#Also there's my old instinct to get as much bang for my buck as possible whenever I buy a game

[pianokantzart]

It's so funny when people say that the big problem with Mario & Luigi: Brothership is the pacing and that you could easily trim about 15 hours off the runtime if you got rid of the padding

because they're not wrong... but boy do I love aimless meandering and low-stakes side quests. I love stretching out my play experience as broadly and thinly as possible. I have nothing but time to kill here.

[buckyownsmylife]

Memory - Bucky Barnes smut

The one where Bucky's a vampire but still manages to develop a breeding kink

Warnings: smut, breeding kink, vampire!AU, creampie, daddy kink, mention of blood because of biting

A/N: this is for my darling cousin @whisperlullaby​‘s challenge, and also my own! Like I explained here, I’m going to try to fill every single AU I listed with the characters I picked for the challenge, and since the deadline if May 27, these fics will be posted randomly, as I finish them, instead of on Thursdays, which are my usual one-shot posting days. I hope you guys will enjoy this silly idea of a vampire with a breeding kink 💛 I had a blast writing it! Unbeta’ed because I almost died this week and cannot be bothered to stare at my writing for any longer.

Bucky’s P.O.V.

“Okay, let’s play truth or dare!” I groaned as silently as possible at the proposition. One of the downsides of dating someone in college was having to deal with the immaturity of their friends, especially when I was unable to escape yet another invitation for a weekend getaway.

There were only so many encounters a man could refuse before mysterious became annoying, and I knew I was toeing the line, even if my girlfriend never complained.

She understood just how irritating these gatherings could be to me. It would have been easy to imagine if there was a realistic age gap between us, but considering the centuries that separated our birth dates, it was laughable that anyone would entertain the idea of me with a bunch of young adults who only wanted to get laid, smoke some weed and drink their asses off.

Of course, her friends didn’t know my true age, so they only thought I was a little bit irked by their behavior. Y/N knew the truth, and so evidently she tried to get me out of it, but I resisted.

I wanted her to take part in the normal experiences people her age were having. There was already so much that she was missing out on just by being with me - and I wasn’t even referring to the blood that she granted me every night.

I’d accepted to be there with her that evening. I was going to immerse myself in the full experience, if only to learn a bit more about her and those she surrounded herself with.

Her best friend let out a little excited yell when she noticed that we were joining the circle and I forced myself to smile at her. “Alright, let’s do this.” One of the male friends rubbed his hands before reaching for the bottle, making it spin as I frowned. I thought that was a different game, but apparently I was mistaken.

It landed on a girl I had yet to get acquainted with, and so I disconnected myself from the conversation as I watched my beloved laugh and have fun with her friends. It made me feel warm. It made me grateful I had decided to join.

A few more rounds went by without anything of essence actually happening. I was about to excuse myself when the bottle surprisingly stopped while pointing at Y/N.

She gasped as she stared at the man who was responsible for deciding her fate, and I already knew I wouldn’t like what was coming next. But she was smart, so she avoided the dare that would undoubtedly enrage me, leaving her to answer a question that I also would have preferred not to hear.

“So… Y/N…” He began, taking far too much pleasure at the situation, and by the way she rolled her eyes, I knew she was thinking the same.

“Yes, Simon.” He opened his mouth to say something, but instinctively looked my way. I was trying my best not to let any emotion slip through the cracks of my perfectly constructed mask, but whatever it was that he saw seemed to make him change his mind.

He closed his mouth and frowned, for a second deep in thought, before he sighed and finally voiced his question. “Just tell us one of your kinks.”

It sounded like he was trying to get this over with, and although Y/N seemed just as confused, she cleared her throat and gave him an answer.

“Oh, I don’t know… I guess.. Creampie?” Little giggles and comments rose around the circle, but nothing really stuck out and they were quick to motion her to spin the bottle so another person could have a turn.

It was a different reaction that I was expecting, especially considering what everyone did for much tamer answers, but the explanation for the lukewarm crowd was made clear by a groaned comment from Simon to the man beside him.

“This is no fun now that she isn’t single.” A small giggle resonated by my side, and I turned in the direction it came from to find my girlfriend trying to suppress her amusement behind her palm.

“Something funny, little one?” I knew they’d take notice of the pet name, but I honestly couldn’t be bothered to even pretend to care, and the fact that she smiled openly up at me showed me that she didn’t, either.

“Not at all.” She pulled me closer to deposit a quick peck on my lips and I was sure if my heart was still beating, it would have fluttered at the way she looked at me. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

“Of course.” Thankfully, the game didn’t last much longer - for us, at least. Somehow, the bottle didn’t land on me once, and Y/N started to yawn, her head resting against my shoulder after the third consecutive “Who would you rather bang?” question.

“I think we’re gonna leave for the night,” she excused us even though I knew she wasn’t really sleepy. She really could be an excellent actress when she wanted to.

We walked up the stairs to where the bedrooms were located, quickly getting in what had been assigned as ours for the weekend. She smiled softly at me as she reached for her backpack, no doubt looking for the one shirt of mine she always slept in, but I had a few things in my mind I wanted to ask her about.

“Why do you like creampies to much?” The words spilled out at me so unusually, considering the silence in the room, it didn’t surprise me that it took her a while to answer. When she did though, I was surprised to find her biting her lip, a look between amused and horny in her eyes when she approached me.

“Dunno.” She shrugged, taking my hands in her and playing with my fingers. I knew it was a way to avoid my intense gaze. “Guess I have a bit of a breeding kink, actually. It just felt too personal to share with those guys.”

The answer took me by surprise as I stared down at her, blinking a couple of times as I made sure to really process what she had said.

“A breeding kink?” I confirmed, and she rolled her eyes in that way I knew she did when she was embarrassed but trying to play it off as annoyed.

“Yeah, you know.” She pulled away from me to sit on the bed, legs dangling off of it almost like a child. “I like the idea of being bred. Even though I’m in no way ready to become a mother,” she added in a serious tone, making sure I understood what she meant.

But I didn’t. I didn’t and I guess it was clear in my face, because she quirked an eyebrow and jumped out of the bed, coming to stand before me once more.

“Why is this so weird to you?” She inquired, head tilted in amusement. “You’re over a century old, I’m sure your expectations regarding sexual relationships were related to impregnation for most of your life.”

And I mean… she wasn’t wrong. But I hadn’t thought about that for so long, I guess it didn’t occur to me that there was an actual term for it these days.

“There’s no way you don’t have a breeding kink.” The affirmation sounded almost like a dare, so my instinct was to fight it, wrap my arms around her torso so I’d keep her close to me, but deny it.

“You know I can’t ‘breed’ anyone anymore, darling.” But she wasn’t giving up. Her fingers softly traced my jawline, eyes sparkling with a dangerous glint as she countered, “Doesn’t mean you can’t like the idea of it.”

Even though I didn’t need the oxygen, I inhaled sharply, suddenly fascinated by her every movement, the way she gently unwrapped herself from my arms to slowly unbutton her simple dress, the one she made it look like a fucking gown.

“Think about it, Buck…” Every inch of skin that became exposed to my eyes still had my mouth watering, desperate to taste her all over.

“Wouldn’t you want to see me round with your child?” The question provoked my imagination, playing with her features as I thought about what she proposed. Her breasts fuller, stomach protuberant, and maybe a little feet rubbing against the skin, something I could kiss.

“See me carry your genes, continue your lineage… Wouldn’t you want that?” Her innocent eyes spelled trouble when she stood before me again, close enough to touch.

And I couldn’t deny that the idea did something to my heart - even though it didn’t beat anymore. Most undeniably, it definitely did something to my cock, which now strained against my pants, the arousal that the image of her impregnated by me provoked bursting as I looked at the creature that I loved in wonder and fascination.

“Are you trying to tempt me, doll?” She bit on her lower lip to stop herself from giggling before I pulled it away from her teeth when I took her in my arms again, naked breasts rubbing against my shirt.

“Is it working?” She breathed out, eyes connected to mine while she tried to gather my feelings about her attempt. I pressed her body closer, making sure she’d feel the hardness in my pants before I even voiced it.

“Very well,” I whispered in her ear, enjoying the way my cold breath awakened goosebumps all over her warm skin. She never complained about the difference in temperature, something that I was profoundly grateful for, since I loved to feel her hot blood pumping underneath my fingertips whenever I trailed my digits over her flesh.

“So tell me,” she pressed, still going for seductive even though she sounded slightly out of breath, her desire evident in the way her pupils had dilated. “Would you like to breed me, James?”

A shiver went down my spine at the question and I closed my eyes for just one second, just to relish in this sensation before I opened them to confess, “You have no idea how much I’d like that.”

My hand easily spread her lower lips, middle finger running between them to test her wetness and finding her soaked, like she always seemed to be for me. The knowledge had me smiling as I lifted my hand to taste her before making quick work of my belt, observing her slowly walking backwards towards the bed as I followed, almost like there was a thread connecting us, keeping us close.

Y/N’s P.O.V.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he moaned against my ear as he buried himself inside of me and I clutched at his shoulders, desperate to feel every part of him connected to every part of me.

Only he could get me this way. Chest heaving, mouth open just from the simple act of feeling him stretching me open. It didn’t matter how many times he took me, it still burned the same - and I loved it.

“Tell me, doll,” he panted, hypnotizing eyes connected to mine, unwilling to let my gaze escape his hold. “Tell me you’d want to have my child. You’d look so beautiful with your body changing because of me, wouldn’t you want that?”

I groaned, throwing my head back as James fucked me senseless, his cock ramming against my sweet spot over and over again. He knew no mercy, I knew that. I just never anticipated to have such an overwhelming reaction to a silly little kink I never even thought I’d ever get to explore.

“Answer me, little one.” His fangs came into play then, piercing around the nipple that he sucked, galvanizing me into actually responding, “I would, I would, daddy,” while pulling on his hair without even realizing.

He let go of my breasts to look at me with dark eyes - not because he had come in contact with my blood, oh no. It was clear that this was the reaction to the name that escaped me so easily, waving its way into him until it broke the last bit of his control and left him completely undone, only determined to fuck me.

I watched him lick his lips before he ordered, “tell daddy you want his cum inside of you.” Hearing him acknowledge this other secret kink, refer to himself as it had me delirious, unable to formulate any words to obey him, so I opted to hide my face in the crook of his neck, hoping the feeling of my burning cheeks would satiate him.

What a mistake.

“Oh, so now you’re shy?” He mocked, rubbing his jaw against my cheek as I whined against him. “Want daddy’s cum so much but can’t be a good girl and beg for it?”

I came with a long drawn-out gasp right then, my body twitching underneath his as his cock dragged along my walls once, twice, a third time until it spilled his cum inside of my channel. The act was so hot to me that it had me pulling on his hair, whispers of “I love you, I love you,” tumbling out of my lips.

He silenced me with a kiss, still managing to keep on thrusting until I had to push him away because of my sensitivity.

“Spread your legs for me, little one…” He ordered, brushing his tongue over his lower lip in contemplation. “Let me see the mess I left there.”

I was still a bit nervous about the whole ordeal now that the wave of horniness had left me, but I did eventually spread my legs for him, whimpering as he bit down on his own lip at the sight of his spent dripping from my abused pussy.

“Oh, you look so good like that, darling.” I could barely contain my giddiness as he laid down by my side and pulled me to rest on his chest, pressing a kiss to my temple while he caressed my arm. “But one question remains unanswered.” To my almost sleepy hum, he proceeded, “Why do you like the idea of breeding so much?”

That got me thinking, wiping the tiredness off of my muscles like a bucket of cold water. It felt weird to admit it, but at the same time, I wanted nothing more than to bare my soul to the man I loved, to have him aware of every little thing about me…

So I admitted, “I like the idea of being yours… in this very scary, slightly territorial way.” At his silence, I giggled, hiding my face on his chest as I waited for his response.

“But you are mine,” he reminded me, and even as I rolled my eyes, a silly smile painted my lips, loving that he felt like he needed to tell me that.

“I know I am,” I recognized. “It’s just another way I’d like to be claimed by you. Besides, I can just imagine how well you’d take care of me…”

Silence filled the room as we both got lost in the images of what could never be. Me with a fully-grown belly, walking like a penguin as he held up tiny onesies that looked ridiculous in his huge hands.

My heart ached for what could never be, surely, but I couldn’t really grieve a future I’d never have while I was so happy with the man who wanted to give me one.

“I’ll always take care of you.” He kissed the back of my hand, and even though he knew it wasn’t exactly what I meant, it was just enough. “I’m sorry that I can’t ever give you children.”

The guilt in his tone was almost palpable, and I wanted to do anything in my power to make it disappear. This wasn’t what I intended when I shared my sexual fantasies with him. They were just that - fantasies. I wouldn’t trade my reality for any alternative version the universe could offer me.

“It’s alright, babe,” I assured him, depositing a kiss on his chest, right where his heart would be beating for me if it could. “I think the way you want to claim me is just as territorial… and much more final.”

Bucky held me close, breathing me in - even if he didn’t need to do that to survive - before he asked me the last doubt that still hovered in his mind.

“Aren’t you scared?” And as I laid there in his embrace, feeling loved and cared for, I knew the only acceptable answer that I could give him was, “It’ll be worth it.”

[iwishicanbeagoodpianist]

the Wifilcon and the Winter Router

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OC/Reader Summary: When Bucky learns that his neighbor has been stealing his wifi for months. Warnings: None A/N: I'm not a fanfic writer at all, this, like all my stories, are adaptations to fanfics. My original stories are not written in english, so this is also a translation. please do not repost my work

For an instant, Bucky thought that the knocking he was hearing was coming directly from his head, I mean, it wouldn't be the first time his mind played tricks on him, but he realized that the sound was actually coming, unluckily for him, from his apartment door. Oh no no no no no no no, I just got back from putting up with Sam for almost 6 full weeks, I don't need interaction with more people for now.

Bucky thought for a minute to ignore the sound, to wait for the person to give up and leave, anyway he didn't spend many days on this apartment, almost no one had seen him leave or enter the building and he had no contact with the neighbors, only with the lady on the 7th floor who once lost one of her cats, which ended up in Bucky's apartment, accidentally. Not that I found the cat in the alley and actually brought him to my apartment, it doesn't mean that I stole the cat, he was in the street by himself, I rescued him.

When the banging on the door stopped and Bucky thought he could breathe calmly again, a voice between altered and annoyed was heard all the way to the living room where he was sitting trying to overcome his third panic attack and fourth existential crisis of the day .

-"I know you're in there! I saw you coming in a few hours ago! I've been waiting for days for you to come back!"-

More out of instinct than anything else, Bucky pulled out the knife hidden in his right boot as he slowly backed away from the door. Do I really have a spy as a neighbor? Should I call Sam? Is he in danger too? Never mind now, you need an escape route Bucky, concentrate, third floor, window to the alley, 2 minutes max, the bike is parked far away, I'll have to run, but to where, rendezvous point, safe place, think....

- "for God's sake, open the door, I need you to pay for your fucking internet plan, I'm in the last season of my series and I need to know if Carolina died or not!"-

- "The internet?"- Between the andrenaline from escaping and the shock of not understanding what was happening Bucky spoke louder than an assassin, with over 60 years of experience, should have spoken. Oh, shoot.

-"Yes! Your wifi, I need it to finish watching my series"-

Whispering "wifi" to himself, Bucky tries to remember where he has heard that word before, this is what I get for never listening to Sam when he talks to me. But before he can continue his mental analysis of all the conversations with Sam about such stupid things as his favorite American Football team, the New Orleans Saints, that I remember, to how Antonio could possibly leave María on the last episode of the 6 o'clock telenovela of which Sam is a fan, his apparent "neighbor" spoke up again:

-"Jesus Christ, can you open the door? So we can resolve this like adults"-

Bucky resigned to the fact that he has given his position to the "enemy", walks to the door and opens it waiting for his death. Well at least if I die I won't have to listen to Sam again talking about Antonio and María. But on the other side of the door, there was a woman, who in her pajamas, very unthreatening but cute, was watching him as if he were a ghost but still with defiance in her eyes, in one breath she introduced herself and continued her speech about her complaint to Bucky:

-"As I was saying, I need you to pay for your internet"-

-"I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I understand what you mean"- mumbled Bucky.

- "Good Lord"- To Bucky's surprise his neighbor, pushes him and enters his home, well not so much a home home, more like the headquarters of his secret club, of which he is the president, vice president and only member, the point is that it is his place, where he can (and wants to be alone), as she lives here. This must be a dream, maybe I hit my head too hard in the last mission and I am unconscious in the hospital.

Crossing the room, Bucky's unwanted visitor looks around searching for something while whispering the words "I see you are quite minimalist, but maybe this is too much, someone urgently needs to look for some inspiration on Pinterest". She stops abruptly in front of the shelf where, in theory, a TV should go, while shouting: "EUREKA", she bends down and picks up a white device which has two antennas and like a million little blinking lights, damn, that looks like something out of a spaceship, I'm being watched by aliens? I'm being spied on by Kree?

-"This is your router, this is where the internet signal comes from, which I need you to pay for so I can finish watching my series"-.

Bucky, still in shock for the third time in less than 15 minutes, as he processes the idea that perhaps Thanos' unknowing twin is spying on him for a second invasion of earth and revenge for his brother's death. He can only nod to his now more relaxed and happy neighbor.

-"Perfect, thanks! I need to check the food I left in the oven, I'll talk to you later"- and as quickly as she came she left through the same door, leaving Bucky with more doubts than answers, peeking down the hallway, he realizes that she is the neighbor who lives next door, to his right. When Bucky comes out of his initial stupor, still not fully understanding what is going on, he decides to take his cell phone out of his pocket and call his own personal Google to solve his doubts about this century: Sam Wilson.

-"Hey Buck! What's up?"-how does he always manage to sound so happy? focus Buck.

-"What the hell is a router and why do I have one in my house?"- somehow Bucky manages to formulate, although maybe his voice cracked a little on the last words.

-"That thing's been there for at least two months and you didn't even notice it? Have you even paid the bill?"-

-"You put this in here? Without telling me????"- maybe Sam is also a Kree? Who can I trust now? It's all a trap?

Listening to Bucky's accelerated breathing, Sam tries to explain to him slowly, that in this century life without internet is not life, but obviously as Bucky does not even know how to set the alarm on his own cell phone, he was in charge of buying the router and creating the contract with the company so that, the 106 year old man could have his personal network at home. He had given it the name but he had not given it a password so that Bucky himself could set it up later. "I am an excellent friend, I mean co-worker, if I may say so"

-"Sorry man, after all that happened, we got called for a mission and I forgot to tell you, do you have your laptop over there? I'll help you set up a password, so your neighbors won't steal your internet anymore"- and with that comment everything started to make sense in Bucky's slightly screwed up but functional mind about the events with his seemingly non-spy and harmless neighbor.

Meanwhile Bucky was trying to remember his own password to unlock the laptop in front of him, also courtesy of Sam. "Bucky, when you learn about online banking and that you can pay your rent, electricity, phone and everything with a click of your computer, you will thank me". It should be noted that Bucky hasn't used that laptop once, like a good 100 year old grandpa he goes to the bank to make his deposits and pay his debts, which obviously consisted only of electricity, water, gas and phone because the man had no idea that there was a device in his house that spit out internet, apparently only his next door neighbor knew this. Buck tells Sam how he thought his router was an alien device and how he thought his neighbor was a KGB agent coming to kill him. "Relax Buck we all have undesirable neighbors that steal our internet signal sometimes", well undesirable is not the word I would use to describe her but ok.

When Sam finally explains to him how to connect his computer to the internet, Bucky can finally see the name that his wonderful co-worker, not friend, because he could never be friends with someone so stupid as to think that the name "THE WIFILCON AND THE WINTER ROUTER" was a good name.

- "my god Sam, you're such an asshole!"-

-"HEY! That's a great name!"- Sam responds with as much indignation as possible, he's the best at naming everything from dogs to wifis.

- "I can't believe you're Captain America, I can't believe we're even friends"- Bucky really can't understand his luck to have friends, well, co-workers whatever.

- "Well excuse me but we're co-workers..."-

- "Well, take this call as my formal resignation, bye"-

-"Wait a minute Buck..."- Bucky ended the call, to finish -his self-imposed- punishment of listening to Sam Wilson talk for over an hour. At least I asked him how to use the bank's website to pay for the internet. Suddenly, without warning and without explanation, the memory of his neighbor is lodged in his head, her hair in a ponytail, her reading glasses, pink shorts, her sweater from some university of which he can't even remember the name because he was watching out for other things... that she wouldn't kill me obviously, he was watching out that she wouldn't pull a knife out of her back and kill me right there. The message on his laptop indicating that he can now set a new name and password to his wifi distracts him enough to stop thinking about his sweet and cute non-spy neighbor and how she would look with her hair down and her glasses off.

Still with the sweet feeling in his chest and the desire to see her again he writes as the new name of the wifi, while laughing:

"If you want free internet, you owe me at least one free dinner"

After paying the internet debt and closing the laptop, Bucky gets up hoping to find something edible in the kitchen, while leaning over to look inside his fridge and analyzing how bad it would be to eat a fried egg with pasta and sriracha, he hears again a knock on the door, but this time it does not cause Bucky the anguish and anxiety that caused him the first time, but quite the opposite.

-"Open the door Winter Router! I prepared chicken pot pie for dinner"-.

[ajbwasntwriting]

Daughter!Reader x Negan, Reader x Daryl: Chapter 3. Shorts Fired

First | Previous | Next

This chapter originally contained Daryl...Then I remembered that conflicted with Canon and changed it, but he’ll appear soon. Additionally, I got a request to start a tag list so if you wish to be added to the tag list please dm me

Also in the event that the link’s don’t work I’ve started adding a hashtag to this series: AJ’s Negan’s Daughter AU

I’ll only post more chapters if previous chapters get a good reaction so if you enjoy this please heart it, reblog it, and/or reply to it. Interaction inspires. 

“This is what we found sir,” Simon said, his team depositing a bag, a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a knife with your name engraved on the side. Negan picked up the knife, eyeing at the dry blood on the blade.

“She put up a fight” he commented, a smirk on his face. “That’s my girl.” He looked back at Simon from his seat in the meeting room. “We’ll find her” Simon’s men looked at each other nervously. Simon found his mouth dry and had to clear his throat to keep talking.

“Sir...We found her...she”

“Then where the hell is she?” your father asked, interrupting Simon as you would interrupt him. The room went incredibly quiet.

“She turned, sir.” Simon spoke. Negan froze for a moment before falling back into his chair. “We...captured her... if you’d like to see.” Wordlessly Negan rose from his seat and rushed towards the exit, specifically to the van Simon had been out in.

The shutter raised and low and behold, there stood a walker. Her face had been devoured but she was wearing your clothes, right down to the military boots you never took off, despite how many nice clothes and shoes he’d find for you. ‘Just encase’ you said.

Looking at the walker growl and reach for him, Negan felt numb. He now realised he hadn’t dropped your knife. “Gimme a minute” he ordered, climbing into the van and closing the door behind him.

Now it was just Negan and the walker, he began to tear up. “I’m sorry y/n.” he whispered before reaching behind and destroying her brain. It fell and he cradled her in his arms as he wept. “I’m so sorry. I tried to keep you safe, princess.” he rocked back and forth gently, stroking it’s hair as he mumbled to himself “I’m so sorry”

The night of your escape you broke into a thrift store to get some new clothes, though it’d hardly count as breaking in as whoever owned it was probably dead. You found some old khakis, a tie-dye shirt, and a black sweatshirt that had seen better days. It wasn’t much but it was warm. If only they had socks. You pulled on a pair of trainers and ran, wanting as much distance between you and Sanctuary as possible before your old man got back.

From there it wasn’t easy. Food was gone, ammunition didn’t exist, and the closest thing you had to a bed was a car with the doors closed. Anyone else would crack under these circumstances, but not you. You had experienced stuff arguably worse than this. You were a trained soldier with experience on foreign battlefields, so a few undead going bump in the night wouldn’t stop you from sleeping. What did keep you awake was the memories.

“You shouldn’t take those with booze, ma” you interjected, your mother just gave you a filthy look from over the edge of her bourbon glass. “I am the mother, you are the child. Remember your place.” was the usual reply, and that was the reply you preferred. It meant she’d spend the night cursing you out, picking apart your flaws, and blaming you for your old man’s fooling around. The words were easier to deal with than dodging a flying glass.

You were 15 when your mother got diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and your world went from sunshine and rainbows to cleaning up after your mother passed out so she wouldn’t be embarrassed in the morning and letting your dad in at 4 in the morning so the neighbours didn’t see him. In the morning your mother would make you pancakes to say sorry, even though any movement would hurt her. Your father would slip you twenty bucks for ‘being a team sport’.

You had accepted that your mother just didn’t have the nerve to confront your father on all his cheating because she was worried she’d leave him, and your father was an idiot that was more bothered by the parents at the school he teaches at finding out that he screwed around then what he was doing to your family. You accepted it. You understood it. That didn’t mean you forgave them. It also didn’t mean you wouldn’t call them every chance, that you wouldn’t send a hundred letters to them every year, that you wouldn’t kiss their cheeks while declaring ‘I love you’ to all that heard.

Every morning you woke at what you believed to be 6 am. It had been hardwired into you from your service. You’d start walking in the same direction, trying to get as far from Sanctuary as possible, though your speed was slow and you often stopped at towns or houses to scavenge. Now and then you’d stumble into houses that had gardens or farms that had been overrun. Usually, there were more walkers than food but you had secured a rather sharp knife to replace the arrow you’d been using to bring down walkers quietly. You also carried your things in a child’s school bag, being the most together bag you could find at the thrift shop. The bright pink glitter didn’t go with your desire to stay low but sacrifices had to be made, such as hygiene.

Your form was weak from a strong lack of food, your feet were raw from the constant walking, you were constantly exhausted. Taking down walkers with the kitchen knife had become muscle memory. Hand on chest, knife in head, hand on chest, knife in head, and so on. You felt more dead than alive when a gunshot fired somewhere behind you. You swirled around to see a clearly a few steps right of you and a walker being downed. You put the math together and knelt into the foileage. “Sasha what are you doing?” you heard a lady call from far off. A moment later you noticed your sleeve feeling more and more damp. A quick glance confirmed blood, making you curse under your breath.

The gun shot attracted more of the biters out of the forest and into the clearing to see this Sasha character, but three were more interested in the smell of your blood. You cursed again, jumping back and taking steps away from the clearly. You reached for your gun on instinct before realising it would probably attract the people, and you didn’t want that. To make matters worse your shot arm was your stabbing arm. Flexing the arm caused the blood to start pouring so you took the kitchen knife in your other hand, the walkers approaching you. Having little time to react you kicked one back, sending it into a bush while another lunged at you. You narrowly sunk the knife into its skull, though the combination of it falling on you and your lack of good footing sent you backward, banging your head off a tree. Your head began ringing when the third reached for you over the lunger, giving you enough space to swing your arm and shove it through it’s temple.

You turned to get the two corpses off you, settling into a squat against the tree as the first offending walker got to its feet. You flipped the knife in your hand as it wandered towards you, using the tree to stand up quickly and stabbing up through its neck. The last one fell and you heard more shuffling through the woods. “I’m coming with you”. Crap it was those people. You ducked behind your support tree, the sudden exertion making your arm bleed. You clasped a hand over it as you bit your lip, watching from behind the tree. Three women walked by, two following another with a large rifle. ‘Are they from an outpost?’ you thought. You waited a while for them to pass with short breath, not wanting to risk them looking for you.

When you were sure you were in the clear you ran, making note not to run in the direction they came from or were heading. You ran and ran until you found a gas station. There were a couple of walkers in there but you needed something to dress your wound. You took a step back and shot through the glass at the first, getting the second with your knife when it stumbled through the shattered window.

Walking in you noticed it was a treasure trove. Most of the shelves still had their goods and the first aid pack was still there. Taking off your shirt you were relieved to find the bullet had only grazed you and the bleeding was slowing. Still, you cleaned and dressed the wound, popping a lollipop in your mouth for good measure.

You only got a few bottles of water and some stale chips in your bag when a car pulled up. You dove behind the counter without thinking, pulling the walker you shot over your body. Cracking glass signaling they had walked in.

“I thought this place was locked up” a man’s voice spoke out.

“It was” another man’s voice replied.  “Whoever broke in didn’t clear it. Come on”. You heard shuffling, then felt someone kick your leg.

“Anything behind there?” the woman called.

“Nah, just a couple of dead ones.” you tried to maintain your stillness when what you assumed was one of the men, stepped on the back of the walker, and pushed the air out of you. It took everything to maintain your quiet when he reached for your bag, cutting it off your shoulder. You stole a look to see a man with long messy hair, a button-up opened over a t-shirt, and a sheriff’s hat rustling through your stuff.

“This one had a first aid pack,” he called, pulling everything from your bag into his own. You made a mental note to kill this man the next time you saw him.

You lay as still and as silent as you could until you heard the car drive off again. You pushed the dead off you and dived for your bag, looking through it just to confirm what you already knew. He took everything. Your bullets, your food, everything. You threw the bag across the floor cursing. You sat on the ground, your head in your hands. You stared at nothing until an old map caught you. You slowly pulled it out of the hole it had been shoved in between the counter and the register and unraveled it, wanting something to look at other than your distinct lack of supplies. The map must’ve been used by the previous manager, because your current location was clearly marked and the DC city limits weren’t that far out. Your eyes lit up

‘The only place left with stuff would be the city. They had a refugee centre.’ you thought. You sat there a moment longer, soaking in your helplessness. Standing up from behind the counter you realised how badly they’d empty the place. The shelves didn’t even have the dust on them anymore. You took off your shirt, using it to pick up a piece of shattered glass, then walked over to one of the walkers to start carving it open. If you were to brave DC without weapons you’d need a disguise.

After soaking yourself in undead guts you repurposed the walker’s shirt to hold your make-shift blade. The walk into the city was short once you cut through the woods. As expected the road was lined with cars and walkers, non paying you any attention. You walked into an abandoned RV to check your wound, making sure no infection had seeped in. Once you opened the door some walkers lunged at you, making you step in quicker. Immediately your nose filled with a vile stench, causing you to vomit into the entryway. In your new position, bending over with your hands on the floor sitting in your vomit, you could see the cause of the smell from the corner of your eye.

You walked over slowly to the back of the rv in case they turned, but also to clarify the image as the bodies had been decaying for so long. The blood spatter confirmed a gunshot. It looked like a woman in a summer dress and two young children. Pinned to a board above the bed were some pictures. Smiling children, older people with drinks in hand, and a happy family on the beach; A mother, a father, and two children barely out of their toddler years. You looked up and down the alley, no sight of a fourth family member.

“Coward ran” you mumbled to yourself. The covers lay at the bottom of the bed. You grabbed them and pulled them over the family.

A little bit of scavenging brought you a new ruck-sack in a dirty green colour, two bottles of water, some painkillers, and a pair of socks. You celebrated silently before you put them on, already feeling the old trainers rub your feet raw. As you closed the presses something in the bathroom cubby began to move. Clawing at the door but not sure how to get out. If he couldn’t get out then only one thing came to mind.

“Guess you weren’t a coward.”

You opened the door, the walker falling out and quickly meeting your glass, it breaking off in his head. You picked him up and laid him down with the family, noticing he was wearing the same shirt as in the picture above the bed. You felt jealous of the family, but you pushed it down. Now wasn’t the time. As luck would have it the walker was keeping a hunting rifle with a low power scope in his cubicle, along with five bullets. You picked it up, looking it over. You hadn’t used one of these before the world went to shit but what time better than the end of the world to get a refresher lesson.

Getting into the city was relatively easy, finding your way through the crowd, down an alley, on top of a garbage can, and in through an old apartment window into a complex with only a couple of the dead following you. They groaned and reached into the higher window, but you were safe in someone else’s sitting room. You jumped up when another walker strutted in from another apartment room. All you had were two guns and firing either one of them would drag too much attention.

You looked around for anything to use but it was on you before you could act, pushing you back towards the window. Pinned to the breaking frame by the undead and more of them reaching for you from the back you pushed against it with all your strength, its jaw snapping at you. You took in a deep breath and pushed back with all you had, sending it to the ground running to the other side of the common space. It rose confidently from behind the couch looking around there was a tv to your left and a dead potted plant to your right.

It walked around and lunged at you just as you got the potted plant off the floor, swinging it around and knocking it to the ground. Before it could get up again you dropped the plant on its head, followed shortly by the tv for good measure. You leaned against the wall, causing it to crumble and collapse, sending you back into a child’s bedroom. You coughed as the dust fell on you, pulling yourself into a sitting position. Looking into the sitting room you now noticed it featured a kitchen area, complete with a full block of knives staring right back at you.

You gathered up the knives and went up a floor, wanting some distance between the dead and yourself. It seemed the complex had been cleared, but that made sense since it was the city. You found an apartment with a street view and made your camp, pulling an old mattress from the bedroom into the common room to keep watch. You opened a window to clear a little of the dust from the room. You’d sleep here tonight then move more in the city later. You found some books in the apartment. ‘Jane Eyre’, ‘Little Women’, ‘Get Slime in 40 days’. It painted the image of some sad spinster trying to better herself to get back at the world. ‘The Woman’s Guide to Single Life’ added a frame to that image.

“Come on!” you heard a man yell, followed by a gunshot. You fell to the ground instantly, crouched over, and crawled to the window. Peering out there was a sight to behold. It was the same hat-sporting man, no a boy, and an older man with a beard with a herd on their heels. They’d be at your window. You loaded a bullet in the chamber of your hunting rifle, using the scope you had it on the older man’s head in moments since he had a larger bag on his back. All you had to do was squeeze the trigger and he’d be down, dropping his stuff and maybe the other would be eaten and you could take your stuff too. All you had to do was squeeze that trigger.

“Dad!” The boy screamed out when a dead grabbed his bag, your scope moved in a moment and the walker was downed. They looked around wildly while running. You made a rash decision and stuck your head out the window and yelled to them as you reloaded the gun.

“Hey you two, round the corner there’s a busted window! Get to it!”. They seemed to understand and began sprinting. You took down one behind the man that had gotten too close, then another. You heard a thump downstairs just as you ran out of ammo.

You walked out of your apartment just as they came up the stairs, you pointed the gun at them in defense. “Stay right there”

The two stood with their hands up. They glanced at each other and then you. The older man began to speak. “Thank you for-”

“If you wanna thank me, give me back my shit” you cut him short.

“We didn’t take anything from you.” the boy in the hat replied.

“Three bottles of water, two packets of chips, and the first aid kit.” you retorted, noticing the shock in the man's eyes. You motioned the gun to the boy “You cut the bag off my arm back at the gas station. The pink glitter thing.”

The man swallowed hard “We can’t. That stuff. We have people that need it-”

“I could have fucking killed you. Is that not worth shit?” The silence that followed made it all worse.

“Listen, I’m Rick Grimes, This is my son, Carl” He motioned to the boy behind him “We come from a place. A safe place with walls. If you let us keep your stuff you can come back with us. We can give you a safe place to live.” The rest of his words turned into white noise after you heard his name.

“Alexandria?” You questioned, a sad smile coming to your face. “You’re not gathering stuff for your own people, are you?” you lowered your gun a little.

“You know these people?” the boy asked, getting angry. You nodded solemnly.

“Look, I’m not going back with you, but I’ll offer you a deal. Give me the first aid kit and I’ll give you this gun” you said, holding up the rifle to further your point.

“We need it,” Carl argued.

“So do I.” You rose your short sleeve to show the bandage. “Some asshole nearly shot out there.” Carl reached into the older man’s bag, Rick immediately telling him not to.

“She saved us,” he argued, pulling out the red plastic pack.

“One good turn deserves another,” he stood up and went to hand it to you before you raised the rifle again, shaking your head no. You motioned to the ground, where he put it down. You once again motioned to the ground and he kicked it over. You knelt down, placed down the rifle, and snatched up the kit before diving back into your room, slamming the door shut.

You rushed over to your bag, grabbing it and shoving the kit in. “This is empty!” you heard Rick yell as you dove out the window onto the fire escape and descending back to the streets.

Tag list

@softsebastian​

[rokutouxei]

dessert

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theo van gogh/mc | E | 1775 | [ao3 in bio]

(doggy, cowgirl, and fingering. mc is named yna. fic is inspired by todrick hall’s song eleven.)

Theo is not a patient man.

He is persistent, sure, and he is stubborn, but when there is something he wants he wants it as soon as possible, he wants it tangible, and sometimes that means a closed deal or a finished painting or pancakes with syrup at his favorite diner or—

Well, you.

It’s not that Theo isn’t good at the waiting game—he is actually pretty good at it if he hasn’t been riled up for quite a bit.

Too bad he has. He’s been out of town for two full weeks on a business trip; one he tried to haggle to be a little shorter, to little avail. And sure, today his meetings ended early, so he arrived a day earlier than planned, but now it’s just nine in the evening, you’ve just started your overtime shift, set to run for another two hours.

Unless he can talk you out of it.

He twirls some of the diner’s signature spaghetti onto his fork, a little bored, glancing over at you from across the counter, thinking of all he would rather be doing to you right now. Underneath him, pressing you against your shared bed, in the home he’d been longing to return to, the sheets smelling like your usual shampoo, and just the two of you.

Instead, he is competing for your attention with the other seven customers at the diner, three teenagers, and four sloppy half-drunk old men leering at you, slurring your name, in the middle of a dinner hour that seems to never want to end.

“Enjoying your food?”

He snaps out of his reverie to look up at you. In your silly little diner apron with little embroidered flowers, the bright baby blue of the dress below. Your brows damp just a little with sweat, your cheeks flushed. Kitchen duty means the workspace is a little hotter than the rest of the diner. Usually, he doesn’t mind, but he hasn’t had you for weeks and the color of your skin is reminding him of what you look like in the afterglow. Right now, he’d rather no one else see you in this state.

So when he turns to you, there is a fire in his eyes.

“I might want dessert,” he says, tone dripping thick with meaning. It’s a good thing he’s far enough away from the other booths because anyone else who would have heard that would have figured out what it actually meant.

But you are used to his antics, knowing a little bit of teasing will spice up your little game. “You should take it home,” you offer, leaning towards him until you’re a breath too close for having a respectable distance from a customer. His breath faint against your cheek. It’s not like your boss doesn’t know who he is, but there’s a thrill about trying to comply to that despite the building heat.

His voice dips an octave too low for casual when he says, “If it’s ready then,” and you smile at him before hurrying off to the back, taking off your apron as you excuse yourself out of your originally-planned overtime.

Thank god Theo has the self-control of a saint, otherwise, he would have been persuaded by the look in your eye, that temptation to just jump at each other every time you passed a respectably sturdy flat surface. The drive home seems way too long. And the path to your shared room has too many doors. It’s a good thing the two of you can maneuver in the darkness, even if your mouths are against each other, craving to be in each other’s space as close as possible after having been torn apart for what seemed like forever. When the door to your bedroom finally shuts, Theo lifts you into his arms, to rather ungracefully plop you onto the bed.

You laugh at him for fumbling as he’s hurrying to undo the complicated layers of his full office suit.

It makes him growl. “I really should have fucked you in the diner bathroom.”

“Sure, but,” you say, “maybe we can just make the extra wait worth it.”

That’s it . Theo’s had enough of talking. He throws off his jacket and his vest to an unknown side of the room, leaning over you to press a hot kiss into your waiting mouth. He’s tongue and teeth and hungry and it suddenly hits you just how much you’ve missed him. Your hands fly to his chest as you scramble to undo the too-many buttons of his shirt, craving skin, craving heat. His hands are busy, tracing the curves of your stomach and your waist until it dips under the hem of your dress, thumbing along the garter of your underwear which already feels way too constricting.

Theo wants his dessert.

His hands slip underneath the already damp-fabric into the warmth of your folds, sliding easily with the wetness already pooled there. His moves are precise and practiced, each little flick and graze mastered to get the best reactions out of you. He’s got you memorized. With his shirt already hanging open, your hands fly to your mouth in an attempt to hush the noise that rises up your throat when his fingers begin to pump inside.

But his other hand is faster.

Holding your wrists together so you can’t thrash, can’t cover your mouth.

“Let me hear you,” he begs.

And it’s not like you really had much of a choice about it, when the whimpers finally come out as his fingers delve even deeper, grazing against sensitive spots you couldn’t reach on your own in the past two weeks you’ve been craving his touch. You buck against his waiting palm chasing release relentlessly, clit grazing against his calloused skin, “Theo, Theo, Theo—"

When the crash comes you reach out toward him, curling around the warmth of his embrace.

You pout when he laughs at you coming back to the surface, but you burn deep red when his hand comes up from underneath you, slick and sticky. He traces his digits carefully with his tongue, making sure not a bit is wasted.

“Sweet as ever.”

“My stupid best customer—” you begin, the insult with no sharpness, “Come here, let me take care of you.”

You flip him over to his back as you climb over him, hips hovering over his. Your hands graze his hipbones ever so lightly as you’re unbuttoning his slacks, and he jolts upward toward your touch, desperate. You pull his bottoms hurriedly, him kicking the rest of it off without a care as you graze your wetness over his already hard cock, red and ready. He groans.

“ Yna, ” he begs, hands steady on your hips. “Please.”

You slip your hands in between the both of you and gently guide him inside of you, theatrically slow as you take him inch by inch, refusing to break eye contact as you go down. His jaw is set and he’s grinding his teeth until you take him all the way to the hilt.

You grind your hips shallowly against his, enjoying the weight of him. “Missed you,” you tease, hands on his chest. His fingers dig little bruises into your hips.

“Missed you so much,” he mirrors, and you reward his honesty by giving him what he wants. Lifting up and down with your thighs and calves, making sure to keep his view clear as you press your arms down for support. Making sure he can watch his hardness disappear into the heat of you, getting him as dizzy with want as you are. Your name is a prayer on his lips as the both of you find that rhythm, a good speed for him, and the right depth for you; for the most part, you think you’re in control until his fingers sneak circles in between you, sending you shuddering as another orgasm knocks the wind out of you.

You collapse forward toward him, your walls pulsing hot against his cock; you swallow the hiss he makes with a kiss like asking for forgiveness. Theo isn’t having any of it though, biting your lower lip with purpose as he flips the both of you again; and towering over you, his stare simmering with lust, his bangs framing his handsome face—

Never mind that you’re going to be sore tomorrow when he’s looking at you with eyes like that.

“One more,” he snarls, half a plea and half an order, as he helps you up with his hand on the small of your back. You get up carefully and he pushes against your side, urging you turn around ass-up. You pull a pillow on the side of the bed and adjust accordingly; he pushes your legs apart just a little before you feel him enter you, the heat of him throbbing hotly inside.

Theo is patient when it counts, but when he’s gone past his limit, there is no going back. His pace is unforgiving, drilling into you at a speed that makes you so dizzy you don’t know if it’s from the pleasure or just the movement. Maybe both. He’s holding you up, bracing you against him with his arm hooked underneath your torso so you’re flush against his chest as if he can’t stand being even an inch away from you. His breath is tantalizingly hot against your shoulder. You can feel the graze of his fang against the sensitive flesh.

You know he is close when he presses a kiss onto your shoulder, says “I love you” like it’s the same thing as I’m cumming and you’ve barely said I love you back, panting, when the syllables of your name spill out of his mouth, in between a chain of fuck, fuck, fuck, as he finally releases on a deep grumbling moan, warm inside of you.

God, you’ve missed him so much.

The two of you stay still for a moment until he pulls out, and you collapse onto the bed hot and sticky but feeling so, so sweet. You’re tired and you’d rather just go to sleep, but you’ll have to change the sheets, and to save your muscles from a week of pain, a good hot bath too.

…Maybe you can ask Theo if he wants to join you.

For now, you scooch closer to Theo until you’ve tucked yourself under his chin, saying “Welcome home,” as he instinctively presses a kiss against your temple, also wanting to cuddle with you for just a moment longer.

He smiles into your hair. The wait was worth it. With you, it is always worth it.

“Glad to be.”

[a-world-in-grey]

Magic HCs

Here we go, the long ramble on my various head canons on Lucis Caelum magic in general and how some of their specific abilities work and what can be done with them.

Putting under the cut because this pretty long.

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General:

-So in general, LC magic is Light based. Which, given Bahamut’s element is Light and the literal meaning of the Lucis Caelum name... I might be stating the obvious.

-Still. With the exception of Elemancy (which I imagine draws more from the abundance of natural magics given the various elemancy points you can draw from) the Lucis Caelum abilities are all based off light. Teleporting from one spot to another by shattering and reforming in shards of light, summoning glowing shields of shining hexes, items from their armiger appearing and disappearing like shards of light, and even healing bringing forth a bright radiance of magic (admittedly, this is more seen with the Oracle magic, but that also comes from Bahamut).

-We’ve got these magic users, divinely blessed to pretty much be literal beacons of light against the encroaching darkness. Are daemons attracted by concentrations of LC magic? Like moths to a flame? We see no few daemons around royal tombs and other places where there’s LC magic.

-Could an LC create a burst of sunlight? Could they bottle it up and create flashbangs capable of really hurting daemons? Could an LC radiate enough light to kill any (standard) daemon in its radius, essentially turning the area into daytime?

-Basically I’m going with yes to all of the above, and if the Hunters could get their hands on a supply of those flashbangs, they would really appreciate it. 

-(Crowe: We’re testing this. Literally Everyone Else: NO.)

Warping:

-Throw weapon, burts into shards of light, reform from shards of light clutching said weapon. If someone knocks the weapon aside mid-warp, say hello to a new set of bruises.

-But my theory is that you don’t necessarily need a weapon? Or any warp-anchor, really. The warp anchor is just that, an anchor for the magic to hold on to and act as a focal point. It’s the magic one warps too, and I imagine someone really good at warping could just throw their magic in the direction they want to go and warp - without telegraphing it to their enemies by throwing a physical object or, you know, their weapon. 

-It would be hard, don’t get me wrong. The warp anchors are pretty much a requirement for most magic users because they provide something physical for the magic to latch on to, something the warper can physically sense and have confidence that it’s there. Without the anchor, it’s harder to convince the brain that yes, there’s something there for them to warp to, because most magic users and a lot of LCs can’t really sense magic unless it’s through one of their physical senses like sight or sound.

-Without that sense of magic or the anchor, you need an almost inhuman will to overpower the instincts insisting that there’s no focal point to bring you back into a physical form (that’s why warping is so hard on magic users, the body wigs out over being essentially incorporeal). 

-Even if you can sense magic, you do still need the talent/skill for warping.

-(Yes, Nyx absolutely learns how to do this.)

-Phasing through attacks and storing things in the armiger works on a similar principle. You start the warp process, but don’t have the extra force, the ‘throw’ needed to warp to a different spot. For phasing, that results in temporary - even partial - incorporeality. For the armiger, the warp process is started, paused, then completed when the item/s are pulled from the armiger again, the magic user themselves acting as the focal point/anchor.

-(Am I saying that warping involves storing yourself in your armiger and exiting at a different point? Yes, yes I am. Could you store someone else in an armiger? Yes, but I really don’t recommend it. That person is not likely to be anywhere approaching sane when you pull them out. If they’re alive at all.)

-(King Mors found this to be a very effective... interrogation technique. Much less messy than more traditional methods of questioning.)

Shields:

-Interlocking hex-like tiles that can take a certain amount of damage before shattering. Stops everything from passing through it from either direction, which makes for a pretty decent barrier, if potentially inconvenient.

-That said, this has the potential for some serious crowd control. Being able to shape barriers that change the battlefield terrain has immense tactical value and the reason we didn’t see more Kingsglaive using shields in such a way is probably because the power levels needed for something on that scale isn’t worth it when shields aren’t an offensive spell. Not enough bang for their buck, so to speak.

-Shields also don’t move once they’ve been created. (At least, not as far as I know.) Likely the shields are created on a fixed point, and to move it afterwards requires physically moving the focal point or an inhuman amount of concentration. Otherwise the shield tends to collapse in on itself. Far easier to dismiss the shield and call another one.

-Meaning you can create your own terrain. Floating, temporary steps, ‘door jams’ for people to clock their heads on, little lips on the floor to trip people... ramps, chairs, makeshift tables, etc.

-(Titus has in fact used it to put troublesome Glaives in time-out. No, he doesn’t care that calling it ‘time-out’ makes them sound like five-year-olds. He’ll stop treating them like toddlers when they stop acting like toddlers.)

-Not gonna lie, this is my favorite spell to play with just for the sheer versatility. It’s a utility spell, yes, but there’s so much you can use it for.

-Then there’s the tiles making up the shield. I headcanon that each tile requires a set amount of magic to conjure, and can take a set amount of damage before shattering. Larger, more diverse attacks are less effective against shields because the overall damage is spread out over a large area, where focused attacks can punch through individual tiles pretty quick.

-(For those of you familiar with psi (pounds per square inch and whatever the metric equivalent is), that’s pretty much the concept I’m using here.)

-Shields with large tiles are less costly to make, but can’t take as much damage before shattering. Shields with tiny tiles need a lot of power, but they can pretty much tank anything because the individual damage to each tile is far less.

-(Yes, the Glaive have the hard numbers for how much force a tile can take before shattering. The experiments involved were for Ignis’ thesis for his masters degree in physics. Said thesis is very much restricted to the royal library and everyone involved in reviewing said thesis sworn to secrecy, but Ignis is quite proud of the work. The Glaives were just happy to get the numbers and tried again to get Ignis to join the Glaive, “as a consultant!” Ignis refused. For the eleventh time.)

-It’s possible to change the size of the shield tiles, shrinking or growing the shield from it’s focal point. Often times this requires conjuring or dismissing tiles to accommodate. 

-Shrinking a shield around an object without adding more tiles... whether the shield or the object is destroyed first entirely depends on the comparative durability. Humans and most daemons? Not that sturdy it turns out.

.

All I can think of for now that I haven’t classed under spoilers. (It’s also half-past two in the morning, so I should probably get to bed anyway...)

[richardpiccolo]

#109 - Hell Hath No Fury Like A Fixer Scorned: The Michael Cohen Story

The admission of guilt by President Trump’s former fixer and his implication of the President in the same criminal activity represent an astounding turnaround for the man who less than a year ago said he would take a bullet for Mr. Trump.

Cohen admitted last week in open court that he violated campaign finance laws “in coordination with and at the direction of a candidate for federal office,”

Hmmm…. who could that be?

To understand how we got here, you have to understand the role that Mhael Cohen played for Mr. Trump, his personal issues, and most importantly, you have to understand what the President really thought of him.

Cohen began his career as an attorney pursuing one of the least respected segments of the American legal world, personal injury law.  Yes, he hails from that group of low level bottom feeders who actually make other lawyers look good.  Here he honed the skills which would set him on a most unusual career trajectory.

In 2006 Cohen landed a job working for Trump back, impressing him with the fact that he had read “The Art of Deal”....twice.   Don’t laugh, he knew the best way in with Trump was to flatter him, besides, anyone who could get through that literary jewel once, deserves a medal.  Over time, Cohen convinced family and friends to buy condominiums in the Trump World Tower which helped Trump gain control of the condominium board, and he soon became Mr. Trump’s BFF, or so it seemed to Michael anyway.

This newly minted pit bull had found his purpose in life. Cohen told ABC News in 2011 that "If somebody does something Mr. Trump doesn't like, I do everything in my power to resolve it to Mr. Trump's benefit. If you do something wrong,  I'm going to come at you, grab you by the neck and I'm not going to let you go until I'm finished."

Grab you by the neck…..Nice.  Remember my earlier point about making other lawyers look good? I rest my case.

Between 2011 and 2016 Cohen worked behind the scenes working to gloss over the scandal regarding the alleged rape by Trump of his first wife, and the affairs with Stormy Daniels and Karen McDougle and may or may not have met with Russian officials in Prague in 2016 with the objective of paying those who had hacked the DNC and to "cover up all traces of the hacking operation.   The Fixer was proving his value and earning his pay.

But with Trump’s surprise election victory, The Fixer was presented with a new opportunity, to be part of something bigger, to be part of that luxury cruise that was sailing south to DC and included all the beautiful people who had made it possible for Trump to get there, including: Jared, Ivanka, Hope Hicks, Kellyanne, Steve Bannon, Michael Flynn and even Trump’s old bodyguard, but a funny thing happened on the way to the big dance, the President’s fixer was left behind.  Early on his name had been in the mix for the coveted Chief of Staff position, but in the end the man who helped make it possible for Trump to succeed, was all of a sudden, the odd man out.   His fix-it skills would not be welcome in the pristine halls of the White House.

With the President now ensconced in the Oval Office and looking to distance himself from the unsavory activities of his fixer, Cohen had to morph, and he quickly seized on a bigger and better opportunity, peddling access to the big guy and providing insider knowledge to anyone with a big wallet. In the months following Trump’s election in November 2016, Cohen negotiated payments totaling $600K from AT&T for “his opinion on the new President and his administration”, which it’s CEO would later describe as…. “a big mistake”,

Novartis, a Switzerland–based pharmaceutical giant, paid Cohen $1.2M to help the company understand the "health care policy" of the new administration. Novartis subsequently admitted to the public, and thus to its shareholders, that it did not actually receive any benefit for its investment.  The fact that Trump had no health care policy was apparently lost on the Novartis executives. Excuse me sirs, I have some ideas on a health care, and you can have them for $10. Call me.  

But the next one is best described by the old PT Barnum ascribed statement “There’s a sucker born every minute”.  Korea Aerospace Industries paid Cohen for advice on “Cost Accounting Standards,” those highly technical bookkeeping rules that would apply to the company’s bid for U.S. defense work.  If Cohen actually spoke the words “Cost Accounting Standards” once in his lifetime, it would be a shock.

In a matter of months, Cohen had pulled in $2 million, for doing….nothing, which begs the obvious question: Why can’t I get a gig like that? Soon, all of his clients realized that they had been sold a bill of goods, that The Fixer was just another one of Trump’s snake oil salesmen, and they weren’t going to get any bang for their buck.  And that’s because The Fixer had no real insight from the President to offer, because, because, wait for it, wait for it it….the President simply didn’t need him anymore.  His usefulness had expired. Loyalty was a one-way street for this president

And so now, the disrespect was out there, out in the open, for all to see.

But, this wasn’t really anything new, and deep down Cohen knew it.  Of all the stories printed about the President’s relationship with his former fixer, the most compelling one was the President’s reported humiliation of Cohen at his own son's bar mitzvah in 2012.  One attendee told the Wall Street Journal that Trump was so late to the event that Cohen delayed the blessings. Trump then spoke and said that he hadn't actually planned on attending but came after Cohen begged him to come by repeatedly calling him, his secretary, and his children.  On one of the most important days of Cohen’s life, the President took center stage and then used it to belittle his loyal servant.  It’s unlikely that Trump’s performance that day was a surprise to anyone who knew him, but the fact that Cohen accepted this embarrassment and didn’t immediately bail on his boss was.

Fast forward to April 2018.  Already suffering financial difficulties from the devaluation of NY City taxi medallions which he owned (thank you Uber), federal prosecutors raided Cohen’s home and office for anything they could lay their hands on.   Trump’s own instinct for self-preservation immediately kicked in, contending that federal prosecutors were looking more at Cohen's business dealings than the legal work he'd done on Trump's behalf.  "Michael is a businessman, he's got a business. He also practices law," Trump said back then "And they're looking at something having to do with his business. I have nothing to do with his business”.

So much for loyalty.  So much for honor among thieves.

And then in June, almost out the blue, with absolutely no correlation with his legal and financial troubles, Cohen signaled he was having a change of heart and blasted the president’s “zero tolerance” policy under which children have been separated from their parents after illegal border crossings.

“As the son of a Polish holocaust survivor, the images and sounds of this family separation policy is heart wrenching,” Cohen wrote, marking the first time he had publicly distanced himself from Trump.

“While I strongly support measures that will secure our porous borders, children should never be used as bargaining chips,” he added.

“He’s turned his life around from what he did for Donald Trump, much of which he now regrets,” Davis said on the Today Show. “That’s the kind of thing that caused Michael Cohen to change his mind, and decide to dedicate himself to telling the truth to the American people.”

Whoa! Where did all this come from? The Fixer has a conscious?  Who knew?  But there was still more to come.

Cohen’s new attorney, Lanny Davis, recently upped the ante in this chess game, stating his client now believes Trump is “unsuitable to hold the office”, citing Trump’s refusal to accept the conclusion of US intelligence agencies that the Russians were responsible for the election disruption, while standing next to Vladimir Putin.

In the midst of all his legal troubles, pleading guilty, cooperating with the Feds WITHOUT some type of formal leniency deal, Cohen and his attorney were speaking out on the President’s abhorrent policy on the separation of children from their refugee families and on the President’s performance at the Helsinki Summit.

Good-bye Presidential pardon.

The Wall Street Journal later reported that Cohen’s turning point may have been influenced by his elderly father, Maurice, a Holocaust survivor, who reportedly told his son that he did not survive the Nazi genocide to have his name dragged through the mud by Trump.  Maurice had no doubt seen Trump ‘perform’ at his grandson’s bar mitzvah and that was likely all he would ever need to see.  He likely filed this event away and would pull it out if the time every came when he needed it.   No doubt Trump’s pull back from his formerly loyal fixer and his disparaging comments, was that time, and Maurice likely reminded his son of that event to convince him that Trump would never have his back. Never.  

There’s no way of knowing where the Michael Cohen story will end.  Has the former fixer and would-be influence peddler had a legitimate change of heart?  How much information does he have on Trump’s shady dealings?  Will he spill it all to the Feds?  Can it be corroborated?   And will it even make a difference?    

t’s still too early to answer any of those questions, but maybe this Prodigal Son has in fact returned home to right things with his father, and just maybe The Fixer had decided that it was time to fix things, once and for all.

[businessweekme]

Lotus Esprit Could Be Collectors’ Next Best Investment

Quick: What do Sharon Stone, Richard Gere, and Roger Moore have in common? Answer: They each drove a Lotus Esprit in a blockbuster Hollywood movie.

The sexy British wedge won generations of admirers in Basic Instinct, Pretty Woman, and, especially, in Moore’s The Spy Who Loved Me, when James Bond drove a white Lotus Esprit Series 1 in an epic chase along the Sardinian coast and then transformed it into a torpedo-firing submarine when he took it underwater.

In recent years, though, the Esprit has dimmed from popular imagination, overshadowed by BMW 2002s and vintage Porsches. In certain circles, any mention of intending to buy a Lotus is met with a gasp, then a pause, and then derision and warning. “Lots of Trouble, Usually Serious,” the saying goes.

Translation: They look cool but break your heart. The Lotus mechanics and wiring are notoriously faulty, and any “real” car guy worth his salt knows even a free Lotus is too expensive to own and maintain.

“Once you take the engine out, the suspension comes undone,” says Jake Auerbach, the general manager of Rally Road and formerly of RM Sotheby’s. “You pull a pin, and the whole car comes undone.”

But that’s Lotus for you—haphazard interior workings, but their supermodel good looks and capable handling keep fans coming back. Or, as Auerbach says: “Made simple within an inch of their life and then added lightening.”

That said, they do cost much less to repair than similar-era European cars from, say, Ferrari and Lamborghini.

Online outlets such as Bring a Trailer and Hemmings have listed them for cheap, $15,000 here and $20,000 there for specimens of dubious running quality. As recently as last year, one sold on the auction website for $9,450.

“Build quality on early Esprits wasn’t up to the price,” according to Hagerty’s valuation report, which notes that compliance with then-federal regulations hampered its performance. “The usual Lotus fragility along with the Federalized cars’ anemic horsepower rating failed to impress enthusiasts.”

Talk to those who’ve owned one for any length of time, though, and you may hear a different story than that clever “Lotus” acrostic.

“I don’t know any owners that feel that way,” says Chase Van Der Rhoer, referring to the acrostic. He’s owned a black 2003 Esprit since he bought it new that year. “If ranked on the pure head-turn-to-cost ratio, it has to be ranked in the No. 1 spot,” he says. “And while that is not my thing at all, it does attract crowds. That is saying a lot for a 15-year-old car.”

Maintenance, he says, is less frequent and less expensive than that of a normal luxury car: The routine annual service charges hover around $700—with parts, about $900. That’s far less than the thousands it would cost to service a Ferrari Daytona.

“It may be due to owning a late-model production model, but after 29 years of Lotus making the Esprit, for example, the car was sorted,” Van Der Rhoer says.

Over the past 10 years, values have risen slowly but surely. And if you look at the data, you can make a case that the forgotten Lotus Esprit could be the next big thing.

On the Rise

According to Hagerty, the average value of a 1979 Lotus Esprit Series 2 is $17,800, up from $17,000 three years ago and $12,750 five years ago. (It was $11,100 in 2006.) Late models, which promise better reliability, were going for around $17,000 on Bring a Trailer a few months ago; now they’re largely listed for $30,000 and counting.

“I see them being great buys right now,” Auerbach says. “I don’t expect you’re losing money on the short term going out to buy an Esprit.”

The Lotus Esprit occupies that happy space where a car is rare enough to be unique—if you own one, it will be the only one in your town—but not so elite that you can’t get parts and then have to pay a fortune if you do find them at all.

With only four cylinders, they never were “a lot” of car, which will keep the values from ever becoming exorbitant, but good examples can be expected to steadily gain value.

“They suffer from the fact that a lot of them became so cheap that, as they needed any work, it was deferred,” Auerbach says. That means regular maintenance and minor repairs were put off, leading to bigger problems as time passed. “The attrition rate was high,” he says. “So if you can find a really strong example, that means a lot.”

The Esprit premiered in 1972 as a conceptual exercise to help reinvigorate Lotus’s tired product line (the Elan and the Europe had both been around for years and were being further degraded in resale value because of encroachment from aftermarket-built kit versions).

By 1976 the production version arrived—looking thrillingly like the original concept, a rarity especially in that era for automakers. The Italian designer Giorgetto Giugiaro (of Maserati Ghibli, DeLorean, BMW M1, and De Tomaso Mangusta fame) created the Esprit body style; it’s widely considered the purest expression of the particular sharp wedge style that crystallized during the 1970s. (See also the Lancia Stratos and Ferrari Modulo.) It’s also undoubtedly the least expensive of the lot to buy and own.

Inside, the cockpit came with two seats set so low you could tumble right in and a dashboard curved around the driver on either side, like a console that a filmmaker in the ’70s would imagine to be a spaceship of the future. There’s not much head, shoulder, or leg space. There’s virtually no visibility from the driver’s seat out the rear side and back windows, though some variants now include a clear cover over the back so you can see the engine without popping the hatch.

Lotus engineers added a 2.0-liter, four-cylinder engine “under the hood” as it were, though in actuality the engine was placed to the rear middle of the car, set just behind its only two seats. It came with a short-shifting five-speed manual transmission. Optimistic readings of the power output came in around 150 horsepower.

The car weighs 2,200 pounds, so that amount of power is enough to get it up to decent speed, and it excels around corners. Overall, the nimble handling and light ride (if not its pure power) match its polygonal good looks. It handles hills and winding roads with the grace of a skier. In good working order, its four cylinders make a signature warbling engine sound unlike anything else. Anyway, by 1980, with the hope of making the car’s performance match its stunning appearance, Lotus added a bigger engine and a turbocharger; later models had V-8s with 500 horsepower.

“The Esprit is one of the ultimates in general,” Auerbach says. He recently bought an Esprit Sport 350 from 1999. “That was the secret handshake of, ‘I’m somebody who really does like to drive my cars.’”

Do It Right

If you’re tempted to jump on board the Lotus Express, focus on the earlier years (1976-81) if you want the highest possible return on your investment, and buy the best example of one you can possibly afford. The best bang for the buck is probably an early Series 2, which likely won’t reach the peak prices of a Series 1 but will cost less to buy in the first place.

Have a trusted mechanic inspect the tubes, which are known to crack, and steering racks, which have a reputation of wearing out early. Beware of aftermarket additions and modifications, which were popular for Lotus owners. Mileage on the engine is not as important a consideration as a regular and careful maintenance history, the quality of the build, and the absence of rust and collision repairs.

Recent sales have seen wild swings, from $26,400 for a white 1979 Lotus Esprit S2 in good condition at Worldwide Auctioneers to $106,400 for an orange, unrestored-but-collector-grade Esprit S1 sold by RM Sotheby’s, both in August of this year. (At RM Auctions’ sale in 2013 in London, a 1978 Lotus Esprit Submarine sold for $962,839.) Then there are those listed online, which generally run from $25,000 to $55,000 for examples in good and fair condition.

Of course, “good” and “fair” condition should be taken with rather wide parameters of definition when it comes to the Lotus Esprit. Purchasing a “running, driving” Series 2 could mean the car starts and hits second gear but the windows don’t work and fourth gear wobbles like a sick bird.

Not that it’s always the case. Not by a long shot.

Van Der Rhoer has perhaps the most apropos advice for those hoping to take the plunge: “The secret to keeping any exotic for a long time is in finding a good mechanic, following the service intervals, avoiding potholes—and steering clear of a divorce.”

The post Lotus Esprit Could Be Collectors’ Next Best Investment appeared first on Bloomberg Businessweek Middle East.

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