely unchallenging.

His educational path takes him to mostly self-study, with monthly meetings with his advisors, so he’s got plenty of time to stick to Sidney’s side during the days, and they spend quiet evenings together, Zhenya doing his research and Sidney reading through laws and proposals and letters, all the daily tedium involved in preparing to run a country. Sometimes they’ll go to dinner with friends from school, and Sidney’s occasionally whisked off to formal events that Zhenya’s not high-born enough to attend, but they’re together a lot.

And it’s in those quiet still evenings where Sidney starts to confide in Zhenya about his other expectations, the ones Zhenya hadn’t known about.

Canada’s constitution requires its monarch to be married. Zhenya had known this in the abstract; he’d been more focused on the fact that it explicitly stated that the nature of the marriage didn’t matter, meaning, Canada allowed same-sex unions (another reason he came here for school, although one he’d kept to himself) than what it meant for his friend Sidney.

Sidney hadn’t dated in school. It would have been impossible for him. He’d hooked up plenty, but it had been discreet enough that one would be forgiven for assuming the Crown Prince was entirely chaste.

Zhenya knows he’s not. It’s a knowledge that burns him if he examines it too closely.

It is Sidney’s parents’ wish that he begin courting soon, Zhenya learns one night over hushed conversation; they’d like him to be settled and happy in his marriage before the throne is his, to minimize stress and provide him with solid support during the transition.

It makes sense. It makes all the sense in the world, Zhenya knows this. He just—hates it. He hates the idea of someone else staying up too late with Sidney, listening as he whispers out his fears and hopes and dreams. He hates the idea of someone else being the recipient of Sidney’s private smiles and rare, subtle little eyerolls when he’s bored and restless.

He doesn’t know what will happen to him, when Sidney meets someone he could love.

The suitors start making appearances at the more informal events Zhenya attends. Some of them seem fine, he supposes, but he doesn’t like the way they look Sidney over; as if they’re picturing him as a pretty thing to dangle off their arms. He doesn’t like the proprietary way they glance around the throne room, the familiarity with which they address the King and Queen.

He keeps quiet, though. It’s not his place. And if sometimes he notices the Queen watching him speculatively, well—that’s not his business either.

Luckily, Sidney sends them all home after no more than a day or two; the only ‘suitor’ that stays for longer is Sasha, and that’s because he’s not really there to try and woo Sidney, but had instead leapt at the trip as a chance to visit with Zhenya. Sidney had watched them greet each other with a small smile, and then proceeded to disappear for the entire week that Sasha was there. Zhenya had appreciated the time with his friend, but he’d hoped they could get to know each other.

Once Sasha leaves, Sidney is strangely cautious, withdrawn, but he soon returns to his normal self, and Zhenya shrugs and puts it from his head. There’s a new suitor expected any day, after all.

This one doesn’t take, either. Nor does the next one, or the one after that, or the one after that, and Zhenya...wonders, a little.

But he’s held Sidney’s confidence for years now. The increasingly pointed looks from the Queen, the King’s efforts to single Zhenya out and get to know him—none of that means a thing if it’s not what Sidney wants, and if Sidney wanted Zhenya, surely he must know he could have had him from almost the day they met?

I’d be so much better for you than any of them, Zhenya thinks to himself as he watches the second son of some North American dignitary squire Sidney about the gardens. His hand is too low on Sidney’s back. Zhenya turns the page on the book he’s pretending to read.

It would be wrong, to use what he’s learned of Sidney over the years to try and win his heart. It would be—dishonest, a betrayal of their friendship. Zhenya could never do that to Sidney. Plus, he’s from a good family and not a great one, and good isn’t enough for the Crown Prince. Isn’t good enough for Sidney, who is kind, and quiet until you get to know him, and perhaps a little too serious, but—

Zhenya loves him. And he can’t do anything about it.

#of course this ends happily #sidney had thought that zhenya and sasha were an item—zhenya speaks so fondly of him after all! #he realizes that's not the case but then...if zhenya hasn't been carrying a torch for sasha for all these years... #wouldn't he have made a move? #sidney finally realizes that his station and zhenya's means he has to make the first move #he does #zhenya is confused and hurt because he thinks it's a joke #but then he realizes it's NOT and he's about to get everything he's ever wanted #and they live happily ever after :) #sidgeno #hockey rpf #my fic #fic asks #flash fic

[the-scandalorian]

Tempered Glass: Chapter 2

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: M (will become explicit in later chapters) Word Count: 4.3k Warnings: slow burn, canon-typical violence, non-graphic description of wounds, cursing, sexy thoughts, pining Summary: Chance brought you and the Mandalorian together on Nevarro. Now, on his ship, you have to broker a careful trust with him, despite both his and your instincts to distrust others. Notes: I’ll be loosely following the events of the first season and see what happens from there. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! Taglist:  @bbdoyouloveme​ @beskarhearts​ @dincrypt​ @honey-hi​ @just-me-and-my-obsessions00​ @red-leaders​ @zoemariefit​ 

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Image from The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Before you could decide what to say to him, the Mandalorian rushed across the hull in two long strides and grabbed your shoulders forcefully, lifting you from your seated position and pushing you up against the wall. You exclaimed in surprise as a strong forearm came up to hold your chest in place, restricting the expansion of your lungs in a painful way. Your hands automatically scrabbled against his arms, trying to break his grip, but his hold was iron. He was leaning all his weight into you, crushing you into the wall, and even bracing your legs against his armored thighs didn’t budge him.

“Who sent you?” he yelled, his helmet inches from your face. The depth and rasp of his voice through the modulator made your stomach drop, and your fight instincts kicked into high gear.

Here’s the Mandalorian I was expecting.

Your upper arms were trapped against your sides, but you could lash out just enough to dig your fingers into his injured side, exploiting his weakness. He grunted and faltered, loosening his hold, and you took the chance to shove him off of you while pulling the long knife from your belt and whipping it up to his neck. At this same time, he recovered and yanked his blaster out of his holster to press the barrel into your stomach. His left hand had a vice-like hold on your bicep.

“No one! No one sent me!” you panted. Your right hand pressed your knife against the fabric at his throat, and your left gripped the back of his neck so he couldn’t move away from the blade. Your finger hovered over the activation switch on the hilt.

In this position, you had to tilt your head up to look into the t-shaped visor of his helmet. You tried to make out his eyes, but all you could see was your own reflection in the inky black surface. You were sweaty and out of breath. His breath was fast and loud through the modulator, chest heaving just inches from yours. This is not an opportune time to be turned on.

“Why were you following me this morning?” he demanded. So he had known.

“Why were you watching me in the cantina a few weeks ago?” you countered.

He tensed, surprised by the question, and cocked his head to the side, considering. “...You looked familiar,” he offered.

Maybe he really had recognized me from my bounty puck, like the bounty hunter in the alley today.

As you contemplated this possibility, the threat you each posed to the other became almost palpable.

He was worried that you were after him or the child—both of whom were clearly high-value targets. And if you had really run into him by chance and didn’t know that before, then you obviously knew how much they were both worth now. You could easily take advantage of that. You, on the other hand, suspected that he knew you yourself had a bounty on your head—and here you were, on his ship, mostly at his mercy. However, you’d say the stakes were higher for him. He had more than just himself to worry about. He clearly cared about whoever this child was.

“I wasn’t following you today. I wouldn’t have been so obvious if I was tracking you. Is that how you would follow a bounty? I was trying to talk to you,” you admitted.

He seemed unsure of whether or not he should believe you. His grip on your arm loosened almost imperceptibly. You reciprocated by easing the pressure of your hold on his neck.

Perhaps, the fact that you were both so vulnerable meant you could come to an understanding.

“Can we just talk? I’m not after you or the kid. I don’t even know why they’re after you. I saw you the other day in the cantina, and I was curious about why you were watching me, so I followed you to talk today. Then I got caught in the fray when I ran into you in the alley. That’s it. It sounds ridiculous, but that’s it. Let’s lower these and just talk.”

You hoped you could earn back the fragile trust you’d had between you just minutes ago on Nevarro, but you had no reason real reason to trust each other. It was clear that neither of you was used to trusting others.

Trust was a bad habit you’d had to unlearn to survive, and the same was true for bounty hunters. His was also a brutal, solitary profession.

But, there was also no explicit reason you had to be enemies.

He hesitated. “You first.” His voice rasped in the modulator.

You continued to hold him where he was, close to you, for another moment as you considered what to do. You didn’t want to hurt him, and it seemed like his instinct was to protect rather than attack.

You slowly released your grip on his neck and dropped your blade.

He lowered his blaster and replaced it in the holster at his side, still standing just inches from you. You knew that he was only open to this truce because there were several ways he could overpower you if he needed to. You hadn’t forgotten the fire that had erupted from his vambrace. He likely had a myriad of other deadly tricks up his sleeve—literally.

After a tense moment, you both stepped back.

“Why did you help me?” he asked.

“I didn’t have much of a choice. Why did you help me?”

“I... don’t know. It made sense at the time.”

“Why’d you let me on your ship?”

“I wasn’t going to let them kill you,” he shrugged, like that was obvious.

“Well, I appreciate that,” you laughed. He cocked his head in surprise. The tension thawed slightly.

You sat down on opposite sides of the hull, a safe distance apart, watching each other warily.

“Are you Guild?”

“I’m not a hunter.” He seemed skeptical but didn’t press the issue.

You reached for your bag, and he tensed.

“Just getting water.” You yanked your water bottle out of your bag and drank.

He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “What weapons do you have?”

“Blaster, knife, spare blaster. Not quite the arsenal you have,” you motioned to where his weapons closet was partially open, displaying an impressive array of firearms, explosives, and knives.

He nodded and explained, “Weapons are part of my religion.”

“Right,” you muttered, not really sure what that meant. You met his visor briefly then looked away again. Having his attention trained solely on you felt like sitting under a spotlight. And it wasn’t just the threat of danger that made you squirm.

You flicked your eyes back up to him when he shifted. You followed his movements as he pulled the blaster from his holster and stood to put it on its hook in the closet, then did the same with his rifle and vibroblade. He clicked a button on the wall, and the weapons closet clanged shut. You were still acutely aware that his whole body was a weapon, so this gesture of peace was largely symbolic.

Nonetheless, you responded in kind by placing your large vibroblade and both your blasters on a crate out of your reach.

You sat in awkward silence for a moment. You weren’t really sure if these empty gestures meant anything real... or were just that—empty. How likely was it that you were going to progress from strangers to two people who actually trusted each other in the confines of this tiny ship within the span of minutes? Not very.

“I’m going to use the refresher,” you announced. He nodded.

His searing gaze followed you the short distance to the door, and you suddenly forgot what you usually did with your arms when you walked.

It was a relief to close the door behind you and be alone for a moment. When you washed your hands, you noted the generous amount of the Mandalorian’s blood drying on your fingers, smeared there from when you made contact with his blaster injury. From the looks of it, his injury was worse than yours.

You scrubbed your hands clean and leaned down to splash water on your face, wiping away the sweat and dirt on your brow. Then, you rested your palms on the edge of the sink and took a few steadying breaths, studying your face in the small mirror before you.

I’ve been in tighter spots than this.

And this time, like every one of those other times, you steeled yourself and concentrated on the next immediate step you could take to improve your situation. You let your anxiety fall away as you narrowed your focus to a tangible action: treating your thigh wound. If you let yourself consider more than that, spiral in uncertainty and linger on every unknown and variable in this situation, you’d feel overwhelmed.

One step at a time.

When you returned to the hull, you opened your bag to pull out your med pack, sat back on your crate, and got to work cleaning the graze wound through the hole the blaster shot had left in your pants. 

The Mandalorian reached into a container and pulled out his own much larger med pack. With precise movements, he removed his cape, his bandolier, and the top half of his armor. He turned away to pull up his shirt and inspect his wound. He was careful to stay angled in a way so you couldn’t see any of his exposed skin—you weren’t sure if he didn’t want you to know the extent of his injury or if he wasn’t allowed to reveal any of his skin to you.

From the way he was contorting awkwardly, it was clear that he was struggling to reach the extent of the wound.

“Do you want help?” you offered, knowing he’d refuse. You felt compelled to try anyways.

He snapped his helmet up to look at you, like he was surprised you were there. You waited for his answer. Several moments delayed, he jerked his head slightly, like he’d rediscovered a lost train of thought, and muttered: “I’m fine.”

You shrugged and finished tending to your own wound. When you had finished tying a clean bandage around your thigh, you noticed he was squeezing a tiny amount of bacta from an almost empty tube.

“Do you need this?” You held your full tube out to him.

He looked up. Again, he seemed to have forgotten you were there, or perhaps, was so caught off guard by your question, that his answer came after a long stretch of silence. It seemed like a weird reaction to such benign questions.

“Thank you,” he replied, dropping his shirt to walk toward you.

He reached for the bacta, but instead of taking the tube, he grabbed your wrist, twisting it hard. You cried out in pain as the bacta clattered to the floor. His free hand whipped behind his back to grab a pair of cuffs from his belt. Despite your struggling and flailing, he wrenched your arm over and cuffed your hand to a rung of the ladder that was just a few inches to your left.

You kicked out a foot to trip him, but he evaded it. You reached for him with your unrestrained hand, but he jumped back.

Shit. You cursed yourself for placing your weapons out of reach. The small blade strapped to your ankle wouldn’t be of much help at the moment. You let out a frustrated huff of anger. You were better than this, smarter than this.

“I’m sorry. I have to,” he insisted. He started to pace back and forth.

“You really don’t,” you argued, as you slouched against the wall in defeat. He’d cuffed you part way up the ladder, so your arm stretched uncomfortably above your head when you sank to the floor. You rubbed your free hand over your face, thinking.

“I can’t risk it,” he continued, almost apologetic in tone. He seemed to be convincing himself as much as he was convincing you.

“What are you going to do with me?”

He tilted his helmet down at you: “Nothing?”

“I mean, what’s the long term plan here?”

“I’ll leave you somewhere nearby—you can choose the planet—but I need to sleep before I can do anything else. And well...” he gestured vaguely to you then to the compartment where the kid was sleeping.

You watched him resume his circuit of the tiny hull and weighed your options. There weren’t many, and the fact that he was so worried about what you’d do to him or to the kid made you feel less threatened by him. He was spending his time thinking about how you might hurt him, not about how he could take advantage of you. At least, you hoped that was the case.

“I understand,” you relented, letting out a heavy sigh. At least he didn’t freeze me in carbonite.

He froze midstride to stare down at you.

As annoyed as you were by the restraints, you couldn’t really blame him. Honestly, you’d do the same exact thing if you were in his position. You’d already started thinking about the safest way to get some sleep in his presence—your next clear course of action—knowing that your temporary truce was fragile.

He regarded you silently, as if waiting for the catch.

“You could have just asked. I probably would have tried to talk you out of it, but I really do get it. I don’t know you. You don’t know me.”

He stood, looking down at you, incredulous.

It was strange, but not unfamiliar, to have to read someone in full armor, to take all cues from body language and tone. And in the Mandalorian’s case, even his tone was somewhat obscured. You stared back up into his blank helmet but felt sure you were reading him pretty well.

You glanced up at the handcuffs and were comforted by the knowledge that you could pick the mechanism fairly easily with some combination of your small vibroblade, the bobby pin in your hair (which was only there for this express purpose), and—if it came to it—the underwire of your bra. You’d done it before.

He doesn’t need to know that.

It seemed like, as someone who regularly restrained people, he should assume you could pick locks, but you weren’t about to bring that to his attention. You were going to let him think you were completely at his mercy because clearly that’s what he needed to feel safe. Plus, you didn’t want him to resort to a more extreme means of restraining you.

“Could you at least cuff me to something so I can lie down?” You wiggled the arm that was stretched awkwardly over your head.

He tucked his thumbs into his belt and cocked his head as if trying to decide whether or not this was a trick. He sighed quietly though the modulator.

“Don’t try anything,” he warned, striding forward to unlock the cuffs. You held your hands up in surrender. He led you toward a spot along the wall where a pipe ran a few inches off the floor and gestured for you to sit by it.

When he leaned over your body to snap the cuffs to the pipe, you caught a glimpse of his neck, where a sliver of skin was exposed between his cowl and his helmet. His skin was golden brown—definitely not green like the child, definitely human. It was less than an inch of skin, but you couldn’t help but feel that you’d witnessed something scandalous or intimate, like you’d accidentally walked in on someone changing. You also couldn’t help but notice that he smelled good under the faint odor of metal and blaster residue.

He wasn’t rough when he secured your hand in the cuffs this time.

Walking around the hull, he collected a ration pack and a thick blanket from two different crates and grabbed your water bottle from where you’d left it by your bag. He tossed the items to you one at a time.

Thoughtful.

He picked up your bacta from where it had fallen to the floor and sat back down to finish tending to his own wound.

You pulled the blanket under you so you weren’t sitting on the cold, hard floor of the ship and leaned back against the wall.

You opened the ration pack, picking at the contents, and considered the man before you.

You had a million questions for him but somehow couldn’t think of one thing to say. Nothing seemed particularly pressing as the stress and exertion of the day were beginning to catch up with you. He wasn’t a particularly chatty guy and didn’t seem interested in conversation beyond determining whether or not you were trying to abduct his child—and the jury was clearly still out on that front as far as he was concerned.

Eventually, he finished treating his wound and replaced his upper armor. He disappeared into the refresher for a few minutes then returned to what you had assumed was a storage bay, where he had placed the child. After shifting the child gently, he climbed—in full armor—into the smallest, most ridiculous bunk you’d ever seen before closing the door and disappearing from view. Doesn’t he have a room?

You finished the ration pack, kicked off your boots, and curled up in the blanket to lie down. You were grateful that your physical exhaustion was absolute. Otherwise, you were sure your mental chatter would have kept you awake. You needed rest before you could decide your next move. Telling yourself that you’d just doze, not sleep deeply, your eyelids drifted shut almost unwillingly.

***

The next morning, you woke to the Mandalorian leaning over you to release your wrist from the cuffs. You started at his unexpected closeness, jerking back, and he looked down. Clearly, you’d fallen into a deep sleep for several hours. Whoops.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You still weren’t used to that rich, raspy voice. Does it ever not sound seductive? It didn’t help that you could smell him again when he was leaned over you like that. You closed your eyes, waiting for him to move away.

“That’s okay.”

He stood, clipping the cuffs to the back of his belt. You sat up, leaning against the wall, and rubbed your eyes.

He sat on a crate across from you, with the baby on his lap, feeding him little pieces of something gross looking. The kid was perched happily on his knee, wiggling his giant ears in satisfaction as he chewed and watching you with unguarded interest.

“Who is that?” you asked.

The baby was alert and cheery, periodically letting out joyful little chirps, a marked difference from their subdued temperament the night before.

“He was a bounty,” the Mandalorian stated simply, as if that explained the whole situation.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at his non-answer and didn’t respond. Obviously, there was more to the story, but he didn’t want to share it. That was fine. You didn’t owe each other anything (except maybe your lives, but in that regard, you figured you were even).

You watched the Mandalorian. He was sweet with the child—patient, too—but awkward and unsure. You didn’t have all that much experience with children either, but you knew holding a baby out in front of you with straight arms, as you’d seen him do for a moment yesterday, was not normal. He seemed caring and invested but inexperienced.

How long has he had this baby?

“I think we can help each other.” The Mandalorian spoke slowly, interrupting your train of thought.

This development surprised you, especially considering he’d made you sleep cuffed to a pipe.

From the moment you set eyes on the armored warrior, you had expected him to be cold, withholding: a lone wolf. In some ways, he was—the armor alone was enough to make him seem hostile and untouchable—but in other ways... He was almost... kind? He’d protected you, a stranger, without hesitation. The fact that he was caring for a wanted child was another piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

“How’s that?” You fidgeted with the edge of the blanket in your hands.

You hadn’t had the chance to formulate a full plan for yourself, but you didn’t really need to. You’d do what you’d always done: disappear. You’d lay low for a few weeks, then return to one of the three places you had hidden supplies: namely, new identification and credits. And then you’d disappear again. Maybe change your hair. Find a temporary job somewhere. Same old routine.

“The same people are after both of us.”

You snapped your head up to look at him.

“They saw you holding the kid and board the Crest. They know you’re with me,” he continued.

The same set of questions played in your head: Did he recognize me as a bounty that day in the cantina? Or did he notice the moment when the bounty hunter had recognized me in the alley yesterday? Or does he really just think I’m caught up in this with him because of pure chance?

He took your silence as an invitation to proceed.

“I can drop you off on a nearby planet. We can go our separate ways, but I think they’ll be looking for you too. It might be best to stay together for the moment.” He spoke carefully, like he knew he was out on a limb, and he didn’t expect you to agree. This was the most you’d heard him say at once. When you really considered it, he was right. Based on they way the fight went down, with you and the Mandalorian protecting each other, everyone would conclude that you were a team. That’s how the word would spread. Hunters would come after you both. If they found you separately, they’d assumed you knew where the other one was.

Between bites, the kid let out the cutest, tiniest sneeze you’d ever heard. The Mandalorian wiped his nose gently with the edge of his cape, and the softness of the gesture made your heart squeeze. You looked away briefly to hide the smile on your face.

You turned back to him, expression neutral, meeting his inscrutable gaze once again. “We’d be harder to find if we went our separate ways. We could lead them in two different directions,” you reasoned, trying to parse out all the options.

“I... feel bad that they’d come after you for no other reason than you happened to run into me in an alley.”

Again, his thoughtfulness surprised you.

For now, it seems safe to assume he doesn’t know about my bounty.

And you weren’t ready to share that yet...even though you knew hiding it was unfair to him and to the child. They were both already at risk. If you decided to stay with him for the moment, you’d eventually need to admit that you were a liability all on your own.

Not yet though.

“What’s your plan?”

“Head somewhere deserted. Lay low for a couple weeks, then go from there.”

That’s what you would be doing alone anyways. He’d already proven his skill in battle. Would it be so bad to have someone looking out for you for once?

It would be a relief, if you were being totally honest with yourself.

“Okay,” you agreed hesitantly. “For now, this makes sense,” you gestured between you two.

He nodded once.

You posed the question that was plaguing you: “What made you change your mind about me? Why are you trusting me all of a sudden?”

“You stayed cuffed.”

You raised your eyebrows at him. Apparently, it had been a test, and you had passed. I guess he was being smart, not underestimating me. 

He seemed satisfied to leave the conversation there, but your curiosity got the better of you. You took the chance to build on this blossoming trust.

“So, does the helmet stay on all the time?”

He met your gaze for a moment before looking down at the kid and saying, “No living being has seen my face since I was a child. This is the way.”

Well, that’s super sad.

You thought back to the exchange between him and that huge blue Mandalorian. They’d both said the same thing then too.

Mandalorians have a catchphrase?

You wondered what this helmet rule meant in practice: for instance, does that mean he could be helmetless around someone if they couldn’t see his face... Like, were blindfolds or very dark rooms on the table? And what about the rest of the armor? Can he take that off? How bad should I feel that I’d seen a sliver of his neck? You wanted to know the answers to all these questions but obviously couldn’t ask.

Instead, you nodded and said, “What’s your name?”

“Mando is fine.” Impersonal. Business-like. It’s what Karga had called him.

His proposal to stay together for the time being had felt like an opening, but clearly peeling away all his layers of metaphorical armor would take a long time. He was so guarded, but it seemed like he didn’t really want to be. You related to that on a deep level.

“Mando?” You voiced the question that had popped into your head when Karga called him Mando the first time: “Isn’t Mandalorian spelled m-a-n-d-A-l-o-r-i-a-n?”

“...yes?” he confirmed tentatively, unsure of your point. His hand, which was in the process of feeding the child another bite, paused midair as he watched you. The kid made impatient whiny sounds and reached for his hand.

“So shouldn’t your nickname be Mand-a?”

He scoffed, making a sound somewhere between amusement and annoyance, and resumed feeding the child, who let out a contented coo as he chewed.

There was an awkward beat of silence while you waited for him to ask for your name. When he asked, you’d share your fake name, as always. 

He didn’t ask.

***

Chapter 3

#my writing #tempered glass #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x f!reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin fic #mature #the mandalorian reader insert #din djarin reader insert

[la-fille-en-aiguilles]

Señorita

Billy Russo x Female Reader

Warnings: S.M.U.T., language.

Synopsis: You finally get out of the city to spend a week in a beachside paradise - you’re entitled to a little getaway, you think, with your birthday coming up. When a handsome stranger hits on you at the bar, along with your birthday, some other things might come as well.   A/N: This was random? Came out of nowhere. Enjoy & let me know what you think x

Gif not mine

Timid waves crushed softly against the shoreline, white sand turning concrete gray at their touch. The warm breeze carried around a song you thought you recognised, but couldn’t remember from where. The beach-side bar basked in a gentle blush glow, so typical for the evenings here at Mallorca… You’d only arrived a couple of days ago, but already you couldn’t picture yourself anywhere else - just sitting here, at the bar by the turquoise sea, sipping on your Pina Colada in the shadow of the palm-branched roof. The wind brushed through your salt-stained hair from the entire day spent rolling around on the beach; mindful sun caressing your thighs, peaking from behind the slit in your deep emerald dress.

Tonight was relatively calm, you thought, twirling the straw in your cocktail absentmindedly. Ever since the English rugby team packed up their balls and other attributes and set out to sea, the place became peaceful.

You were glad. The entire point of this trip was to get out of the busy city for a while, enjoy the calm. If you wanted a testosterone-filled party for your birthday, you would have stayed in New York - Karen would throw a rave that would make Coachella look like a kindergarten gathering.

But that is exactly what drove you out of America and into this seaside paradise. If there was one thing you had trouble doing, it was working a crowd of people you barely saw in your everyday life, who only came for booze and dancing. Karen said she understood, and that the party would have been a small yet tasteful affair… you still fled.

Here’s to hoping that Karen wasn’t pissed at you for bailing, you silently prayed, throwing the straw on the bar and taking a gulp directly from the glass. Judging from the text Karen sent you earlier today, saying something about getting together for a celebratory meal when you got back to the city, you figured she wasn’t mad. She did say something about introducing her to a friend of Frank’s again, and having thrown the Karen plan for the party out of the window, you had to budge.

It’d been so long it had become a running joke between you two - Karen wanting to introduce you to that “handsome hunk”, with whom Frank had served. She was especially lyrical about his manners, his big heart and his beautiful smile.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think Karen was head over heels for the guy.

Every time Karen made plans for a Sunday brunch or Saturday night drinks at Castle’s place with the sole purpose of introducing you to the Hunk, you always found an excuse to ditch. Sometimes it was an urgency at work, sometimes it was about something funny you ate the night before… You must have been dodging these “introductory date” attempts for at least five months now - and it all looked like after this get-away vacation, you’d have to face the music.

Well, it was worth it. A week of doing nothing, reading sappy novels and drinking high-end cocktails, that was what you craved for, and if you had to pretend to be interested in some nonsense a guy was trying to charm you with for a couple of hours, it was a small price to pay. With that thought, you finished off your Pina Colada and motioned for the sunburnt brown bartender to get you another one.

“Hola señorita.”

The voice was unexpected. Low, with an agreeable trace of huskiness and with a hint of power.

“Disculpe, ¿este asiento está ocupado?”

Slightly frowning, you turned your head to the right.  

Ever since the English rugby team settled in one of the villas, the women in the hotel found themselves outnumbered. It just so happened - what a coincidence - that you turned out to be their neighbour, your villa closest to theirs. Everytime you’d walk out of your temporary home to hit the bar or the beach, you’d spot at least three young men hanging outside of their quarters, their faces illuminating the minute they saw you. You’d give them a cursory smile back - you weren’t that cruel - but everytime one of them tried to approach you, you shot him down - often with a look, rarely with a verbal warning. Ever since they left, you was relishing the feeling of tranquillity - until he decided to burst your happy little bubble.

The first thing you noticed about him is that he wasn’t Spanish, despite the lack of accent. He had beautiful dark, almost black eyes, the colour of a freshly brewed espresso, that myriad of black and chocolate tones swirling in a whirlpool of tender curiosity. They held your depreciating stare well. The sun obviously loved him - those razor-sharp cheekbones glowed bronze as he tilted his head to the side a little bit. The wind caressed his dark hair, playing with the longer strands at the top.

Something about him was so familiar. Maybe you’d seen him on the beach before? You did stay at the same hotel after all…

Not in a slightest bit confused at your lack of answer, the man smiled.

His smile held a sort of a gentle surprise in it, like a summer day in a middle of October.

It was absolutely breathtaking.

“Je suis désolée,” you finally uttered, forcing your eyes to focus on his eyes again instead of his lips. “Je ne parle pas espagnol”.

His smile grew wider, much to your surprise. Instead of getting red in the face, stammering out some random apology as you expected him to, he nodded and motioned to the chair next to you with one hand, sliding the other one across the surface of the bar.

Despite your better judgement and against your utter dislike of aimless flirting, you found herself shrugging as you accepted her second drink from the bartender.

“A whiskey on the rocks, please.”

Ah-ha. He’s from New York.

You sipped on your cocktail directly from the glass, ignoring the brand-new straw the bartender supplied you with in order to hide your smirk. As the man held two aristocratic, impossibly long fingers in the air, making his order, you took the time to study him.

He was tall, much taller than you. The plain white t-shirt that he wore betrayed the solid stomach muscles hidden under the cotton - the short sleeves strained as he gripped the back of the chair and slowly lowered himself onto it.

“Thank you,” he finally said to the bartender with a nod, gripping his glass with those downright pornographic fingers. Slightly pursuing his lips, the man turned his full attention back to you. When you arched an eyebrow at his antics, he flashed you a mischievous yet understanding look. “Ça tombe bien. Je me sens plus à l’aise en parlant français”.

That cheeky bastard.

Your first reaction was that of a sincere surprise. You were pretty sure that for a second there, your eyebrows almost reached your hairline. Upon catching the satisfied glint in these already all too familiar eyes, you wanted to feel irritated at the nerve of him, at the fact that he just happened to beat you at your own game. But you didn’t.

Biting hard on your bottom lip in order not to laugh, you took your glass and sipped, hard.

“While I’d love to know how many more languages the lady speaks, I would much rather learn her name”, he dropped nonchalantly, whirling his whiskey gently, the ice cubes cluttering against the glass.

The first comeback that crossed your mind was so filthy you couldn’t possibly go with it. The second one, however, was efficient and succinct.

“Diana, here’s a lady’s name.”

With a low chuckle, he let his head drop down for a moment. When he raised his eyes to face you again, your chest felt a little too tight and a little too fragile under his poignant stare - that of amusement, want and a clean cut awe.

His eyes had told you that this was more than a drifting attraction, that he was interested in so much more than your name…

You saw it, and for some nonsensical reason, chose to believe it.

“I don’t care about names,” there was such a determination to your voice that it surprised you. It didn’t startle him, though - he caught your every word as his eyes travelled from your fluttering eyelashes to the soft curve of your lips. “When there are so many more interesting things to talk about. Don’t you agree?”

As you turned away from him and took another sip of your drink, you heard him chuckle yet again, and saw him press a hesitant finger against his lips.

This was obviously new to him. This small treacherous gesture led you to believe that maybe he wasn’t one to pick women at bars, that, just like you, he felt that thrill of surrendering to the strange sort of attraction encircling you both.

“In fact, enough talking. Let’s focus on doing.”

What was it so special about him that made you decide? It’s not like there’s been no men before him, very much willing to break through your iron-clad facade, wanting you to take a leap of faith. Some of them had the potential to make you feel good, you were aware of that. Still, you didn’t want them.

What made him so different? A certain familiarity of his voice, his features, maybe? Or maybe you should just slow down, cut down on the alcohol, drink a glass of water and go back to your villa, alone.

The way his eyes skimmed your naked shoulders, a barely there sigh leaving his half-open lips sealed the deal.

You didn’t want to slow down.

Not with him.

“Here’s to doing then”, his Adam apple bobbed as he gulped down, his eyes darkening. He raised his glass towards you - a figurative shake of hands on the deal they just made.

“Here’s to doing”, you agreed, clinking your glass to his.

His villa was located at the outskirts of the hotel beach, backed by the rocks. It was a ten-minute walk from the bar, feet in the warm sand, the star-sprangled night sky over your heads.

Despite the silence surrounding you, save for the occasional gust of breeze carrying on the sound of music from the bar you just left, you didn’t feel awkward. A soft smile ghosted over your lips as you felt his careful touch at the small of your back - those fingers sliding down to the base of your spine, feather-like. He strode forward, adapting his pace so you could keep up - you weren’t even sure he was aware of that, the change in him so spontaneous, as if it were a force of habit. Like this wasn’t the first time you walked side by side.

You would blame it on the booze, but you drank a total of two cocktails.

He only had one whiskey before they took off.

The villa he chose to stay in was slightly more spacious than yours, and provided a lot more privacy - this told you a lot about the man you were about to sleep with. He was most certainly well off, for starters. He also came here to get his share of peace and quiet, much like yourself.

Guiding you through the doors, he turned the lights on behind you, his other hand never leaving your back.

The best way to describe the interior would be neat or crisp, with a large, perfectly made bed in the center of the space, surrounded by a bar, a hanging chair, a shuttered armoire, and a desk, that could be used both as a kitchen table and a bureau. It smelled faintly of vanilla and musk, with a sea-salt aftertaste.

“Make yourself at home”, he murmured into your ear, still standing behind you, his hand gripping your hip hard for a fleeting second. When the realization of his touch had settled in, and you were finally able to react, he was already at the bar, serving himself a whiskey.

“Would you like something to drink?”

He busied himself with the bottle for a moment; then he produced another glass from behind the bar, waiting on your answer. When you didn’t speak, he turned to face you again.

You did as you were told - kicking off your shoes, you stepped onto the soft wool rug. With your back to him, you slowly made your way to his bed. One you reached it, you couldn’t resist trailing your fingertips along its surface - the sheets were creamy and silk, smooth to the touch.

You stopped short of the head of the bed, throwing a look over your shoulder. He caught your gaze, frozen in place, wetting his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue.  

“Why don’t you choose for me?” you offered, slowly lowering yourself on the bed, crossing your legs. “What do you usually serve them?”

The way his eyes narrowed at you ever so slightly almost made you smile. It looked like you’d struck a nerve.

Good.

“I wouldn’t know how to answer that question”, he said, his voice levelled, his stare unblinking. “I’ve never had an urge like that before”.

Well, fuck.

How many more times this man was going to run counter to your expectations?

And on top of everything, damn, he was good. A quick-thinker or a natural good-talker? Would you remain clear-headed for long enough to find out?

“What else would you like to know?” his voice grew huskier as he pushed the glass away from himself. He left it at the bar as he started your way, his pupils blown to hell.

“That all I’ve been thinking about ever since I saw you at the bar is how soft your breasts would feel pressed against my chest? That I’ve been hard ever since you opened that sassy mouth of yours? Or that I would have jerked off to the memory of you for weeks if you hadn’t come here with me?”

God.

The tightness that had long since made home in your chest moved lower, lower, lower, until it sank into the pit of your stomach. At his words, involuntary, your thighs clenched together, restless energy buzzing in between your legs, your toes curling.

“Stand up”.

When your eyes focused back on your surroundings, you saw him standing a couple of steps away, his strong jaw clenching as he gazed at you, his arms folded on his chest. Breath catching in your throat, you pushed off the bed. Feeling dizzy all of the sudden, you squeezed your eyes shut.

“Don’t close your eyes. Look at me, beautiful.”

Again, you did as you were told - you met his gaze head-on, and almost instantly regretted it. He was staring down at you with those black bottomless eyes, raw emotion flowing through him, filling the air around them, charging it to the brim. His hands fell down his sides now - so tense, the veins budged on his forearms.

It’s like he was pacing himself, keeping himself from touching you.

“Take off your dress,” he requested after a moment, watching you like a hawk.

Slowly, squeezing your thighs harder, harder still, you brought your hands to the spaghetti straps on your shoulders, before pushing them off completely.

The dress landed in a heap on the floor, leaving you in nothing but lacy panties - almost utterly naked under his stare.

You heard the softest groan escape his mouth as his hand snaked across his thighs and up to that bulge in his pants. When he squeezed his hand around it, his abdominal muscles flexing as he exhaled, you felt the moisture spread down your inner thighs.

With your heart pounding in your throat, you made a step towards him with your hand stretched out. Almost immediately you heard a low strangled noise, and saw the nah shining bright in his dark eyes.

“Not yet, beautiful,” he growled, taking his t-shirt off in one elegant motion. He then undid the belt on his pants, his eyes savouring every inch of your naked skin. “Play with your tits for me. With both hands.”

Your own touch burned as you carefully squeezed your nipples with your fingers. Throwing your head back, you moaned loud, unwillingly pushing your hips forward.

“That’s it, beautiful, just like that.”

His words seemed to lift some sort of barrier, as you started to tug and pull harder at the nipples, alternating the movements with firm grasps around the swell of your breasts.

You were going to come.

You were going to come and he hadn’t even touched you yet.

“Now slide one of those hands down those panties. Rub that pretty pussy. Tell me how wet you are”.

You made peace with the fact that he was a talker - but now he had surely sat out to break her. His voice washed all over your body, sending goosebumps down your spine as you slid one of your hands under the underwear.

“I’m so fucking wet”, you gasped, staring at him. “Fucking dripping”.

His moan made your thighs tremble, your fingers slowly circling around your clit. Before you let your eyes roll to the back of your head, you saw him with one of his hands hidden in his pants, slowly jerking himself off, with slow, aborted motions.

“That’s it, caress that pussy for me. But go slow - tease it”.

You nearly growled at that. You knew you were close - there was a bundle of sensation, like a ball of electricity, building inside of you - two quick flicks of your index finger, and you’d be done for.  

“Jesus, please”, you stuttered out before you could realize you were actually begging. “I’m so fucking close, please…”

You rubbed slowly over the nerves, your fingers wet and slippery. Panting, you realized his name would have come in handy just now - if he had some sort of a praise kink, you could maybe easily get the release you yearned for.

“You are so beautiful, fucking yourself like that. Wish those were my hands. Or my mouth”.

Something flared at the very end of your clit, softly spreading all over her pussy. You moaned loud and unapologetic, your fingers moving faster as you tried to chase that sensation. You needed to grasp it, to ride it out, you fucking needed it!…

“Put a finger inside, beautiful”.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Pumping fast and hard, you could feel your knees bending, your flesh begging for release.

“Come for me. Now.”

As if by command, the orgasm finally hit you - everywhere at once. It made your entire body shake as you screamed out, pussy clenching around your fingers. You barely registered you were falling down on your knees, when strong hands caught you at your hipbones, pushing you upright.

He was on you before you could come down from your high. His mouth hot and bruising against yours, you moaned, instinctively jumping onto him and wrapping your legs around his feverish body.

His scent assaulted you - a clean, musky scent made your inside muscles clench, so you wiggled against him, wanting more.

He was so painfully hard against your core, you whimpered, pushing your hips against his, needing more friction, like an addict craving for a dose.

Sensing your need, feeling you, he grabbed your ass with his large hands and stepped onto the bed, setting you down on that same wooden headboard of the bed you’d almost stroke with your fingers.

Pushing your legs apart, he settled in between them. Before you knew it, his tongue lapped at your wetness, sliding up the length of your slit. Whimpering and moaning, you arched your back, burying your fingers in his hair, tugging hard. That made him growl, adding a slight vibration as he sucked on the bundle of nerves. He slammed his fingers - those fucking fingers - into you, and it took exactly two pumps for your second orgasm to roll over you. With your eyes squeezed shut, you moaned into the ceiling with everything you had.

Helping you slide down onto the bed with his hands guiding your hips, he gave you a piercing stare. The one that made you whimper, even though your eye-side was still fuzzy at the edges.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, before he distanced himself from you - to take off his pants.

“I’m going to fuck you now - I’ll be gentle next time, right now… Right now I just need to bury myself in that pretty pussy of yours”.

“Fuck”, you moaned, propping yourself on the elbows, closing your eyes as you threw your head back. You didn’t know if you could handle more, but Jesus, did you want it. His cock stretching you wide.

You would not have been able to tell where he took a condom from - you didn’t even have time to contemplate on it. All you registered was a slight discomfort in between your legs before his huge cock pushed inside of you, inch by glorious inch. The stretch was almost too much, and you coughed out half a breath, half a moan as you tried to adjust to his size. Whatever sound you were about to let out next, as he slid out of you and pushed back in, to the hilt this time, it got lost in between your lips, as he captured your mouth in a bruising kiss.

Your nails scratched on his ripped back as he fucked into you shallowly, your teeth biting into the skin on his neck. As if not getting enough of you, he grabbed one of your thighs, flexing it, so he could thrust deeper.

The change of the angle had you swearing under your breath, and his mouth was there to silence you again, his teeth biting down on your bottom lip.

The third orgasm snuck up on you out of nowhere - there was no gradual built, no buzzing feeling in your lower stomach - it crashed on you like a bucket full of ice, having you arching your back, clenching around his cock so fiercely, it snatched an orgasm out of him, as well.

“Fuuuuuck”, he breathed out, his hips slamming sloppily into yours. “So fucking good, fucking…”

Before he could continue, you rolled forward and put your mouth on him, swallowing his words. With his palm cupping your cheek, he deepened the kiss as his cock drained itself into the latex.

The kiss grew soft, your noses touching ever so slightly as you both slowed down, a mess of tangled limbs. Smearing his wet mouth against your nipples, he pushed up from you, sliding his cock out.

“I’d take that drink now if you don’t mind”, you told him, a lazy smile illuminating your features.

A low chuckle he let out echoed in your lower stomach.

“Sure, beautiful. How does a whiskey sound?” he offered, standing up in all his naked glory.

You hummed in approval as you leaned higher against the headboard. Biting your lip, you checked out his ass unashamedly, as he made his way to the bar, throwing the used condom into the garbage bin.

“I know there are some things that we’ve agreed on, but I’d much appreciate calling you by your name instead of beautiful when going down on you next time. What do you say?”

You heard whiskey splash against the walls of your soon-to-be glass. Your inner muscles clenched at the sight of him, naked, serving you a drink.

“It’s Y/N”, you said with a small smile.

“Billy”, he responded, making his way to you. As you reached out to take your glass of whiskey from him, he pulled his hands backwards, using your position to land his lips on yours in a stinging kiss instead. You responded hungrily, grabbing his head with both of your hands.

The night was still young, after all.

“Okay, so would you rather spent your life partying with rich assholes you barely know, still seeing your family and friends, or get stuck on a desert island with no opportunity to see anyone at all?”

You turned your head ever so slightly, feeling his muscles clench as Billy huffed out a breath.

You both laid naked on his bed, him propped against the headboard, you - with your head settled comfortably on his stomach. A half empty bottle of whiskey was getting warm against your bare thigh, both of your glasses laying empty next to it.

You had lost count of the times you came with his name a word of ecstasy on your lips. You were surely going to sport some hickeys on your neck tomorrow, but you didn’t care.

You had never felt so at ease with a man before. Granted, no man had ever managed to make you come three times in a row, but that wasn’t the point. Billy made you question your “no dating” rule, and not just because he fucked like his life depended on it. He just got you - whether it was your discomfort in big crowds, fear of subway, weird addiction to macarons or love-hate relationship with Paris. You just clicked - it was hard to believe you met mere hours ago.

Or maybe the fact that you only just met was the reason why you clicked. It certainly wouldn’t be the same in the long run. The rose-goggles period only lasted so long. When routine kicked in, it tended to crash everything in its wake.

“That’s a tough one”, he said, biting on the inside of his cheeks. “If I could invite people on my desert island, I’d definitely go with the second option.”

“Well, you can’t”, you smirked at him, and then stared back into the ceiling. “It’s either being constantly surrounded, or seeing no one at all”.

He hummed, considering the options.

“I can’t imagine being alone 24/7, even though you might have guessed already, I love being alone sometimes”, his fingers slowly caressed the soft skin under your breasts, as he voiced his thoughts out loud. “It’s funny how your mind works though”, you could hear a smile in his tone now. “With you, it’s either all or nothing.”

You thought for a moment, interlacing your fingers with his. Then you shrugged:

“Sometimes, I just want to get away, you know? See no one, speak to no one… I sometimes push people away, thinking it would do me good. But it doesn’t always have that desirable effect.”

When you stole a glance at Billy again, you saw him nod.

“I know what you mean”, he spoke quietly. “And I’m glad you didn’t push me away tonight”.

“Oh, I tried,” you assured him with a smirk. “You’re hard to shake off”, you let go of his fingers and pushed yourself up on your hands, so that your eyes were on the same level.

Billy chuckled, his lips stretching in that warm and wonderful smile.

“Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll be hard. Again. Point blank.”

You laughed quietly, dropping your gaze, your eyes traveling down his stomach and to that massive cock between his legs.

He was getting hard again alright.  

“What time is it?” you suddenly remembered, snapping your gaze around, searching for a clock.

“Quarter to four, why would you ask?” he told you, after checking his wristwatch.

You closed her eyes.

“It’s my birthday”, you said before you blinked at him in surprise.

In between all that dirty sex and orgasms, you lost track of time and completely forgot. Were you coming when the clock struck midnight? The thought made you giggle.

“Really?” Billy stared at you in disbelief before his dark cocoa eyes softened, and his voice dropped an octave. “Come here”.

Warmth spread all over your body at his words, your core the center of the growing tingling sensation. Billy used his hot hands to pull you closer, help you settle in his lap, your legs on each side of his hips. With his left hand he reached for the bedside table, pulling out yet another condom out.

“Would you like to put it on?” He whispered against the skin behind your ear, making your pussy tense. Not trusting your voice, you nodded, taking the foil packet from his hand. Tearing it up with your teeth, you slid the latex onto his throbbing cock, pumping him a couple of times for a good mesure. The noises Billy made were downright pornographic. You licked your lips.

With both of your hands on his naked shoulders, you slowly lowered yourself all the way down onto him, the sensation making you both moan this time.

“Just like that, beautiful”, he whispered softly in your ear, thrusting up into you.

You rode him slowly, arching your back, leveraging yourself on his shoulders. The position was so damn intense, and not only because that way Billy could thrust deeper, up to his balls. There was a strange sort of intimacy as he gripped your hips, helping you bounce slowly on his rock-hard cock - his cocoa eyes held a sort of intensity as he fucked into you. It made your heart ache.

“I fucking can’t get enough of you”, he confessed hoarsely. “Of that tight, wet, perfect pussy. Of your beautiful, smart mouth. All of you. Every fucking inch of you.”

His revelation combined with his soft, yet methodic thrusts was what toppled you over the edge. You came hard, your body protesting against all those orgasms Billy’s cock had already wrestled out of it. Speaking of him, he wasn’t too far behind either, gripping your hips and holding you down as he came.

His lips seemed to hold some kind of a promise as he kissed you gently.

“Happy Birthday, beautiful”, he whispered against your lips, his hot and ragged breath fanning over your skin.

You managed a tired smile, surging up to kiss him again, relishing the feeling of him inside of you still….

Surprisingly, New York welcomed you back with cloudless sky. It was still as busy as you remembered it, but something had changed. People seemed friendlier, streets - sunnier, summer - hotter. You caught yourself enjoying the city again now that you had come back well-rested from your week-long vacation.

Well-rested might have been a wrong word for it. More like satisfied. And taken care of.

After that night, you spent the two remaining days of her getaway at Billy’s villa - no strings attached. You two barely left the place. Never had you enjoyed a man’s company this much. You cooked together, swam together, made love together… Until it was over and done, and you had to go back to the real life again, tiptoeing on your way out so he wouldn’t wake up.

You stopped cold for a moment, a plat of appetisers freezing in your hands.

Did you just think made love? Well that was a slip of epic proportions…

“Daydreaming about your boy-toy again?” Karen teased her with a smirk, walking into the kitchen. “He must have been quite something”.

Oh that, he was. You couldn’t help but sigh as you put the plate on the table.

How many people Karen was expecting for the dinner exactly? It looked like Frank and her had cooked enough for the entire goddamn naval infantry.

“It’s been a week,” you said, shaking your head as if trying to make the thoughts about him fall out. “I guess I need some time to turn that page”.

“Who said that page needs turning?” Karen reasoned, putting two bottles of champagne on the table. “Didn’t you say he was from New York? You could keep on seeing each other?”

You didn’t even take a moment to think it over.

“Nah,” you shook your head, tugging at your silk top. “We didn’t talk much about our respective jobs, but he made it obvious he travels a lot, so…”

Catching Karen’s sceptic stare, you threw both of your hands into the air, waving them.

“I’ll see him when I’ll see him, and if I don’t…” you shrugged. “Guess it wasn’t meant to be then”.

You turned to face Karen again only to find out that her expression hadn’t changed.

“Uh huh,” the noise she made was her other way of saying bullshit. “Well, you do what you gotta do, but please play nice with Russo. I swear he is a perfect guy for you”.

You let out a chuckle.

“You know, I heard it so many times I’m actually starting to believe it”, you said.

As if on cue, you heard men’s voices in the corridor.

“So how was your getaway, then?” Frank asked casually, stepping first into the kitchen. “Wow, that looks amazing, ladies,” he commented on the table, winking at Karen.

Page blushed in response, making you roll your eyes.

You was about to make a side comment to your best friend, when your mind suddenly went blank upon hearing the stranger’s voice.

“It was great, perfect actually…”

A designer-shoes-clad foot appeared in the room.

“I just feel like I left a part of me there, I’m going to need some time to rea…”

…djust, your mind supplied as you stared at Billy, her Billy, standing across the room from you - fully dressed this time.

“Oh my God,” you barely whispered, your eyes big in your face, your chest feeling like it was going to collapse on itself.

Billy’s lips slowly parted in the widest smile you’d ever seen - he just stood there, like a man on whom the greatest happiness had been bestowed, and it rendered him speechless.

Karen looked at them both in confusion, until…

Until realisation dawned on her, and she chortled, squeezing her eyes shut and covering her mouth.

“What’s… What’s going on?” Frank frowned, looking back and forth between Billy and you. “You guys know each other?”

“Hell yeah,” Billy finally spoke, his eyes never quitting yours as he closed the distance between you in four decisive strides.

Before you could even speak, he gripped your cheeks and dropped his lips on yours, as hot and burning as the sun back in Mallorca.

You moaned like you didn’t have a care in the world, pushing onto your toes, throwing your arms around his shoulders.

“I missed you, beautiful”, Billy uttered between the kisses, his forehead pressed to yours. “You ain’t getting away so easily this time”.

You let out a soft laugh, inhaling his scent, and moved to kiss his lips again. 

#billy russo #billy russo x you #billy russo x reader #billy russo imagine #billy russo smut #the punisher imagine #ben barnes #ben barnes oneshot #billy russo oneshot #ben barnes smut #the punisher story

[thehangeddemon]

Waiting for a Tuesday || Self Para || September 14, 2021

☠ WARNING ☠

This work contains graphic descriptions of violence, gore, and torture

Reader discretion is advised

“More tea, sir?”

Xavier glanced up from his newspaper and gave the waiter a pleasant smile. He shook his head. “I’m fine, John, thank you. You can bring me the check as soon as y—”

“Actually, John. Why don’t you go ahead and bring us another pot of tea? Anything but English breakfast,” he added with a chuckle that almost sounded condescending. “I don’t share my son’s fondness for it.”

The waiter watched as a man, who had seemed to appear out of nowhere and was dressed head to toe in black, invited himself to sit opposite Mr. Rossmara. He’d said ‘son’, but he didn’t really look old enough to have a son Mr. Rossmara’s age. He didn’t really resemble him either but that seemed less strange somehow.

What was strange was the way Mr. Rossmara was looking at the man across from him. He looked…stunned, like he’d seen a ghost or something. But beneath the surprise was an indiscernible emotion on Mr. Rossmara’s face that John thought looked just a little like fear.

At the stranger’s expectant look, John collected himself and cleared his throat, addressing Mr. Rossmara. “…Sir…?”

Xavier seemed to collect himself as well, though far more subtly. He folded up his newspaper and put the pleasant smile back on his face, determined to make it seem like nothing was wrong. Only someone who looked very closely would see how forced the smile was, or how measured his movements were.

“Yes, of course. Does earl grey meet with your approval?”

The man smiled like the proverbial cat who ate the canary. “It does.”

“Very well. A pot of earl grey then, John.”

The waiter nodded. “Right away, sir.”

Xavier waited until John was well out of earshot before he spoke again. “Hello, Father. I didn’t expect you.”

Zagan let out another of those condescending laughs that set Xavier’s teeth on edge and dragged him right back to all his memories of Hell. “No, I’m quite certain you did not.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“My dear boy, it was hardly a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes. For as long as you’ve had your shipping business, you’ve come to San Francisco every Tuesday without fail to check in. And without fail, you finish your work just before teatime. By your own admission, this hotel has the best afternoon tea in the city. All I had to do was remember the name of the hotel and wait for a Tuesday.”

Zagan helped himself to one of the cucumber sandwiches that remained on the tray. “You’ve become predictable in your old age, my boy.”

Xavier had to fight to keep from shifting in his seat. Not any-bloody-more. He’d be changing that particular habit immediately. It didn’t suit him at all for someone outside his household to have such intimate knowledge of his movements, especially if that someone was his father. Such information was dangerous in the hands of a man like Zagan. It didn’t matter if it was only the day and location of a standing reservation for tea and cake, Xavier knew from experience that the less his father knew, the better.

Which was largely why he didn’t take any great pains to see him. Unless, of course, he was forced to.

“I see,” Xavier said, settling for an amused smile since a laugh was impossible. “I suppose I am becoming a bit predictable. Anyhow, it’s nice to see you, Father. Have you been well?”

“Well enough.” Zagan was watching him carefully, studying every nuance in his expression, listening to the tone and inflection of every word. Becoming familiar with anything that had changed since the last time he’d seen his demonic progeny.

Thankfully Xavier didn’t have to endure it for very long. John soon returned with their tea, giving him a reprieve from paternal scrutiny as it was poured. It was the only thing that would for the next little while.

This time it was Zagan who waited until they were alone again before he spoke. “So. Tell me. How is that shipping business of yours doing? And your myriad other ventures?”

The next hour or so was spent in what one could call easy conversation. They spoke of Xavier’s businesses, the sights he’d seen, the things he’d collected, the weather, the state of the world. Perfectly light, perfectly casual. At least from an outsider’s perspective.

From Xavier’s point of view things were far more fraught. Everything he said had to be carefully weighed, and there was a desperately thin line between revealing too much and appearing withholding, between looking at ease and projecting discomfort.

Having a conversation with his father hadn’t always been this difficult. In fact, just a few years ago Xavier would have been—and had been—completely comfortable not only talking to Zagan but spending entire days in his company. He’d even sought him out once or twice. But then, Xavier had had far less to lose a few years ago. He hadn’t had a child, a fiancé, staff that depended on him, friends he cared for.

He had all those things now. He had more than he’d allowed himself to have in fifty years, and the memory of how things had gone then still lived all too vividly in his mind.

Getting back to a point of comfort with Zagan after that hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it. There hadn’t been a choice. It was either swallow his pain, grief, and desire for vengeance and make nice, or tempt his father into carrying out his threats.

Sitting here now, Xavier felt much the same as he had then; trapped, resentful, and desperate to get away.

He had no illusions of being able to do that any time soon, however, even when his father finally asked for the check. After such a long absence, Zagan was sure to take up as much of his time as possible.

His suspicions were confirmed almost immediately.

“Come,” said Zagan, getting to his feet. “Let’s take a walk.”

Xavier remained at the table while his father stepped outside, indulging himself with a long, weary sigh the moment it felt safe to do so. It had only been an hour and he was ready for another five-year interlude in their relationship.

What had brought Zagan up from Hell anyway? Surely this visit hadn’t only been for tea and a walk with him. His father hated humans, hated looking at them and being amongst them. There had to be another reason and no doubt it was something Xavier really didn’t want the know the details of.

“Probably scouting his next project child,” Xavier muttered to himself as he pulled his card from his wallet.

Bill settled, he stepped out into the late summer evening and breathed deeply. There was a chill in the air that said autumn was well and truly on its way. Soon the days would grow shorter and the nights longer. His collection of coats would emerge from storage. Every hearth in the manor would roar to life with cheerful, welcoming fires.

He sighed again, longing for the comfort of home as he looked for Zagan among the crowd of people in front of the hotel. That expression of disdain was easy to spot.

“Where shall we go?” Xavier asked, approaching him.

“I don’t know how you can stand it.” His father’s tone all but dripped disgust. “Being here day in and day out among these…creatures and the stench of their cities. It’s revolting.”

“I’d rather smog than brimstone.”

“I think I prefer brimstone.”

Right. That nipped the notion of walking on the street squarely in the bud. If only that were enough to dissuade his father, but alas.

Fortunately, there was a park nearby.

Zagan didn’t say a single word as they made their way there, clearly preferring to stew in his distaste until they were well clear of anyone who might catch a snippet of their conversation. Of course, he hadn’t been nearly so averse to it back at the hotel.

Xavier would just chalk that up to the difference between a well-appointed dining room and a crowded street.

His father’s demeanor seemed marginally more pleasant as they entered the park. It wouldn’t be empty for a good while yet, but it was an improvement from the street. Hopefully it wouldn’t be enough of one to tempt him to stay much longer.

A few long minutes of not-quite-companionable silence passed before Zagan saw fit to fall into conversation again. The additional privacy meant they could discuss things that were far more relevant to his father’s interests than the weather or the goings on at a shipping company. Namely, any magic Xavier had learned, magical artifacts Xavier had acquired, and any kills Xavier had made.

The latter would perhaps prove to be a bit of a disappointment. Not only did Xavier kill less frequently these days, his choice of quarry had changed. The people that he’d once hunted were those he found interesting or amusing or intriguingly intelligent; only on the very rare occasion did he hunt someone who truly deserved it.

That was no longer the case. Lately when Xavier hunted it was only people who truly deserved it. He went for rapists and abusers. He went for people who hurt children, including and especially priests. There was immense satisfaction in knowing exactly where those people were going and what awaited them when they arrived, and even more in describing it in vivid, excruciating detail as they bled to death among the debris of a forest floor.

Hell was a far greater torment than anything he could visit upon them, and he was more than happy to send them on their way.

Zagan let out a loud, derisive laugh at that. “Are you indeed?” The old demon laughed again, putting Xavier’s back up and setting his teeth on edge. “My dear boy, you have been away from Hell too long. Who would’ve imagined? My son, the divine hand of justice for ne’er-do-well priests the world over. Never mind predictable; you’ve grown positively moral in your old age.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Xavier said softly, fighting to unclench his jaw.

His father gave him an amused look. “No?”

He shook his head. “No. I’ve merely…unearthed an intolerance I didn’t give sufficient regard to before.”

“Have you? Well.” Zagan chuckled and adjusted his sleeve, looking positively chuffed in a way that both infuriated and unsettled. “You never did like priests. Who would, having had your childhood? I suppose that particular aspect of your personality was bound to rear its head again eventually. Perhaps…it’s entirely appropriate that it should do so now.”

Xavier didn’t register the movement until it was too late. He only had a moment to feel his father grabbing his arm before he was whisked through the familiar vacuum of demonic travel, and even less to register his new surroundings before he was thrown bodily against something cold and unyielding.

“You unearthed an intolerance, did you?” Zagan’s voice, so casual and amused just seconds ago, now quivered with rage.

Xavier went flying again, this time into something that splintered beneath the force of his weight. Wood?

“And when exactly did you do that, Xavier? Was it perhaps around the time that you became a father?”

Again, back into the unyielding cold. Stone. “Father, plea—”

“Not that I can even tell, since I’ve scarcely seen the child—my grandchild—more than twice since the day he was born!”

Xavier cried out as he was flung for a fourth time, several bones breaking upon landing forcefully on a stone floor. There was something soft beneath him, but whatever it was, it hadn’t been enough to cushion his fall.

He braced for another hit, relieved when none came. He could still hear the echo of his father’s furious footsteps, however, which meant the torment wasn’t over. Far from it. The pleasant Zagan of earlier was gone, and who had remained in his place was someone Xavier was very, very familiar with.

Familiar enough to know that he had only a few precious seconds to catch his breath and orient himself.

There wasn’t much he could see from this position apart from the ceiling of whatever edifice they were in but, not wanting to draw attention to himself too soon—or move lest he worsen his breaks—he observed what he could by turning his head.

Said ceiling, high and crisscrossed with thick wooden beams, appeared to be constructed of the same stone as the walls and floor. Dusty chandeliers covered in thick cobwebs were hung every few feet, the candles in them long unlit. The same went for the metal sconces on the walls.

He appeared to be lying in the middle of an aisle bordered on either side by what he could only assume was the wooden something he’d been thrown int—

No. Not just wood. Pews.

Xavier struggled into a sitting position, heedless of his broken bones and desire for inconspicuousness in his rush to confirm his suspicions, to confirm what he already knew.

Panic rose in his chest as he saw the cross silhouetted in stark relief against the waning sunlight streaming in through the stained-glass window.

They were in a church.

Had this been any other time on any other day Zagan wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to mock and use his son’s fear against him. Xavier’s childhood memories of being harrowed and abused by his stepmother and local priest amused him to no end but on this day, he didn’t so much as comment.

He just stalked down the aisle toward Xavier and slammed him back against the floor with a flick of his hand.

“After all,” he said, voice dangerously soft as he crouched beside his son. “I can hardly drop by for a visit now, can I? Not with all those wards you have on the estate that threaten to annihilate anyone who comes in unannounced.” He almost smiled. “You’ve amassed quite the bag of tricks over the last fifty years.”

Xavier could only shake his head. “The wards aren’t—”

“Aren’t what? Aren’t meant to keep me out?” Zagan scoffed, giving Xavier a dubious look as he grabbed a handful of his hair from the back of his head and stood. “Dear boy, do you really expect me to believe that?”

He gave Xavier’s hair a good hard yank, ignoring his son’s cries of pain as he dragged him down the aisle and deposited him on the small set of stairs leading to the altar. “You didn’t ward against me fifty years ago only because you didn’t know how to. If you had, you would’ve done it in a trice to help keep that pathetic little slave of yours out of my grasp, but I’m sure that’s already occurred to you.”

Indignation fought its way in beside pain and panic, and Zagan noticed. His son’s emotions had always been pitifully easy to read, moreso when they ran as profoundly as he knew this did. The servant was still a sore spot even after all this time.

Zagan paused.

“Had you realized?” he asked, crouching again to run a single finger down Xavier’s cheek, those ancient eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “That this year marks the fiftieth anniversary? Had you realized, my beautiful boy, that half a century had passed since you came so close to defying me?”

Fifty years of pain and rage and grief so rarely expressed churned in Xavier’s gut and pulled at his soul. That his father could speak so cavalierly of Maximus and his loss made him want to scream and be ill in equal measure.

Had he realized? How could he not, when every day for the past year and a half had been a battle against remembering? How could he not, when every day he walked halls and sat in rooms identical to those Maximus had once drawn breath in, only to remember that they had burnt to the ground?

How could he not, when dead leaves and rose petals and ash were still enough to bring him to tears?

The same tears that streamed down his face now. Xavier was powerless to stop them and even if he could have, he likely wouldn’t have. After what he’d done to Maximus, an acknowledgement of his grief was the least Xavier could give him, even if his father was the only one who witnessed it.

“Oh my, look at that.” Zagan stroked his son’s face again, collecting those tears and rubbing the moisture between his fingers. He tsked, shaking his head. “My dear, it’s been an absolute age since then. How can a measly little servant still cause all this upset, hm? There now.”

Zagan slipped one arm under Xavier’s knees and the other behind his back, lifting and carrying him the rest of the way up the steps as if he weighed absolutely nothing. He gathered Xavier close, even took care not to jostle him too much.

Such loving gestures were not uncommon for the old demon. There were times in Hell when he had been the absolute image of gentleness and paternal affection, when he had held him as he did now and given him a reprieve from the torture.

But more torture had always followed. Showing him affection was rarely meant to comfort; it was meant to torment.

“I’m sure you feel like the past few decades have been a trial, but you see, I don’t think that’s entirely accurate.” Zagan set Xavier down as carefully as he’d picked him up, petting his hair as that indignant look returned to his son’s expression. “Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t doubt you’ve suffered a great deal over your servant. I don’t see why you would when they’re so readily available, but I don’t doubt it. I just think you haven’t quite…put things in perspective.”

With of wave of his father’s hand, every sconce, chandelier, and candelabra flickered to life, allowing Xavier his first real look at the derelict church. Not that there was much to see. No one had set foot in here for a very long time, let alone used it as a place of worship.

But when he turned his head, Xavier saw something that made his blood run cold.

Until now he’d felt trepidation, resentment, emotional anguish. Only when he saw the lines of a demon trap scorched into the threadbare carpet beneath him did he finally feel fear.

“Father…?”

“You see, my dear, I don’t think you realize how easy you got off all those years ago.” Zagan shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

“Father, please—”

Zagan knelt beside him. “My own son considers rebelling against me, disobeying me, gives a servant pride of place over his father, and what does he have to pay for it? Absolutely nothing.” He unbuttoned Xavier’s suit jacket and shirt, undid his trousers. “My son defies his father and still he gets to keep his estate, his businesses, his treasures. His life. All these things my son gets to keep, he goes virtually without punishment for fifty years, and does he realize that? Does it occur to him how generous his father has been in his infinite mercy? No. Rather than show gratitude, he has the childish audacity to believe he is the aggrieved party!”

Xavier didn’t see Zagan move. There was just an awful squelching sound, then searing pain as his father, having pierced his torso with a bare hand, sliced it upward and gutted him like a fish from groin to sternum.

“Which doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed your efforts,” Zagan said calmly above the echoing din of his son’s screams. Casually. “You’ve been such a good boy, treating your papa to afternoon tea and accompanying him for a walk. But I have been far too lax with you. You see that, don’t you?”

He gripped the jagged edges of Xavier’s wound and forced them apart to another chorus of screams. “All those wards, the prolonged absence.” Zagan shook his head. “There comes a point where it all gets to be a bit too much. What’s that expression? Getting too big for your britches? I think you’ll agree you got too big for yours a very long time ago. What’s more, I think you’ll agree that it’s high time that you paid the piper.”

Zagan got to his feet and made his way over to the wooden table beneath the stained-glass window at the head of the altar. He retrieved a hammer, a covered metal bowl, and a set of railroad spikes and brought them over to the demon trap, kneeling again.

Xavier could only watch him, borderline delirious as his chest heaved and his wounds bled. He didn’t dare lift his head to look at the damage; he’d seen enough of his own insides in Hell.

There was a vague hope that his blood would break the demon trap and allow him to get away, but he knew it was impossible even as he thought it. Zagan had prepared for this.

There was no getting away, especially once the first spike was hammered through one of his feet, piercing shoe leather, flesh, and carpet as it was driven into the stone beneath. Xavier bit back another scream, only to give in as his father pinned his arm above his head and drove the second spike into his hand.

“A necessary precaution,” Zagan explained, moving around to repeat the process on Xavier’s other side, barely reacting to the scent of demonic flesh charred by iron. “To make things easier for both of us. Remember what I always used to tell you?”

The third and fourth spikes were driven into Xavier’s free hand and foot, rendering him not quite immobile, but significantly limiting his range of motion. He was left completely vulnerable to Zagan.

“Well?”

He turned toward his father. The demon was looking at him expectantly, warmly—a complete contrast to that cold smile on his face that never quite reached his eyes.

“The more you struggle,” Xavier began, breathing raggedly, “the more it will hurt.”

“That’s exactly right. Good boy.” Zagan bent to kiss his brow and set the hammer aside. “Now be a love and stay still for your papa while he works.”

“What are you going to do?” Asked in a voice too soft and timid to belong to a demon.

“I thought you might ask. You see, I needed to come up with an appropriate punishment.” Zagan reached into his abdominal cavity and tore out a chunk of his liver, placing it on the carpet beside him while his son howled in agony. The shock and blood loss weren’t enough to kill him, of course, but there would be a great deal of both before Zagan was done.

“It had to fit the crime, else how could the lesson be truly felt?” His stomach joined his liver, spilling its bloody contents as it hit the floor with a sickening plop.

Xavier hadn’t felt pain like this since Hell. He wondered for a moment if he was in Hell. That endless red sky and the ceiling of the church blurred together in his mind while the stone under his back became the rocky banks of that boiling river of blood. He heard a scream—or perhaps a thousand—but no longer registered it as his own.

When his father spoke, he heard it as only an echo.

“I mentioned taking your estate and your belongings but upon reflection, that wouldn’t be a practical solution to the problem. You could always acquire more, and really, what do I want with a bunch of wine and trinkets and land?” The other half of his liver followed, then his spleen and pancreas, all added to the growing pile of viscera.

Zagan turned to Xavier, whose screams had quieted to pained whimpers as he began coughing up torrents of blood. “No matter how you look at it, it would only be an inconvenience to us both. An inconvenience, not a punishment. That was when I realized that there was something I could take from you that would serve as an appropriate punishment.”

The old demon reached into Xavier’s body with both hands this time, ripping through sheet after sheet of connective tissue as he worked to tear out Xavier’s intestines. Messy work but very necessary, although he did find himself wishing he’d brought a blade to speed up the process. But that’s what happened when one was forced to move with haste; things were bound to be forgotten.

To Xavier, that process seemed to take hours. Perhaps it did. He couldn’t help but think it would’ve been kinder to just kill him.

His only comfort was that the shock setting in made his body go almost numb, a small mercy for which he gave profound thanks. It was liable to be the only one he got. He only wished he could go deaf as well, or better yet, fall into blessed unconsciousness so he wouldn’t have to listen to or feel the rending of his flesh.

More hopes he knew would be dashed.

Such was Zagan’s concentration on his task that he fell silent. Humans did have such a lot of parts, but he had gotten most of it. It would do.

He gathered the slippery mass in his hands, considering adding them to the pile before deciding to simply drop them on his son’s lap. They didn’t need to be removed entirely, just moved out of the way.

“Right,” he sighed, looking around at his handiwork while he gathered his thoughts. “Where was I? Ah, yes. Your punishment.”

Zagan scooted a bit closer and tenderly took Xavier’s face in his hands, smiling beatifically as he stroked his son’s cheeks and smeared that handsome face with blood. “I believe you’ve lived in poor dead Christian for quite long enough, my precious one. Don’t you?”

For the second time since this ordeal began, panic took hold of Xavier. Not just a trickle of it, but huge, violent waves that made his adrenaline surge and had him struggling against his restraints despite the burning pain of the iron.

Please, God, let him not have heard correctly. Surely it was the delirium, the blood loss making him think his father had said what Xavier thought he’d just said. Or if had said it, perhaps Xavier just didn’t understand his meaning. It could mean anything, everything. Too much. Was it to be his life, a return to Hell? Was it—

“Settle down, Xavier,” Zagan chided, placing his hands on his son’s shoulders. “What did we say, hm? The more you struggle the more it will hurt, and this is going to hurt quite enough without you thrashing about like a landed fish. Settle.”

“Wh-what is?” Xavier’s voice was a raspy, choked sound, devoid of its usual elegance. For all that he struggled—or tried to, before pain and fatigue forced him to stillness—it was a battle to get out every single word. “Fath…father. What are y-you going…?”

“What am I going to do?”

At his son’s jerky nod, Zagan smiled and stroked his face again. “Just what I said. You’ve been living in Christian Deidrich’s body for far too long and it’s time for a change.”

“But w-what—”

“I’m going to take you out of Christian, Xavier. You will be removed from this vessel and placed into a new one.”

Xavier looked at this father in abject horror for a few silent, eternal moments before panic and adrenaline flooded back in with a vengeance.

He began to struggle to free himself in earnest as his father’s words and their full implications sank in. Whatever he’d suffered so far—gut-wrenching reminders of the past, the sear of iron, the removal of his organs—it would be nothing compared to what he knew awaited him now.

At this very moment, even the full weight of what it meant to lose Christian as his vessel couldn’t hold a candle to Xavier’s fear.

This reaction pleased Zagan immensely, and unlike before, he was perfectly happy to let Xavier wear himself out. In this weakened state it was all he’d manage to do, which would only make things easier once the real work began.

Besides, even if by some chance Xavier did tear the wounds around the spikes and freed himself, he was still inside the trap. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Zagan hummed to himself, giving his son’s cheek one last pat before getting to his feet.

One by one, he brought candelabras over to the altar. Not many remained after so many years of the church having been abandoned, but they were enough to give him the light he needed. The larger ones were placed around the perimeter of the trap and the smallest just inside. A single candlestick was placed beside Xavier.

Had he been able to, Xavier would’ve knocked that stupid candle over and set fire to the rug. Something his father probably would’ve considered if he wasn’t so obviously confident that it wouldn’t happen.

Xavier couldn’t deny that he was right to be. Already he was exhausted to the point of giving up. Physically, at least.

“Father…” he wheezed. “Plea…please…don’t—don’t do this to me…”

“Ahhh, I see we’ve moved from anger to bargaining,” Zagan chuckled, returning to his son’s side. “I understand, of course. A new face will be an adjustment after so many decades spent looking at the same reflection in the mirror, but don’t worry, my dear one. You’ll get used it.”

Xavier shook his head, swallowing back more tears. He didn’t want to get used to it. He wanted to remain in his body. No matter how mangled it was, it was his, and leaving it would mean suffering beyond measure in more ways than one.

“The spell…”

His father nodded patiently. “Yes, yes, I know. You locked yourself in. An excellent notion, truly. After all, one can never know who does and does not know an exorcism rite. No doubt it would have spoiled your fun if in the middle of a hunt, your quarry dispatched you back to Hell.”

Zagan stroked his hair again. “Pity that your good judgement should have to hurt you now.”

Tears began to flow freely again as Xavier tugged at his restraints with all the might he had left. It was precious little. “Fat-ther, please…please d-don’t…please…”

“Hush now. Begging won’t save you, Xavier.” Zagan picked up the bowl that until now had sat untouched beside the revolting mess of entrails. “As I’m sure you’ve gathered from the very fact that you’re able to be here, the church we are currently in is no longer consecrated ground. Faith left this place…” he shrugged, “a century ago, perhaps more. But despite that, there is one thing I’m so terribly curious to know.”

He removed the lid. “I wonder…despite the decades of absent devotion…if this water is still holy enough to hurt you.”

“N-nononono wait, don’t—!”

An awful steaming hiss drowned out his protests as Zagan slowly began pouring the bowl’s contents into Xavier’s abdominal cavity.

“You’re making it worse,” he said, raising his voice to make himself heard over the cacophony of tortured screams and howls of demonic pain.

His admonishment fell on deaf ears. The moment the first drop of holy water had touched his mutilated insides, Xavier had begun thrashing about in a desperate, mindless effort to escape from the torment.

Exhaustion had no hope of stilling his movements, even if those movements caused the water to splash and slosh about and cause even more pain. This was beyond the physical, beyond the human. Short of an exorcism this was the greatest suffering that could be inflicted on a demon, and Xavier had the great misfortune of knowing that was precisely what awaited him next.

He screamed, he sobbed, he begged his father to stop. At some point he even succeeded in tearing free of two of the spikes. But still the ordeal continued and would until the bowl was empty.

It would continue even when the bowl was empty, because for all that Xavier had moved about, a good deal of holy water remained on and inside of him. As long as it did, nothing would stop the screaming.

“Shhhh, darling, shhhh,” Zagan cooed at his son, pulling out the spikes that still restrained Xavier’s limbs so he could turn him on his side and empty out the water. It had completed its intended purpose and was thus no longer required.

He eased Xavier onto his back again and picked up the candlestick. “Right. I would very much like to say that’s the worst of it over, but we both know that’s not the case. Tell me, should I bother asking where you carved it?”

Although agonized groans and broken sobs had replaced blood-curdling screams, Xavier wasn’t in any condition to listen to his father, much less respond.

“I thought not. No matter. I have a fair idea which rite you used, and I believe that particular one calls for the inscription to be placed on the spine.”

At last, the true reason for the evisceration revealed.

Zagan brought the candle close to the gaping void that was Xavier’s torso, using its light to find exactly where the spell had been carved into the bone—a slightly easier task now that the holy water had rinsed out most of the blood.

“Ah, there it is.” Zagan tried to make out the symbols to confirm his suspicions. “What did I tell you?” he chuckled, setting aside the candlestick. “Predictable.”

Xavier had been left even weaker than before. His chest barely rose. His skin, already pale from loss of blood, looked gray and lifeless. There wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t burning in agony. The dread and fear and grief he should have felt eighty-six years ago when the hangman’s noose had been placed around his neck fell upon him now, far more heavily than they would have then.

Still, he had to try just one more time.

With what little strength he had left, Xavier turned to his father. “Please,” he begged, the barely audible whisper ragged and frail. “Father. Please…please don-n’t. You don’t—don’t kn-now…” he gasped for breath, “…what you—you’re take…tak-king…”

There was a beat of silence during which Xavier thought, just for a second, his father looked apologetic.

“But I do,” Zagan murmured, taking Xavier’s bloody, tear-stained face in his hands. He stayed like that for several moments, studying his child’s features one last time. He loved this face. It gave him no pleasure to destroy it. “I know exactly what I’m taking. My beautiful, beautiful boy.”

He bent to place a tender kiss on Xavier’s forehead. “Don’t fret. The pain won’t last. You’ll still be beautiful, I promise. I could never take that from you. You’ll even look like your brother.” He kissed Xavier’s forehead again, his brow, his cheeks, allowing them both the indulgence of true affection for just a moment.

Perhaps it would offer some comfort in the days to come.

Sighing, Zagan took the candlestick again and made another examination of the spell his son had used to lock himself in. It was simple, but perfectly effective against exorcisms and other such attempts to dislodge a demon from their vessel.

The symbols themselves were spread across four vertebrae and, upon closer inspection, appeared to be burned into the bone rather than inscribed. He had no doubt the process had been rather painful; things like this always were.

He reached in and carefully tore the first vertebra from Xavier’s spine, ensuring he removed only bone and nothing else.

Painful, yes, but not as painful as its reversal. Not in his hands.

Zagan recited a small incantation under his breath, brushing his thumb back and forth over the symbols as if merely rubbing away a bit of dust. With every swipe the symbols grew fainter and fainter until they disappeared altogether, leaving behind nothing but clean, unmarred bone.

He held it up to the candlelight and examined it again. Pleased, he tossed it away and pulled out the next one.

Xavier, no longer strong enough to scream, could only groan and sob as his father ripped yet more parts out of his body, overwhelmed by fear and pain.

But there was another sensation as well; an odd, supernatural pull somewhere deep inside his being. It seemed to exist independently of the pain, and had nothing to do with what was happening to him physically.

It did, however, have everything to do with what was happening to him magically. This body, having been technically dead for so many decades, was dying again. In all reality it had already died again, and as his father methodically did away with his lock, Xavier’s hold inside his vessel began to loosen.

By the time the last vertebra was torn from his spine and the symbols on it erased, that hold was all but nonexistent.

“There we are,” said Zagan, sighing again as he smiled to himself. “Now the real work begins.”

Even if he’d been inclined to bother with an exorcism, it was no longer necessary. Given enough time Xavier would be forced to leave Christian’s body on his own, but Zagan wasn’t inclined to wait.

Instead, he reached into his son’s abdominal cavity one last time, thrusting through dead flesh and fractured bone and into the very core of him, physical and metaphysical, feeling around until his hand closed around what he sought.

Making sure to maintain an iron grip on his prize, Zagan ripped Xavier free from what remained of his moorings. When Zagan’s hand emerged, bloody and singed, it held a cloud of oily black smoke that crackled with electricity.

There were no anguished screams to mark this final parting, no sobs or desperate pleas to echo off the stone.

There was only the burnt out, mutilated husk of a body, the scent of sulfur, and a cloud of oily black smoke.

Zagan smiled at the smoke and released it, leaving it free but still stuck inside the demon trap, before pushing the husk out of the way to give himself more room to work.

What came next would require every last ounce of his will and concentration. This was magic he did not inherently possess, and if he could not see his vision clearly, if he could not believe in it wholly, it would not bear fruit.

He closed his eyes, steeling his will as he began to draw every bit of energy in the room outside his own toward him, no matter how small. The remnants of Xavier’s emotion, the electricity of a demon in true form, the lifeforce of the plants surrounding the church—all were taken and absorbed.

Even the candles were drawn in, extinguishing themselves one by one as Zagan pulled their heat and energy close, inserting his will and chanting ancient magic to manipulate the mass of energy to his whim.

And there, in the middle of the demon trap, it slowly began to take form. A single point of light that pulsed and grew as yet more light surrounded and encased it, becoming a womb for an old demon’s creation.

With every pulse, the air shimmered as it regained its charge, making Zagan’s skin prickle and burn to the point of pain. But still he did not buckle, digging even deeper and giving even more of himself as he watched the light become something at once both liquid and solid, something that elongated and molded itself until it resembled a human body.

Almost done.

He looked up at where the cloud of smoke hovered above his head. It would be cleaner to do it in one fell swoop. Faster. Even for a being as old as he was, keeping this level of concentration took its toll. Mere seconds could be the difference between success and miserable failure.

The new vessel was almost complete; the moment it was, he would draw Xavier into it and seal him inside. He had to move quickly, but gingerly, with the precision of a surgeon.

Zagan took a deep breath. Clenching one hand as tightly as he could to hold his creation in place, he used the other to draw his child down and guide him into his new vessel.

A different kind of light began emanating from the body as it was slowly given life. Zagan grit his teeth against the strain as it grew in strength, as he was pushed to the very edge of his limits by the effort of controlling so much raw energy.

No sooner had the last wisp of black smoke disappeared from view than the light burned out with enough force to shatter every window in the crumbling church.

Zagan fell back, utterly exhausted but brimming with triumphant hubris as he gazed upon his creation. His vision, made flesh.

It was perfect.

Zagan spent a few moments catching his breath and recuperating some of his strength, after which he got to his feet to gather himself. He adjusted his sleeves and went to retrieve his coat, brushing off bits of colored glass before slipping it back on. He placed the bowl and the candlestick back on their table, took a piece of glass and sliced through the carpet, breaking the demon trap.

And when he finally approached the unconscious, supine body that now belonged to Xavier, and watched as he drew his first breath, Zagan bent to place a kiss on his forehead.

“Perhaps now you’ll learn,” he whispered. “My beautiful boy.”

A rustle of wings, and Xavier was left alone in the darkness.

#Waiting for a Tuesday self para

[ampleappleamble]

The Elf and the Orlan's Wedding

—

"Hey. You'll marry me, won't you?"

Aloth had spent the last five years of his life honing his skills and reflexes in his mission to hunt down and destroy one of the most dangerous cults on the face of Eora, but somehow he still couldn't help but be utterly bested by just a few little words. Axa had a way of doing that– cutting past all his pretense and politesse, punching through all his meticulously constructed defenses with just a few simple words, striking at the very heart of him. It was part of why he loved her, and no small part, either.

He pulled her closer as he attempted to sit up in her spacious sleeping berth, struggling to scrape enough of his brain back together from the one-two punch of vigorous, passionate lovemaking followed up by that question to formulate an answer for her. But despite his best efforts, he found that the best he could manage was a feeble, "I beg your pardon?"

She laughed and nuzzled her face into his chest, his bare skin warm against her brow. She'd known the question would shock him, but she also knew that no matter how carefully she phrased it, there really was no way to ask a man like Aloth a question like that without shocking him. "Sorry to surprise you. But it's something I've been thinking about for a while now," she continued. "After we've arrived back in the Dyrwood and settled a few matters, gotten Caed Nua's reconstruction properly underway, taken some time to recover from all this– there'd really be nothing stopping us." She snuggled closer. "And I know the challenges we'll be facing in this new, uncertain world would feel a lot less daunting with you by my side. So... why not get married?"

Axa paused, then, tensed up in Aloth's arms. "That is, if you'd like to." She lifted her head to look at him, her violet eyes soft and glittering in the lamplight. "Would you like to?"

He studied her face, rosy and gorgeous and full of hope. Her proposal wasn't entirely unexpected– after all, it was only natural that she should want to take their relationship further, especially after all they'd been through together in the Deadfire– but it was still a bit overwhelming, actually experiencing such a thing himself instead of merely reading about it in a novel or watching strangers act it out in a stageplay. His head was swimming, his heart was hammering in his chest, his stomach was fluttering madly– but all the same, he couldn't help but smile at her.

"Of course. Of course I would," he murmured at last, brushing a lock of hair from her brow. "I can think of no greater pleasure."

The tears finally came, welled in her eyes as she beamed up at him. "Oh, Aloth," she whispered, pressing her face into his shoulder and squeezing him tight. "You have no idea how happy you've just made me."

"How happy I've made you?" He laughed, surprised to find himself blinking away tears as well. "I'm to be the consort of the Lady of Caed Nua! The brave, kind, beautiful heroine who uncovered the cause of the Hollowborn Crisis and saved the Dyrwood, the indomitable spirit who defies death and deities alike– and of all people, you want to be mine, to be my– my–"

My bride. Axa. My bride, my love, my wife. The reality of it suddenly struck him with its full gravitas, and an indescribable emotion washed over him. "I love you, Axa. Truly."

Giggles mingled with her sobs, and she scrubbed at her wet eyes with a fuzzy fist. "And I love you," she replied softly. She looked up at him again, grinning. "You'll plan everything, right? I was never very good at that sort of thing."

Aloth sighed, slumping back down against the pillows as Axa cackled. "I should have known," he groaned, shaking his head good- naturedly at his newly-betrothed.

"Yes, you should have," she agreed, spreading out on top of him, making herself comfortable. "Planning a fancy formal event– such as, say, the wedding of a landed thaynu who is returning triumphantly from a world-shaking, death-defying mission in the Deadfire– plays much more to your strengths than to mine. Of course, I'll help as much as I'm able. How about I find us an officiant?"

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Xoti, then? Or were you thinking of asking Vatnir?"

She paused for a moment, her brow furrowed in consternation. "Gods, are those two the only priests I know?" she muttered, resting her chin again Aloth's sternum, and she sighed. "Typical of me, I suppose, to shun all clergy but the most death-obsessed misfits. Even my resident cleric at Caed Nua was a morose Berathian."

Was. Axa's smile faltered, and she abruptly went quiet, unfixing her gaze, lowering her eyelids.

"Well, given what we know of the gods, is it any surprise our priestly acquaintances gravitate toward the morbid?" Aloth tucked a lock of her burgundy hair behind her ear, let his hand linger on her cheek. He'd noticed the sudden chill in her demeanor– reminded of Caed Nua, no doubt, of her myriad responsibilities back at home, the dead waiting to be buried– and had hoped he could warm her back up a bit, but it appeared that even his wry musings weren't enough to soothe her melancholia.

"We're going to be alright, aren't we?" Axa's voice was soft and serious, and she reflexively curled in on herself, clinging to her lover as she contemplated the future ahead of them. "Kith, I mean."

He wrapped her in his arms, warm and steady, and let out a shaky sigh. "I don't know. With the Wheel destroyed and the cycle of reincarnation stalled indefinitely, we'll certainly have our work cut out for us. But if there's one thing in common between all peoples and cultures on Eora, I would posit that it is our stubbornness." Aloth smiled, ran a hand through her thick, soft hair. "With people like you working to guide and support us, kith may yet learn to band together and channel that indefatigable will of ours into finding an equitable solution for all this mess. In any case, I can't really see us all just... giving up. Especially not after all we've seen, all we've been through."

The two lay together in silence for a while, his hand in her hair, her ear pressed to his heart. It had always fascinated her, how elf hearts beat so much more slowly than orlans'.

"The Elf and the Orlan's Wedding," she murmured.

"I... do hope you're not intending to have me write that on the invitations." He allowed himself a small smile. When she hadn't responded, he was sure he'd failed to cheer her, but maybe he'd conceded too soon?

"It's a children's song," she laughed, propping herself up a bit, "that I was just now reminded of. It's about an elf and an orlan at their wedding, and everyone in attendance is bemoaning the foolishness of such a union. 'She'll outlive you by two centuries, it's a waste of time for you both'... That sort of sentiment."

"Charming," Aloth deadpanned.

"Oh, yes," she chuckled, "very much so. Of course, by the end, the lyrics reveal that the titular elf and orlan are well aware of the vast disparity in their lifespans, but they've decided they love each other too much to let something like that get in the way of enjoying their time together."

He smiled knowingly. "Sounds familiar."

She smiled back. "The moral of the story, of course, is that one cannot waste one's life worrying about what others think, about the 'proper' ways of going about this or that, and that it's better to live in the moment and enjoy what you have while you have it."

"Sounds very familiar," Aloth sighed. "But if kith spend too much energy on enjoying the present, we won't be able to prepare for the troubles of the future until they're upon us."

"Ah, but that's just another reason the title characters chose to marry," Axa grinned. "It's easy to miss the significance when you're a child, but there are a few lines in the song regarding the orlan's horrible estranged family complaining about how the orlan's assets will now be bequeathed to his elf wife upon his death, thus keeping it out of their greedy paws for at least 200 more years, if not forever."

He cocked an eyebrow. "That's not your reason for proposing, is it?"

"No!" She laughed, lightly swatting at his chest with the back of one hand. "Although it'll be damned funny, I have to admit, sticking it to all the little Dyrwoodan lordlings with their eyes on my land who were just planning on waiting for me to die in a few decades." A wicked grin spread across her little face, and Aloth couldn't help but laugh.

"Pray tell, then," he smiled, running a hand up and down her back, ruffling her fur and smoothing it back down, "what exactly is the point you're trying to make by bringing up this song, my dear?"

Axa toyed with a lock of his hair, biting her lip and staring at nothing in particular, before finally admitting: "You know, I'm not sure. I definitely lost the plot somewhere along the line, there. I suppose I was trying to draw some sort of parallel between The Elf and the Orlan's Wedding, and our wedding, and... and the challenges ahead of us all in regards to repairing the cycle of reincarnation... something about planning for the future while still making sure to enjoy the present..." She scoffed at herself, resting her chin on Aloth's breast again. "Maybe I was simply randomly reminded of a silly song from my youth and I'm trying too hard to stretch it to link it to current events. Or I'm just tired and rambling and not making any sense at all."

"No," Aloth assured her, "you definitely had a reason for bringing it up, even if you can't quite articulate why." He stroked the back of her ear, staring pensively at the ceiling. "I think, perhaps, you wanted to reassure yourself that even if some new version of the Wheel ends up never getting built, even if it turns out that the days of kith are truly numbered and our end is inevitable... that doesn't mean you need to mourn every day yet to come as if it's already been lived in vain. As a Chanter, and given the subject we'd been discussing, it's only natural the realization would come to you in the form of a song about marriage."

She snuggled close to him, sighing contentedly. "You see why I want you to plan the wedding?" she murmured. "You make everything make sense."

"I learned it from you, you know," he replied, nuzzling the top of her head. "Funny how that works, isn't it? Like a two-piece puzzle. We complete each other."

"Thought that advice sounded familiar," Axa giggled. "Should listen to myself– and you– more often."

"That's a given." Aloth went to kiss her forehead, and she surprised him yet again by scooting forward and craning her neck to press her lips to his instead.

"What about Engrim?" she whispered sweetly, her smile still brushing his. "He's a priest of Magran. If we kept the booze away from him until after the ceremony–"

"Absolutely not, my love." His breath tickled her nose. "No wedding of mine will utilize a Magranite ceremony, and certainly not one conducted by a lush."

The little woman laughed, pressing her face to his neck. "Come on, I'm running out of priests!"

"You truly can't think of any others?" He kissed her temple, sighing with a mix of contendedness and exasperation at his little bride.

"Well, I do know a certain Glamfellen who's a priest of Wael, but we're not exactly on speaking terms." She tried a wry grin, but it morphed into a grimace halfway through. "Ugh. Not as funny as I thought it'd be. Sorry."

Aloth chuckled. "It's decided, then. We'll have a secular wedding."

"Sounds good to me, actually," Axa replied. "Never had much need of the gods anyway."

—

#pillars of eternity #watcher axa #aloth #short fic #oneshot #that bitch really called me out in the middle of my own story for losing the plot #...it does kinda meander though doesn't it lmao #not sure what i was really going for in the last third there #anyway it's out of my head now and that's what matters #thanks for reading ♡

[dangermousie]

Something Happened in Bali eps 1-2 rewatch thoughts

It's really interesting, rewatching this. God, I'd almost forgotten how much I love Jo In Sung. LOVE. I mean, I love him and his nervous energy so much that I don't even notice So Ji Sub, who normally I really like. (ide note - A Dirty Carnival was the best Korean movie I have ever seen, and what made me truly and utterly lose it for him - but it was so brutally hopeless, it made me depressed for days. Go watch!) Anyway, back to the drama. 1. I'd almost forgotten how unpleasant the two guys and Other Girl are in this, at the start. None of them are monsters (though by the end the Secondary Girl comes close, IMO, even if I end up feeling a repelled kind of pity for her) but they are all in their selfish shells - it's little things, like not helping Soo Jung with her heavy bag or treating her as an extra in their lives. Even their kindness is this thoughtless kind. It's funny because I am not sure if they change in niceness quotient that much (though both the men become much more desperately vulnerable, especially Jae Min) but I guess I get to know them so well and their reasons for being the way they are, I sort of end up not caring - I end up adoring Jae Min as a character, especially, so much. Even if he is the biggest trainwreck I have ever seen as a kdrama lead in my 15+ years of watching kdramas. 2. Soo Jung. I adore her. You could see how annoyed she is she is dealing with the tour group from hell (the other 3) but the way she pushes and carries on is WONDERFUL. So is her drunken camaraderie with Jae Min. She is in another universe from the poised, iced, controlled Young Joo. But it's interesting, she seems so (relatively) well-adjusted compared to the rest of them but as the drama unfolds, you see that this hard-earned cheerfulness is a facade and she is very broken too - between her and Jae Min, I am not sure, which one is more screwed-up. For him, it's his family, but for her, it's her poverty that has made her so. Ha Ji Won SLAYS in this role (so do the rest of the cast, of course.) She’s rough, she’s desperate, she’s grasping, she’s vulnerable, she’s irresistible - in other hands you would never get how two screwed-up, closed-off men would fall so desperately for someone so greedy, so grasping, so flawed - but here you are drawn to her vividness, to her joy, to her intensity, to her unique combo of sunshine and extreme damage. 3. You know, there are hints about her screwed-upness even this early on - the scene where Jae Min offers her $$$ for a one-night stand and she calls him a jerk (and you see by his reaction he doesn't even understand that what he said was insulting - he is puzzled. In his world, everything can be bought and sold, and there is no such thing as affection.) and then asks whether he is going to pay before or after. In her world, there is no room for the grand gesture, for throwing money in his face. She leaves only because he kicks her out (giving her money but not doing anything) telling her to buy her new shoes (hers are broken) and saying "it's not fun any more" (the first of many instances she really throws him off any usual ways he deals with things). And then she trips on her broken heels walking out, sprawling in the lobby, inelegantly grabbing and picking up money. 4. One of the biggest delights of this rewatch for me is contrasting in my head the way Jae Min is going to be with her later - utterly desperate and "brought down" and willing to beg and beg and beg, and the way he is now - emotionally detached, with all the 'power' on his side - I mean, contrast his propositioning her for that one-night stand and the scene where they finally make love, a dozen eps from now. Though she is totally rattling him even now - I love the scene where he first truly notices her - seeing her in the parking lot trying to fix her shoes, eating, and drinking. She is just so REAL and alive and immediate. No wonder he's caught (and then quickly looks away). 5. Jae Min's father needs to die in a fire after being slowly cut with a myriad of razors - the scene in his office in ep 2 where he is practicing golf in his office and Jae Min flinches any time the golf club is in his vicinity, and almost stutters, just - RAGE. Increased 1000x by what I know he does later. But I confess to being amused in the scene where he is throwing things at Jae Min during the board meeting and a flunkie keeps moving things up to him to throw - folders, bottle of water, so he won't run out of things - a definition of a brown-noser.

6. I love how oddly real this drama feels in its filming - people are not glamorized within an inch of their lives and there is no glossiness, no studied detachment, no appeal to coolness or w/e. It is what it is and it knows it. God, I love this drama!

7. (The below is spoilery for the whole thing) Bali has the distinction of having the most dysfunctional couple I have ever shipped. Years of therapy were needed for those two. Yes, my OTP was Jae Min/Soo Jung, despite the fact that the otp's end was murder/suicide. I don't care, I still shipped them - the ending of the drama is one of my favorite drama moments, in actuality - Jae Min becoming more and more unhinged because of his nightmarish family and then finally he believes Soo Jung just played him in order to scam money and ruin his family with her lover. He tracks them down to Bali and finds them in bed. Ironically, Soo Jung has just finished telling her lover that she wants to leave him and go back to Korea to look for Jae Min because it's him she wants. Jae Min, of course, does not hear her (and he is so catatonic at that point, I doubt it would have registered if he did hear). So he shoots her and her lover dead as they lie there. But while her lover is dead asap, Soo Jung has time to look at Jae Min and tell him 'saranghae' which is about the most awesome thing ever - she has never ever told him she loved him before, not through all his efforts to win her heart, not even when they made love. And now she is telling him as she is dying, because it's important to her for him to know before she dies - there are no games or conditions. And of course, Jae Min snapped out of it as soon as he shot and he is falling apart as is and then he hears her tell him she loves him and his face - oh my God. And he goes outside and kills himself and I sit there bawling and hoping his horrific family all have collective heart attacks and die.

Yes. I ship THAT. I don't care what it makes me. The drama makes no bones that Jae Min is beyond messed up - I am kinda amazed he is walking and talking, to be honest. His father wins the incontrovertible award for the worst kdrama father ever and if you know kdramas you know what a feat that is. The scene where Jae Min is on his knees in front of his father, weeping and begging to be allowed to have Soo Jung and his father beats him half into unconsciousness and then tells him it's Soo Jung's fault and he will go after her next and make her disappear and Jae Min is left pleading that he did not mean it and it's not Soo Jung's fault and he misunderstood? FLAMES. FLAMES WHEN I JUST THINK ABOUT IT. So his love for Soo Jung is no help - I don't think any woman could have 'fixed' him, and certainly the hugely messed-up despite her sunny demeanor Soo Jung, with her own major issues and fragility, was about the last person to do so. However, even if they could have worked out their happiness, with the help of some really high-priced therapy, his family made it impossible - in fact they turned the screws on even worse, not caring that their actions were plainly driving him into nonfunctionality land. But then - how else could it end with all the destruction and damage and desperation on both sides and his having no experience with any expression of love that was not entangled with violence. And in context of fiction, the OTP that has the potential for helping each other but dooms each other instead is my jam SO MUCH!

#something happened in bali #kdrama

[averykedavra]

“I’m going to die. I’m going to die with an absolute idiot!” logince? no pressure if you can't but if you can i look forward to reading it!

(Em, I know I’m answering this, but you better not read this ‘cause you said you’d be offline. You’re forbidden. Go do work now. And yes, this is really long, and yes I should have spread my work out to other prompts, but here I am.)

Words: 7922

Despite everything, this wasn’t even the worst errand that Janus had sent Logan on.

That would be the harpy feathers, which had taken three weeks and three cut fingers to obtain. Or perhaps the dragon scales--the ones the merchant tried to sell Logan were fakes, forcing him to track down the culprit before sundown. Or perhaps the chimera egg, because chimera eggs didn’t exist. No matter if Janus insisted that Logan should be ‘open to the possibility.’

So, yes, this errand wasn’t the worst of them all. However, it was still up there. Another horrible day to add to his never-ending laundry list. And he had a feeling this would go farther downhill than he expected, because they always did.

Especially when dealing with other witches.

“The spell can’t work without it,” Janus had said, barely paying attention. He was occupied with shaking his magic quill until it stopped replacing es with os. “Be back by dinner.”

Logan had pled, bargained, and complained as much as he could. But Janus, as always, said something about “building character” and “honing his skills” and shoved him out the door. So Logan gathered up his cloak, his pride, and headed for the port.

The one upside of such ridiculous errands was seeing the outside. He usually spent his time studying in the cottage or the garden, but when he reached the foot of the mountain, the port sprawled in front of him. Roads teeming with visitors, some in clothing of nearby villages, others in richer colors than anyone could drain from local berries. Beneath the sphinx-grey sky, the boats flanked the water, masts bristling into the sky and sails full and white like wings.

Logan allowed himself a few moments to stare. To drink in the sounds--languages he didn’t recognize, babbling like brooks--and the smell of baking bread and fresh fabric. A cry blossomed from one dock as a ship slid into the harbor, sails flying, just come back from the sea.

Then a bicycle flew past Logan, splattered his boots with mud, and successfully yanked him back into the real world. He shook himself, checked his candle--it had burned down to the first notch, blue flame merry even in the wind--and set off.

Janus hadn’t given him a map, as usual, and Logan didn’t have the time or the moonlight for a tracking spell. He knew he was aiming for the area near the warehouses, though, and he’d definitely know a coven when he saw it.

Probably. Maybe. It had been a while.

Logan kept to the edges of the crowds. The sun wasn’t too piercing today, but he was still a bit warm in his cloak. He could have gone without it, of course, but it had pockets. Janus would start a lecture if he heard Logan was going without his materials. Still, as he began to get strange glances, he wished he’d just tried to shove everything into his pocket. Most people seemed to simply be curious why he was a bit overdressed. A few, though, looked suspicious enough to make Logan press closer to the buildings.

As he hoped, he knew the door when he saw it. The building somehow managed to list in both directions simultaneously, and when Logan looked closer at it, it folded into itself and tried to avoid detection. Logan pumped his fist in triumph and jumped across a ditch to the door.

It was an old oak door. Logan looked around in the vain hope that Janus would appear and offer directions--he was already feeling cold and uneasy on the stoop. Someone was definitely watching him. Or maybe it was just fear of the stories he’d been told as a kid.

Funny, that he was still scared of witches when he was one. But he was only in training, and there was a difference between witches and witches. Janus said it best. “One is trustworthy,” he’d say, “and two’s company. But three’s a crowd and four’s a coven. If you’re outnumbered, run the other way.”

Logan craned his neck up and peered at the dark, musty windows. How much was he outnumbered right now? Could he still bolt before they spotted him?

Janus would be insufferable if Logan came back empty-handed. And Janus was a jerk and a prick and a bit of a terrible mentor, but he wouldn’t actually lead Logan into danger. At least, Logan hoped not.

Logan swallowed, looked back at the door, and reached for the bronze knocker.

Then the bronze shifted and a mouth snapped at him. He yelped and stumbled back. A bronze toad blinked at him, the knocker between its legs.

“What do you think you’re doing?” complained the toad, beady eyes squinting. Logan stepped a bit further away. “Are you casing the joint? Hey!”

“No!” Logan made a shushing motion. “I’m--I’m just here to talk to someone, don’t--be quiet!”

“Stranger,” the toad said, giving him a belligerent look. “You haven’t been invited.”

“Can I go in anyway?”

“No.”

“Can I talk to someone other than a sentient door knocker?”

“No.”

Logan decided to go for it anyway. He braced himself, reached between the frog’s legs, and pulled up the knocker. When he let it fall, it made a deep thumping noise, so close to thunder that Logan checked the sky to see if it was raining. When he looked back, the frog had pulled itself into a ball again. It was silent, save for the distant yells of sailors as ships pulled in and out of port.

“Hello?” Logan finally said. “I’m not going to just stand here all evening.”

Nothing responded.

He pulled at the knocker again and let it fall. Then he knocked several times on the door, and for good measure, kicked it. It hurt his foot. He could probably bust through the door if he had half an hour and phoenix tears, but as it was, he was resolutely locked out. Ugh.

He kicked the door again. It still hurt. He didn’t know why he expected otherwise.

Just as Logan was about to experiment with climbing through a window, someone yelled “Hold on, jeez, don’t bust the door down!”

Logan whipped his hand behind his back to look as though someone else had done the banging. After a few seconds, the door swung open abruptly. “What is it?”

“Uh,” said Logan, who had been planning for a myriad of things. He had not expected a teenager around his age, looking at him like he was an annoying solicitor. “Hi?”

“Hi,” the person repeated. “Do you need something, or--”

“Uh,” Logan said again. He wished he’d planned more thoroughly for this. “You guys have a kraken, right?”

“Yeah?” Their eyes widened a bit in realization. “Oh, okay, you’re not here about the rent.”

“No,” Logan said. “Is that a concern for you?”

“Half the reason we put the stupid frog up there in the first place.” The person--witch? Maybe? They were definitely something, Logan knew that much, but it was hard to tell in the shadows and their magic didn’t feel like a witch’s--rolled their eyes. “Anyway. What’s up with the kraken?”

“I was wondering if you had any spare tentacles?” Logan asked. “My mentor, J--” Crap, wait, no names. Names had power. What was Janus’ usual pseudonym? “Dee, he needs a tentacle for a spell, and he sent me to ask you for some.”

Well, more aptly, Janus had sent him to “get one, legally or not.” Logan decided not to mention that part.

“Oh!” The person nodded. “Yeah, bad luck--nobody’s home right now.”

“What?”

“The whole coven’s out,” they explained, leaning on the doorframe and tugging at their tunic. “Today’s the day that ship comes back from the northern islands, and everyone wants to see if there’s any lead on those siren theories. It’s been planned for weeks, didn’t Dee tell you?”

“He never tells me anything,” Logan said shortly. Although, he wondered if Janus had purposely sent him to the coven on an empty day. That didn’t bode well for the friendliness of the coven on a non-empty day. “What should I do?”

“Hm.” The person thought for a second, running a hand through their hair. The doorway was so shadowed that it looked like a portal. “I’m not really supposed to let anyone in. I’m holding down the fort, and I’d like to do a good job of standing guard--” They did a little flourish of the hand. “But I could hardly turn away such a petitioner as yourself!”

“I don’t suppose you have any tentacles on hand?” Logan suggested. “You could hand them through the door.”

“Don’t think so,” they said with a wince. “We barely ever harvest them, since it tends to go--poorly.”

Logan tried very carefully to not think about what that meant.

The person glanced into the house, then back at Logan. “Look. I feel bad about letting you leave empty-handed, but I’m really not supposed to let you in, so you’re going to have to be really quick, okay?”

Logan nodded fervently. “Very quick.”

“Fantastic!” They clapped their hands and stepped back into the house. “So, uh, follow me? And don’t touch anything.”

With only a slight pause and a glance at his candle--almost three notches burned through already--Logan entered the coven’s house.

The door slammed shut behind him.

It was dark. He paused before pulling out his candle, but nobody seemed to be upset, so he held it up. Blue light danced along the walls. The wallpaper was peeling, but the carpet was freshly vacuumed, and a vase of daisies balanced on a coffee table. Logan lifted his candle higher and caught the glimmer of spiderwebs, the gleam of stairs to a second floor, and a rustling between a few of the floorboards.

“Maggots or rats?” Logan asked, to judge the probability of the floor collapsing beneath them.

“Maggots,” they said nonchalantly. “Aine keeps some.”

Logan decided to step more carefully.

“Oh!” The person stopped in the middle of the foyer. “Oh, I’m a terrible host, you can’t even see! Hold on!”

A scurrying of shadows, and then the chandelier flared to life. The flames were bright red and dripped along with the wax, a few drops hissing when they hit the carpet far below. Now Logan could see the whole house, with a polished banister wrapping past the stairs and to the second floor. There was a small back door, a few cupboards, and a glimpse of a dining room. It was all dark wood, or maybe that was the red light, that clashed with Logan’s candle and made it a bruised purple.

Movement made Logan look up. Next to the chandelier was the person from before. They smiled and waved at him, before somersaulting off the stairs and landing easily on the carpet.

“Sorry,” they said. “Didn’t realize you couldn’t see. Is that better?”

Logan stared at them. “Did you just jump off the--”

And then his eyes finally adjusted to the light. And then Logan finally--finally, he heard in Janus’ voice, are you really that unobservant--noticed.

A nice smile with bright eyes and a stub nose. Hair that needed a cut, with tufts sticking out in the back. One hand casually leaning on the stairs, the other waving the match until it went out. Smoke coiled from their hand--a hand too smooth and too bony, like someone had just pulled skin over bones and called it a day. A nice smile and pure white eyes.

“Ah,” Logan said, feeling very, very stupid. Because now that he was paying attention, he could feel it, the gentle thrum of magic nearby. But not a rustle like Janus’, or even an unfamiliar flash like the witches he glimpsed in markets. A constant, cold weight in his stomach, like ballast on a ship. “You’re--ah.”

“My name’s Roman,” said Roman, looking barely fazed. “He/him. And I can tell you that, because I’m not all fancy and cagey with my name like all of you!”

“Roman,” Logan repeated. “Nice to meet you, Roman.”

“The pleasure is mine as well!” Roman gestured for him to follow. “Now come on, before everyone gets back.”

Logan nodded and followed, his candle flame shivering. The more he stepped away from the door, the more he felt the cold settling in his bones. Roman didn’t seem to notice, though, because he jumped cheerfully from floorboard to floorboard. When he caught Logan looking, he smiled, as if this was fun. Logan did not find it fun. Logan wished for it to be over.

“Here we are,” Roman said, tugging open a cupboard door. Instead of silverware, Logan saw a long tunnel. “Basement!”

“Basement,” Logan repeated. He supposed no one could keep a kraken in the living room. “Are you coming with me?”

“Yeah, no way you’d know what to do otherwise!” Roman grinned at him. “I’m your tour guide.”

Logan huffed. “I’d know what to do.”

“Sure you would.” Roman turned away, his grin fading to a smirk. “Your collar’s inside out.”

“Wh--is not!” Logan looked down and back up. “It isn’t!”

Roman laughed and stepped into the tunnel. The distant light framed him, making his skin gleam waxy. “Coming?”

Logan huffed again, gathered his cloak to keep it from dragging on the wet stone, and followed.

The tunnel was cramped. Roman led the way, jumping expertly from rock to rock, and Logan struggled to keep up. His blue candle lit the place in an eerie glow. When he tried to listen for sounds, he could hear nothing except a distant lapping of waves, which made his stomach turn.

He tripped, dropped a packet of laurel, and bent to grab it. Roman paused and waited with barely disguised mockery until Logan had gathered his things again.

“Shut up,” Logan said, even though Roman hadn’t said anything.

“You’re pretty small for a witch,” Roman said, turning back around. “Should you really be messing with this stuff?”

“Like I said, it was Dee’s idea.” Logan tried to hurry after him. “I’d much rather not be in a tunnel right now.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Roman sucked in a breath and let it out. “Look, I’d just--if I were you, I’d start trying to master necromancy, because you are absolutely doomed.”

“Am not,” Logan decided to say instead of panicking.

“Are too!” Roman fired back over his shoulder. “Now hurry up, we haven’t got all day, witch boy.”

“We’re the same age, Roman!”

“I’m taller than you!”

Logan bit back a retort and just tried to hurry. He tripped several more times, and Roman gave him a judgmental look. Logan tried to return it. As they approached the end of the tunnel, though, his anger was less and less strong. It was slowly replaced with apprehension.

Roman didn’t seem nervous. Although, Logan admitted, he didn’t know the guy well enough to be sure. He trusted Roman on instinct--maybe because he liked his smile, or because if he decided not to, this entire situation became more perilous by tenfold.

“You’re not going to kill me,” Logan decided to confirm. “Right?”

“What? No!” Roman laughed. “I would never do that.”

“And...”

“And I can’t say the same of anyone else here,” Roman said. “Or the lovely kraken you’ve decided to pay a visit to.”

Logan swallowed.

Roman kept walking ahead of him, and Logan tried to focus on anything except the house far behind them and the water ahead of them. Roman. He moved with smoothness, like candlewax dripping from a chandelier, but his joints often jerked in ways Logan didn’t believe were natural. His skin reflected Logan’s candle, and he seemed just slightly left of a living person. Just too perfect, and just too not.

When he was a kid, Logan heard stories about creations that fell apart mid-motion, a pile of limbs in the street. He hated that he could see exactly where it would happen--the joints jammed together, an ugly seam line, easy to break. He felt a bit like he was next to a fragile vase. One bump, and he’d find out what exactly Roman had been made of.

Candlewax, probably. That was a common one. Or wood, for a sturdier frame, and sometimes cloth. Janus told him about a glass one once. Logan could barely imagine the power that usually went into them--one witch was trustworthy, two was company, three was a crowd. Four was enough to make life from nothing.

Logan had found the whole thing fascinating. Until now, when he was following Roman through the tunnel, and beginning to think about it a bit too hard.

Roman was about Logan’s age. He must have grown just like Logan. He was probably registered as Roman Galatea--most were--if he legally existed at all. And Logan felt so horrible about even thinking like that, because it seemed to rob Roman of his personhood, except he didn’t really have any--except he clearly did, except--

Janus didn’t use those kinds of spells. He’d never created anything like that. Logan asked him, once, if it was dark magic.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Janus had told him, which was how most of his lectures started. “There’s no such thing as dark magic. There’s just magic.”

“Sounds like something a dark magician would say.”

Janus had sighed. “Some people would call creating life ‘dark magic,’ yes. I wouldn’t, because as stated above, I think it’s all stupid.”

Logan had paused. “You don’t do it, though.”

“Of course not.” Janus smirked. “There’s enough life in the world without me adding to it.”

And now Logan was here, approaching a kraken and somehow more scared of the only other living thing in the house.

And then Roman told him to hurry up, and Logan rolled his eyes, and he easily fell back into being annoyed by a kid his age. Maybe it meant something, how easy it was. Maybe it didn’t.

Maybe he was overthinking this to a ridiculous degree, because they’d just met and Roman didn’t even know his name.

“Almost there,” Roman said, pulling Logan from his thoughts. “Do you have a plan?”

“A plan?” Logan blinked. “Get a tentacle?”

A long pause. “Okay, look, I want to support you in your dreams and all, but--”

“But that’s a stupid plan?”

“But it was nice knowing you.”

Logan rolled his eyes again. They already felt sore from all the rolling. “I do have skills--”

“Not saying you don’t,” Roman said, in a tone that showed he was saying that Logan didn’t. “So do I. Doesn’t mean I do stupid things like charge in to face a kraken alone.”

“I have you.”

Roman snickered. “I’m not going to be much help, unless you want to be serenaded while you die painfully.”

“True,” Logan said. “Or you could murder me.”

“I’m trustworthy!”

“Are you?”

“Yes!” Roman pouted. “You’re the one who I don’t trust. Never trust a witch, you know.”

“You can trust witches,” Logan said, feeling a bit hurt. “One witch is trustworthy, and two is company.”

“And who says that?”

“Witches--” Logan paused. “I see your point.”

Roman laughed. “Hurry up, trustworthy witch boy.”

Logan hiked up his cloak. Despite his best efforts, the hem was entirely soaked with water. The bottom of the tunnel was getting steadily wetter as they traveled, splashing water as he walked, and he wondered how on earth such a long tunnel could exist under one house.

He asked Roman that, and Roman laughed. “We’re under the sea right now!”

“We’re what?” Logan was ashamed of the way his voice squeaked. “Is that safe?”

“Yeah, we’re deep down in the rock!” Roman held out a hand and a drop of water hit his palm. It skidded off the waxy surface. Logan almost jumped away from it when it fell. “Relax, you’ll be fine.”

Logan was far less certain. He had known a kraken was a water-dwelling creature, but he’d expected a small pond. Or, hopefully, a dry drawer with tentacles inside. He hadn’t planned for an entire ocean over his head. Logan shoved the image of drowning from his head--he was doing a lot of repression today, he noticed--and soldiered after Roman.

Before Logan could even ask Roman to slow down and possibly reassure him that they were not going to die, the tunnel finally opened up. Logan’s candle shuddered--four notches already, more than halfway burned through--and he stepped into the kraken’s cave.

Cave was the only word for it. It was a cylindrical hole in the rock, ten times taller than Logan, with stalactites bristling on the walls, cold and grey as icicles. A pool of dark water sat beneath them--a perfect circular disk, with small waves lapping at the stone. A few paths were hewn roughly into the rock. It smelled like brine and old fish at the market and Janus’ boots when he forgot to clean them. Roman plugged his nose.

And ten feet below them, a tentacle rested on an outcrop of rock. Ugly green, horrifically slimy, and with suckers the size of Logan’s palm.

“Good,” Logan said, trying to find some silver lining in this situation. “That should be simple.”

“Shh!” Roman’s hand clapped over Logan’s mouth. It was surprisingly warm, just like a normal hand, and Logan found himself distracted. “Come on, if it’s sleeping, you do not want to wake it up.”

“Okay, okay!” Logan batted Roman’s hand away. “I get it, Roman.”

“If you say so.” Roman stepped back towards the tunnel, which was a gaping hole in the rock. It looked like a mouth. Like a kraken’s mouth, in fact, and Logan was going to stop thinking now. “Well? Go ahead!”

“Right,” Logan said, wishing he knew a spell to summon confidence. He took a deep breath, tried to ignore the crushing weight of water above him, and tiptoed forward. Almost immediately, his foot skidded on the damp rock. He barely managed to keep his balance. Behind him, Roman laughed.

“Hey!” Logan complained. “You said be quiet!”

“Who’s the one talking now?”

Logan threw up his hands and turned around. Thankfully, the dark water was still as a mirror. The tentacle lolled on the rocks. He just needed to creep down, cut it off, and creep back up! Which, of course, relied on the kraken sleeping through the loss of a body part, but maybe krakens weren’t extremely sensitive to pain! Possibly. Hopefully.

When Logan got back, he was going to kill Janus.

He inched towards the edge of the rocks, checking every two seconds for movement. Nothing. Behind him, Roman loitered in the tunnel. Maybe he wanted to see the show.

Logan slipped between two rocks, scraping a knuckle on one. He bit back a yelp. No time for noise. His cloak was heavy with water--water above him, and below him, don’t think about that--but it muffled his footprints easily. He dug in one pocket, holding up the candle with the other, and pulled out a pocketknife. The blade was dull. He should have sharpened it before he left.

He should have done a lot of things, actually. For example, he should have written his will.

Logan let out a long breath, snuck down towards the water, and knelt next to the tentacle.

Up close, it was even more disgusting. Logan felt water seep through the knees of his pants, and he hoped it was water and not slime from the tentacle. When he glanced up, he could see Roman in the tunnel opening, watching him. Probably thinking he looked like an idiot. He probably did.

Logan gripped the knife tightly. Okay. A clean, swift cut--put the power in his arm, not his wrist, and keep it away from his other fingers. Okay. Focus.

Three, two, one.

Logan let the knife fall.

And to his credit--yes, the thinnest of silver linings, but he was going to allow himself something--the blade made it more than halfway through in one swoop. The flesh parted easily.

Then the tentacle spasmed, shot back into the water, and the candle slipped from his fingers. It skidded on the rocks and slipped into the water with a hiss. He could see the blue flame, still burning--and then he couldn’t, as a large shadow passed over it.

Ah.

Logan waited for something to happen. He should probably move, but he was frozen, watching the dark water. Silence. The drip-drip of water above him.

“Um,” Logan finally said, his voice high-pitched. “Roman?”

“What?” Roman asked.

“I--uh--” Logan swallowed. “We might want to run now.”

The water exploded.

Logan threw himself backwards, hitting the rocks and jostling his bones. He scrambled to his feet as quickly as possible. Something large moved above him, and water fell on him like rain, plastering his hair to his skull and fogging his glasses. He rubbed at them and tried to stumble in a direction that wasn’t near the giant flailing thing.

A hand grabbed his arm, and he was hauled in an entirely different direction. “You idiot!” Roman yelled, half-dragging him away from the water.

“You’re one to talk!” Logan managed. “Don’t be so loud!”

“Oh, what, because it’ll hear us?” Roman waved an arm at the boiling water. “I think we’re well past that.”

Logan swore and let Roman toss him behind a rock. He tried to catch his breath. Water dripped down his skin, already making his hands shake, and he could hear the sounds of rocks hitting each other. Roman crouched next to him, between the rock and the wall, eyes wide and white and very judgmental.

“I didn’t mean to,” Logan blurted out, as if it mattered at this point. “I didn’t--”

Roman rolled his eyes hard. “What do we do now?”

“Wait for it to tire out?”

Another tentacle, the size of a centaur, smacked the ceiling. Rocks trembled and stalactites quivered, promising a painful deluge.

Roman looked up at the shaking ceiling, then back at Logan. “Any other bright ideas, witch boy?”

“My name is Logan,” Logan snapped, then realized he had been an idiot. “Uh.”

“Relax, I can’t do anything with it, can I?” Roman eyed the rocks around them. “Do you think we could run for it?”

“I could hardly catch up to you.”

“Then what do we do?” Roman looked at Logan and his eyes lit up. “Do you have a spell for this?”

Logan almost laughed. “Yes, my convenient kraken-repelling spell that requires no time or materials, and can be cast while I’m drenched in water.”

“Oh, good!” Roman blinked. “That was sarcasm, wasn’t it.”

“Take a wild guess!” Logan peeked around the rock. The kraken didn’t seem to have found them yet, but its tentacles were flailing wildly and sleepily, like a rooster woke it up and it wanted to make the sound stop. “This is a disaster. What can you do to make it stop?”

“I’m not exactly powerful,” Roman said sheepishly. “I can ask it nicely?”

“It’s not sentient!”

“I could try anyway!”

“Wonderful.” Logan bit back a yell of frustration. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die with an absolute idiot!”

“Hey, rude!” Roman fired back, ducking a spray of water. “Who woke the thing up again? Uh, wasn’t me!”

“Dee told me to!” Logan ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t think he expected this to go so wrong, but I’m still going to blame him.”

“He’d, like, interfere, right?” Roman didn’t look hopeful. “If you got hurt?”

“He doesn’t know where I am.” Logan looked at his hands. They were scraped with blood and covered in mud, making the skin look even darker than usual. “I can usually get back to him by snuffing the candle--”

A tentacle narrowly missed their rock. It hit the wall, coiled against it in a spray of slime, and retreated angrily.

“--which is currently at the bottom of the pool,” Logan finished. “Because I dropped it.”

Roman seemed to hold back his own frustrated yell. “Okay. Wonderful. Fantastic. Just exactly what we needed.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Fine, then, we’re all doomed!” Roman threw up his hands. “We can’t outrun the thing--well, you certainly can’t--and we have no backup!”

Logan tried to scoot closer to the wall. “Do you have anyone to summon?”

“No,” Roman said.

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes.” Roman laughed a bit, which almost made Logan feel better. “It takes half the coven to even put this thing to sleep. I send them a flare, they’ll probably say ‘what flowers do you want at your funeral?’“

Logan groaned and let his head fall onto the wall. “Why’d you even let me in here?”

“You asked!” Roman complained. “I was being polite! I figured you’d get creeped out and turn around!”

“I should have,” Logan said. Curse his pride and inability to stop doing things when told to do them. “Too late now, I suppose.”

A deluge of water fell on them both. When Logan looked up, he saw the rocks shaking faster and faster. That was, to the best of his knowledge, very bad.

"How long would it take to run for it?” Logan asked.

“You’re wearing a cloak,” Roman said. “You’re not capable of running anywhere.”

Logan, with only a moment’s hesitation, tugged it off. He tossed it in the air. A tentacle speared it, and it vanished.

“You’re capable of running,” Roman amended. “Just not fast. I could run for it--”

“Don’t,” Logan said.

“Why not?”

“Well, if you wanted to do so, you would have already.” Logan eyed the rocks. “Besides, if the tunnel began to collapse, you’d be trapped.”

Roman let out a breath. “Fair. So we’re back to no plan?”

“Back to no plan,” Logan agreed, as more water trickled down the back of his neck. They could simply sit there as long as possible, which seemed the only solid option, but an option that still led to eventual death and/or mauling by tentacle. Logan needed to think.

He knew spells. Spells that mostly required materials, which were in his cloak, which were in the bottom of the pool along with the candle. He knew how to escape to Janus--but, again, candle.

Logan began to realize that his knowledge, while vast in areas such as geography and astrophysics, was ill-equipped to handle a kraken. When he got back to Janus, he was definitely going to teach himself every creature spell in the cottage.

If he got back.

Would Janus notice? Would he assume Logan was late again? How long would it take for him to put the pieces together and realize--

Logan was breathing too fast. He needed to calm down. He needed to think.

He glanced at Roman, who was still looking around wildly, as if he could summon a plan. Logan could feel Roman’s magic, thick and cold, in his chest.

And the beginnings of a plan formed. It was a plan that Logan hated on multiple levels, and Roman would probably despise, but it was a plan.

“Can you swim?” Logan asked.

“Yeah!” Roman said, yelling over the sound of a rock crashing into the water. “Can you?”

“No!” Logan said. “I’m terrified of water, actually!”

“You’re terrified of water?” Roman’s panic gave way to incredulity. “Humans need it.”

“I mean big bodies of water!” Logan pointed up. “Like what is currently above us!”

“Oh.”

“So no, I can’t swim.” Logan hesitated. “You can?”

“Candles float in water!” Roman grinned. “Thus, so do I.”

“Ah.” Logan put a few more pieces of the plan together in his head. “I have an idea, and you may not like it.”

“I don’t like anything you’ve said today,” Roman said. “By now, I’ve taken that for granted. Continue.”

Logan took a deep breath just as another splash of water hit them. He coughed. Roman thumped on his chest unhelpfully until the water receded.

“As I was saying,” Logan said, attempting to look more confident than he was. He probably looked a complete mess--no cloak, which bared his arms and mis-matched socks, and straggly hair over his forehead. Roman, by contrast, still looked fine. Nice smile and perfect hair. Unfair.

“As I was saying,” Logan repeated, trying to remember what he was saying. “We need a plan. I can get us out of here if I find that candle, but it’s somewhere in the pool--”

“And only one of us can swim and see in the dark,” Roman finished. He didn’t look happy, but he looked resigned. “So I get the candle for you?”

“I’ll distract the kraken in the meantime,” Logan said.

“That sounds dangerous.”

“So does swimming around in that pool,” Logan pointed out. “And this entire debacle in the first place--which, rest assured, I am going to yell at Dee for.”

“Yeah, that’s my biggest concern right now.” Roman peeked around the rock. “So I bring you the candle, and then--”

“I snuff it and teleport us out of here.”

“And it takes us--”

“To Dee, probably.” Logan paused. “Actually, it takes us to the last place I felt safe, so I’m not quite sure where we’ll end up. Most likely, near Dee.”

Roman looked a bit alarmed by the idea of teleporting somewhere random, but a tentacle crept around the rock and he smashed it with his hand. It retreated with a guttural hiss. “I guess we’ve got no better options.”

“Sorry,” Logan said, despite himself. “I don’t wish to put you in danger.”

“Well, the host has to be polite to the guests!” Roman said, smiling. “Compromise is the best plan, and I’m certainly brave enough to pull it off. Besides, I’m used to being taken advantage of!”

“Um--”

“So when do we do it?” Roman actually looked excited. Maybe he was just glad to have a plan. “Do I go ahead?”

“You can go a few seconds after I do,” Logan said. He pushed himself onto his knees and stared at the slippery rocks next to them. “I’ll run around and distract it. Maybe I’ll even grab a tentacle while I’m there.”

“Optimistic,” Roman said.

“It’s that or start crying.” Logan braced himself. He’d have to run fast, keep away from the walls, and do his best to be noticed. The exact opposite of his usual plan. “Go?”

“Good luck!”

“I’ll need it,” Logan said, and pushed himself out from behind the rock.

He’d meant to check on Roman, to see if Roman was leaving okay. He didn’t have time. Almost instantly, a tentacle barreled past him, hitting the wall with bone-shaking force. Logan tossed himself in the first direction he thought of, tumbled down a few rocks, and found himself far closer to the water than he’d like. It was frothing white and angry, tentacles clawing at the walls.

Okay, so he did not want to fall into that. Logan swallowed the lump of terror in his throat--he was going to drown--and began to scale the rocks. He could work in circles, or he could just bob from rock to rock, back and forth.

Quickly, though, he realized that no plan would work. He couldn’t plan ahead. All he could do was duck.

Duck a swing from overhead. Duck a flash of wet, grey skin from behind. Lunge left, lunge right, move before he slipped, move, move.

He found himself in a rhythm. Toss himself in a direction, grab wildly for a handhold, and dangle for a second. Then he heard a telltale splash and threw himself in a different direction. His hands ached. He barely noticed.

“Over here,” he yelled at one point. He was so out of breath that he barely made a sound. Maybe he was enough of a distraction already--he hoped so. Roman was down there somewhere. Hopefully.

Logan risked a glance at the water. No sign of him. Logan’s chest was cold,  because of the freezing ocean water, not because of magic.

Toss himself in a direction, hope for a handhold, regret life decisions, repeat.

Logan was never going to complain about a boring errand again.

“Roman?” he finally called. No answer.

Roman could breathe underwater--well, more aptly, he didn’t need to breathe as much. He would be fine. Unless he’d fainted, or been smashed by a tentacle, or drowned--

Logan’s fingers slipped on a rock. He gripped it tighter and kept moving.

Move, grab, hang, move--

“Logan!”

Logan almost whooped in relief. He whirled and saw Roman, drenched and triumphant, ten feet below him. The candle guttered in his left hand. Only one notch left.

“Thank you!” Logan called back, out of politeness. Roman gave him a thumbs up, then leapt into the air to avoid a tentacle. Leap, duck, roll, and Roman was only a few feet away. He grinned widely at Logan.

“I’ll get to you,” Logan said, slipping down a sheet of rock. It crumbled under his feet, falling into the water. “Wait there.”

“No problem!” Roman said, which even Logan could tell was a lie. He dodged another tentacle, which looped around in midair and tried to grab him again. Roman kicked it. “Oh, it’s getting smarter!”

“Fascinating.” Logan let himself fall another few feet, then grabbed a notch of rock. “Almost there.”

“It was pretty cool down there,” Roman rambled, jumping from foot to foot. “Just one big eye--”

A wave of water hit Logan in the back.

The kraken had indeed gotten smarter. Or, perhaps, it was finally fully awake. This wave was tall enough to reach them both, and strong enough to punch Logan’s breath from his lungs. It hurt so much that he didn’t even realize when his hands emptied.

Logan fell into the water.

It was cold. Colder than Roman’s magic, colder than the coven’s house, colder than a winter blizzard. Logan almost gasped. He clapped his hand over his mouth as a last resort. Shock tingled up his legs and arms.

He wasn’t supposed to panic. He knew that much. He needed to kick off his shoes and swim for the surface. But the water was tossing him around, currents and foam and cold hands on his skin, and he didn’t know which way was up. He kicked his feet. One shoe slid off.

Through the fuzzy darkness, he saw a flash of blue.

Move--move as fast as he could. He needed to move--he was going to drown--

He sank deeper.

And two hands grabbed his.

Roman was far warmer than the water around them, oddly. And his magic, when it spilled into Logan, felt warm too. Molten. Roman squeezed Logan’s hands and pressed the candle into one of them. Logan looked down at it, trying to clear his head and remember exactly what he was supposed to do.

Right. Snuff the candle. Get home.

He could barely see--

Then everything was yellow. Roman’s face burned into view, eyes wide and pale, feet kicking carefully at the water. Logan looked down at the candle stub with its bright blue flame, then turned to look at the source of the light.

Ah. An eye, big as the sail of a ship, yellow and fiery with a slit-black pupil.

"Shit,” Logan said.

Bubbles erupted from his mouth. They looked like pearls in the yellow light. Logan blinked several times and tore his gaze away. But he could feel the eye on him--he could hear the water moving--he could hear the kraken’s heart, if he tried, a solid thump-thump through the water--

Roman said something muffled. Logan looked at him. Roman groaned and exaggeratedly mouthed snuff the candle.

Logan looked down at the candle. Snuff the candle. Except the candle was already in water, and it was burning strong. How had he done this before? He didn’t remember--all he remembered was the first time he used it, when Janus wasn’t safe yet, when he ended up halfway across the world--

Logan batted at the flame. It didn’t budge. He blew on it, and got a stream of yellow-lit bubbles. The candle was so small. If it went out, their chance was lost, and the entire ocean was above them and around them and--

Another muffled yell from Roman. Logan looked up.

You are a witch, Roman mouthed at him. You can snuff the--muffled--candle.

Logan steadied himself.

Magic always felt odd to use. It started as cold rain, when he was a kid, like a bucket of cold water in his bed to wake him up. As he grew, it was warmer, a light rain in the garden, dewdrops on a spring morning.

He dug at his magic like digging into dirt, and waited to find a shoot.

The candle fizzed.

He didn’t have enough. He hadn’t cast a spell all day, so he should have enough for a simple spell, but he was cold and wet and terrified and frozen in the gaze of a creature older and bigger than he was. And he was on his own.

If he was outnumbered, run the other way.

Roman squeezed his hand.

Except he wasn’t. He wasn’t outnumbered. It was two against one, although Roman wasn’t a witch, just a witch’s creation. Just a piece of candlewax and magic with a nice smile--

A piece of magic.

Oh, that was a terrible idea.

Can I, Logan tried to mouth, borrow some--

What? Roman mouthed back with high eyebrows.

Something moved in the darkness, and the yellow light winked out for a second, before returning in full force. It made Logan’s limbs feel heavy. He could barely see the candle’s flame.

Sorry, he decided to mouth. I’m sorry about this.

He could apologize more if they survived.

For now, Logan gripped Roman’s hand and concentrated. Roman. Probably Roman Galatea, but more importantly, Roman. Roman gave Logan his name--which was an act of trust that Logan was now breaking, but don’t think about that--and it made things easier.

Finding his own magic was digging in soil. Finding someone else’s was breaking through a layer of frost, and Logan really hoped it didn’t hurt, because he was trying to just borrow as much as he needed but he was tired and couldn’t focus--

Tug. Throw them into a random direction. Grab the candle. Cling to Roman’s hand.

Move.

The flame winked out.

The eye winked out.

And Logan took a gasping breath of fresh air.

They were standing at the foot of the mountain. In front of them was the port, teeming with life, and the late-afternoon sky streaked with sun. Ships creaked back and forth like toys, and sails billowed in the wind. Logan took one look at the ocean, stretching out to infinity, and promptly turned away.

He looked down at one hand. The candle was gone.

He looked at the other. Roman’s hand was still in his. Drops of water beaded on his skin.

Logan looked up just in time for Roman to crush him in a hug.

“We did it!” Roman cheered, spinning Logan in a circle. “Success! Victory!”

“Put me down!” Logan yelled, kicking at thin air.

“Triumph!” Roman declared, but he put Logan back down. Logan rubbed at his sleeves and tried to drain the water from his shirt. His cloak was probably beneath the ocean right now. Janus would be annoyed about that.

“We did it,” Roman repeated gleefully.

“We did it,” Logan agreed, allowing himself a small smile of his own. “I--uh. Sorry. About taking your magic without asking.”

“Oh,” Roman said, like he hadn’t considered that would be something worth apologizing for. “Well, it got us out, so I don’t mind.”

“Don’t you?” Logan asked. He almost wished Roman would argue with him, to make Logan feel less like a jerk.

“Eh, it was fine, emergencies are emergencies.” Roman shrugged. “Plus, your magic feels pretty nice!”

Logan blinked. “It does?”

“Uh--kind of,” Roman said hastily. “Not in a nice way. You’re annoying.”

“Ah,” Logan said. He fake-coughed to gather his thoughts, and found a real cough instead. More coughs bubbled up. He doubled over and squeezed his eyes shut until they faded. “I hate water.”

“After today, I might be joining you with that.” Roman wiped water from his hair ruefully. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire cavern collapsed soon.”

“Would the kraken die?”

“Probably not.” Roman looked out to sea. “It would just slip through the cracks, creeping through the shadows to prey on unsuspecting ships, its tentacles grasping for blood--”

“Don’t,” Logan pleaded. “I do not want to think about that.”

“But we beat it!” Roman grinned. “Kind of sort of! I mean, we successfully fled the scene, which is more than most people!”

“True,” Logan admitted. “I didn’t get a tentacle--”

“Is Dee going to be mad?”

Logan looked down at his wet, bloody clothes. On any other day, he’d say yes. He’d never actually failed an errand--but he’d never almost died on one, either.

“No,” Logan said. “He’ll understand. And after the kraken, I don’t think I’m scared of being yelled at.”

Roman nodded. “Yeah, me neither.”

“You--oh.” Logan winced. “Oh, you’re going to get in trouble for this, aren’t you?”

“If they find out!” Roman tapped the side of his nose. “I have many excuses.”

“And if they find out?”

“I’ll get an earful.” Roman sighed. “Since you didn’t steal anything, though, and since the kraken is still intact, I think it’ll pass.”

“That’s good.” Logan glanced up the mountain trail. Janus would definitely be expecting him soon. “Er--I should be going.”

“Oh!” Roman looked a bit disappointed. “Okay, yeah, you have your witchy business, I understand. Fair travels!”

Logan nodded slowly. “Thank you, Roman. For everything. I truly appreciate it.”

“Aw, he has a heart!” Roman grinned. “You’re welcome. I’m awesome.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Logan said. “Still, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You couldn’t have!”

“You’re ruining this.”

Roman grinned wider. In the sunlight, he didn’t look off anymore. Well, he didn’t look human, but Logan barely noticed. He looked a bit like a jackrabbit. Gangly and brown and long-legged, with bright and cheerful white eyes.

“My point is that I’m grateful.” Logan rubbed at his arm, feeling nervous. “And--if you ever need me, feel free to visit.”

“If I need a tentacle?”

“We don’t have tentacles. If you need something other than a tentacle, yes.”

“What use could I have for a non-tentacle?” Roman teased. “Your offer is much appreciated. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.” Logan waved quickly at him. “Er--goodbye?”

“Fare thee well!” Roman bowed and jumped towards the port. He really was like a jackrabbit. “Don’t drown!”

“I’ll endeavor not to!”

Roman smiled and continued to scramble down the path.

“Wait,” Logan called, before he could stop himself. “Why did you help?”

“What?” Roman asked, pivoting.

“You could have easily ran,” Logan said, gesturing to Roman. “You’ve been leaping down the hillside. You could have left me and escaped.”

“We got out anyway, didn’t we?” Roman pressed a hand to his chest. “How could I abandon someone in need? Even an irritating and naive someone such as yourself.”

Logan glared at him.

“And--” Roman rubbed at his hair sheepishly. “You call me by my name. People don’t usually do that.”

“Oh,” Logan said.

Roman shrugged even more sheepishly.

“Well, I’ll just have to do it more to make up for it,” Logan said. “Does that work, Roman?”

Roman beamed. “Sounds like a plan, Logan.”

Janus would never recommend sharing his name with a near-stranger. Janus would say that was unsafe. Janus would say one witch was trustworthy, and one was all anyone needed.

But two was company. Logan found he rather liked having company.

“Sounds like a plan,” Logan agreed, and smiled back.

Give me a prompt, and I’ll write a short drabble!

#logince #roman sanders #logan sanders #janus sanders #sanders sides #fantasy au #tw drowning #tw death mention #this is so long i'm so sorry #it took me so long to write i should have done something shorter i a aa aaa #anyway this started as a rough au of a book series i liked #and then quickly evolved into something else entirely #so now it's completely unrecognizeable #but uh if anyone knows the septimus heap books #you might be able to spot an easter egg or two #this is so long i am so sorry i will look at the other prompts now i'm sorry dhshsjsks #mayyy reblog this one with taglist just bc of the effort it took #asks and answers #macademmia #averywrites

[kazuharem]

"Forever and Always” ↠ [FLUFF]

Genre: Drabble, Fluff, tiniest bit of angst

Pairing: Lucien x MC (Female)

Description: Lucien’s wedding day. That’s it

Summary: The happiest day of Lucien’s life.

Word Count: 2,008

Author’s Note: You guys requested for me to make Lucien happy and-

Oops my fingers slipped. So here’s happy Lucien 😊

Also, happy birthday to the love of my life. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever loved a 2D man as much as I do him, but here I am... ʅ(́◡◝)ʃ *puts on clown makeup*

Happy Birthday Lucien! 💜

[DISCLAIMER] I do not own the pictures, characters, or song. The only thing I own is the plot.

You're the first face that I see And the last thing I think about You're the reason that I'm alive You're what I can't live without

You never give up When I'm falling apart Your arms are always open wide And you're quick to forgive When I make a mistake You love me in the blink of an eye

I don't deserve your love But you give it to me anyway Can't get enough You're everything I need And when I walk away You take off running and come right after me It's what you do And I don't deserve you

You're the light inside my eyes You give me a reason to keep trying You give me more than I could dream And you bring me to my knees You bring me to my knees

Your heart is gold and how am I the one That you've chosen to love I still can't believe that you're right next to me After all that I've done

I don't deserve a chance like this I don't deserve a love that gives me everything You're everything I want

“Don’t Deserve You” - Plumb

A figure in a light gray tuxedo examined his reflection silently as he adjusted his tie. He studied his fully dressed self in the mirror, making sure that not even a hair was out of place. When the man was finally satisfied, he met his reflection fully. Lavender met lavender. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Lucien exhaled. He had never seen such a myriad of expressions on his face before. Apprehension, nervousness, happiness, and perhaps just a touch of excitement. Lucien smiled wryly. He looked like a fool stupidly in love.

Love.

What a seemingly absurd concept. Something he had never believed in. Until now. Until her.

He gazed at himself, eyes glimmering with faint excitement and he chuckled. “What have you become?” He asked himself quietly. “Look at you…believing in some crazy concept.” The tone in his voice was deprecating.

He could never imagine it. A beautiful woman in a white dress walking down the aisle. A pair of rings. Vows that spoke of forever. A companion for a lifetime. The sort of things he had never dared to want for himself.

And why should he?

Lucien had always been alone and quite frankly; it was easier this way. Doing the things he wanted to accomplish by himself. No one to argue with him. No one to get in his way. The research that spoke of advancement for the human race. Ever since the tender age of seven, he has always done things on his own. It was something he was familiar with, loneliness accepted as his way of life, and he was content to live with that fact.

Until he met her.

What was supposed to be a mere task of awakening the Queen’s powers morphed into cozy movie nights on his couch. Running for shelter from a surprise rainstorm. Sunny afternoons filled with delighted laughter. The anticipation of having someone wait for him.

Before long, she had replaced the emptiness inside him with a warmth that spread throughout him, spouting feelings of blossoming love that she had carefully sowed within him.

Lucien had found himself opening up to her. He had found himself wanting to know every little detail that made her so unique in his world.

And then there were the colors.

He had been thoroughly dazzled when he could see the prismatic colors of a rainbow for the first time. She had brought color into his bleak black-and-white world, something he had previously thought impossible. But she had accomplished the impossible. She had shown him a brand new world. And it was absolutely beautiful.

She had gone against his expectations. Gone against his point of view that humans were weak and only the strongest got to evolve. She had stood up to him, while holding her own ground.

Even after he had betrayed her, even after all the things he had done as Ares, she was still willing to welcome him into her arms. She was still able to see his side of things and yet, still loved him.

He remembered the moment she had stood up to him, defiant and strong.

“I wouldn’t. If I had the gift of prophecy and knew all kinds of secrets and knowledge…if I had faith to move mountains, but didn’t have love… Then none of it would count for anything. Even if the light’s source is put out, I’d still try to keep my own shining. No matter how difficult, or how dark it gets. Or how foolish or ridiculous.”

He could hear those very words.

“Silly girl,” Lucien murmured as he recalled the memory.

They had gone through all sorts of trials and tribulations and now they were here, at the cusp of a future Lucien had never thought he would achieve in this lifetime. But she had made it all possible.

After Black Swan had no more, there was one evening she had fallen asleep in his arms. And as Lucien gazed at the peacefully slumbering girl, he was struck with a desperate need to keep her in his arms, to want her to be the first thing he sees when he wakes up and the last thing he sees before going to sleep. The urge consumed him, until it was the only thing he could think of.

The next day, he had impulsively stepped into a jewelry shop. When he set his sights upon a pearlescent stone which scattered rainbows when met with light, he knew. That very night, he had knelt before her and asked her to spend the rest of her life with him.

Was he selfish?

Lucien frowned, and the face in the mirror mimicked him, brow scrunching up with distaste.

Don’t be foolish, Ares, look at all you have done. Do you think you deserve such happiness?

A voice, poisonous yet alluring, pricked at the back of his mind.

He watched himself as his hand curled slowly into a fist. Did he? Did he deserve to live this happy and loving life?

That is nothing but a distant pipedream, and you know it, the voice sneered. It taunted him, reminded him of all his faults.

His fist shook as his mouth parted, letting out a silent cry of pain.

Selfish. Foolish Ares. To think you are deserving of happiness-

A sudden knock at the door interrupted the drowning tirade.

And then-

“Lucien?”

Her voice, like a blessed rainstorm after a long drought, washed away the lingering traces of the poisonous voice.

“C-come in,” Lucien cleared his throat.

The door swung up open gently and all the toxic thoughts were immediately wiped from Lucien’s mind.

She walked into the room and the sight of her made Lucien’s entire being swell with a familiar warmth that he’s learned to associate with her.

She was breathtaking. And she looked the epitome of a dream Lucien didn’t dare dream. Didn’t dare hope for. But all the same, had desperately searched for.

“You-” Lucien exhaled and walked slowly towards her. “You are beautiful…” there was wonder laced in his voice. Her cheeks reddened prettily at his words. “You are so beautiful…” he whispered in awe.

He could feel the corners of his eyes prick.

He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve her.

But that did not stop him from wanting to.

“The photographer is waiting for us to take our pictures before the ceremony,” She fidgeted nervously as she smiled shyly, and Lucien’s heart nearly threw itself against his chest at the sight. She finally looked him in the eye and tilted her head curiously. “Are you ready?”

Lucien did not speak, couldn’t speak as he tugged her gently into his arms.

“Lucien?” She asked, voice slightly muffled by his shoulder.

“Shhh…” he murmured, and his voice is raw, thick with unspoken emotion. He buried his nose into her hair, inhaling her familiar scent. “Let’s just-stay like this for a little bit…” His shoulders began to tremble, and she belatedly realized that Lucien was crying.

“Lucien-” she struggled to turn to look at him, but he firmly kept her head tucked under his chin.

The sight of her in the white wedding dress evoked faint memories that he thought he had long forgotten. The feeling of his mother’s hand as she petted him, calling him “My Little Prince.” The pooling of his father’s big lab coat around Lucien’s tiny frame as he read voraciously through a textbook, undoubtedly much too advanced for a five-year-old. Lucien remembered his father looking on proudly. He remembered the warm afternoons of relaxing in the park when his parents took the day off to spend with him.

Lucien remembered being loved.

He sucked in a shaky breath as he pressed soft kisses against the crown of her head. “Thank you,” he breathed, his words a gentle puff of air.

She didn’t question him and only wrapped her arms around him. Lucien felt warm all over.

The couple stayed in that position for several moments until Lucien broke away slightly, “Shall we?” He asked, “Isn’t the photographer waiting?”

She huffed at him and he smiled, tweaking her nose gently. Lucien pulled her close, his hands naturally finding purchase on her waist as he led her out the door. They walked down the path where weeping wisteria hung above their heads, creating a lilac, perfumed shelter.

Lucien could see their photographer waiting in the distance.

He suddenly stopped and grabbed her wrist, spinning her into his arms.

“Lucien! People are waiting for us!” She cried out with surprise.

“They can wait a little longer,” Lucien declared, a hint of mischievous creeping into his voice. “It’s our wedding, after all.”

She pouted at him and Lucien grinned broadly. “I have something I want to say. And I want only you to hear these words,” Lucien started quietly, the teasing tone easing into one that was more serious.

She nodded and Lucien could see the blind trust and unconditional love in those beautiful eyes.

He took a deep breath, “When it comes to you, I seem to have planned many beginnings, but I can never predict the endings,” Lucien began, and her eyes widened.

Somewhere, a photographer was holding his camera anxiously, as he looked around for any sign of the couple.

Somewhere, a group of guests were sitting in confusion, wondering when the ceremony was going to begin.

Somewhere, a certain CEO was looking at his watch impatiently, brows furrowed in annoyance.

Somewhere, a certain police officer was bouncing his leg in anxiety, secretly wondering if anything had happened to the bride.

Somewhere, a certain idol was waiting restlessly on stage, ready to give the happy couple a wedding performance.

But all these people did not matter to Lucien as he continued.

“I purposely tried to distance myself from you. It’s not that you did anything wrong. It was…safer. For you. Before I met you, I disliked the idea of having a companion. We all have our own destinations, and if I had to match my steps with anyone else’s, I’d walk much slower. But as I walked my path alone, every time I turned around…I’d always find that you had caught up with me. This time is no different. You’re the only one in the world whom I’d gladly turn around for. Or…you’re the only one who could catch up to me and remain by my side. You are the first person I want to see in the morning and the last at night. Thank you for bringing color into my world. Thank you for loving me. I promise to keep you safe, to keep you happy. I promise I will take your love to give me hope, give me joy, and make me a better man. So, from now on, I’ll never let go.”

Lucien paused, gazing into her now watery eyes. He leaned in closer until their noses touched and their breaths mingled.

“I love you, forever and always.”

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

The companion fic to his birthday karma “Cozy Day” will be coming soon!

I love this man so much, y’all don’t understand the amount of love I have for him, okay 😌 Paper Games, let my mans be happy for once pls

For more of my work: 📖

#fluffy goodness #Lucien is finally happy #mlqc #mr love queen's choice #lucien #mr love lucien #lucien xu #drabble #mlqc drabble #love and producer #mlqc lucien #mlqc xumo #fluff #lucien fic #mlqc fanfic #mlqc fanfiction #lucien fanfic #恋与制作人 #love and producer xumo #happy lucien is a turn on of mine #hbd lucien #wedding fluff #Lucien birthday celebration #HBDLucien2020 #Lucien birthday 2020 #wedding fic #lucien fluff #elainabearie #xumo fanfic #my writing

[jetaime-jespere]

Prompt #200/105

Aaron never expected to run into his boss’s daughter in a dive bar.

But then again, Emily Prentiss was never exactly predictable.

It’s a Tuesday, the first night off he’s had in almost ten days. He’s learned quickly that working for an Ambassador is glamorous in name only. In practice, it’s typically uneventful, sometimes almost mind-numbing and boring. But it’s a foot in the door, the salary better than what he was making at his last position, and for the time being, he has to ride it out. Bide his time, climb the ladder until something better comes along.

But after ten days of work, he’s over it. Aaron expected he’d get a decent buzz when he slipped through the doors of the smoky bar alone, after yet one more fight with Haley. Their marriage has morphed into one cyclical argument, centered around a myriad of topics ranging from money and mortgages to kids and intimacy. It’s anyone’s guess what the topic of the day will be. Tonight, money was the lucky winner. Tomorrow, something else entirely.

So, if there is anyone in need of a night off, it’s Aaron. He drinks a beer in a record amount of time and then milks one more, feeling the effects of the alcohol start to kick in as he contemplates ordering a third.

What he didn’t expect was to see a slightly familiar face on one of the stools a few feet away from his own.

Aaron has seen her around before - she’s hard to miss. Emily, the Ambassador’s college-aged daughter, is the exact antithesis of her ridiculously uptight mother, and something tells him she takes great pride in that. He knows little about her, just that she’s a student at Yale with the mouth of a sailor. Around the mansion, she’s typically aloof, her face perpetually shielded by a pair of dark sunglasses that he suspects are to conceal a hangover or the aftereffects of an all nighter. She seems to always have an agenda, somewhere to be, and she doesn’t even seem to realize he exists. She appears to have time for no one, but Aaron suspects her flippant demeanor is a ruse for something else entirely. Insecurity, perhaps?

Without the sunglasses hiding her face, he gets a chance to steal a few glances from his own spot at the bar. She’s wearing a lot of makeup, clutching a drink in her hand. Emily nervously tucks her hair behind her ears every few minutes, glancing over her shoulder in what he calculates to be fifty-second increments. She’s looking for someone. Or waiting for someone. Either way, she looks nervous. So Aaron orders another drink - this will be his last - and figures it’s not worth making his presence known. Technically, he isn’t supposed to fraternize with the Ambassador or her family outside of work, anyway. A conflict of interest, they say. But something about seeing her there tells him he should stay. He subtly thanks the bartender and keeps her in his peripheral vision, distracting himself with a mindless game on the TV.

There’s a hesitant tap on his shoulder a few moments later, and when he lifts his eyes from television he’s not even watching, he’s almost surprised to see her on the stool next to him.

Emily.

“Excuse me,” she says in a low voice, the concept of personal space all but lost on her. She’s almost pressing herself right against him, as if they’ve been doing this for years, and something tells him it’s not just because the bar is crowded. “But you seem like a guy who could help me out.” She smiles, and up close like this he can’t help but think she’s stunning.

Not that he expected otherwise. “I beg your pardon?” He takes a quick sip of his beer, and then another. Liquid courage, he supposes.

“I could really use a favor,” Emily continues, batting her long eyelashes. Clearly she has no idea who he is, and Aaron has to remind himself they’ve never formally met before. He’s only ever seen her from somewhat of a distance, and of course, heard the whisperings from the other agents. He’s never much believed in rumors, though.  

Aaron opens his mouth, ready to identify himself because something tells him this could go downhill very quickly before she cuts in, throwing nervous eyes to the door once again. “What are you -”

“Please pretend to be my boyfriend.”

He nearly knocks the beer bottle over, blinking as if he didn’t hear her correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

Emily smiles apologetically, talking just a little faster than before, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I know it sounds ridiculous. I’m here by myself, and for the last half hour, there’s this guy who won’t leave me alone. I told him my boyfriend is coming but -” she glances at her feet, her cheeks flushing a shade of pink. “I don’t have a boyfriend, and he’s persistent. I’m pretty sure he spiked that drink too.”

Aaron sees the untouched drink by her place at the bar, next to the one she just finished. Just what is she doing in bars like this, by herself, at night? Where did this guy come from? Has the bartender not noticed? He has questions, but there isn't much time for answers. “Where is he?”

“Outside smoking.”

Something else crosses his mind. “I’ve been sitting here all night. You don’t think he’s already seen me?”

“He’s had his back to you the whole time. Plus,” Emily points toward the door. “The people next to us just got up and left. I highly doubt he saw you.”

Aaron wants to ask why she didn’t just get the hell up and leave with them, but her fingers tighten around his jacket sleeve, her eyes never leaving the wall of liquor bottles on the bar. “He’s coming back. At least pretend you like me, okay?”

There’s the heavy drag of shoes on the ground, a heavy odor of smoke and cigarettes permeating the air behind them. He feels Emily flinch when a large hand clamps down on her shoulder. “You’re still here” the guy leers, getting just a little too close. But then he spots Aaron, immediately pulling his hand away, his face twisting into a scowl. “So your boyfriend finally decided to show up.”

“Oh. Hi, Drew.” Emily tosses back lightly, throwing her arm around Aaron’s shoulders, leaving a kiss on his cheek. He gets a whiff of her perfume when her lips brush his skin, and for a brief moment, his mind blurs. Focus, he tells himself. “Traffic, you know.”

“You mean this is your boyfriend?” The guy, Drew, asks in disbelief, as if he doesn’t fully believe Emily. He gives Aaron a poorly concealed once-over, one that holds nothing but judgement.

“This is him,” Emily chirps, and for good measure, runs a hand through Aaron’s hair adoringly. Focus, he reminds himself. But she’s good at this, Aaron observes, wondering if she’s done this before. “You want something to eat, babe?” She reaches for a bar menu, pretending to study it.

“I’m starving,” Aaron says, hoping it’s convincing, reaching for her hand to prove a point. He squeezes her fingers, conveying the notion he’ll play along as long as she needs him to. “Whatever we got last time we were here was good.”

Emily nods approvingly, smiling sweetly at Drew with a wave of her hand. It’s a dismissal in the clearest sense. “It was great meeting you, Drew. Have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too,” he grumbles, clearly not convinced and undoubtedly annoyed at Aaron’s sudden presence next to her. “I guess I’ll see you around, Emily.” He stalks off, his footsteps heavy, disappearing into the crowd.

“Thank you” Emily says with relief once he’s fully out of earshot, but Aaron notices she doesn’t move her chair away from him. “Persistent little fuck, wasn’t he?”

“Definitely.” he twists a straw wrapper in his fingers as she orders another drink, draping one long leg over the other. His eyes linger on her legs for a split second too long. He shouldn’t be this close to her, let alone have drinks with her. Yeah, this could be bad if it got out. Aaron can only imagine the reactions of his coworkers if they found out.

“So, what’s your name?” Emily asks quickly, smoothing her hair over a shoulder, visibly relaxing in front of him as she lifts the glass to her lips. “I never did ask you, did I?”

“Hotchner,” he says out of habit, only realizing his mistake when she laughs.

“Are you some kind of cop or something? Your first name, genius. You’re my boyfriend, remember?” Emily gives a slight roll of her eyes. “We should probably be on a first name basis.”

That gets a laugh from him, too. “My first name is Aaron.”

“Mine’s Emily,” she says, narrowing her eyes and studying his face carefully, as if she’s trying to place him. “You look familiar to me for some reason.”

“I know what your name is.”

Her eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline.

“I work for your mother,” Aaron says softly, wondering if it’s the right move to make. But it’s summer; she’ll be around for the next several weeks, and if they don’t clear the air now, things could get awkward the next time their paths cross. He probably shouldn’t mention that her reputation precedes her, and he fumbles for what to say next.

Emily hand flies to her mouth, eyes widening as she processes his words. “You mean you  - you’re one of the security agents. That’s where I know you from.” She places him quickly, suddenly looking embarrassed and utterly self-conscious. “Fuck.”

“I only started last month,” Aaron offers, sensing her discomfort, yet not quite ready for her to get up and leave. “I haven’t been around very long.”  

“Yet you knew who I was,” she says suspiciously.

“You’re hard to miss.” He wants to bring up the time he witnessed the day she got home from Yale a few weeks ago, surrounded by mountains of luggage in the driveway. Her mother had been less than thrilled, and it started quite the argument between the two of them that could be heard from nearly anywhere on the front grounds.

Emily laughs loudly this time, her head tilting back with effort. “I guess I’m doing something right, then.”

He resists the urge to push the stray piece of hair from her face. Don’t even think about it, he tells himself. “Definitely.”  

“My mother is all about appearances,” she quips. “But I like to keep things interesting.”

“We could use a little bit of that around there for sure.”

They slip into a witty banter that comes easily to her; he tries to keep up with her endlessly sharp wit. Emily watches him from the corner of her eye, studying him casually as they drink. And while she’s still a bit guarded, there’s something about the way her walls slowly peel back that tell him he’s doing something correctly.

“How about a shot?” she asks out of the blue, her eyes suddenly glittering. “If you’re up for the challenge.”

Aaron briefly considers the fact that taking shots with his boss’s daughter definitely isn’t the best idea he’s ever had. He isn’t even certain she’s old enough to be drinking. But it’s too late because Emily has already flagged the bartender down with a determined wave.  

“Two tequila shots, please,” she says sweetly, even as she tosses a devious wink in his direction. “Consider it a thank you for your services tonight.”

He swallows, fully aware Emily could most likely drink him under the table and probably will.

“Let me guess.” She slides one of the small glasses towards him with a devious grin on her face. “You don’t drink very often.”

“Got me there,” Aaron retorts dryly. He can’t remember the last time he and Haley spent a night out at a bar.

He’s about to make her a deal - the next round is on him - when he realizes she isn’t looking at him anymore. Instead, her eyes are locked on the thin gold band on his left hand.

“I didn’t realize you were married.”

*I have to thank the wonderful @cmhotchniss-blog for a little inspiration with this one! 😘

#hotchniss #hotchniss fanfiction #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #aaron x emily #prompts #I love them in dive bars #I love them wherever #young hotchniss gets me #I cried because its over so thats how things are going over here #wsne vibes for sure

[inkribbon796]

Lost in a Lightning Storm Ch. 2: Far from Home

Summary: You shouldn’t talk about people, and not expect them to find out.

Chapters: 1, 2

While Henrik and Anti were talking to Tubbo and Logan, and then subsequently went off to Nate’s house to do some research, Mare went to go find Anti.

Anti was cackling with the Duke on some rooftop, who had escaped arrest after the chaos he had created. The two chaos-loving criminals were laughing and joking.

“Anti! Your boyfriend is getting too brave, you gotta[1] do something!” Mare said as he leaned over a massive air conditioning unit to get into the glitch’s face. Anti was lying on his back on the rooftop.

“Ooooooohhh~ You have a boyfriend?” Remus gave a huge smile, turning on his stomach and kicking his feet up like they were a bunch of pre-teens at a slumber party. “And you didn’t tell your best friend? For shame.”

“Shut up,” Anti kicked him in the face. Then he turned back to Mare. “I don’t got[2] a boyfriend.”

“Oh, yeah, then what the hell is he?” Mare bit back.

“None ‘a yer fookin’ business,”[3] Anti spat back.

“M’kay,[4] whatever,” Mare rolled his eyes. “Point is, he’s trying to find you.”

“I’m right here, let ‘im[5],” Anti scoffed, still lying on the ground.

“No, the old you, the human one,” Mare warned.

“Why?” Anti spat.

“I don’t know, humans are dumb,” Mare spat. “He’s your problem, you deal with him.”

“Fook[6] you!” Anti spat and stormed off.

Directly after he stormed off, he realized that he hadn’t asked Mare where Henrik was. But it was too late to storm off. Mostly because he overheard Remus trying to weedle information out of Mare. Anti was too in his own head to admit to even himself that he was embarrassed.

So he went out to find Henrik. Except he wasn’t at the hospital . . . and Logan didn’t seem to know where he was. He wasn’t at the hospital either so Anti ran around for a little bit and found them in Nate’s house.

For a couple moments, Anti debated on how upset Mare would be if he barged into his territory. Then he figured that if Mare didn’t want him to trespass, he shouldn’t have told him to take care of Henrik . . . and Anti had been in Nate’s house before on multiple occasions.

So Anti tripped about three alarms to get into the house and Nate and Henrik watched him stroll right into the living room where they were.

“Don’t yeh[7] two know not ta[8] talk about someone behind their back?” Anti layered on the glitching and blood as much as he could.

“You are certainly getting better at zat[9] effect,” Henrik complimented.

“You bleed on my carpet and I will stab you with a soul splitter,” Nate threatened.

Anti pulled out his knife, completely offended that they weren’t screaming in terror.

Nate helped up a stake, the wood was etched with runes and spell writing. “Anti, I don’t want to explain to the rest of your friends why you’re in pieces.”

“Why the fook are yeh diggin’ inta my personal shite?”[10] Anti demanded.

“Because zer is much I do not know about you, und I vish to correct zat,”[11] Henrik told him, Nate was on his computer, still looking through old census records and newspaper reports.

“I’m right the fook[6] here,” Anti spat.

“I cannot recall a time ven ve have ever talked about any’zing,”[12] Henrik told Anti pointedly.

Anti glared at him, his nose scrunched up like the demon was about to pull his lips back in a snarl. “Why, though? No point in lookin’[13] fer[14] a dead man.”

Henrik stood up, really studying Anti’s expression, “If it makes you uncomfortable, I can stop.”

Anti sputtered for a moment, “I don’t care.”

“I am serious Anti, if all zis[15] investigation makes you uncomfortable or vas[16] a traumatic experience, I vill[17] stop.”

A myriad of uncomfortable feelings, that Anti refused to unpack or acknowledge, prickled under his skin and boiled his blood. He absolutely refused to be afraid of some past specter he could barely remember. Anti was better than some human who’s only contribution to the world had been dying so that Anti could be brought into the world.

So instead Anti just scoffed, some derisive, forced laugh, “Whate’er yeh two arses wanna dig up some dead bitch that did me the favor ‘a dyin’, go ahead. Here, I’ll e’en help.”[18]

Henrik watched for any sign that Anti was joking or would destroy Nate’s computer. “If you are certain.”

“Oh yeah,” Anti dismissed. “What did yeh shitebags find?”[19]

“Well,” Nate stalled as he watched Anti walk over, he stayed braced with his stake. “Don’t break my stuff.”

“I won’t,” Anti smiled. “Come on, we got some loser ta[8] find.”

“That “loser” is also a past version of you,” Nate pointedly reminded.

“Watch it, meatbag,” Anti warned. “If he wanted ta[8] stay alive, he shouldn’ta[20] died.”

“Eloquent,” Henrik commented.

“Shut,” Anti hissed back.

“Do you remember your country of origin?” Nate asked. “I’ve got several different deaths from lightning storms and factory accidents from the past 150—”

“I ne’er[21] worked in a factory,” Anti huffed, before mentally stalling because he couldn’t remember how he knew that, just that he did.

“Really?” Nate commented without even blinking. “That helps narrow it down. Means you only could have died from lightning if you’re as old as Mare says you are.”

“Mare needs ta[8] learn ta[8] keep his trap shut,” Anti scoffed.

“You were right there when he told me that, and you didn’t say anything,” Nate reminded.

Anti looked away from him, “I don’t remember this, it didn’t happen.”

“Anyways, do you remember where you came from?” Nate turned back to his computer. “I know the Septics first met you in Ireland, but are you from there too?”

“Been ta a lot ‘a places,”[22] Anti shrugged. “How am I supposed ta[8] know?”

“Well it vould[23] make it easier,” Henrik reminded.

Anti rolled his eyes, “I woke up in Australia. I hitched a ride on several hosts until I got ta[8] Ireland. I don’t know if I died there, my first ten years were a blur.”

“You are Australian?” Henrik was staring at Anti.

“No.” Hunching his shoulders up defensively, Anti glared at the doctor, “Maybe? I can’t remember. What’s it ta[8] yah[7]?”

“No, it’s not a bad thing,” Henrik rushed to say. “I just . . . it is a good thing.”

Nate and Anti just stared at him, neither of them sure which direction to take that comment, but Henrik wasn’t looking Anti in the eyes anymore. He was glancing at Anti though, a lot.

But with a country narrowed down, Nate was able to eliminate several different possible candidates. Until there were five people left, four men and one woman. Mostly because it wasn’t unheard of for gender changes to occur when a human became a demon.

“Okay,” Nate said. “We have: Caleb Carson, Hannah Laverty, Brendan O’Heyne, Angus Collins, and Joe Morrin. Does anyone sound familiar, I don’t see any pictures so . . .”

Anti’s brain felt clouded, like there was something wrong but he couldn’t place it. He felt the urge to stab something and run. Like he was in danger.

“Anti? Are you alright?” Henrik asked, there was a look on Anti’s face that the German doctor hadn’t seen on him before.

Anti’s attention drifted towards one of the names in particular. He had no memories left of that person.

Much of that person was gone now, eroded away by time, but snippets remained. Being arrested for something . . . feeling disgusting inside afterwards . . .

. . . Feeling sick as the boat wouldn’t stop shaking the world around him . . .

. . . The heat of the sun burning his skin, almost hot as the anger that burned inside of him . . .

. . . And then a deafening CRACK as he felt like his body was exploding with pain. And how they’d just . . .

“They left me there,” Anti remembered, his form glitching erratically. “They left my fookin’[24] corpse ta[8] rot!”

“Anti‽” Henrik called out but the two humans watched Anti violently shatter apart in a discorporation.

Nate surged up immediately and took out an amulet necklace. One he had once’s a while ago to safely carry Mare around. But he used his magic to scoop up as much of Anti’s aura as possible to keep him from fracturing.

“Vat[25] happened?” Henrik demanded.

“He must have remembered something,” Nate tried to calm Henrik down as he was casting spells to see how violent the discorporation was, “I don’t think it was a good thing.”

Henrik snatched the necklace away, looking at it. “Vill[17] he be alright?”

“He still seems to be in one piece, but it might take a while for him to reform,” Nate warned.

“I zink ve should stop,”[26] Henrik looked over at Nate’s laptop. “If I had known his reaction vould have been zis violent I vould have stopped ven he confronted us.”[27]

“Yeah,” Nate agreed and watched Henrik put the necklace on. “Be careful with him, an injured demon’s a more dangerous one.”

“I vill[17],” Henrik promised, and gathered up his stuff with a stiff thank you for Nate’s help and the doctor went over to his apartment with the necklace. Anti took a couple of days to reform, but he didn’t talk to Henrik. The demon would escape the necklace and then slip back in whenever Henrik was distracted or busy.

After almost a week since the incident at Nate’s house, Henrik decided that, if Anti wasn’t going to talk to him, Henrik would talk to Anti. He started out small, complaining about the coffee machine at the hospital, about how muggy the weather was.

Then, one night, while Henrik was sitting on his couch, watching some TV show, or at least had it on in the background while he was staring down at the necklace in his hands, the doctor decided to be a bit more blunt. He watched the gem, saw almost like glitchy lightning crackling underneath the surface. “I must admit, part of ze[28] reason I went digging vas[16] to get a reaction out of you.”

There was a pause to the energy in the necklace. But after a bit the glitched lightning continued as if nothing had happened.

“If you do not vant to talk about zis matter, I vill not force you,”[29] Henrik told him. “But I had hoped to get a violent reaction out of you, not to actually harm you. For zat[9] I am sorry.”

Anti’s aura shot out of the necklace was just staring at Henrik. “Why was that what yeh were goin’ fer?”[30]

“You have tried to kill me und[31] my friends many times, und[31] I vanted[32] to get you to attack me,” Henrik admitted.

“Why?” Anti scoffed, plopping down on Henrik’s couch. “If I wanted yeh[7] dead, I would’a[33] done it already.”

He took glared at him. “Zat[9] is exactly the problem, you have zis[15] odd stalking infatuation but you have tried to kill me in the past. Not to mention you utterly ruined Average’s marriage und[31] his ability to visit his children.”

“The fooker was gettin’ cucked an’ e’eryone knew it,”[34] Anti dismissed.

“She vas doin’ no’zing of ze sort,”[35] Henrik defended heatedly.

Anti looked away angrily.

The two sat in angry silence for a little while, before Henrik sighed, taking off his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose before carefully putting them back on. “Anti, vat do you vant out of zese interactions ve have?”[36]

The glitch demon decided he would rather talk about literally anything else, but his only other option was talking about his former human life and he wasn’t sure which made him look worse. “I like it when yeh[7] get angry at me.”

“Is it simply ze[28] anger or ze[28] attention?” Henrik asked, genuinely trying to understand.

Anti still wasn’t looking at him, deciding that he’d rather take the human talk. “My name used ta[8] be somethin’[37] else.”

“Vich[38] do you prefer?” Henrik asked.

“Anti,” Anti told him hesitantly.

“Zen[39] you are Anti,” Henrik agreed. “As you said, zat[9] man is dead, und[31] you are here.”

Something in Anti’s chest tightened, he didn’t like it. He didn’t like even the reminder that he was human. But he started leaning over towards Henrik. It was just a little bit of a lean, not enough to even get near Henrik. So the doctor closed the distance for him, lightly resting his shoulder against Anti’s.

“I zink zat you like the attention, vich I am more zen happy to give to you,”[40] Henrik smiled at him as Anti still refused to hold eye contact with him. “Und ven you know vat you vant, you can tell me in your own time.”[41]

For the rest of the night the two of them sat in almost near silence. Anti wasn’t ready to admit anything, but still tantalizingly close all the same. Anti getting closer and close to Henrik until the doctor was pressed up against the side of the couch and Anti was leaning against him. Anti sat next to Henrik as the doctor just ran his fingers through his hair. Anymore and Anti would have started hissing and pulling away. But as he leaned into the touch the glitch decided that he liked this attention.

Henrik occasionally looked over at Anti, smiling at him.

And if, as he scratched his fingers across his scalp, heard him give out very quiet purring sounds, the doctor decided not to tease the glitch demon about them . . . at least not yet.

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

Post A/N: Anti in his AU used to be a man by the name of Angus (Jack’s “survivalist” character he made super early in his channel and in this AU Angus was arrested and sent to Australia where he subsequently died from a freak lightning storm, and then cue villain arc.

Side note: Henrik likes Anti’s Australian accent, he likes it a lot! No I will not back down from this extremely unpopular headcanon.

Accessibility Translations:

1. have to

2. have

3. None of your fucking business

4. Okay

5. him

6. Fuck

7. you

8. to

9. that

10. Why the fuck are you digging into my personal shit?

11. Because there is much I don’t know about you, and I wish to correct that

12. I can’t recall a time when we have ever talked about anything

13. looking

14. for

15. this

16. was

17. will

18. Whatever you two assholes want to dig up some dead bitch that did me the favor of dying, go ahead. Here, I’ll even help.

19. What did you shitbags find?

20. shouldn’t have

21. never

22. I’ve been to a lot of places

23. would

24. fucking

25. What

26. I think we should stop

27. If I had known his reaction would have been this violent I would have stopped when he confronted us.

28. the

29. If you do not want to talk about this matter, I will not force you

30. Why was that what you were going for?

31. and

32. wanted

33. would have

34. The fucker was getting cucked and everyone knew it

35. She was doing nothing of the sort

36. Anti, what do you want out of these interactions we have?

37: something

38. which

39. then

40. I think that you like the attention, which I am more then happy to give to you

41. And when you know what you want, you can tell me in your own time.

#Superhero AU #Masks and Maladies #birthday post #footnotes #henrik von schneeplestein #antisepticeye #Nathan Sharp #Antistein #Doctor Glitch #Anti trying desperately to run away from his emotions #finally some relationship progress #Anti's just a scraggly alley cat that doesn't know how to get a home #Anti has feels #angst and feels