#Because you would certainly expect much more anywhere else in the world

[chronurgy]

If you spend 6k actual real us dollars on one single two day vacation it better blow your dick clean off!

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

Of All Things, I Became an Oceanid

You always imagined that if you woke up in the world of Genshin, the possibilities of being a Visionless wielder of elements and a slew of romantic shenanigans would lie in your wake. But when you instead find yourself in the body of an Oceanid with romance likely out of the question, your only conclusion is that the gods of reincarnation isekai hate your guts.

cw. you're an oceanid

pairing. navia x reader, kaeya x reader, childe x reader (separate)

notes. don't feel like being an oceanid today? well go ahead and go to the series masterlist and see what your life could be if you were something else in genshin.

So you're an Oceanid now.

You suppose there are worse things you could have turned into. God, imagine if you turned into a hilichurl or something like that. Yeah, you'll take being a graceful water being over a hilichurl any day.

You can talk, you can wield Hydro and you can go literally anywhere you want as long as water is present. It's honestly not that bad of a deal, you can be Mx. Worldwide if you so desire it.

As for finding company with your fellow lochfolk? That's not really much an option, all things considered. As it stands now, Oceanids follow one simple rule.

You stay in your lake, they stay in theirs and you call it a day.

Kaeya

Considering Springvale's small pond is already taken, you decide to call dibs on Starfell Lake since after Rhodeia made even the waters of the Dawn Winery bitter, you figured it would be better to try a source lake not connected to her spot in Liyue

To be honest when it came to being an Oceanid, you figured you didn't really need to become the companion of any of the characters

You're more than content to stay in your lake and mind your business. But truthfully, it does get boring, so when you saw Kaeya's reflection peering into your waters, you popped your head up to say hi almost instinctively

Apart from a brief look of surprise, that's the extent of your attempt to seem regal and mysterious in front of the Calvary Captain

"A water faerie so far from Fontaine? I can't believe my eye; this is the certainly the last thing I was expecting to see while out on a stroll."

It's not everyday you meet something so exciting and considering what happened after encountering the Traveler and Paimon, Kaeya decides to listen to his instincts that there'll be a lot to come from interacting with you

Because of this, Kaeya is a frequent visitor to your lake besides the people who occasionally stop by to clean the statue of the Seven

You ask him about the daily gossip of Mondstadt and he asks you about the life of being a water faerie, a fair trade even if most of your information is based on your memory of the Genshin wiki page and the limited personal experience you have

Kaeya's made a joke about how your meeting is something one might read in a romance novel, much to your embarrassment

Is he serious or no?

It's not like there haven't been any Human/Oceanid relationships in this game so it isn't completely out of the ordinary when you think about it...

At the same time though, you don't want to look super eager

One particular night, a long silence fell over you both when you asked him about his family. He tells you a bit about his past, about being adopted into the Ragnvindr family and his present less than savory relationship with Diluc

You ask if he's lonely to which he asks in return "do I seem lonely?" yet there is no bite in his tone nor is there any sarcasm either. his gaze is thoughtful but miles away from your lake

"Yes" are the words on your non-existent tongue yet you can't bring yourself to say it, all while a warm hand brushes against your watery cheek much too quickly

Navia

Being an Oceanid in Fontaine pre-Neuvillette's judgement was pretty much impossible, thankfully you airdropped into Teyvat after that deciding to call an area near Poisson your home

As to how you met Navia, you heard her crying by the sea as she does sometimes after getting new flowers for the grave of her father and much like the Spring Faerie of Springvale, you answered the call and swam to the surface

She thought maybe you were Melus or Silver, or maybe some other lost soul of Poisson. You quickly let her know that wasn't actually the case, much to Navia's initial disappointment

But Navia is an optimist, first and foremost. So she won't let the reality of the situation get her down and would ask you a bunch of questions. Afterall, Oceanids are thought to be practically extinct in Fontaine after Egeria's death so she doesn't want to waste the opportunity to learn more about you

And boy do her questions range from genuinely thought provoking to so silly it leaves you both in a fit of laughter

It's a first meeting that does Navia good, there she was so sad and then you came and turned the entire situation inside out. She promises to make you macarons as thanks, if lochfolk can even eat

Truthfully, you don't know if you can either. It's not like it's necessary to eat as you are now but fuck it you want to find out for yourself

Navia is also quick to invite you live in the waters of Poisson in general, or at least settle in if you ever want to visit and see the town for yourself

You take her up on the offer to have, if anything, a change of scenery and to see more people out and about than you normally would

You truthfully enjoy a nice yap session with Navia, it's never boring when she's around even if the most you're doing is watching her dish out orders from your comfortable pond in Poisson

But the best hangout sessions you have are when you are a good distance from the place and she can chat with you freely. She'll bring a basket of snacks, a blanket to sit on and you'll chat the day away

Sometimes she'll even bring a sketchbook and attempt to draw your portrait. Navia isn't the best artist but you enjoy looking at her artwork nonetheless

A small secret of her heart though is that Navia is quite sure that as a young girl she dreamed of something like this. Meeting an Oceanid by lakeside and falling in love before willingly being taken into the depths of Fontaine to eternally perform a watery dance of love

Maybe she can't do some of those things as the boss of Spina di Rosula, but maybe the former... maybe she's just been reading too many romance novels

Childe

When it comes to Childe, you truly lucked out in becoming an Oceanid when you lost the isekai 50/50. Because if you were something couldn't talk like a Thunder Manifestation or a Geovishap... you'd be assed out

For he, Tartaglia, is constantly finding ways to become stronger and that includes fighting mythical beings he comes across

But hey, Childe is no barbarian. Anything that can talk and beg for its life, for the most part, isn't a viable option for honing his skills

So congratulations, you narrowly avoided becoming a hashtag in someone's twitter bio twice in a row

Childe quickly laughs off your near brush with death and he dodges the spout of water you send his way. Sadly, he's somewhat charming when he says "come on, in my defense I didn't think you had any real intelligence! Now that I know we can easily become buddies, I'm sure!"

Maybe it's guilt (you doubt it), maybe it's a bit of youthful wonder permeating his soul (you're sure it's this), but he makes it a point to visit you while he is in Fontaine

Yeah, you lost another 50/50 by being airdropped into Fontaine during its Archon Quest but miraculously the water isn't painful. Maybe it's because you're technically not from this world and it grants you some sort of immunity? You're not sure

You are sure of, however, the fact that Childe comes to visit you like he gets paid for it

Apparently he wants to chat it up with you so he has plenty of interesting stories for his younger siblings when he visits them next time he is in his homeland

You sadly have a soft spot for it seems for war criminals that also happen to be family-oriented so you indulge him begrudgingly despite the rocky start to your friendship

When he gets arrested, you don't see him for a while and you admittedly grow worried when he doesn't show up even beyond the crisis of the prophecy coming to fruition but isn't like you can just discreetly find a fatuus in a city, let alone a Harbinger

Childe comes to see you soon enough though when he's recovered a substantial amount (barely any at all)

He laughs at you worriedly berate him for being so careless. "I just had to make sure my favorite Oceanid didn't miss me too much, that's all"

[sidekick-hero]

we were meant to be (we live happily in my fantasy)

(steddie | explicit | wc: 5672 | written for @steddiemas Smutty Sunday prompt needing to be quiet | tags/cw: public sex in a bathroom, Rockstar Eddie Munson, Escort Steve Harrington, Modern Setting, Multiple Orgasms, Happy Ending

Eddie Munson has it all.

The big mansion with more bathrooms than anyone could ever need, five platinum albums in as many years, countless awards to show the world that the trailer trash from a shithole town in Indiana had made it, and enough money to buy said shithole town if he ever wanted to. Which he certainly didn't, thank you very much. The only good thing about this hellhole is his uncle, who still refuses to live anywhere else.

Eddie Munson also has the most gorgeous date of all the Grammy attendees on his arm, smiling charmingly at the flashing cameras and winning the hearts of everyone he so much as looks at.

God, Eddie wishes Steve Harrington was his, too, in all the ways that really matter. But just like his house and his cars and his wardrobe, which is worth more than his uncle made in a year at the plant, Steve is only as much his as money can make you. Sure, he owns his time and his attention and his devastatingly handsome smile for the agreed upon amount of time, but not his heart. Never his heart.

Eddie Munson has it all, except the love he so desperately wants. That's what you get, he guesses, when you fall in love with your escort.

When Chrissy first suggested it, hiring an escort seemed like a great idea. It would solve most of his problems, especially because it would keep people off his back by making them think Eddie was seeing someone. It stopped most of the stupid questions about his love life in interviews that were supposed to be about his and his band's music. It stopped all the rumors about him dating some random celebrity or one of his friends. It gave him someone to take to all the boring as fuck events he had to attend without getting anyone's hopes up only to have Eddie walk away from them the next day, already bored.

When he opened the door to his hotel room almost a year ago to find the most beautiful man he'd ever seen standing in front of him, he already had a feeling that he might regret ever saying yes to Chrissy's idea. That feeling only got worse when Steve, the name of the apparition in front of him, turned out to not only be kind and caring, but also funny as hell. The more comfortable he got around Eddie, the more Eddie got to know his bitchy side, and it had Eddie in stitches every time Steve unleashed it on some annoying redneck or corporate suit they encountered.

Spending time with Steve soon became something Eddie looked forward to weeks in advance. Because it meant he had a reason to tell Chrissy to book Steve for a few precious hours, he found himself saying yes to more requests than ever before. At first, Eddie told himself it was because it was so rare for him to meet new people he enjoyed being around. All of his friends he's known since high school and the people he hooks up with usually don't stay long enough to have a real conversation. So, Eddie tells himself, it's just the novelty of having someone who hasn't heard (or lived through) all of his stories, and who, in turn, broadens Eddie's horizons with funny anecdotes and surprisingly clever analyses of movies and shows they've both seen.

Eddie knows he's been fooling himself since the first time their lips touched and a kaleidoscope of butterflies took flight in his stomach.

Steve had kissed him for the first time about three months after Eddie had hired him. They had been at a party in the Hollywood Hills after another award show. Eddie's band had won six awards and he wanted to go out and celebrate. Returning from the restroom, he had found someone talking to Steve, hands on his shoulders, slowly sliding them down to his waist and crowding closer to him. The sight had hurt more than Eddie had expected, especially when the guy leaned in to put his mouth on Steve. But the kiss never happened because Steve had pushed him away forcefully.

Eddie didn't even realize he'd gotten close enough to the couple to hear the man's next words.

"Come on, you fucking slut. You spread them for Munson but not for me? Afraid of a real man giving it to you, is that it?" Hargrove spat, and Eddie finally recognized the backup singer from some wanna be rock band that always talked shit about Corroded Coffin, obviously jealous of their success.

"You disgusting pig," Eddie heard himself say from afar, and before either man could say anything, Eddie drew back his fist and connected with Hargrove's sneering face. The sound of it hitting his jaw was extremely satisfying, but Eddie had never hit anyone before and the pain in his hand came as a surprise.

Worst of all, Hargrove didn't go down like Eddie had hoped. Instead, he looked at Eddie with murder in his eyes, the muscles in his body tense, and Eddie knew what was coming next, so he closed his eyes and waited for the pain to come.

Only it never came.

He peeked one eye open to find Steve with his hand fisted in Hargrove's shirt, their faces inches apart as Steve hissed at him. "If you so much as look at him the wrong way, I'll go to the press and tell them all about your charming words to me for not giving you the time of day. Maybe talk a little bit about what a sad and pathetic loser you are, clamoring for my attention because you wish you could be half the man Eddie is."

Eddie has never seen anything hotter than Steve Harrington threatening someone and he doesn't care how wrong that sounds. He dares anyone to look at his blazing eyes and the flexing muscles in his toned forearms and tell him it's not the hottest thing they've ever seen.

"Are we clear?" Steve growled, waiting for Hargrove's answer. For a moment it looked like fists were going to fly anyway, but then Eddie saw Hargrove nod almost imperceptibly and he let out the breath he'd been holding.

They left soon after and Steve insisted on going home with Eddie to look at his hand, which was starting to swell. "I've been there a few times, this is going to hurt like a bitch if you don't treat it right," he told Eddie and that was that. He took Steve home.

As he opened the front door of his house he expected some sort of reaction from Steve but none came. No looking around, no whistling, no remarks about his wealth or choice of decor. Just a warm hand on his shoulder and Steve asking where he keeps his first aid kit. Eddie wished he'd asked Steve over sooner, even though there was never a good reason.

In the master bathroom, Steve sat him down on the closed toilet seat before gracefully sinking to his knees in front of Eddie. Heat rushed to his cheeks at the sight, the movement conjuring up images he usually only indulged in the safety of his bedroom.

There was a thick tension between them as Steve tenderly reached for his swollen hand and began to put ointment on it. Eyes fixed on what he needed to do, Steve broke the silence that had fallen over them and began to speak in a low voice. "I'm not your damsel in distress, Eddie. I can take care of myself and I don't need anybody to save me, okay? This is not Pretty Woman, and if you want to keep asking for my services, you have to accept that."

Despite the calm in his voice, Eddie could tell that Steve was worked up, probably nervous about how Eddie would react to this. He had no idea where this speech was coming from, but the thought of Steve needing Eddie to save him sounded utterly ridiculous. He had only known Steve for a few months, but he was already well aware that Steve Harrington was a certified badass.

When he told Steve this, he was met with hazel eyes looking at him questioningly. "But why did you hit that guy if not because you thought I needed saving?"

Something in Steve's voice tugged at his heart, a vulnerability shining through the confident way he usually held himself, and Eddie responded instinctively, cupping Steve's neck with the hand not currently wrapped in Steve's.

"Because he deserved it? Steve, I know you could kick anyone's ass and probably look hot as hell doing it. Hearing that asshole talk like that about someone who is... I dunno, like you, I just couldn't help myself."

"Like me?"

With anyone else, Eddie would think they were fishing for compliments, but he knows Steve isn't. He really has no idea how maddeningly exceptional he is.

"Yeah, like you. Someone who talks all the time about a bunch of kids that he used to babysit because he's obviously so proud of them and he cares about them so much. Someone who makes our limo stop so he can give a homeless family the contents of our mini-fridge, who always makes himself seem a little smaller than he is around people who are shy and easily intimidated. Someone who gives the best verbal dressing-down I've ever heard, but also makes me feel like I'm funny and interesting every time I spend time with him. Someone who sees the world differently and isn't afraid to ask questions and speak his mind, even if people think they're stupid for it. Because they're not, they just don't fit into their dumb little boxes. You don't fit in those stupid boxes and a disgusting pig like Hargrove doesn't get to talk to you like that."

Eddie has no idea what came over him at that moment, the words pouring out of his mouth like water from a burst pipe, but they seemed to be the right ones. At least judging by the way Steve lunged forward to capture his lips in a surprisingly sweet kiss.

It was then that Eddie realized his grave mistake. He never expected it to happen, so he had left his heart unguarded around Steve, not realizing it had been stolen until it was too late. Running away was no longer an option, so instead he surrendered to the intoxicating feeling of Steve's plush lips against his, giving his body to the man who already owned his heart.

Not surprisingly, they ended the night with Steve buried deep inside of him, his hand still wrapped around Eddie's bandaged one.

Eddie doesn't know how much more sleeping with him would add to Steve's rate, but he doesn't care. He felt a little sleazy at first, paying for sex, but every time he looks at Steve he knows it's worth every penny in his bank account, along with his dignity.

Knowing he was royally screwed the second Steve's lips touched his, Eddie shoveled his grave deeper and deeper, finding more and more reasons to go out with Steve on his arm, only to bring him home and get lost in his body.

Eddie always wakes up alone, though, and it starts to eat away at him, this longing for more. He wants to wake up with Steve's bed hair tickling his nose where it is tucked against Steve's neck, to feel his sleep-warm skin against his own, to hear Steve grumble as he inevitably begins to explore the tantalizing body in his arms, only to have the sound turn into a wanton moan. He wants breakfast in bed and morning showers together, fighting over who gets to read the editorial cartoons first.

When he accepts his first Grammy, he wants to tell the world that as incredible as it is to stand here and see a lifelong dream come true, it's not the most important thing in his life anymore. It's not the award in his hands, but the man sitting in the third row, next to his manager and best friend Chrissy, beaming at him with pride.

But he doesn't, he just thanks their crew, their fans and of course his friends and his uncle before he hands the microphone to Jeff to do the same.

Later, at the reception, he drowns his heartache in the expensive champagne being handed to him left and right. Steve is plastered to his side and when Eddie reaches for the fourth glass, he stops him with his lips against his ear. "I have plans for you and they don't involve you passing out drunk." His deep voice whispers and Eddie feels goosebumps rise all over his body.

He lets the waiter pass and eyes Steve hungrily. "Stevie, you naughty boy. Not in front of the kids," Eddie giggles, waving to his bandmates and Chrissy, who all roll their eyes indulgently. They know he pays Steve, but they never act like it, and Eddie is grateful for that. They're probably aware of his feelings because Eddie has never been subtle and they've known him most of his life. If they feel sorry for him, they don't show it, but Eddie sees their worried looks sometimes.

Steve snorts inelegantly and Eddie thinks they're both a little high on champagne and endorphins.

When he leans in close again and Eddie wraps a possessive arm around his waist, Steve purrs in his ear, low enough that only Eddie can hear him. "Meet me in the restroom in the back. I have a surprise for you, Mr. Big-Shot-Rockstar." With that, Steve plants a wet kiss on his cheek and tells the group he'll be right back.

Eddie counts to 83 before he can't wait any longer and follows Steve, not even bothering with an excuse. They all know what they are up to anyway. He thinks he hears Gareth muttering "Unbelievable" and Chrissy whistling behind him, but he's already on his way to the restroom Steve mentioned at the back of the venue.

When he gets there, however, he can't find any trace of Steve.

"Steve?" he calls, his voice echoing off the tiles. Even his breathing sounds loud, so he holds his breath, listening for any sign of life. Then he hears it, the slick sound of slippery skin sliding against skin and ragged breathing. It comes from somewhere around the corner and Eddie follows it slowly. When he turns the corner he sees another row of stalls and feet peeking out of the last one. The door is open.

The closer he gets, the louder the sounds coming from the stall, and his cock stiffens in his pants at the thought of what he'll find.

He's still not prepared for the sight of Steve standing inside, naked as the day he was born, his clothes neatly folded on the closed toilet lid. His big, veiny hand is wrapped around his hard cock, already gleaming from the pre-cum smeared along its length. He's pumping it almost lazily, his eyes lustful and bright as they blink back at Eddie. His other hand plays with his stiff nipple and Eddie can feel his own cock leaking at the sight.

"Steve," he breathes out in wonder, "fuck, look at you. What are you doing to me?"

"Not enough, so you have to come here and let me get my hands on you." Steve's voice sounds strained, like he's already keyed up from the way he's touching himself, and Eddie has half a mind to just keep watching Steve getting himself off. But then he moans Eddie's name, and it's high and needy, luring Eddie over with its siren call.

Following it, Eddie squeezes into the narrow stall and wraps his own hand around the hard length of Steve's cock. The flesh is hot in his palm, its girth already familiar, and Eddie thinks he'll never touch another dick, not even his own, as long as he can have this. Steve has ruined him, completely and utterly, and it's that thought that finally breaks the tenacious control he's had over his emotions all these months.

His lips crash against Steve's without any finesse, there's just hunger and love and an urgency he can't explain as his arm wraps around Steve's waist while his other hand remains wrapped around his cock. They're pressed together from head to toe, Eddie still fully dressed in his expensive designer pants and burgundy shirt and Steve gloriously naked. He's probably smearing Pre all over his pants, which are rented and which he probably has to pay for now. But what are a few thousand dollars more when he can have Steve moaning brokenly against his already swollen lips at the feel of the smooth material rubbing against the sensitive head of his cock.

"You're killing me, baby. So sexy, knowing exactly what you're doing to me," Eddie pants as he pulls his hungry mouth away from Steve's, kissing along his blushing cheeks and down the sharp line of his jaw to take it between his teeth. Steve's hips keep twitching, desperate to rub against Eddie's hand, Eddie's pants, anything that will give him some friction, shameless and so fucking hot that Eddie can barely think.

He soothes his bite marks with his tongue and picks up the pace of his hand on Steve, reveling in the slick sounds that fill the empty restroom. "This is what you want, huh? For me to get you off in a public restroom, for you to come all over me, for you to mark me with your cum so that everyone can see how gone I am for you?"

Steve moans brokenly at his words, his hips stuttering and Eddie can feel the telltale twitch of his cock so he quickly sinks to his knees, the movement eerily similar to the night of their first kiss all those months ago when their roles had been reversed.

Twisting his fingers in Eddie's hair, their grip painfully tight and arousing at the same time, Steve comes in Eddie's mouth, his hot cum shooting down his throat, making him cough and splutter, but still eagerly drinking down every drop. He keeps milking Steve's cock until the overstimulation becomes painful and only then does he pull off of Steve to look up at him.

What he sees takes his breath away.

The hands in his hair have loosened their death grip and are instead tenderly combing through his messy locks. Steve's eyes are liquid amber, the color high in his cheeks as dark as the red of his lips, and the expression on his face is unbearably soft. One of his hands slides from Eddie's hair to his face, gently cupping his cheek and wiping away a few stray drops from the corner of his mouth. Their eyes lock and Eddie couldn't look away even if he wanted to, lost in Steve, in his smell, the feel of his hairy thighs under his palms, his taste on his tongue and the sight of his beloved face filled with warmth and affection.

He's not sure he'll be able to come back from this.

"Eddie," Steve begins in a soft voice and he knows what Steve is going to say and he just can't bear to hear it right now. Steve will tell him that they need to get dressed, to go back, to continue their charade until Eddie has to go home to his empty house and his empty bed and his empty life.

"Quite a surprise you had there, Stevie. Totally worth paying for those pants," he jokes, trying for some levity.

Steve gives him a crooked smile and says, "That wasn't my surprise, actually. Well, not all of it. But you... I wasn't expecting... um, this," he finishes lamely, shrugging, and Eddie feels his face heat up. Steve did not expect Eddie to lose it so much at the sight of him.

"Oops," Eddie jokes, obviously embarrassed but trying not to show it. "What surprise have I ruined?"

The hand still cupping his cheek pulls Eddie back to his feet and he winces a little as his knees crack. Smiling at him, Steve uses his hand on Eddie to draw him in for a sweet, almost chaste kiss, were it not for the fact that Steve is still naked and can probably taste himself on Eddie's lips and tongue, which he playfully teases with his own.

As they kiss, Steve blindly reaches for Eddie's hand and guides it to his ass and between his cheeks. Following Steve's lead, he teases his fingers along the crack down to his hole and gasps against Steve's mouth when he feels the hard stopper of a plug there. "Fuck," he hisses, "you are trying to kill me."

"I take it you like your surprise?" Steve sounds smug, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction at the wrecked look on Eddie's face.

"Sweetheart, you have no idea. No idea."

Palming Eddie's hard cock straining against the fly of his pants, Steve smirks. "I might have at least some idea. How about we do something about it, huh?" He adds, giving his cock a squeeze that causes his eyes to almost roll back in his head.

"Please," he practically begs, eagerly playing with the plug, pulling it out and pushing it back in before twisting it on the next pull.

Steve's arms wrap around him, pressing against Eddie and suddenly turning them both around so that Steve's back is to the open door. He pulls away from their embrace and Eddie whines at the loss of Steve in his arms. "One second, baby, just lemme close the door real quick," he coos.

Making good on his words, he grabs the door handle and pulls the door shut before locking it. Eddie reaches for him again as soon as it's done, but Steve seems to have a different idea. He turns and rests his forearms against the closed door, his forehead between them. Arching his broad back, covered with moles and beauty marks, he pushes his round ass out at Eddie and shakes it for good measure.

Looking over his shoulder and giving Eddie a cheeky grin, he asks, "What are you waiting for, lover boy? A written invitation?"

Smack.

The sound of Eddie's hand connecting with Steve's cheek is loud, echoing off the tiles and ringing through the empty restroom. A red handprint is already forming on the pale skin and the sight makes something primal inside him purr with satisfaction.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuck," Steve curses and for a moment Eddie is afraid he has really hurt him, but then he sees Steve's hips buck. He moves closer and drapes himself over Steve's back, reaching around to find his cock more than half hard again.

"Every time I think you can't get any hotter," Eddie mutters to himself and Steve chuckles.

"Yeah? Right back at you," he replies with a smile in his voice. Then, more quietly, he asks, "Do it again?"

There's nothing Eddie would like more, but first he wants to see how far this newfound dynamic will go. "Only if you ask real nice, baby. Only good boys get what they want."

The cock he's still holding fills out even more, growing fully hard in his hand, and Eddie has never been in love like this. It's a weird moment to realize, but they didn't call him a freak for nothing, he supposes.

"Fuck, okay, okay. Can you -" Steve begins, already breathing hard, almost panting. "Can you please spank me again?"

Smack.

Smack.

The moan that bursts from Steve's throat is loud and guttural, and the redness on his cheeks looks perfect. There's only one thing missing, his cum decorating it, the white a beautiful contrast to the angry red.

"Yes, please, Eddie, please, come on me, paint me with your cum, rub it into my skin, anything you want," Steve babbles, his cock as hard as it was just before he shot down Eddie's throat. Eddie must have said his thoughts out loud, too far gone to realize it, but he doesn't care. They clearly want the same thing and he suddenly can't wait any longer.

"Please baby, tell me you brought lube and a condom?"

"Jacket. Right pocket. Hurry, I need you, Eddie."

"You got me, baby," he whispers, taking the time to plant a soft kiss on the back of Steve's neck. Then he fishes what they need out of Steve's jacket and is back on him in seconds. He reaches for the plug that keeps Steve stretched and open and gently pulls it out, watching in rapture as Steve's rim stretches around it, trying to suck it back in, thinking of how it will feel around his cock in a minute.

When it pops free, he sets it on the floor and pushes Steve's legs further apart before coating two of his fingers with lube. "I'm just checking to see if you're ready for me, okay?" Eddie tells Steve as he pushes his fingers inside. They sink in easily, no resistance as Eddie smears the lube around the rim. He can feel Steve's heartbeat against his fingers and thinks he'll never get tired of this.

"I'm ready, I'm ready, I'm ready, c'mon Eddie, please," Steve begs and Eddie doesn't even think about denying him. Instead, he shushes Steve with another kiss, this time between his shoulder blades, before resting his forehead against the skin there as he pulls down his fly, finally freeing his cock. It's an angry red, leaking copious amounts of pre-cum, and Eddie knows he won't last long.

He rolls the condom down his length and coats it with more lube before guiding the head to Steve's waiting hole and slowly pushing in, wanting to give Steve time to adjust. Steve is having none of it though, just pushing back until Eddie sinks in all the way, making them both groan.

"The. Death. Of. Me," Eddie pants against Steve's back and Steve chuckles. Then, once again showing no mercy, he tightens around Eddie's cock before relaxing again, but before Eddie can catch his breath, Steve slides almost all the way off him before pushing back, effectively fucking himself on Eddie's length.

"Fuck, baby, I won't last long like this," he whimpers, already feeling himself getting closer, his orgasm pulled from him by the tight grip of Steve's ass around him.

"Good."

Steve breathes hard, moans and high-pitched whimpers falling from his lips as he manages to fuck Eddie's cock against his prostate, and Eddie holds on for dear life, his hands wrapping around Steve's and pulling them up to the top of the door, both of them clutching it just to hold on to something.

Just as Eddie feels his balls tighten against his body, he hears the door to the venue creak.

Acting on pure instinct, adrenaline flooding his system, he slaps a hand over Steve's mouth, his other hand grabbing his hip to halt his movements.

Someone enters the restroom, the man's footsteps clearly audible as he walks over to one of the stalls, and Eddie is shocked to find a giggle rising in his throat. Here he is, in a public restroom at the goddamn Grammy Awards, balls deep in the man he's paying to be with him and who he's in love with, while another man is probably about to take a dump. Everything about it is so fucking ridiculous that he has to fight the laughter that is about to burst out of his mouth.

Steve, on the other hand, doesn't seem to suffer from the same fate. Instead, he clamps down on Eddie's cock inside of him, silently urging him to get over himself and let Steve fuck himself on his cock again.

"Steve," Eddie warns in a low voice, nothing more than a breath against the shell of Steve's ear. They can hear the other man's zipper coming down and then the sound of a stream hitting the bowl. Eddie uses the sound to speak as quickly and quietly as he can. "We have to be quiet."

Steve nods against his hand, but doesn't stop clenching rhythmically around him, moving his hips as much as he can with Eddie's hand still wrapped around him.

The flush of the toilet startles them both but only seems to spur Steve on, his movements becoming faster, more erratic and Eddie surrenders to him, no longer trying to hold him still but reaching around him and grasping his hard cock in his hand, thumbing at the slit and smearing the pre-cum around the head. A whimper escapes against his palm and he hastily stuffs Steve's mouth with his fingers to starve out any more sounds. He's glad it happened while the man on the other side of their stall turns on the faucet to wash his hands.

Steve comes all over the door with the sound of the dry blower drowning out his stifled moans around Eddie's fingers, and Eddie has to bite down on Steve's shoulder to muffle his own scream as he follows him over the edge and fills the condom.

They both catch their breath as they hear the restroom door close again.

The giggles finally break free and this time Steve joins in. "Fuck my life, that was hands down one of the weirdest moments that has ever happened to me," he laughs as he pulls out and ties off the condom.

"But also kind of hot," Steve adds, and Eddie isn't sure he agrees. It had been hot to have Steve squirm on his cock, so drunk on pleasure that he didn't care if someone overheard them. The way he had somehow used Eddie for his own pleasure, that had been hot too. But someone taking a piss while he was fucking didn't really do much for him.

He kind of liked the pressure of having to keep quiet, though. Definitely something he'd like to explore.

" Sort of, yeah," he allows, turning Steve over to give him a deep kiss. When they part, he helps Steve get dressed again, aching all the while with how much he wants to take Steve home now, to curl up in bed together and fall asleep in each other's arms. He's suddenly tired, not just physically, but mentally. Emotionally.

He's not sure he can do this anymore.

As they leave the bathroom to find his bandmates and Chrissy, Eddie thinks maybe it's time to accept the facts and try to get over Steve. He can't keep chasing a dream that will never come true. Steve won't do this forever, and when he decides it's time to do something else with his life, Eddie will be left behind, on his own, to put the pieces of his heart back together again.

He'd rather start now, while he still has a chance to maybe find something real someday. Because one thing Steve has shown him is that he wants that. Something real. Someone to stay.

Eddie wants that someone to be Steve, but even if he has it all, he won't have that.

When they say their goodbyes, Steve asks if they're going to Eddie's, and it hurts to see his face fall when Eddie tells him no, but it's for the best. Steve will still get paid handsomely for tonight and Eddie has the memory of their little adventure today stored away for bad days.

The next morning, he calls Chrissy to tell her that they will no longer need Steve's services.

"But why?" Chrissy asks, clearly surprised after having to book Steve at least once a week for the past few months.

"Because I need to find someone who wants to be with me, Chris. Really wants to be with me. Steve's great, but I need to stop living a lie."

"So you're telling me you're not hopelessly in love with him, Munson?" That's his best friend, cutting to the chase and getting right to the point. He loves and hates that about her in equal measure.

"You know I do, or you wouldn't ask, but I don't see what that has to do with me needing to find someone to love me."

Chrissy sighs deeply. "Oh, Eddie." And that's her "You're an idiot, Eddie Munson" voice.

"I don't know why you're 'Oh Eddie'-ing me here, Chris. I'm trying to be -"

"He hasn't accepted payment in five months." Chrissy cuts him off.

What?

"What?"

"He hasn't taken payment for the last five months. He asked me not to tell you, and I figured he'd tell you eventually, but he never did. He always said he would soon, that he was waiting for the right moment, and I promised myself to wait until the new year, and if he didn't tell you by then, I'd tell you. Even someone without eyes could see how much you are gone for him."

"So the last five months, all those hours, all those events, all those nights we had sex, he never got paid for it?" Eddie couldn't believe what he was hearing. They spent so much time together, time he didn't pay for, time Steve could have spent with clients making money.

"Eddie, he never charged you for sleeping with you. That's not part of the services he offered, he told me that when I first hired him. He did it because he wanted to, he's been dating you for almost half a year. Which you'd know if you -"

"I gotta go, Chris."

"Tell Steve I said hi," he hears her say as he ends the call, already throwing on some random clothes before heading down to his car.

He has to talk to Steve, tell him what a fucking idiot he's been before asking him to move in with him, since they've apparently been dating for several months now and it's not too early to ask.

Eddie can't wait to really have it all.

[freelancearsonist]

all that we see or seem

➔ Dieter Bravo x AFAB!Reader

➔ 5.7k words

➔ You moved to Hollywood in hopes of chasing your dreams; you get a lot more than you bargained for from your new boss, Dieter Bravo.

➔ Rated MA // dark fic, reader is afab (female anatomy, no pronouns used) and generally able-bodied, age gap (unspecified, reader is younger than dieter), vampire!dieter, blood/both consensual and non-consensual blood drinking, knife use, slight self-harm, gore of the mouth variety, pet names, takes place in 1983 bc i’m a sucker for changing settings

➔ this was requested from this prompt list by the very lovely @sp00kymulderr!! happy birthday darling, sorry this took so long but i hope it's worth the wait <3 thank you so much to @missredherring for this AMAZING header graphic ily 🖤

Los Angeles is a far cry from the little town you grew up in. It’s a seemingly endless maze, with more possibilities than you ever could’ve dreamed. It’s a little daunting, really. You step off your plane with your suitcase in hand, and you feel like the world is in the palms of your hands.

The harsh reality comes crashing in without warning.

LA is expensive, especially on your own. As the money you’d saved up to get you started dwindles much quicker than expected, your dreams only get further and further out of reach. Life always finds a way to fuck you over, and the city of angels does it quicker than anywhere else. The glitzy neon nightclubs and the glamor of Hollywood swiftly become an omen of doom rather than a beacon of hope. You’re in over your head, but it’s too late to back out now.

Auditions get put on the backburner. You work yourself to the bone as a server in a dumpy little diner, but it’s still barely enough to cover your basic expenses.

You wake up, you go to work, you come home, you go to sleep. The cycle repeats itself so quickly that your days all merge together into one, long, neverending nightmare.

The light at the end of the tunnel appears shortly before the first anniversary of your move. You’re scanning through the paper during your meal break when you see a help wanted ad. It’s normally the type of thing you would ignore, but a few things about it draw you in. The part that really catches your eye is the large, bold letters that proclaim “work closely with one of the biggest names in hollywood!” It seems too good to be true, and certainly something you’re not qualified for. But it could be a start–a way to get your foot through the door of the industry that brought you out here in the first place. Really, what’s the harm in trying?

You go to the library, type up your resume, and mail it in to the address listed in the ad. Realistically, you know that there must be hundreds of other applicants and you probably won’t get so much as a rejection letter back; but the needling little ‘what if’ in the back of your mind gives you a boost of hope that you’ve lived without for an achingly long time.

You get better than a letter–a broad, handsome man shows up at the diner late one night asking for you three days after you drop your resume into the local mail slot at the post office. Janine, the shaggy-haired waitress you work with almost every shift and have sort of become friends with, nudges you excitedly while you’re handing a ticket back to the kitchen.

“Honey, do you know who that is?” She nods her head over her shoulder towards a table in the corner of her section and you try to look over as nonchalantly as possible.

Of course you know who that is. His face is everywhere in this stupid town–magazine covers, billboards, movie theaters. Even with sunglasses obscuring the dark brown eyes that have made thousands swoon, you recognize Dieter Bravo. He’s bigger than Hasselhoff and Swayze combined.

“He’s asking for you,” Janine whispers. “By name. You know him?”

“Not yet,” you answer truthfully. You know without a doubt that he’s here because of your resume and that your entire world is about to change.

You’ve seen him on the big screen before and now you can definitively say that it doesn’t do him justice. He’s more handsome than any man has a right to be. He’s wearing a black hoodie and black trousers, an ensemble that stands out in the brightness of 1983 but yet perfectly complements the tanned tone of his skin. His shoulders could fill a doorway and his smile might actually melt you into a puddle. You can’t help but notice–with a hint of trepidation–that his canines are the sharpest you’ve ever seen, although that thought is quickly pushed from your mind when he greets you by name.

“Your resume is impressive.”

“No it’s not,” you respond with a little laugh before you can stop yourself, then you have to refrain from banging your head into the wall. What a great start to an interview.

But he laughs, and you can’t help feeling you’ve done something right. You’d do a hell of a lot worse just to hear that gorgeously deep, hearty chuckle again.

“Okay, I’ll rephrase. You said all the right things. You’ve got exactly what I’m looking for as an assistant.”

You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, because this is much too good to be true.

“You’re not from LA,” he states factually. “What brought you here?”

You consider lying–coming up with some story that’s less pathetic than the truth. He’s appreciated your honesty thus far, though, and you don’t want to break a streak. “I wanted to act, but… it’s hard to get started when you don’t have any connections. So I’ve just been kind of… getting by.”

He nods and gives you a look over–assessing, you think. “We all have to start somewhere. But this isn’t an easy job.”

There’s something unreadable in his voice, but you choose to ignore it because you want nothing more than a chance to impress him. It’s not about ‘making it’ anymore; it’s about proving to Dieter Bravo that you’re worth taking a chance on.

“Neither is this,” you reply with a vague wave at the diner around you. “If I’m not covered in fryer grease at the end of the day, it’s a good job to me.”

He chuckles again and it washes over you like fresh water after years of drought. You want more of him–more of his charm, more of his warmth.

“When can you start?”

You ask for two weeks to leave your diner gig on good terms, and he’s gracious enough to accommodate you. As the days tick past, the anticipation ramps up and time seems to move slower. You’ve never been so excited for a new job. Normally, your gut twists with anticipation and your mind swirls with every little minute detail that could go wrong–but not now. No, now you’re just excited. The possibilities of Hollywood finally seem to be within your reach again, and it all starts with this job.

You learn a lot about Dieter within five minutes of starting on your first day. For one, he’s incredibly personable. He greets you himself and vows to show you the ropes. There’s no third party to teach you everything you need to know, it’s just him. Just the two of you. You appreciate that immensely, because you’ll be serving him directly as his assistant. There’s no better person to learn from when it comes to his desires and routines than the man himself.

Two, he wears many different masks. It’s a little spooky, the way his demeanor changes depending on who he’s dealing with. He can be the sweetest, most charming man you’ve ever spoken to, then turn to a producer and be a complete hardass all in the name of getting things done. He knows exactly what persona he needs to wear for each person he interacts with–it’s all very calculated. You suppose all actors have to be capable of that; the mark of a good thespian is being instantly able to pretend you’re someone you’re not.

Still, it’s a little chilling. If you didn’t see it in some form or another with every person you meet on set, you’d be a little concerned. Dieter just makes it look like adaptation–fitting into his surroundings as a means of staying afloat. He’s been in this industry for a long time, he knows what works; and, subsequently, what doesn’t.

As far as the job goes, it’s a nice change of pace from what you’ve become accustomed to. You spend nights on set with him, fetching his coffee order or running little errands while he’s busy shooting. The hours aren’t unreasonable, and it pays double what the diner did. Now that you’re not struggling to get by financially, you have the free time you need to start pursuing your dreams again.

You have only Dieter to answer to, which is a definite learning curve. Directors, producers, and even other actors chase after your favors, but Dieter tells them unequivocally to fuck off. You’re his–it’s a heady feeling each time he  reasserts it. It makes for easy work when you’re not being pulled in thirty different directions simultaneously. He asks for what he needs when he’s around and he gives you a list of tasks to complete when he’s not. He’s a little eccentric–he tells you he can only work after dark because his eyes are sensitive–but it’s nice, falling into a routine after so long of working unconventional hours at a job where no two days are the same.

Still, as days turn into weeks by his side, you wonder exactly what version of Dieter he’s presenting to you. Which face is the most authentic? You want to believe he’s himself with you, but you’re not quite naive enough to convince yourself of that. The thing that bothers you the most is that you want him to feel comfortable enough to drop the facades around you. You want to get to know the real Dieter Bravo, underneath all the masks. But you also swore to yourself, when you accepted this job, that you would be nothing but professional–and wanting to get to know him so intimately is definitely a step beyond just being his employee.

To his credit, he’s strictly professional–even if you wish he wasn’t at times. There’s a lot of rumors and gossip about him, about his hedonism and the life he supposedly leads at night, but you don’t see that facet of him. With you, he’s friendly, kind, and respectful. He’s the perfect gentleman–and that’s how you know that you’re not getting a full glimpse of the real him. There’s too much contradiction between the rumors and the Dieter that you interact with. 

No matter how straight-laced you try to be, you can’t help wondering what it’ll take to get a look at the real Dieter Bravo.

You think he starts to peek through when Dieter asks if you would be willing to work longer hours and be more of a personal assistant than a production assistant. You know him inside and out, he tells you, and it would be a pain in the ass to teach a whole new person how to deal with his errands. He even offers you a sizable raise when you pretend to be contemplating it, like you weren’t bursting at the seams to say yes before he even finished asking. 

The sad–maybe even pathetic–truth of the matter is that you’re falling for him. Every facet of his charm, from his darkly passionate eyes to his easy humor, have you completely bewitched and ready to ignore the way your hair stands on end each time his gaze meets yours. You’ll take any small fraction of him that you can get.

He eases you into your additional duties, at least; that much can be said in his favor. He starts you out with small tasks, like ordering his groceries and picking up his dry cleaning. Dieter’s so kind and patient as he explains how he likes everything done–he’s particular, but not unreasonable. He even gives you a grand tour of his home so you can see exactly where and how he likes everything done–it’s like finally getting that real glimpse of him that you’ve been hoping for.

His Sherman Oaks mansion looks like something straight out of a Bram Stoker novel on the outside, yet the inside is a testament to the warm side of his personality that you’re more familiar with. It’s decorated in shades of orange and red, with patterns that are a little out of date but still manage to feel intentional. It gives the impression of someone who was more comfortable and sure of himself in the 70’s, or at least someone who hasn’t quite adjusted to the new trends that came with the turn of the decade. The walls are covered with art–most of it signed with his familiar “DB” in the bottom right hand corner. It’s neat, but not so neat that it feels staged. It fits the Dieter Bravo that you know perfectly, and it even starts to feel like home to you when you start spending more time there with him.

There’s never anyone else around when you’re there. For someone who has a reputation for throwing the liveliest parties in all of Hollywood, he doesn’t actually do a lot of partying. Not when you’re around, at least. It’s almost like he’s trying to hide that aspect of himself from you. If he has to host, he sends you home early or lets you know in advance that you’re getting a paid night off. You’re almost disappointed–parties have never really been your thing, sure, but you feel like you need to experience at least one of his.

Plus, people are starting to talk. You hear it on set first; his co-stars whispering about how he’s gone soft, how he’s gotten boring. Even the tabloids are starting to wonder if they’ve seen the last infamous Dieter Bravo party, which were once highly coveted and exclusive events. The few times he’s hosted lately have been small, quiet affairs–definitely not the big, star-studded shebangs that he’s gained a reputation for.

A rumor even starts circulating that he’s finally decided to settle down with a nice girl, which makes your stomach twist with a little green monster that shouldn’t be there. He’s your employer, you reason. That’s all. No matter how friendly he is, no matter how much he flirts with you, no matter how much he compliments your perfect cup of coffee, that’s all he is. Your boss. And yet, despite your constant self-assertion, your brain just can’t seem to accept it. You know you shouldn’t want anything more than that, and yet you just can’t seem to stop yourself from hoping.

“What’s going on with you?”

You’re in the midst of trying to sort through the files in his upstairs home office so you can find out when his insurance needs to be renewed when you hear the voice, loud and clear due to the open floor plan downstairs. Sound travels like crazy up the double-wide staircase with Dieter’s office door right at the top. You couldn’t shut it out even if you wanted to–and you don’t. God help you, you’re a little nosy and a little curious.

“Nothing.” That’s Dieter’s voice, but you don’t recognize the other.

“Bullshit. You’re not yourself.” It’s a deep, rich tone that you’ve never heard before and it immediately has your interest hooked. Dieter doesn’t get many visitors, much less such purposeful ones. Most people like to schmooze him, but evidently not this unidentified man.

“I’m trying to be different,” Dieter explains half-heartedly. “It’s time I cleaned up a bit.”

“No. Cleaning up your act is nothing more than a good way to get yourself caught. Things happen in the party climate, that’s how you fit in. Things don’t just happen to nice rich actors.”

Caught? Caught doing what, exactly? You creep closer to the open door on light feet, curiosity peaked.

Dieter sighs, and you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I’m tired.”

“So what are you going to do? Just give up? Waste away after… how long?”

“Maybe I should,” Dieter retorts–there’s grit in his tone now, maybe even bitterness. “Maybe I never should’ve taken the deal in the first place. You don’t see how fucked up this all is?”

“So, what? You’ve gotten everything you could’ve possibly wanted, and now you’re tired of playing the game? Pathetic.” There’s a sneer in the tone of this unidentified speaker and you don’t like it. You want to jump to Dieter’s defense, but something tells you this is a conversation that you shouldn’t be eavesdropping on.

“Whatever, man,” Dieter scoffs dismissively.

There’s noise downstairs now–a slight thud and what sounds like Dieter grunting as if the wind has been knocked out of him. 

“What changed?”

“Fuck off,” Dieter spits.

“What. Changed?”

“You weren’t fucking honest with me.”

“Bullshit,” the stranger growls back. “You knew exactly what you were getting into.”

“No, you said everything I wanted, that was the deal. Remember?” It’s quiet for a long moment, and you wonder if Dieter’s pacing. He does that, when he starts to get stressed. “I’m still alone, though.”

“That’s your own fault,” the stranger replies–voice a little softer now. “I didn’t say I would hand you your dreams on a silver platter. You make your own destiny. Surely it hasn’t been so long that you’ve forgotten that little qualifier.”

“I can’t bring someone else into this shit and you know it,” Dieter replies. The venom is gone from his voice now–he just sounds done. Exhausted and spent.

“You can, but you won’t.” There’s a moment of silence, then a heavy sigh. “Start acting like yourself again before you raise too much suspicion.”

“Fine,” Dieter sighs heavily. 

There’s a few long moments of silence, and then you hear the heavy solid oak front door shut. Presumably the guest has gone, and while you’re eager to sneak down and see if you can catch a glimpse of who it might’ve been, it’s far too risky with Dieter down there. Something tells you that he should never find out about the way you just eavesdropped on that conversation. You don’t know who he was talking to, or what kind of deal they were discussing–you just know that it’s serious, and definitely above your paygrade.

“Did you find that paperwork?”

You didn’t hear Dieter come upstairs–his sudden question from right behind you makes you jump and whirl around to look at him. You fight to keep your calm as you catch your breath; the last thing you want to do is clue him in that you overheard his conversation with his unknown guest.

“Yeah, I’ve got it right here,” you answer after a thick gulp.

“You’re a doll,” he proclaims with a wide smile. How easily he picks up the face he wears with you after a conversation that clearly upset him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you hum with a smile. “This entire room is a nightmare. It’s a miracle you ever find anything. You need to get, like… some filing cabinets. At the very least.”

“I’ll, uhh… get right on that,” he says in a way that makes you sure he definitely won’t get right on it.

Despite the nerves still thrumming through your veins, you laugh. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You’re a doll,” he repeats with his trademark grin. “Oh! Hey, uhh… you have tomorrow off. Paid, obviously.”

“Why?” You ask before you can think better of it. 

He seems surprised–you don’t normally ask questions, especially about paid vacation days. “Work stuff I gotta take care of. No big deal.”

“Okay,” you answer with a slight frown. “Sure I can’t help?”

He actually does seem to be contemplating it for a moment–his eyes scan over your body, and it’s like he’s considering you more than the actual offer. “No, honey, I’ll be okay.”

“Okay.” You take a short breath, then head towards the door–this was the last task on your list for the night. “Anything else you need before I head out?”

He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head as he follows you down the stairs. “No. Thanks, sweetheart.”

You feel heat fluttering underneath your skin at the pet name–he uses them often and they never fail to make your heart pick up pace. It’s like he can tell, because his eyes linger on your lips for a moment before trailing down to the pulse point on the left side of your neck. You wonder for a second if he can actually see it beating, but you quickly push that ridiculous thought away.

“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you tomorrow?”

His eyes are still trained on your neck like he’s completely zoned out or something. You watch as his tongue slowly glides over his bottom lip, trance-like; it makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“Yeah,” he whispers after a long moment–he’s standing so close now, you didn’t even notice him closing in. “I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

“Okay.” You want nothing more than to grab him and pull him in, to kiss him like your life depends upon it. He sounded so upset and every bone in your body is screaming to comfort him. The way he’s looking at you right now, you don’t think he’d mind at all. 

Instead you take a deep breath, grab your bag from the bench next to the door, and bid him goodnight.

Dieter doesn’t seem to realize that you’re always working, whether you’re on the clock or not. Even on ‘off’ days, you get loads of calls for scheduling requests and other tasks. Your saving grace is your trusty day planner—it holds both of your schedules, all neatly color-coded for maximum efficiency.

The worst thing you could’ve done on a weekend leading up to awards season is leave it in Dieter’s home office—and yet, as you frantically dig through your tote bag and your desk, that seems to be exactly what you’ve done.

You know Dieter’s got whatever event he’s hosting at home, but you can’t keep taking calls and scribbling notes on napkins without your schedule in front of you. The last thing you want to do is overbook him at a time where every single interview counts.

With a heavy sigh, you dial Dieter’s home number. It rings for what seems like eternity, and just as you’re about to hang up an unfamiliar voice answers.

“Hello?”

With a sigh of relief, you ask, “Hi, is Dieter there?”

“He’s busy.” The voice is high and sweet, yet her tone says she couldn’t be more irritated.

“Okay… umm, it’s kind of important.”

The stranger sighs dramatically. “I can take a message.”

“I just… I left something there, and I need to come get it as soon as possible. But I don’t want to interrupt anything.”

This time when she speaks, her tone is considerably more friendly. “Oh! Yeah, come on over. The more the merrier!”

You can’t help your intrigue, although you really don’t want to intrude without Dieter’s say-so. “Are you sure? I could always come tomorrow, I guess.”

“No no, come! It’s a party, everyone’s welcome!” Then the line goes dead without any further discussion.

You consider redialing in the hopes of speaking and clearing your visit with Dieter, but you doubt you’ll actually get through to him–and really, what harm would a quick visit do? You know exactly where you left it, on the desk in his office. It’ll be five minutes tops, a quick in and out. He might never even know that you’d been there.

You shake off the curious sense of foreboding that overtakes your mind as you grab your keys and lock your apartment door behind you.

It’s a twenty minute ride to Dieter’s house–a lot of time to spend thinking. At the forefront of your mind is that peculiar conversation you overheard last night; you’re not entirely sure why, really. Whoever that man was sounded almost as if he was in some kind of position of power over Dieter, and you don’t have even an educated guess at who that could possibly be. Dieter’s his own boss and he doesn’t take bullying–you’ve never heard someone get away with bossing him around like that before. He’s constantly in some weird form of pissing match with the directors and producers of whatever film he’s working on; he’s never seemed to be good at taking orders, even when he’s supposed to. You’ve heard many a rant about how much he values the ‘freedom of expression’. It all serves to make the mysterious visitor more confusing. Who does Dieter have to answer to?

The cab pulls up in front of his gated home before you’re able to find a plausible answer. You instruct the driver to keep the meter running since you’ll only be a minute before you step out into the crisp late-January air.

The grounds are a lot quieter than you expect them to be as the guard on duty opens the gate and closes it behind you. One thing Dieter’s famous for is noise–his parties are always reported as loud and exciting affairs akin to the fraternities in his favorite movie Animal House. There's no noise at all today, though, and it makes you curious. Is it really a party? Or was the stranger who answered the phone maybe his only guest? If the latter is the case, why would she want you to join in?

There’s a pale man in a cheap-looking suit waiting just inside the door, a tray of filled wine glasses in his gloved hands. “Take one,” he instructs, his eyes distant like he’s looking through you rather than at you.

“Oh, no thank you, I just need to–”

“Take one,” he repeats. “Master’s orders.”

Master? Of course Dieter would be into that. 

The wine is a deep red, probably that expensive vintage shit that he’s always raving about. You prefer the grocery store stuff yourself, not just because it’s all you can afford. A drink never hurts, though, and you could certainly use something to take the edge off–because that tingling sense of foreboding has only gotten stronger since your arrival.

You take a glass and swirl its currant-colored liquid around. It seems more viscous than any wine you’ve had before–probably a mark of its age, but that’s just guesswork on your part. You take a small sip, then nearly gag. It’s like drinking a pile of melted pennies. You swallow it down with a grimace anyway since you don’t want to make a scene of spitting it out in front of the server. It leaves a metallic taste in your mouth that you’re eager to wash out–thankfully, the kitchen is on your route to the stairs. You quickly deposit the glass on a table once you’re out of the server’s eyesight, then head down the hall in a desperate search for water.

Once you’re out of the foyer, there are people everywhere. Very subdued people, at that–draped over furniture like throw blankets, some even laying on the floor. You consider checking one’s pulse until he twitches and lets out a muffled groan. Clearly high on something, you’re just not sure what. You nearly trip over one person and they actually hiss at you like some kind of feral cat. Your skin starts to crawl with every step you take. Even more important than your discomfort, though, is finding Dieter. What if he’s like this, too? Do you need to call someone?

You notice a dull ache starting in your gums as you make it to the kitchen–thankfully you’re familiar with his home, and you have a glass of water in your hands within no time. It seems that no matter how much you drink, though, that coppery-bloody taste never leaves your mouth. What the hell was that stuff?

There’s a short-haired blonde woman propped up against the wall underneath the mounted phone; she reaches out a lazy hand in some sort of greeting. She looks vaguely familiar, like someone you might’ve seen on the set of one of Dieter’s films.

“You made it!” She says with a lazy smile. She must be the woman you spoke to earlier, although you’re not sure how she can identify you.

“Yeah. Where’s Dieter?” The longer you’re here, the more worried you become. Something isn’t right, and your skin is prickling with apprehension.

“Upstairs,” she murmurs, then her eyes flutter shut and she slumps a little further down. She’s visibly breathing, at least. 

For a moment, you consider picking up the phone and ringing the police. Would that cause more harm than good? Dieter must be aware of what’s going on here–you know you should talk to him before you do anything.

Your mission to find your planner momentarily forgotten, you make your way through the living room towards the stairs.

You check the office at the top first–there’s a few bodies zonked out on the couch, but none of them are Dieter. With trepidation in your very soul, you make your way down the hall. Each room is more of the same–people in varying states of unrest, no sign of the man you’re looking for. Most of them have red-stained lips and you eye more than one smashed glass along your journey. Your own mouth is starting to get alarmingly sore, but you ignore it in favor of finding Dieter.

Each step you take drives your worries deeper into your skull. What if something’s happened to him? What if he’s knocked out like all of his guests, or hurt, or something worse?

This is the first time you’ve breached the bubble of his bedroom. None of your work has ever involved this room, and while you’re a naturally nosey type of person, there’s something deeply personal and sacred about the space someone sleeps in. 

Ignoring the steady throbbing in your gums, you knock once before pushing open the door.

Dieter’s alone in his room, sprawled out like a starfish in a sea of rumpled sheets at the center of his massive bed. Something akin to a groan of horror escapes your throat as you see the state he’s in. He’s paler than a corpse and drenched in sweat, chest barely rising and falling with breath.

For a moment, you’re frozen in place. Your entire body breaks out in a cold sweat as you notice the knife in his right hand and the deep gash in the crook of his left arm, right where an IV would normally be set. You can smell the blood draining from him, you can even taste it in the air–or maybe that’s just the lingering taste of whatever you drank downstairs.

Your stomach churns violently with the sudden realization of what you’ve done, of what you’ve drank.

“Dieter!” You manage to choke out while your brain tries to remember how to send the signals required for your body to fucking move. 

He lifts his head shakily, brown eyes widening after a long moment of trying to recognize the face he’s looking at. “No no no,” he whispers hoarsely, “you’re not supposed t-to be here. You’re.. y-you’re supposed to be a-at home.”

A sharp, shattering pain in your top gum snaps your brain back into action. In a flash you’re crawling across a seemingly endless desert of mattress and it feels like you’ll never reach him. Everything is moving so slowly–each movement seems to take a hundred times the effort it should.

You spit out a mouthful of blood as the pain heightens, barely registering the two upper canines that go with it.

“What the fuck have you done?” You sob, uselessly pawing at his slashed left arm. It’s a precise cut straight across the artery–your hands are sticky and soaked with red the moment you touch him. Pressure, your brain screams at you. Put pressure on the wound.

“A real artist must suffer,” he mumbles weakly–then, even quieter, “I didn’t want to be alone anymore.”

“You’re dying.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own anymore. It’s higher, breathier. 

“You drank it, d-didn’t you?” He asks, ignoring your statement. His distant eyes are trained on the sharp fangs that have pushed your canines out. “Fuck. Fuck! You were n-never supposed to…”

“Shut up, shut up,” you plead. Every shaky breath seems to cost him years. “How do I fix this? How do I fix you?”

“Thirsty,” he mumbles. There’s water on the sideboard, your brain reminds you. You don’t even remember bringing the glass with you, much less setting it down. Everything is so fuzzy. Your arm doesn’t move nearly as fast as it should when you reach for the glass, and Dieter’s hand weakly comes up to stop you.

“Not water,” he croaks. “Need… need…”

He can’t seem to form the words required to tell you what he needs. He doesn’t have to, though. You know.

“You’re not dying on me, Bravo.” You take the knife from his slack right hand before he can stop you and grit your sore teeth together as you slash it across your palm.

“N-no, don’t…” But he doesn’t resist as you hold your bleeding palm to his mouth. His empty eyes flash back to life with the first taste, and then he takes your hand in his own and drinks greedily. You watch with nothing short of disbelief as the cut on his arm seals itself right before your eyes.

“You were supposed to stay away from this,” he murmurs as his tongue sweeps across your palm. “Why the fuck are you here, baby?”

You don’t even remember anymore. Everything is hazy, everything hurts. It’s a chore just to keep your eyes open.

“Damn it,” he growls–pushing your hand away from his blood-smeared mouth seems to take all his willpower. “I never wanted this for you.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur as you slump down against his sheets. They’re so soft and light, and you want to cocoon yourself in them for the rest of time. “It’s just a dream.”

“Why’d you have to come save me? Huh?” His voice sounds so far away that you’re not even sure he’s really speaking. 

“I love you.” It’s okay to say that, because he’ll never actually find out. It’s just a dream, after all; you’ll wake up in the morning confused but totally okay.

“You were never supposed to,” his voice echoes from some plain of existence far, far away. “Damn it honey, stay awake just a minute longer.”

You try, but your eyes are so heavy. He sighs heavily, as if he knows it’s useless.

“Promise you’ll still love me when you wake up,” he pleads through the tunnel that separates you.

Nodding saps the last of your strength, so you let your eyes flutter closed. “Okay.”

You feel his lips against yours and his coppery kiss nearly brings you back from the verge of sleep. In the end, though, your throbbing head wins. Sleep takes hold quickly despite your feeble resistance. 

How strange it is to fall asleep in a dream.

➔ beta: @schnarfer and @futuraa-free thank you my lovelies <3

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[lau219]

After Hours

Part 2

Part 1 here

……………………………………………………………………………

Why did she have to do that?

Why did she have to go and say that? Look at him like that?

Why did she always make it so difficult?

“It means that I think you’re a better man than your father.”

As he’d registered what she’d said, Robert had just looked at her for a moment, unable to immediately react. Her words had hit him like a freight train, and the way she had looked at him made everything else momentarily fade into the background. He didn’t know what he’d wanted to do more, just keep looking at her, or pull her to him and kiss her. But hearing those words from her and seeing the look in her eyes made him think and hope for just the briefest moment that maybe she felt the same way he did.

But then she’d blushed fiercely, obviously uncomfortable as she cleared her throat, breaking the moment. Looking away from him and down at the papers in her hands again, she quickly shook her head.

“What I mean is, your father may not see the importance or value of charity, but you do, and that’s why I’m coming to you. He may not care, but you know how positively this would impact the city. We’ve got to let them apply again.”

His heart dropping into his stomach, Robert tried to mentally collect himself. She hadn’t meant it that way. And seeing how she now seemed to want to look anywhere but at him and get out of his office as fast as possible, he guessed the way he’d looked back at her had made her realize he may have interpreted it exactly as he had at first.

Why did this have to be so hard? Why did he have to be in love with her? Why couldn’t anything beyond the business world go his way for once and she could love him back?

That freight train feeling had been all too familiar ever since the beginning. When the board had convinced his father to start a grant program, Robert had been certain it wouldn’t take. As Robert could attest to all too well, Maurice wasn’t one for having any empathy or interest in anything that didn’t directly benefit him or make him richer, and he certainly never sought out an opportunity to give handouts. But with the angle that the image of being a more charitable company would ultimately lead to even more profit, Maurice had agreed to the grant program. And that’s when Y/N had walked into Robert’s life.

When he’d entered the board room that first day, he was surprised to see that it was a woman his father had hired. Sure, plenty of women worked for the company in roles that were traditionally more female occupied, but Robert was shocked that Maurice had given a higher status role to a woman. She’d be working directly with Maurice, Robert, the foundation, and the board, and so Robert had expected a man.

It turned out that the reason Maurice had hired her was because she was one of only a few applicants, her education was the most extensive, and since he didn’t really care about any of this anyway, he’d pretty much just picked her from the top of the pile. He wasn’t going to be working very closely with her himself anyway; he was passing her off to Robert.

His father had begrudgingly been preparing him to take over a large portion of company operations, and Robert learned as he’d been briefed by Maurice’s assistant that part of what he’d be handling was oversight of the majority of the grants Y/N was hired to select and process. It was something Maurice considered busy work, so he had no problem passing it off to Robert, with the instruction that Robert couldn’t let Y/N get too generous.

But Robert quickly found that he could never say no to her, and it was because she was herself quite possibly the most generous, empathetic, sweetest woman he’d ever met. She was as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside, and while Maurice was determined to keep as much of his money as possible, Y/N was determined to put it to better use.

But she also had entered the company without a lot of the preconceived notions most people had about the Fischers. Robert was used to being assumed to be exactly like his father, and people treated him as such, assuming he was completely stuck up, snobbish, spoiled, and void of any emotion beyond greed.

But not Y/N. She never looked at him that way. She made him feel like a person. Made him feel seen beyond the rich exterior. She was the only one around him who bothered to notice there was more to him than his last name.

But he couldn’t do anything about it. He was her boss, and he couldn’t express any of what he was feeling. It would be inappropriate, unprofessional. And she could quite possibly think that he was just using his position to take advantage of her, treat her like an entitled rich man would. And even if she didn’t think that, he had no reason to believe that she felt the same way. Just like today, there were times when he got a hint that perhaps she did, but every time, she’d then take it back somehow.

He couldn’t take the risk of just asking her. If he brought it up or asked her out and then she said no, it would be much too awkward, and then what if she quit? As much as it hurt, Robert would rather have unrequited feelings for her and still be able to be around her than admit how he felt and then lose her.

But he could never stop thinking about her and how wonderful it would be if she did feel the same. If only he could be the recipient of her warmth and sweetness, but on a much more personal level. He’d give it right back to her tenfold, and also take care of her. And although she knew all about Robert’s money, Y/N wasn’t materialistic, which only made her even more lovable. She saw who he was beneath that. But there was no doubt that if he had her, he’d give her anything she could want. Not because she’d expect it, but because he’d want to. He’d spoil her as much as he loved her, but she’d know it wasn’t because he would be trying to buy her affection. No, he just wanted to love her.

But apparently, that was asking too much.

Part 3

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[pavlovianfuckery]

i have abandonment issues and anxiety and now so do you

MASTERLIST

linky for those AO3-ly inclined: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42270144

just my brain going "but what if dream is a complete banana lady about time because he values it differently from everybody else and gets absorbed in his work and fucks off for months on end like a big fucking idiot, what then?"

also he is so very pretty when he cries and i wanted another go at writing some quick stair sex, fucking sue me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ i was so sleep deprived when writing this and it shows but what can you do, 2.6k sad sad sexing under the cut

It's been weeks since you slept unaided, the use of pills keeping any dreams at bay, so when you finally enter the Dreaming only to find yourself in the throne room of all places, it gives you pause. Everything looks much the same as you remember. When you finally lay eyes on the aloof figure on the throne it feels like being kicked in the chest, which is less unexpected. You had imagined what it would be like to see him again many times, but nothing you had planned to say comes out, the words turning to ash in your mouth.

"Leave us." His gaze is fixed on you as he orders everyone out, and it feels as if an eternity passes between the closing of the massive doors and him speaking to you. "Do you know why I have brought you here?" Just hearing his voice again is painful, but you refuse to let it show, squaring your shoulders but not meeting his eyes, not bothering to keep your tone civil.

"I do not presume to know why you would do anything, so no, I don't." The glibness doesn't seem to amuse him, and he steps down from the throne. "That is not quite true, is it?" His voice is flat as he approaches you unhurriedly, step by inexorable step.   "If accusing me of being a liar is all you dragged me here for, I'm just going to go." You turn to go, to wake up, to be anywhere but here, but he calls out to you. "Stop." You were planning on leaving, and yet. And yet.

"Why?" You whirl around, facing him. It's a struggle to keep your voice from cracking, but you manage it, somehow. "You don't want me here." He frowns, moving closer until he's only a few paces away. "I assure you, that is not true, despite your lack of loyalty." "What in the world is that even supposed to mean?" Now you can't keep the anger out of your voice, "Since when have I ever been disloyal to you?" "Since you abandoned me to cavort with a mortal." The words are full of contempt, and it almost makes you physically recoil. "I abandoned you?" It comes out as a disbelieving laugh, more callous than you had intended. "No, you left, without so much as a word. I didn't hear from you for 6 months! I don't know if you had gotten bored of me or what, but you were gone."

"Bored?" His frown deepens. "There were matters of great import that required my attention." "Of course there were."  You had always been painfully aware of your own unimportance to a being like him right from the start but nevertheless, his words still hurt. "What did you expect me to do then, spend the rest of my life waiting for you? I didn't even know if you were coming back at all."

"You certainly wasted no time before giving yourself to another." "Did you miss the part where you up and left me for months? Not that it's any of your business anymore but yes, I slept with someone else, to try and get over you forgetting me!" "I did not forget you." Somehow, the words make it worse. "Yeah? Because that's what it looked like." Your eyes sting and you wipe at them angrily.

He's frozen, unmoving at the bottom of the steps. Bathed in the soft light from the stained glass windows he reminds you of a marble statue. Beautiful. Cold. It cuts at you like a knife until you can't stand to look at him any longer, and you turn to leave again. The way his fingers snag your wrist takes you by surprise, not expecting him to reach out. "Wait." "I did." You yank your arm back, but he grabs hold. The touch is gentle, but it might as well have been a firebrand. "Let. Go." For all their vehemence the words feel like a lie on your tongue, and as you glare at him it's obvious that he doesn't believe them either because his grip only tightens. The way he looks at you hurts, it burns and something inside your chest just shatters.

The slap is loud in the empty room, neither of you expecting it. Even though your palm tingles from the open-handed strike there isn't a mark on him of course, but that doesn't make you feel any better. When he pulls you to him, most of the fight drains out of you. "You don't get to do this, you know," you punch his chest weakly, just once as the first tears start to fall. "You can't just dump me by the wayside when you get tired of me, I'm not your fucking pet." "No, perhaps not. But do not doubt this; you are mine."

Despite everything, the close proximity has the same effect as it always has, as if he'd never left. As he tightens his arms around you his familiar scent envelops you, making your head swim. You're not sure what possesses you to brush your lips against his throat, but you do it anyway, despite your every sense screaming at you that it's a bad idea. "Forgive me." For a moment you're sure that he'll send you away, that you'll wake up alone in your bed again and the thought makes it hard to breathe. But then his fingers ghost over your cheek, brushing your tears away before guiding your mouth to his. The kiss is a brief, unspeakably tender thing, over much too quickly. Brows knitted together in something like confusion his eyes are heavy on you, searching your face. "What is there to forgive? If I had known..."

You don't wait for him to finish speaking, pulling him back down by the lapels of his coat. His lips are as soft against yours as they've ever been as you pry them open, like it would be possible to push every shred of angerpaingrief into him that way. As if he could somehow understand your hurt if only you could force him to taste it. And he lets you, even as you nip at him until you taste blood, like bright copper pennies caught in your teeth. Lack of air makes your head spin but you can't stop clinging to him as if he'd turn to smoke under your hands, to slip between your fingers to be gone by morning. "Don't leave me like that again..."

You breathe the words into him like a prayer until your knees go weak, and even then he holds you to him still, not letting go. The descent onto the stairs is a gradual one, made clumsy by the reluctance to let go for even a second. Straddling his lap is a graceless affair, but you're beyond caring.  Feeling the fabric of his coat under you is a bit unsettling, the way it cushions your knees from the unyielding stone beneath a bit too well to be quite real. It makes you feel as if you could fall into the sky of the lining of it if you're not careful. "You are aware of my responsibilities; I can offer you no such promises."  That hurts to hear more than you would like to admit, but then he continues, "I can however endeavour to inform you when my work requires my full attention."

It's not quite an apology, but it's as close to one as you're likely to ever get and still more than you dared hope for.  As the hem of his shirt rides up exposing the skin there, the urge to be closer is overpowering. "I have missed you." The way he says it is quiet but fond, the words soft enough to rival the feel of his skin under your questing hands.

Wanting to lay any claim on him that you can you suck at the sensitive skin on the side of his neck, which surprisingly does leave a mark, one that doesn't fade. When the realization dawns that he's doing that, he's keeping it there on purpose for you, lust pools molten in your belly. Repeating the action on the other side makes him groan, the sound vibrating against your lips as he tips his head back and grinds his hips up against you, giving you all the permission you need.

The bruises bloom nearly instantly, another one of his tricks, offered up almost like a gift. They dapple the flawless column of his throat prettily, but it's still not enough. The seams creak in protest as you pull the collar of his shirt down to get at more of him, but he doesn't seem to mind.  After being apart for so long, suddenly having him this close when you thought you never would again is overwhelming and you're unable to hold back a few errant tears.  "Do you have any idea what it was like with you gone?" Giving his hair a pull, you force him to look at you. 

He wets his lips before responding, an uncharacteristically human gesture. "It was never my intention to cause you harm." The tremble in his voice is barely perceptible but still undeniably there.

His lips yield to yours so easily when you kiss him again, pressing the heel of your hand against his fly. "Help me forget?" As you breathe the words into his mouth you can feel him pulse through the fabric. "Please?"

Even with his hands aiding yours it's easier than it should have been to pull his jeans down, the stiff material offering next to no resistance, a convenience courtesy of the Dreaming. Rather than removing them completely, you push them only as far down as is necessary.

His cock is just as pretty as the rest of him, you'd almost forgotten that. The skin is silky in your palm as you give him a few slow pumps, just as a reminder of what he feels like.  "Let me see you." His words make the rest of your clothing fade away like morning mist leaving you completely exposed on his lap, another perk of his realm that you had missed. The way he touches you borders on worshipful as he presses a soft kiss over your heart, gentle as a butterfly wing.

Sinking down on him slowly is difficult when you're aching like this, but you want to savour it. For now, he simply leans back and watches as your body swallows every inch of him. The way he fills you so perfectly is intoxicating, addictive. It feels like coming home. For a while you don't move, just enjoying holding him inside like this, buried to the hilt as you squeeze around him. The intimacy of it is almost unbearable, nearly making you choke up again as he gently grabs hold of your hips and guides you into a languid pace.

"Tell me he didn't make you feel like this." The words are quiet, almost pleading, his eyes shining as he looks up at you. You had thought something like that wouldn't matter to a being like him, but his fragile expression tells you otherwise. "I need to hear you say it," he gasps, the stars in his eyes finally falling. Seeing him like this nearly breaks your heart all over again. As you kiss his face with all the tenderness you can muster, moisture stains your lips, making him seem remarkably human in that moment. "You know he didn't," you fail to keep your voice steady as you stroke his hair. "He wasn't you."

The way his chest hitches does nothing to douse the desire burning its way through you, not the way it perhaps should have done. He's so lovely like this, all dishevelled, cheeks shining. It's wholly unexpected, the vulnerability of it all, making the tension in your core coil tighter. The salt of his tears burning on the tip of your tongue makes you feel like consuming enough of him in any way you can would somehow erase your stupid mistake. As if he could fill you up until there would be room for nothing else, and he would push the memory of it out of you. 

"Please come in me," you roll your hips, pleading. "I need you to."

That you would ask for it so bluntly makes him let out a desperate little sound and thrust up into you ineffectually, the bunched-up fabric around his knees making it close to impossible to gain any proper traction on the smooth stone steps. He grasps your hips more firmly, spurring you on. "Move for me." It's still a fairly leisurely pace, neither of you so much chasing release as letting it arrive in its own time.  Pleasure washing over you in gentle waves makes your thighs quake as it brings you close to your peak before pulling away, time and time again.

The squelching noises as you ride his cock are embarrassingly loud in the empty hall, but you're beyond caring about anything except that you get to have him like this again. One of his hands moves to where you are joined, clever fingers circling your clit, not directly touching you yet.  "You make such a sweet mess of me, my love."He murmurs, voice strained as he continues, "I've missed that." The words alone are nearly enough to put you right back on that precipice, making you pull on his hair with a frustrated little whine. "Morpheus, please." At that, he goes completely still, his grip like iron as he holds you in place. You can feel his cock straining inside of you, nearly spilling but not quite. "Plead with me like that," he chokes out, cheeks high with colour, "and you will receive me sooner than you might hope."

Being the one to make his composure falter has never failed to drive you wild and this time is no different. Seeing him like this after your time apart, balancing on that edge right along with you, is very nearly enough to bring you off. Furrowing his brow he bites his bottom lip, fighting to keep his control from slipping, and you realize that you're going to come regardless of if he moves or not. It's like a tidal wave on the horizon, the pull relentless long before it arrives.

"I'm going to," you struggle to get the words out, "fuck, I'm..." The way his eyes bore into yours is almost hypnotic, drawing you in. "Go on," he breathes, egging you on, "come for me." Then he flexes inside of you and with a whimper, you're lost, walls spasming around his cock. There is no way to ride the wave of pleasure and nowhere to hide from it, the only thing you can do is slump bonelessly on his lap and let it wash over you, because he isn't letting you move. He's only a few seconds behind you though, pushing in as far as he can go and emptying himself there with a strangled sound, as if he really could wash every trace of the other man's touch out of you that way.

Spent, he rests his head against your shoulder, stroking his hands down your back soothingly as his come starts seeping out of you. For a while you simply stay like that, holding each other close.  Now that you're thinking more clearly reality starts to set in, and you can't help but dread waking up. Because in your heart of hearts, you know that you will wake up alone, no matter what just happened. It hits you like a sledgehammer to the chest and without meaning to, you start to tremble.

Realizing with rising horror that this might just be A dream and not your Dream, you do the only thing you can think of; you flee back to the waking world.

[yanderecrazysie]

I'm sorry, but is it possible to continue with Iwaizumi Hajime " Pretend " ?

My precious anon, there is nothing to apologize for! Of course I can!

Title: Pretend (Part 2)

Pairings: Iwaizumi Hajime x Reader

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, marking, suggestive content

Summary: Iwaizumi is the perfect gentleman, your knight in shining armor. Or, at least you thought he was… But sometimes you don’t realize someone’s playing pretend until it’s too late.

Part 1: here

pretend

/verb/

speak and act so as to make it appear that something is the case when in fact it is not

You felt like a living doll.

A fake smile plastered on your face in clothes that he has picked out for you. No one seems to notice that your smile never matches your cold, dead eyes.

Iwaizumi likes you by his side, dragging you around with his arm around your waist as he talks with his team, as he eats his lunch, as he walks you to your classes, and on the way home. That last one is the worst because now he knows where you live.

Oikawa’s fangirls no longer go after you, since it’s clear that you’re only “interested” in Oikawa’s right hand man, and not the superstar himself. Even their razor sharp eyes don’t pick up on your discomfort. Neither do your friends.

“You’re so lucky!” “He’s so handsome!” “He loves you so much!”

He’s handsome, yes, and he certainly loves you (too much), but you aren’t lucky. In fact, you are the least lucky person in the world. If you were lucky, you would have been enrolled in a different school, not the hell Iwaizumi had turned Aoba Johsai into.

Iwaizumi is the most possessive person you know. His arm being around you at all times is the least of your concerns. It’s the moments when he pulls you into a closet and leaves “love bites” all over your neck. Where people can definitely see it, of course. You try pulling up your collar, but it’s in vain. If they faded or were hidden somehow, he’d just replace them with even deeper markings.

As he sits you down at the table his team sits at, you desperately hope that they’ll notice something. Anything. The pain in your eyes, the way your smile falters when Iwaizumi’s attention turns to you, the way you clearly want to be anywhere else.

But no. They don’t. Of course, they don’t.

Oikawa coos over you until Iwaizumi’s snarling at him to back off. Hanamaki and Matsukawa laugh behind their hands at Oikawa’s whiny “Iwa-chan!” and a part of you wonders if they know you’re miserable and they’re laughing at your suffering.

The first and second years pout and whine about how they want a girlfriend too. One as pretty and sweet as you. There’s an unsaid “as submissive as you” somewhere in there.

You sit there, unmoving and unfeeling, as their practice match rages on. Iwaizumi hits the ball as hard as he can and, you can tell, as his eyes flicker to you, that he expects you to clap and cheer for him.

You can smile and pretend you’re watching, but no way in hell can he make you do anything more than that for him.

Or maybe he will. There was a time where you weren’t smiling, but now, here you were, fake smile plastered on your face from dawn to dusk, stretching the corners of your face until they were sore.

The only good thing about him was that he respected your boundaries. To a point. 

When he cornered you in a storage closet, all hot and bothered for who knows why, he listened when you told him not to go too far. He was left pushing his hands in your shirt only high enough to stroke and grope your stomach. And, of course, leave hickies up and down your neck.

It was in these moments, that he let you see his emotions, the stoic expression replaced by something so loving and so disturbing. His eyes were soft, but dark with something you couldn’t place. It was close to lust, but that wasn’t it. Obsession seemed to fit better than anything else.

Considering Iwaizumi barely gave you time to breathe, you felt that you may just be right on the money. 

The first time he kissed you, it was in the school hallway, filled with curious onlookers. You watched as his lips grew closer and closer, but you were frozen in place, unable to even move your face away. It was short and sweet, more of a peck than anything.

The rest of the kisses were hot and heavy in the storage closets, as though he was hoping you’d say yes to less innocent activities. It would be a cold day in hell before you accepted that offer.

He still treated you like a princess, as though he could somehow still be your knight in shining armor after all he’d done to you. There were moments- times when you were both alone, when he would gaze at you with a faraway look, as though he felt bad about what he’d done to you.

Guilty that he’d turned you into this living husk.

You would never forgive him. Not even if he got on his knees and begged you, tears running down his cheeks.

Your eyes glazed over as Iwaizumi wrapped you up in a hug after another Seijoh victory. You went limp in his arms, refusing to reciprocate. He either didn’t notice or he didn’t care.

He leaned back and studied your expression for a moment, before something akin to guilt flashed through his eyes and his mouth parted in the beginning of a “sorry”.

Then, it was gone as soon as it appeared.

“Let me walk you home.”

It’s not a question. It never is.

[skopostheorie]

Anyway I've been here for six days now (basically a naturalised citizen) so here is what I have to say about China

Shit is CHEAP. Worryingly cheap. Don't think about it too much.

Their hourly minimum wage is the equiv of about $5AUD but that's reasonably proportionate to how much a meal is. Rent seems a bit more difficult though so I don't know how people manage that (cheap as dirt places go for 4000yuan a month or so)

People are REALLY nice, even security guards and cops and other people you'd assume would kind of give you a hard time. They'll have a laugh with you about stuff.

The country kind of feels like it's encased in a giant metaphorical glass dome - everything functions using their own special apps, special ways of doing things, etc etc. Breaking into it is difficult, but once you're "in", so to speak, it's very easy.

Public spaces including trains and buses are a bit of an "every man for himself" vibe. People will play their phone videos out loud and no one even gives a shit. Once a security guard on shift was just sitting there playing his 抖音 videos out loud with little concern for anything or anyone. It's not mayhem, but it's certainly no polite affair.

Your phone loses battery very quickly and unless you're just going for a walk it's impossible to leave home without it as any purchase is via WeChat, Alipay et al. Many times I had considered going for a phone free outing before realising it just couldn't be done.

China is beautiful and just about every place has something to offer. There are streets that are clearly just a result of a LOT of urban development being done very quickly but in terms of actual sites, it's hard to find a city that doesn't have something incredible in it.

Their coffee is top notch. Seriously approaching Melbourne level. I'm flabbergasted and slightly concerned because frankly Australia is bullied by China on the daily and our coffee is the only thing I knew for certain we had over them. Now I don't know what the fuck we're meant to do

Trains tend to be in English, even if it's not particularly big with foreigners, though I haven't gone to any suuuuper remote locations so I don't know about those. They're very well maintained; they're more or less indistinguishable from those in Japan, Korea etc.

Bikes and motorbikes don't have to follow traffic lights which will make you shit yourself the first couple times they ride right past you as you cross the road.

There is not as much propaganda around as I was expecting. My uni has a big statue of Mao but as it happens that's just cuz he has a history with this particular university. I haven't seen any pictures of Mao anywhere else that's not, like, a dedicated Spot for that sort of thing (think Tiananmen square etc). I saw one pic of Xi in a museum. Most propaganda is just asking people to become soldiers and cops and stuff. I was expecting it to be like Vietnam or something but it's basically non-existent.

No the social credit memes are not true unless everyone else can see mine and is just not telling me

Those world statistics weren't lying that country really can heavily populayed

People love taking photos of themselves but selfies are not too popular, so dedicated individuals will bring whole stands with lights and shit like that, as though they were dedicated cosplayers. Yesterday we saw a middle aged woman doing a sort of VR anime idol stream (I can't remember what they're called but the one where your face is overlayed with an anime avatar) in the middle of the bridge haha

^ and people will take these sorts of photos in front of ANYTHING. Even if it's... Slightly inappropriate by some standards. It's kind of funny.

People are generally quite chill and don't take themselves too seriously

I'll add more if I think of more

[umseb]

"And at some point I thought: Stop, something is wrong here" – Sebastian Vettel in his first conversation since hisdrawal from Formula 1

He is a four-time Formula 1 world champion and lives in Switzerland. Vettel explains how racing and ecological responsibility go together. And: Will he even return to the premier class?

Mr. Vettel, have you already done something good for the environment today? I was on the bike. Theoretically, I have produced electricity with it, but it is not being fed into the grid yet. However, I made more CO2 in that hour than if I had stayed in bed. But what I find exciting is what resonates with this question: always having to do something good and talk about it. That's not the central point for me. It is important that everyone has a healthy attitude towards the fact that our world is in trouble and what can do to prevent it from getting even worse. It's about attitude, not about one good deed every day.

Would you rather do good and not talk about it? In fact, you become a little more cautious when you talk with enthusiasm and conviction about how you have changed your behavior or what else is going through your head, then you often immediately get the finger wagged. I'm not even interested in the obvious things like solar systems or electric cars. What is much more important is the fact that you take a closer look at many things, become aware of something, and then question your own behavior patterns or decisions.

But you actually do good, as we know. I have trouble walking past something that others have dropped, be it a piece of trash or even just plastic. I wonder what must be going on with people who just throw things out the car window and why people don't even think a step further. It's not correct to expect that anyone will abolish it at some point.

Is this how you raise your children too? Of course that carries over. When we walk through the forest together and they see a candy wrapper lying there, they shout: Is that necessary? But I don't want the walk together to be colored negatively by only remembering this one thing that wasn't nice - and not the good air or the funny cloud. Behavioral patterns can be inspiring when I see that the little one are already dealing with packaging waste differently.

The racing drivers used to move to beautiful Thurgau because it is so close to the airport. How are you traveling? Many people have this classic image in their heads: He's a racing driver, so he always drives a car, and always always. But to be honest: I don't have that need. It was certainly different when I had just gotten my driver's license. By the way, today I prefer driving a car again than when I was active in Formula 1; I can enjoy it more. Before I get on a plane today, I tend to take the car.

Do cars even have a future in private transport? Of course, in Switzerland we are very spoiled when it comes to public transport - because it works. I really enjoy taking public transport, especially when I want to go to Zurich. You can get anywhere in Thurgau, but it just takes a little longer. Where I live there is nothing except a mailbox and a bus stop.

A four-time Formula 1 world champion can do that so easily? Of course, I have no problem with it at all. I also don't understand when other well-known people develop a paranoia that they could be recognized or harasssed. I always tell them: Yes, you too can take the bus or train. Of course I'm not Roger Federer, it's probably a little different for him. But I think people mostly travel because they want to go somewhere, not because they want to recognize anyone.

Lewis Hamilton once told the NZZ that what he appreciated about his time in Zurich was that he was able to move around in peace most of the time. For me it's the Swiss mentality, which requires more discretion. At the beginning no one knew me anyway because I was way too young. And the country is not necessarily a Formula 1 hotspot since. But even when I was traveling in Scandinavia with my VW bus and family last year, I didn't have any unpleasant encounters.

Bus, VW bus – is that your new pace of life? Yes, my pace has slowed extremely. There are already things that I miss. But that doesn't mean I miss the adrenaline rush from speed. I lived for the moment, the competition. That's what I miss most. As intense and as fast-paced as my old life was, I am sometimes surprised that I can cope with the slowness so well now. Everything adapts to the family’s pace. With children you need and learn patience. I'm more surprised that some people think: once a racing driver, always a racing driver. I never fit into many of the clichés anyway; I rather enjoyed things that were considered boring.

Are you looking for freedom on your camping trips? I not only want to gain freedom, but I also want to pass on the freedom that I had and have to my children. It's different to read about sea creatures in a book than to stand in the North Sea and see the lugworm in real life.

But the extreme tension in motorsport, this total focus, is it so easy to get away from it? It's a process, and it's probably still ongoing for me. Sometimes I miss the tension from the old world. But my days are still full. I still haven't found the time for a lot of the things I wanted to do. The result in sport is everything, and because I come from this very extrinsic world, I can say: I don't have that much to show for it after I left Formula 1.

Can you explain that in a little more detail? This constant evaluation from outside that I had since I was a child has completely disappeared; there are no longer any results lists lists. I have a lot of ideas and I'm doing a lot more things than in all the years before. I wanted exactly this idle time in which I didn't immediately dive into the next full-time job. I thought about quitting for several years. And at some point you can no longer push away the thought of ending your career. I'm busy translation this passion that I lived out in motorsport into another language and finding something new. Neverthertheless, knowing that the new thing may never trigger the same feeling as before.

There are skiers who stop and then start racing cars. When I go skiing, I so almost go. But I don't just shoot to be the fastest, I have more fun with the swings. There are many things I try my hand at. For example, I really enjoy working with wood. I would like to be more perfect at this, and of course I get annoyed when something doesn't work right away. But how can it be, the first time? But your own personality is somehow part of everything.

What is your yardstick for a happy day today? It starts with asking yourself questions: What does happiness mean? What is satisfaction? What do I want to do with my life? That is a very great good.

Do you like being a family person? It was a very conscious decision to start a family back then. At 26, I was very young by today's standards. I remember when our first daughter was born, I read in a brochure at the hospital that babies can sleep up to 20 hours a day. Great, I said to my wife, it's working. Well, we didn't have a brochure child. It took three years for her to sleep through the night.

Did you give up a lot because of motorsport? When you're in the machinery of sport, it just keeps going. I was amazed at how much I was traveling, even though I always spent as much time at home as possible and gave up a lot of things to do so. Now that I actually have more time, other relationships with the children are developing. I can tell a bedtime story every night instead of just twice a week. When we go to museums, I can see how children see the world. I find that really exciting, so because there is a lot of identity in it. On the one hand, your own influence, on the other hand, the influence from outside. It also makes me question myself.

Your identity is that of a champion. Part of the exciting part is the question of what that did to me, how my world was shaped by it. I think I lived it very intensively. And I can well understand if someone wants more and more joy and success and even becomes addicted to it. But I always had a healthy distance from it; my identity didn't depend too much on it.

What caused you to become more interested in the environment than in motorsport? There wasn't a moment when it clicked for me. As you get older, you perceive things differently and more strongly. When we talk about the future in Formula 1, we mean the next season or the season after that. Everything else was very abstract, the future was just a dictionary definition. But hey presto you have children, you want to be there for them and if possible protect them for the rest of their lives. Life happens, this is how a real future is created, the word becomes plastic. And at some point I thought: Stop, something is wrong here. What is actually going on with our world? Isn't there much more important than what has been been important to me so far? I am a very curious person and am quick to ask questions of myself and others. And suddenly a huge world opened up in front of me - with huge problems. Bigger than just the problem of making a racing car faster. I started to become really interested in politics for the first time.

That sounds like a radical change. Starting with the question: What is my life anyway? What is this footprint everyone is talking about? How do you measure it? I did some research and started writing down how I get around. And as soon as I collected data and information, I started to change my life. I stopped flying on a private jet, which used to be common practice due to time constraints and comfort. Lo and behold, it wasn't a problem to stand in line with everyone else at the airport. Twelve hours in the car to Barcelona didn't hurt my race preparation; we actually enjoyed stopping along the way and discovering Avignon, for example. The things I gave up were not freedoms, but habits.

But for many drivers, owning a car means freedom. Most cars are parked 98 percent of the time, so they are more like stationary vehicles than vehicles. But what would would our cities look like if intelligent mobility, e.g. no longer needed parking garages? There wants be radical changes in the cityscape, like when cars replaced horses. I understand that many people are afraid when something changes. But they miss the opportunity to see how much better things could be for them if cities become more livable, safer and cleaner. Don't get me wrong: I'm not one of those people who groans when a car drives past me and immediately feels sick.

Back to our problems: Is e-mobility the solution? I believe it is a solution. It makes sense, especially the efficiency of the drive speaks for it. There is still a lot of movement on the topic, including when it comes to questions about raw materials, disposal and the energy required during production. But the materials for the combustion engine also come from somewhere. The electric car makes perfect sense in cities, and it will play a central role elsewhere too. The range can be planned; very few people get up in the morning and say: Today I want to spontaneously go to Paris and back again. As far as the supposed lack of emotions when driving, I can tell you: Yes, you feel something. I actually don't want to drive anything else, it's so pleasant to drive. There are still challenges, but they can be solved. The question is: what would be the alternative?

They are working on synthetic fuels and are even demonstrating them in Formula 1 racing cars. All of us, individually and as a society, must have found a solution to all the emissions we create because of the way we move, the way we live or what we eat. There are already a lot of options, and it would just be lazy to say: That doesn't work. Synthetic fuels are a bridging technology; hydrogen, with or without combustion engines, or fuel cells can be the solution for heavy transport. We just need to redouble our efforts to move away from the old. There is no silver bullet to solving problems, which we always dreamed of in Formula 1.

You have also invested yourself in a Swiss company that stores carbon dioxide in stone. There are always many exciting approaches. I looked at what the Climeworks company is doing in Iceland; it works very well there due to the geological conditions. If you are interested in something like that, you automatically slide into other subject areas.

Have you ever thought about visiting ETH? It is represented in practically all future fields. I'm still deciding whether and if so, what I should study. After graduating from high school it would have been mechanical engineering, but that would be too dry for me today. Maybe I would rather do something creative, with my hands.

Maybe an apprenticeship instead of studying? I have already taken a few courses in agriculture. I came to the topic through nutrition, which is extremely important for professional athletes. Of course I had heard that organic is better. But what exactly is organic, why is it better, what do they do differently? During Corona I did a small internship on a farm. There is something grounding about it in the best sense of the word. Being a farmer is a great job. And I think it's a shame that he isn't sufficiently appreciated in our society.

How do you feel about Formula 1? Are you even watching anymore? Yes I do. I wanted to try withdrawal at the first Grand Prix after my last race. I actually didn't watch the training, but shortly before qualifying I had to give in and tuned in. I also watched the race. It wasn't as strange a feeling as I had previously thought, watching and no longer sitting in the car. I then saw a few races throughout the year, or at least watched the highlights. Because of course I'm still interested in the sport, even if I'm no longer that close to it. I watch with my wife and usually comment unconsciously. She says it's the first time she's really understood the sport. And if I'm right with a pit strategy, then it'll go down like oil.

Is it still appropriate to watch men driving around in circles for an hour and a half? I'm far too close to say it isn't. I love this sport, it is so multifaceted and full of depth. But I also understand that many things are too complex to be understood in an hour and a half. For me the fascination is still there. But of course I'm not neutral since.

Do you have a favorite that you're keeping your fingers crossed for? Last year belonged to Max Verstappen. Of course some people find it boring, but I think it doesn't give enough respect and recognition to his achievements. I, for one, at the full of admiration. Even for someone like the ski racer Marco Odermatt. It's not that the others are doing something wrong, they really try everything. But Max and Marco do it so much better. They give the sport its shine. That excites me. So because I still know what success feels like.

So no boredom at all? Everyone has their own view of tension. Someone from England recently asked me: “Say, skiing, can you watch it on TV?” I said: “Sure, it’s a great thing here, in Austria and Switzerland it’s the national sport.” He replied: "That's really boring, you're just racing against the clock." I said: 'Yes, but you see in which position someone is driving and this and that. . .» To which he said: “Okay, but they don’t race against each other.”

Are your children actually allowed to watch the Netflix series “Drive to Survive”? You haven't asked for it yet. But I only watched one episode when the series came out. I found it a bit strange because it was so unrealistic. But of course I understand that it has brought a lot of attention and a new audience to motorsport. This is not possible with hours of explanations about how to adjust a damper. On Netflix, viewers feel like they're learning more, partly because there's more drama. But when I feel the need to find out more about the current Formula 1, I don't reach for the remote control, I reach for the telephone.

Formula 1 cannot ignore climate change. I have very strong opinions about what Formula 1 was, what it is and what it can be. Big sports are also big platforms; they can achieve a lot of positive things because they reach so many people. That's why I believe that this brings with it a great responsibility. Formula 1 can no longer avoid the big issues of our time. I still remember what was drilled into us during the media training in the young talent series: don't take a position on the topics of sex, money and politics, don't have an opinion, and ideally don't say anything. Nobody can afford that anymore, especially not an entire sport. There are already issues that Formula 1 has to address.

That would be? The type of vehicle drive is crucial, even if cars only make up a small part of the emissions. But the engine shapes the image. I see this as a huge opportunity for Formula 1 to set a good example instead of just harping on about something old. Otherwise I see a great danger that motorsport will be threatened with extinction in the long term if it continues to involve things that are no longer accepted by society. In Germany this can already be felt to a certain extent; the hype no longer exists. Is that just because no German is winning at the moment, or is the country a little further along in this respect and is dealing with other issues?

Would you be interested in becoming the environmental ambassador for the series? Change has to come from within, skiers are the best example. When I talk to people from the ski circuit, they see how climate change is affecting the racing calendar. In Formula 1, the race in Imola had to be canceled because the soil could no longer absorb the rain and the entire region was flooded. And in Canada only the wind would have had to change and the smoke from the nearby forest fires would have made a race impossible. A lot of money is involved in motorsport. Taking care of certain things costs money, but it has to be included. Last year I carefully started raising awareness myself with a small project to protect insects. The loss of biodiversity is a very serious issue. I also have some ideas for the new season. That's why I'm talking to Formula 1 boss Stefano Domenicali about what can be done.

One last question about career orientation: With Lewis Hamilton's move to Ferrari in 2025, a lot will shift in Formula 1. How close are you to a comeback? I was surprised by this change. Mercedes team boss Toto Wolff didn't call me, but we briefly exchanged text messages. But so far it's not an issue for me, because at 36 I still have all the time in the world. So this doesn't go away. But my signs haven't changed. I think that I have learned and understood a lot in this one year without racing, including about myself. Being on the other side had a big impact on me; a lot of questions came up. So far there is no active project.

Is that a clear no now? No. I already said back then that there wouldn't be clear no in that sense, because I already said back then that there wouldn't't be clear no in that sense, because I believe that everything is a process. And maybe there will come a point at which I say: Yes, I would like to go back. When I sort it out mentally so that it suddenly makes sense again. But at the moment I'm doing very well without driving in Formula 1. There is no firm no, but also no firm yes.

Are you doing something good for yourself today? I'm going for a medical check-up now. This is mandatory if you want to keep your racing license.

[transgamerthoughts]

Abandon All Delusions Of Control

this is another cross-post. which is funny because I've paid for a domain name redirect to my tumblr since like 2016.. i never know what site is gonna explode these days. less people follow me here than anywhere but this write ups been passed around so...

I've been playing Dragon's Dogma 2 and while I'd love to talk about gameplay or interesting moments, the game's found itself something of a cultural lightning rod. It is a game with many friction points arising in a cultural moment where gamers are, perhaps more than ever, convinced that "consumers" are kings.

Dragon's Dogma 2 is not readily "solvable" and you can't min-max it. You will make mistakes. You will be scraped and bruised and scarred. Pain is sometimes the only bridge that can take us wher ewe need to go. And gaming culture, fed the lie of mastery and player importance, does not understand that scars can be beautiful. I love this game. I think it's a miracle it came out at all.

I also think in spite of the success it's found… that 2024 might be the worst possible year for it to have released.

Let's ramble about it..

It's easy to feel like Hideaki Itsuno and his team miscalculated the amount of friction that players are willing to endure and while I don't think that's true (he didn't miscalculate moreso stick to his particular vision) it certainly appears that we've reached a point in gaming where players, glutted on convenience, don't really know what to do when robbed of it. I've heard folks complain that they can't sprint everywhere or else balk learning that ferrystones required for fast travel cost 10,000 gold as if these shatter DD2 into pieces. I'm vaguely sympathetic to these concerns but at the same time they seem to spring entirely from a lack of understanding of the game's design goals. Much like how folks demanding a traditionally structured RPG narrative from an Octopath game misunderstand what that team is trying to do, players asking to sprint through the world or teleport with ease fundamentally misunderstand what Dragon's Dogma wants. The world is not a wrapper for a story. It is the story. Dragon's Dogma is a story factory whose various textures create unprecedented triumphs and memorable failure.

It is crucial to the experience to allow both of those to occur and live with whatever follows.

I'm always cautious of talking like this because it can come off as smug or superior but I think ultimately that's the truth of the matter here. This was not a well-played franchise before now and even if it's a AAA title, there's a way in which this game is meant to elide most AAA open world trends. You are expected to traverse. If you want relatively cheap and faster travel, you're meant to find an oxcart and pay the (quite modest) fee to move between trade hubs much like you would pay for a silt strider in Morrowind. Even if you do this, you could be ambushed on the road and in the worst case the ox pulling the cart can be killed. Something being "possible" in a game doesn't always mean it is intentional but Dragon's Dogma continually undercuts the player's ability to avoid long treks. Portcrystals, which act as fast travel destinations, are limited and ferry stones (while not prohibitively expensive compared to weapons and armor) are juuust expensive enough that you need to consider if the expense is worthwhile. Once is happenstance. Multiple times is a pattern. And the pattern in Dragon's Dogma is to disincentivize easy travel. It screams of intent.

Something I could not have imagined playing games growing up is the ways in which even a decade (or two) could lead to radically different attitudes on what games should provide. That's an audience issue to an extent but it's also something games have brought upon themselves. The "language" of an open world game has been solidified through years climbable towers, mini-map marked caves, and options to zip around worlds. When a game deviates from that language, the change is more noticeable than ever.

Hell, even Elden Ring (perhaps the closest modern relative to Dragon's Dogma) allows you to warp between bonfires and gives you a steed to ride. But that's also a much larger game! DD2 is not a large game and the story is not long. Yes, you can spend untold hours wandering about into nooks and crannies but a trek from one end of the world to another is still significantly shorter than bounding through most open worlds and a run through the critical path reveals a speedy game. Not as speedy as the first but brisk by genre standards.

exploration is the glue that binds the combat and progression system in place. Upgrading armor and weapons requires seeking out specific materials and fighting certain monsters. Gathering the funds for big purchases in shops mostly comes from selling your excess monster parts. The entire game hinges on the idea of long expeditions where you accrue materials and supplies on the road and then invest that horde one way or another once you return to town. It's not simply a matter of mood and tone for you to trek throughout the world without ease. The gameplay loop is built around it.

There's another complicating factor that I'm less interested in diving into and it's the presence of certain microtransactions at launch. Principally I'm against MTX in single players games, particularly conveniences of which most of DD2's microtransactions are. But I also think there's been a fundamental misunderstanding of what many of these are. Among the biggest things I've heard (repeatedly!) is that you can pay real life money for fast travel but that's not true. You can buy a single portcrystal offering you one more potential location to warp to. It's a one-time purchase and the only travel convenience offered. This has transformed, partly because of people's lack of familiarity with Dragon's Dogma's mechanics, into a claim that you can pay over and over to teleport around. I think that assumption reveals more about the general audience than anything else.

I think it is worth entertaining a question: does the existence of this extra port crystal signify a compromising of the game's goals regarding travel? That's not a discussion that folks seem to be interested in having—instead opting for more emotional and reactionary panicking—but it is the most interesting question. On face the answer is yes and that raises the follow up question of whether or not the developers had knowledge this convenience (though one-off) would be offered to players. If so, did that knowledge affect how they designed the game? Even slightly? It seems rather clear to me that these purchases are a publisher decision; there's nothing in the game's design that suggest the dev team wants players to have access to an extra portcrystal. As we've established it's quite the opposite!

They want you to haul your fucking ass around and get jumped by goblins, buddy.

Which is many words to say that as much as I care about microtransactions from a consumer standpoint, the way in which they undermine Dragon's Dogma 2's goals is a fair reminder of the ways in which they hurt developers. Ultimately, I do think that these purchases are ignorable and in that sense (combined with the misinformation surrounding them) I'm a little burned by the consumer-minded discussion. Doubly so because of the way it feels, at least in part, tied into a certain kind of rhetoric that's been on the rise lately. Instead, I find myself drawn to the question of the damage they do the devs and if more onerous plans actually would force their hands into undercutting portions of their own designs. The shift of many series into live-service chasing suggest so but even as I entertain these thoughts I don't get the sense that Itsuno and his team were forced to reshape their game world to encourage these microtransactions. The world is as they want.

If it wasn't, they wouldn't make it so failing to act quickly in a quest to find a missing kid stolen by wolves could end with you being too late. They wouldn't make it so buying goods from an Elven shop without an interpreter was a hassle. It's present in Every Damn Thing!

More interesting to consider is why this particular game became such a lightning rod of passion when I'm going to assume that most people caught up in the discussion have no particular fealty to the series. The answer is a combination of factors but there's something about the genre that ignites the panic we're seeing as much as the culture moment we're in. When people try to explain that these MTX purchases are not needed, it's confused for approval of their inclusion but that's not something we need to grant. I don't think anyone wants these things here and when they say "you don't need them" they are referring to the more complex thought that the game is better played without them. But this is not heard because the idea that you'd want to opt into friction and discomfort is not something that the general audience is likely to understand. They're wired against it. They crave ease.

not everyone, mind you. DD2's enjoyed a lot of excited reactions (there's tons of folks who like this game as it is and are happily playing it) but it has faced plenty of folks railing against "bad" design choices but the fact remains that those "bad" choices were intentional.

I'm writing about this stuff instead of, say, the wild journey I took solving one of the Sphinx's riddles because the immediately interesting thing about Dragon's Dogma 2 has been what it's become as a cultural object. It is a game suffering from success. Never designed for a general audience or modern standards but thrust into their hands due to Capcom's ongoing renaissance. Dragon's Dogma is a fine game whose cult status is well earned but the reason DD2 garnered this attention (and therefore becomes a hot-topic game) has as much to do with Capcom's ongoing success rate as anything else. In some ways, it actually IS a good time to release a game like Dragon's Dogma 2. There's certainly a curiousity in place. Partly borne of goodwill and also from folks' genuine desire to try something new.

and yet, we're in a odd moment in games. consumer rights lanaguge, having been fundamentally misunderstood and reconfigured by gamers as a rhetoric for justifying their purchase habits (I'm paying the money! why can't the game do exactly as I demand!?) has stifled many people's ability to have imaginative interpretations of gameplay mechanics. they don't ask "what is this thing doing as a storytelling device" (which mechanics are!) and rather default to "what is this thing doing to me and my FUN and my TIME". which are not bad questions but they also misunderstand the possibility space games have to offer. While we can attribute some of the objections that has arisen to players' thoughts about genre itself and the way in which Dragon's Dogma positions friction as a key gameplay pillar, the fact of the matter is that we would not be having such spirited discussion about these things in, say, 2017. not that things were great back then, but I think the audience is worse now in many, many ways. sarcastically? I blame Game Design YouTube.

Even if there were no microtransactions, we'd still be having a degree of Discourse thanks to a key game mechanic: Dragonplague. It is a disease that can afflict your Pawn companions which initially causes them to get mouthy and start to disobey orders. If you notice these signs (alongside ominous glowing eyes) then your Pawn has been infected and you're expected to dismiss them back to the Rift where that infection can spread to another player. The game gives a pop up to the player explaining this the first time they encounter the disease. However, some players have ignored that warning and found a dire consequence: an untreated Pawn can, when the player rests at an inn, go on an overnight rampage that kills the majority of NPCs in whatever settlement they are in. This includes plot-important characters. The reaction's been intense. Reddit always sucks but man… just look…

I understand some of the ire. It's a drastic shift from your pawn being a bit ornery to instantly killing an entire city. On the other hand, the game does warn of potentially dire consequences if a Pawn's sickness is ignored. Players have simply underestimated the scale of that consequence. Surely no major RPG would mass murder important characters and break questlines! We're in post Oblivion/Skyrim world. Important NPCs are essential and cannot be killed, right? Well, wrong and this is another way in which Dragon's Dogma chases after the legacy of a game like Morrowind more than than it adapts current open world trends. This is a world where things can break and the developers have decided that they are okay with it breaking in a very drastic way. It's hard to think of anything comparable in a contemporary game. We don't really do this kind of thing anymore.

The result has been panic and a spread of information both helpful and hopelessly speculative. Is your game ruined? Well, maybe. There is an item you can find which allows for mass resurrection but that's gonna require some questing. But some players also say that you can wait a while and the game will eventually reset back to the pre-murder status quo. What's true? Hard to know. Dragon's Dogma doesn't show all of its cards and won't always explain itself. We know entire cities can be killed. We know that individual characters can be revived in the city morgue or else the settlement restored (mostly) with a special item. Dragonplague is detectable and the worst case scenario is, to some extent or another, something that the player can ameliorate. Those are facts but they don't really matter.

That's because players issue (panick? hysteria?) with dragonplague is as much to do with what it represents as what it does. Players are used to the notion of game worlds being spaces where they get to determine every state of affair. They are, as I've suggested before, eager to play the tyrant. Eager to enact whatever violences or charities that might strike their fancy. They do this with the expectation that they will be rewarded for the latter but face no consequences for the former. Dragonplague argues otherwise. No, it says, this world is also one that belongs to the developers and they are more than fine with heaping dire consequences on players. Before the dragonplague's consequences were known, players were running around the world killing NPCs in cities because it would stabilize the framerate. They're fine with mass murder on their own terms. they love it!

This is made more clear when we look at how Dragon's Dogma handles saving the game. While there are autosaves between battles, players are expected to rest at inns to save their game. This costs some gold, which is a hassle, but the bigger "issue" is that they only have one save slot. Which means that save scumming is not entirely feasible though not impossible with a bit of planning. What it does mean, however, is that the game is saved when a dragonplague attack happens. you have to rest at an inn for this to trigger. which saves the game. They cannot roll back the clock. The tragedy becomes a fact. It's not the only time Dragon's Dogma does this. For instance, players can come into possession of a special arrow that can slay anything. When used, the game saves. Much like how players are given a warning about dragonplague, they're warned before using this arrow: don't miss.

If you do? that's a real shame. The depth of this consequence is uncommon in today's gaming landscape. Games are mostly frivolous and save data is the amber from which players suck crystallized potentialities. Don't like what happened? No worries. Slide into your files and find the frozen world which suits your proclivities. You are God. In Dragon's Dogma, you are not god. The threads of prophecy can be severed and you must persist in the doomed world that's been created. The mere suggestion is an affront. The fact that Dragon's Dogma has the stones to commit to the bit in 2024 is essentially a miracle.

It's easy to boil everything I'm saying down to "Dragon's Dogma is not afraid to be rude to the player" but that doesn't capture the spirit of the design. It invites players to go on a hike. It makes no attempt to hide that the hike is difficult. But that's the extent of it. It offers little guidance on the path, doesn't check if you're a skilled enough hiker. Your decision to go on the hike is taken as proof of your acceptance of the fact that you might fall down.

This is not unique to Dragon's Dogma. In fact, this is part of the appeal (philosophically) of a game like Elden Ring. The difference being that even FromSofts much-lauded gamer gauntlets (excepting perhaps Sekiro, conincidentally their best work) offer more ways to adjust and fix the world state to the player's liking. Even the darling of difficulty will offering you a hand when you fall. Dragon's Dogma is not so eager to do so. In a decade where convenience is king for video games, that represents both a keen understanding of its lineages and a shocking affront to accepted norms and expectations.

The core of Dragon's Dogma, the very defining characteristics that earned it cult status, are the same things that have caused these modern tensions. It is both a franchise utterly consistent in its design priorities and entirely out of touch with the modern audience. Dragon's Dogma 2 has come into prominence during a time where imaginative interpretation of mechanics is at an all time low and calls for "consumer" gratification are taken as truisms. It is a game entirely at odds with the YouTube ecosystem and the very things that give it allure are the tools that have turned it into a debated object.

This flashpoint of discussion is proof of Dragon Dogma 2's design potency. It's also a sign of the damage that modern design trends have done to games as whole and the ongoing fallout that's come from gamers learning design concepts without really understanding what designing a game entails. And, uh… I dunno respond to that or how to end this. That's both very cool but it also bums me out. Dragon's Dogma 2 is a remarkably confident game but games are long beyond the point of admiring a thing for being honest.

[ekwolfwriter-blog]

WIP Zutara Month Challenge: Scarf!

Finally! I can Finally share something that I have been holding off for a while!

Ever since the Live action (Be it good or bad or however you see it, I personally thought it was good and need to talk about it more, but any who~), I - like any other Zutara fan - fell in love with the scarf scene. I watched clips of it and it just just hits in the feels!

But... for the praise of it, I do personally feel like it could have been a bit longer or fleshed out, at least with the scarf and the moment that they met. I honestly thought there was a scene cut because in one scene Katara is facing one way, Zuko is right behind her, but then she is directly facing him. So I am fairly certainly something was cut, but that is okay.

Because if gave me this snippet! Enjoy!

Katara in her hurry to find Jet to get answers left her both on high alert but open to any prying eyes. Eyes that seem to recognize her from anywhere in his travels.

Zuko saw her from afar and can tell she is in a hurry. Maybe to find something for the Avatar. He needed to follow her. He pulled his own scarf over his nose to keep his face from being discovered by her. He knows she will recognize him otherwise.

~~

Katara glanced around for any signs of Jet in the crowd, bobbing and weaving like she was ice dodging in the south again. Dodging people was no different. That was until a cabbage cart cut her off. She staggered a moment as she bumped into a stranger that she did not expect to be there. A tall, strong stranger from what she can tell. A male from his hands that braced her fall. And he was warm, extremely warm.

Katara is quick to pull away from the stranger that surprised her and looked up at him. He was wearing light colored browns and white fabric would not draw attention normally. However, everything except for the right side of his face was covered. As if to hide something but his right eye was still visible.

Enough for Katara to notice the color of his golden eye.

They shimmered like the sun on the water at sun rise. Or as she noticed in the real world, gold that had melted in a pool of flames. They looked at her softly before pulling away and adjusting herself, trying to look anywhere but his eye. “Sorry,” she managed to say. “I am not used to big cities.”

Zuko wanted to say something. He could feel his words on the tip of his tongue, demanding to know where the Avatar was and that she would take him to him. But his mind was stuck on how blue her eyes were. And how soft she was in his arms, and the chill of the south did not seem to leave her after being miles from her home. She seemed anxious; the crowds seemed to put her on edge.

Zuko recalled their village in the south, and how much smaller it was from this city. He understood better than anyone how scary and nerve wracking it could be to miles away from home and yet developed the sense of how to navigate the city. He needed to say something but when her eyes returned to him, staring right into his soul for some reason that he lost his ability to think clearly.  

He opened his mouth and finally said: “It’s nothing. Just be careful.” His voice was lower than usual and muffled to keep her from hearing his voice, and a low rasp of his voice came through the fabric on his face.

Katara blinked as she heard this stranger speak, and a chill ran down her spine. She wanted to say something else, but she suddenly saw Jet with Smeller Bee. She looked at him and nodded curtly before excusing herself to hurry after them.

Suddenly, Zuko’s mind finally caught up as he realized he was going to lose the waterbender and his clue to the Avatar. He reached for her but missed her arm. He had the scarf in his grasp, but he is not cruel to use a scarf to choke someone. But something else happened.

As he had the scarf fly from his fingers, one of the strands caught on his nail and arm brace before it freed itself from the tug of her pulling it close. In that second of it caught on him, Zuko could feel a shiver down his spine. He paused as he looked at his finger, the pinkie finger specifically, and felt some kind of lingering tug in his nerves. His breath stuck in his throat.

Zuko gripped his hand before he pushed down that confusing rush that sent his heart and mind a blaze to continue his mission to follow her. Ignoring the raging fire in his heart.

~

 Zuko managed to find Katara talking with some bushy haired mess of a man, lanky, but still has some muscle on him. Certain a heart throb for anyone, Zuko will admit to himself as he could see why she was in a rush if she was trying to meet him. He wondered if they were about to meet for a date, feeling jealous for some reason.

However, that idea was dismissed as their voices and body language looked like they were arguing about something. Zuko wanted to inch closer to hear but he knew he would be seen easily. It did not stop the raging urge in his blood to get that man to back away from her. He could see she was tensing up at his remarks and looked ready to cry but determined not to as she threw the scarf down and hurried away. The man looked at it a second before reaching to grab it before the second person with him urged him to hurry, making him forget about the scarf.

Zuko knew he needed to follow Katara, but he could not leave her scarf behind for some reason. He managed to see where she was going and when the two other people left, he quickly grabbed her scarf and stuffed it in his vest. Not sure why he had the urge to do it, but maybe it would prove to be useful for him.

~~

Challenging the Avatar in the Earth Kingdom’s territory was definitely not Zuko’s brightest idea. But he definitely regrets it as he saw his uncle basically surrendered himself to let Zuko escape. He knew uncle could take care of himself normally, but to he surrounded by the guards like he did, Uncle Iroh was good as captured and would be sent to the dungeon. Zuko cursed under his breath as he realized he had to find a way to save his uncle. Even if it meant losing his chance to capture Avatar, he would not lose his uncle.

He hurried through the crowd and tried to find anything to hide his face in case any of them saw he was the true culprit. Suddenly he reached into his vest and found the scarf that the waterbender had before. He looked at it a second, standing still a moment as he looked at it more. Out of all the things that could have fallen out of his vest or on his person, this should have been it. But it was not.

It stayed for some reason. This blue scarf stayed and Zuko was not sure what to make of it or why in the deepest part of his heart that this made him happy that it stayed. Lapis blue eyes flash in his mind as he looks at the scarf and seeing how worried she was. Zuko wondered if she was okay in all of this or if she might have gotten captured by the Earth Kingdom too.

However, he did not have time to think as the crowd kept pushing and people were starting to notice him standing. He huffed and began to wrap it around his head and face, hoping it would help him keep a low profile. But in Zuko’s heart, he cannot stop the beating of the fact this scarf stayed with him making him wonder if this was fate or just dumb luck. And hoped some of that would help him save his uncle.

Hope you enjoyed and more snippets to come!

[mangoisms]

i'll be the dangerous ledge (you be the parachute)

━ chapter three: like the world makes sense | read chapter one | read chapter two

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ word count: 5.3k

━ warnings: mentions of explosion, injury, and death (within the usual canon-typical violence parameters)

━ masterlist

You and Tim continue to hang out. 

Through the week, after school lets out, you are often too tired to go and do anything, but this suits Tim fine as the two of you continue to think of movies you like that the other has not seen. 

You make him watch Mamma Mia, which he says is ‘okay’ but you think he likes more than he wants to let on. You do what he wants, too, and terribly dated as it is, The Devil Wears Prada is certainly fun enough. 

Every time you see him, you learn something new about him. His favorite color is blue. He used to play tennis when he was younger but not anymore. He also used to like photography, but he doesn’t do it much these days. Not because he stopped liking it. He doesn’t say that but you can tell. 

You wonder about that, about the things he used to do but no longer does. What does he do now, then? You ask him that, and he says he helps out with WE, with their R&D department, with IT, or wherever they want him. Not always but most of the time. 

He doesn’t talk about his parents and he doesn’t talk about Bruce Wayne or his adopted siblings. He’ll talk about Alfred, the butler (not the cat), who was also the one to do his laundry. 

You don’t mind. You’re more interested in him, in what makes Tim Tim. And on a lighter note, while you admit to having expected him to be a poor cook, he is actually decent. 

“I’m only good at breakfast foods,” he admits to you one evening, having commandeered your kitchen to make breakfast for dinner. “And pasta. I can do pasta. But mostly breakfast.”

Better than most rich boys, you think. 

You tell him about yourself, too. How you came here because tuition at Gotham University is dirt-cheap, largely because of the city in which it resides in, but the programs are still good. Good enough for what you wanted — public education with a small dash of child psychology. You worked at one of the elementary schools for two years before landing a job at Gotham Pointe. 

“Will you ever leave?” he asks one day, the two of you eating ice cream and watching Zathura. His pick today. “Most do.”

You swirl your Oreo ice cream, the ceramic bowl cold against your palm. 

It’s a good question. One your family wonders. 

You got the degree. You got the experience, too. And experience in Gotham is gold everywhere else because if you can withstand the kids here, you can handle them anywhere. 

With the fine print being that Gotham kids are what? Uncontrollable troublesome kids who will inevitably turn into criminals? Inherently evil? Your kids can annoy the hell out of you on a bad day but they’re your kids. They talk to you, they tell you about their lives, about what they like and don’t like, and they listen to your stories, too, and they show you that while others think living in Gotham is like living in some kind of barren wasteland… there is hope. So easily within reach. 

If Gotham was as bad as people tried to make it out to be, no one would be here. 

“I don’t think so,” you eventually say, looking at him with a small smile. “I like my job too much to leave. I like living here, too. And the company isn’t so bad, either.”

Tim smiles when you say that. “I would miss you.”

And what a thing to say. What a thing for you to have the privilege of. That someone, not just your kids or Ms. C, would miss you and your presence. 

Well, you think. You would miss him, too. Maybe more than you would like to admit. 

Friends. 

Still hard to quantify or believe. 

The city starts to ease into something like spring as mid-March creeps on you. Mornings and nights are still frosty but your breath no longer comes out white and you don’t have to watch out for patches of ice. The time in between is even more comfortable, allowing you to be outside mid-day without a jacket. You’re still in a long-sleeve but it’s a win in your book. 

You and Tim keep spending time together. He learns, with the onset of March, that you like baseball and used to play softball when you were a teenager. Semi-seriously, too. 

Gotham has its own major league baseball team, too — the Knights. It shares the name with your football team. 

The baseball team isn’t any good, but that’s fine with you. Tim prefers their football team, which has the best track record out of all of them. 

So, with that, Tim surprises you with tickets to their Opening Day on the last day of March. Well, the tickets are from one of WE’s partners, trying to suck up to him, he says, but it doesn’t matter that much to you since he didn’t technically pay for it. 

However, there is something to be said about the buyer’s wealth. 

“Look, I’m genuinely not trying to be picky or ungrateful but where, exactly, are the seats?”

“It’s not the Diamond Club, relax.”

“Okay, thank god.”

That would be too much. Mostly because of the notoriety around the seats themselves. Plus, with them being right behind home plate, your faces would most likely be caught on TV and that would be… a mess. 

No, the seats are in the second row in front of the Knights’ dugout. Still excellent but not the Diamond Club, thankfully. 

Tim comes dressed in jeans, a forest green long sleeve that meshes well with his pale skin and dark hair, and a nondescript ballcap. 

“Just a precaution,” he tells you. 

But upon arriving at the Knights Stadium up in Otisburg, you book it for the nearest merch stall and grab two black Knights caps — modeled like the iconic LA Dodgers and NY Yankees emblem except with GK — and shove one into his hands while putting yours on backwards. He acquiesces you with a smile and then leads you to concessions, happy to foot the bill, with you happy to let him do it, too. 

(Drinks and food are far too expensive for a team that loses more games than it wins. Seriously.)

But like the universe is looking out for you (and the Knights and all of Gotham, really), the Gotham Knights win their Opening Day match against the New York Mets. The first time they’ve ever won an Opening Day game, actually. 

Even Tim feels some pride, which is why, you think, after the game, he lets you drag him off to take a picture with the Gotham Knights’ mascot, King Arthur. One of his handlers takes the picture with Tim’s phone. 

“Hey,” he says, scrutinizing Tim’s face even as he casually adjusts the bill, pulling it lower over his face. “You seem familiar. Do I know you?”

You panic, because this hasn’t ever happened to you two before, what with how you two mostly spend time inside, but you know you shouldn’t be surprised. Tim is careful to make himself as boring as possible to the tabloids. Even while grocery shopping earlier in February, he had a cap on and made sure to blend in as much as he could. 

So, of course, Tim is the one to get out of it. 

He looks at you, mock confused, and says something equally as befuddling in… Russian? 

You match his look, raising your shoulders, and the handler decides this is not a situation he wants to be in as he shoves the phone into your hands and waves his own, enunciating, “Never mind. Never mind. It’s nothing.”

You and Tim leave them, making sure to look as confused as a pair of Russian tourists with not a lick of English would. It’s only when you are home free of King Arthur and his handler do the two of you break down into a mess of giggles.

“What did you say?” you giggle, nearly stumbling over the curb. 

“I said, My publicist is going to kill me.”

You laugh all the way to his car and then on the ride home, too. 

(“You know Russian?” you ask at one point, finally realizing that. 

“Some,” he says, and you learn he knows a handful of languages like Russian, French, Spanish (the stuffy kind, though). 

It’s cool, though he admits it’s from tutoring he had, so you have to make fun of those rich boy tendencies again.)

It’s one of the best days you have in a while. 

But you find most of your days shape up to be like that. 

Even long ones where the kids refuse to listen to you and lesson plans are thrown way off course. Tim will leave you to it if you need the space but other times, he’ll come over, make breakfast for dinner, and you two will watch some Ice Age and you go to bed in a much better mood. 

And while you and Tim continue to hang out, your brother remains in awe of that fact, too. 

He has some preconceived notions about who, exactly, Tim Drake is but you shut those down quickly. You know why he thinks like that and it would be a lie to say you didn’t think like that, either, but people are so much more different than they portray themselves. Especially ones like him. 

Your brother understands, then, and is happy for you. 

Not without a few well-placed jokes, of course. 

You should steal his debit card info

i’m not stealing his debit card info

Dude he’s a millionaire it’s like his civic duty to society 

Which is fair and you’ve certainly made that joke in regards to… some of the wealthier figures in Gotham before. (You flush thinking about your college friends’ jokes about being Bruce Wayne’s sugar baby. Tim will never find out about that as long as you live, thank you very much.)

Even Tim starts to foot the bill if you get takeout or something. And he says exactly that. 

“It’s my civic duty,” he manages to say to you with a completely straight face. (Which is funny because he’s also apparently not straight, much like you.) 

But it is true that Tim is decidedly well-off. Most of Bruce Wayne’s children are. 

You carefully prod Ms. C and the other teachers and aides about information on them, because the internet can only tell you so much.

They rehash most of the info about Tim you already knew — the drama when he was seventeen with the CEO thing, the engagement thing, and the attempted assassination thing. (So many things.)

Tim is the only middle child, though, out of five.

The eldest of them is Dick Grayson, taken into Bruce Wayne’s care after his parents died. He doesn’t live in Gotham, though. New York, you think, is where he currently resides. Then there is Jason Todd, who is a bit of an odd case, because he ‘died’ when he was fifteen then came back when he was older, but the real story is that Bruce Wayne was, apparently, in so much grief at the thought that he misidentified the body in Ethiopia, meanwhile Jason Todd was still alive but kidnapped. He would be until he escaped and came back to Gotham at nineteen. You have faint memories of that media hellstorm from college but these days, they don’t focus on him much. 

Cassandra Wayne, the most shrouded in mystery out of all of them; a cryptic figure that paparazzi only manage to capture every six months. She shows up for the occasional charity gala but most can’t actually find or talk to her. The only trace of her existence is other people saying they saw her. 

After her, there is Tim, and then there is Damian Wayne, the youngest of them. A teenager now and a model student at Gotham Academy. The one that economic magazines and tabloids say will one day take over Wayne Enterprises. Damian is also the only of them not adopted. He is, much to Gotham’s collective shock, Bruce Wayne’s biological son. You idly wonder about his mother, though, since he does have black hair like his father, but the brown tone of his skin and hazel green eyes sets him apart from his father’s obviously white ancestry. 

And well, there is Bruce Wayne, too. 

Starting to go grey, he is less of a playboy these days and more of a fatherly figure. Apparently, he’s on the Parent-Teacher Association for Gotham Academy. It’s an amusing thought. 

(It still doesn’t mean the Gotham populace isn’t drooling about him. If anything, the fatherly vibes seem to do something for, ah, certain cohorts. You did at once think he was attractive — really — but after knowing Tim… it just feels a bit odd.)

You are certain your prods for info go unnoticed. And they do. It is… something else that gets Ms. C’s attention. 

“You seem more happy these days,” she says offhandedly one morning, the two of you preparing the assignments for the day, as well as the tests the kids had taken last week that are now ready to be handed back. 

“I have a new friend,” you decide to say, because it shouldn’t hurt. 

She nods distractedly. “That’s nice. You did seem a bit lonely before.”

Which is funny because she never let on about it. And also because it’s so direct, you don’t know what to say.

“Nothing wrong with it,” she says after a minute. “I like to be alone. But there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely, isn’t there?”

“I suppose so.”

“It’s good, then, that you have someone now.”

“He’s just a friend,” you chuckle, scratching your cheek awkwardly. 

“I didn’t say he wasn’t,” she says, finally looking at you, amusement twinkling in her hazel eyes. 

“Right.”

“Well… good for you.”

“Thanks.” You smile at her and mean it. 

It is good for you. 

Really good for you. 

Which is why, you suppose, things take a sharp downturn one Thursday evening. 

Truthfully, you have no idea how you made it back to Rose Oaks. 

Your fingers shake as you try to lock your bike to the rack. It takes you a couple tries to get the lock into place. 

You straighten, your body aching as you do, and you limp through the entrance. The doorman does a double-take at the sight of you. 

“Have a good night,” you mumble to him, going over to the elevators. You press the button. Your eyes catch the shredded skin on your arm, red and raw. You let your hand drop. 

It happened too quickly for you to do anything. 

All you know is you’d been biking down Cameron, the sun setting, others starting to make their way home for the day, then there was a boom that rattled the street and buildings and people panicked, because this is Gotham and any unusual activity is dangerous activity and you don’t stick around to play the hero, and if people start running, you start running, too. Doesn’t matter if you don’t know what’s happening, just do it, because it could be the difference between life and death in a world like this. 

You know all of this. 

But you never stood a chance against the rush. 

You barely managed to scrape yourself off the ground, grab your bike, and break free, trying not to think about how you very well could’ve been stampeded to death and that’s not a very fun or dignifying death at all, is it? But it’s Gotham. Death is not fun or dignifying here. It’s miserable and painful and a cautionary tale to those that live to see the next day, just another addition to the fine print of living in this city. 

Ding. The doors open. You step in. Your legs feel weak. 

“Hold the door!”

Your hand shoots to the panel, holding down the open doors button. Someone rushes in in the next second. 

“Hey, thanks for that —” the polite gratitude is swapped out for frantic concern in the next second, your name wrapped up in it. 

You blink and find Tim in front of you, eyes wide in concern, hands hovering over you, as if afraid to touch you. It confuses you, because it’s not like you’ve ever shied away from him. If anything, you’re horribly, horribly touch-starved. If he let you, you’d be plastered to his side twenty-four-seven. Or, not twenty-four-seven, but you know. When you two are watching a movie or a TV show and he lets you throw your legs over his lap, you have to be really normal about how he rests his hands on your legs. 

(He isn’t even doing anything, it’s just the pressure, the touch, that makes you want to sidle up beside him and never let go.)

Oh. Where did that come from?

He says your name again and you shake your head. 

“What?” 

“You can let the doors close,” he says softly and you turn and realize you are still pressing the button. 

You let it go. 

The doors close. 

You hadn’t pressed your floor, though, so he does it for you. The elevator starts moving in the next second. 

Tim looks carefully at you, concern still clear on his face. 

“What happened?” he asks gently. 

“I… I got knocked off my bike. It — it was an accident. People were just… panicking. There was…” Your chest tightens, until every breath feels like a struggle and why are you so cold? “An… an explosion. I… I don’t know.”

He realizes something. “Off Cameron?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can I —?” He gestures to your arm. 

Strange to ask. Unsettling in a way. 

“You… you don’t need to ask.” 

He softens at your response and his hand finds your left one, turning your hand up, where your palm is a little scraped up from your spill. Your forearm is worse off, road rash peeling the skin off, exposed and throbbing. 

Tim’s fingers are warm against your cool skin, his hands calloused but still soft. 

“I’m fine,” you say, though you aren’t sure why.

He looks up at you, the look in his eyes… You have to look away, shaking your head. 

“I’m fine,” you say again.

“You’re hurt,” he counters gently. “Let me take care of this. Do you have a first aid kit?”

“It’s old. I don’t… Haven’t used it since I got it a few years ago.”

“Then why don’t we go to my place so we can grab mine?”

“Okay.”

He turns to the panel to press the button for the fifteenth floor. 

The elevator pauses at the fourteenth floor but you two stay on. 

Tim’s hand holds onto yours, gently, avoiding the scraped skin of your palm. He leads you out, to his apartment. His is bigger, better, than yours. But it just feels more empty when you come inside. Alien in a way you don’t like. You’ve spent a lot of time here but you want your apartment, with the crabitat, your fridge with drawings from the kids, your messy coffee table with tests and assignments that need to be graded, your sometimes clumsily-made pottery pieces on display. 

He can tell, you think. Because he lets go of your hand at the door and moves quickly, murmuring for you to give him a second. 

He disappears down the hall. Your feet ache from work and your knee and thigh aches from the road rash you sustained there, too, the material of your slacks torn. Because it’s already April and the days are growing warm, you’re in a short-sleeved blouse, which accounts for the scrapes on your arms. 

More than that, you want nothing more than to lie down and sleep for the next week. 

But no… You have work tomorrow. The thought burns through you, frustration and exhaustion sparking hot in your chest. Your eyes sting and you close them, swallowing down the emotion. 

It’s fine. It’s fine. You can handle it. 

You will. 

Tim returns, then, first aid kit in hand. He pauses for a second, gazing at you, and you turn away first, opening the door. He follows you. 

You take the elevator back down. 

Soon, you’re stepping into your apartment. The light in the crabitat is the only thing on, glowing in the darkness like a lighthouse on the shore guiding you home. Something inside you unwinds. 

Tim turns on the light. You take off your shoes and drop your backpack near the coffee table. 

“Take a shower,” he suggests. “Then I’ll patch you up. I’ll be in here, okay? Want me to feed the boys, too?”

You blink, starting to return to yourself. “I… Yeah. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“What is it today? Fresh or canned?” 

You blink. “How do you…”

Tim cracks a smile. “I’ve seen you do it a bunch of times, the way you alternate. But I’ve also done my own research. I was curious.”

“Right… um, canned today. They had fresh food yesterday.” You pause, starting to feel this strange creeping feeling inside your chest. You don’t like it, so you try to push it away. “Thanks, Tim.”

His face softens. “Of course.”

You head for your bedroom while he heads for the crabitat. 

You pull out a fresh change of clothes, a pair of white linen shorts, heeding your scraped up knee and thigh, then an old high school softball t-shirt. 

You have a door to the bathroom in your room, then another door from the living room. You lock both and turn on the shower. 

Inside, you finally get a look at yourself. Your breathing stutters as you understand why the doorman was concerned, then why Tim was — is — too. Your cream-colored slacks are smudged with dirt and a few tire tracks from your bike when you fell. The fabric at the knee is torn, too, edges turned red from the blood. More fabric at the side of your thigh is torn, skin scraped and raw. Your pale blue blouse is in a similar state. Your arms are scraped up, rubbed raw from the sidewalk. 

You look like a mess. 

Hot humiliation bubbles inside you, along with fresh terror as you replay what happened inside your head. 

Your eyes burn as you strip. Your scrapes burn even more when you step into the shower, the hot water making them throb, and you finally let your tears fall. 

You work to keep your cries silent, though, wary of how noise echoes inside the shower. You don’t want Tim to know. You don’t want him to worry more than he already is. 

It takes a while for you to piece yourself back together, but after washing your hair and body with your familiar smelling shampoo and soap, you manage to do it. Your injuries ache, though, especially when the towel brushes against them as you dry off. 

Soon, you are reluctantly stepping out of your bedroom and into the living room. 

The TV is on, playing season one of Spongebob. Tim, in the kitchen at the stove, turns, smile flitting across his lips. 

“Hey, you’re just in time. I hope you didn’t mind me using the kitchen but I figured you hadn’t eaten dinner yet.”

Something spasms inside your chest. 

You shake your head. 

“Take a seat,” he says. “I’ll bring it over.”

You go to him. 

He doesn’t say anything, ladling tomato soup into a bowl cushioned by a potholder. A grilled cheese sandwich sits on a plate on the counter. You pick up the plate, then take the bowl and a spoon as well. 

“Water?”

You nod and seeing as you no longer have the hands for it, decide to just let him do it and head over to the couch. Your knee protests as you sit down. Your whole body protests, actually. 

Tim brings a glass of water for you, along with a bottle of Tylenol, then sits down. 

“You should eat, too,” you say.

“I can eat after.”

“Tim —”

He says your name. You stop. He grabs the first aid kit. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

But you do worry about it. You worry about this, about him making you food, about him putting off his own meal to take care of you, about him taking care of you. 

In that moment, you feel terribly, terribly burdensome. 

He inspects your hands first so you can eat and deems the scrapes not bad enough to cover, then moves to your leg. 

You sip your tomato soup and take bites of the grilled cheese, oddly famished. 

“It’s the adrenaline,” he says. You imagine you must’ve looked confused at your own hunger for him to say something. 

“Huh?”

“The adrenaline,” he says again. “Coming down from it, you get hungry. And tired.”

You have fuzzy memories of your psych classes. That is true. Also probably why you are still cold. 

How does he know that, though?

At your question, he shrugs. “You know how much time I have to myself. I have to do something to occupy it.”

“Maybe you can take up knitting.”

“Nah, I already know how to sew.”

“So, you know how to sew but not do your own laundry?”

He flashes a smile at you. “Exactly.”

You laugh despite yourself. 

His smile softens, then he looks back to your knee, grabbing a piece of gauze. 

“Aren’t you going to disinfect it?”

“Rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide aren’t great for cleaning cuts, actually. It kills the bacteria but it kills the normal cells, too. You need those to heal. Did you wash it well during the shower?”

You nod. 

“So, that works, and we can do something else, too.” 

He pushes up from the couch, heading over to the kitchen, riffling through your cabinets. You turn your eyes back to the TV and take a drink of your water. Your fingers itch to change it to the news, to see what happened, to see if there were casualties. 

But Tim returns before you can grab the remote. 

He has a bowl of soapy water in hand, setting it carefully on the coffee table, then sitting next to you again. 

“This might sting,” he warns, dipping one of the pieces of gauze in the water then gently dabbing the edges of the scrape. 

It does sting but not as bad as the alcohol might’ve. 

“So, how do you know this stuff?” you ask quietly. 

“I was clumsy as a kid.”

You wonder if that clumsiness has much to do with the scars you’ve seen on him. Some on his knuckles, on his arms. He sports fresher ones sometimes. The shadow of a bruise hidden under the hair that falls sharply over his forehead, the occasional cut. He always blames it on his clumsiness and you have no choice but to believe him. What other option is there? He isn’t dating anyone that could be doing that and he hangs out with his friends and siblings sometimes but they wouldn’t do things like that. 

Well. You don’t actually know them. But… still. 

He finishes cleaning the edges of the scrape, then he applies a little bit of Neosporin and tapes gauze over it. He does the same with the one on the side of your thigh. 

Tim works attentively, not even sparing a glance at the TV once. You should know by now, the way he dedicates himself to things like this, how he will listen to you talk about something to do with school or with the crabs or with a movie or TV show. Every iota of his attention and concentration is on you. It flusters you sometimes, to be paid so much attention, but you would be lying if you said you hated it. 

Now, with him turning that familiar concentration to taking care of you… you don’t know. 

He has to have better things to do than doing this. 

“Are you going to work tomorrow?” he asks, gently taping a piece of gauze over the scrape on your arm. 

“Most likely.”

He nods wordlessly in acknowledgement and moves back, leaning forward to collect the used pieces of gauze and trash from the tape. 

You chew at the inside of your cheek. “It’ll be fine. It’s… it’s fine.”

“Just don’t strain yourself,” he says gently. “Did you want a ride? I don’t —”

“No.”

An awkward silence follows your abrupt denial. You don’t miss the flash of hurt on his face. It stabs you right in the heart. You look away. 

“I mean, thank you, Tim, but, um, it’s okay. I’m fine. You don’t have to do that. I get up pretty early in the mornings and… Yeah.”

You stand, your knee — your body, really — protesting but you ignore it, stacking your plate and bowl, then grabbing your empty cup. 

“You didn’t have to do all of this,” you continue, dropping them into the sink. “And I appreciate it, really. Thank you. But you don’t have to do any more. So, if you have… other things to do. You know. Go ahead.”

“I have nothing else to do,” he says, surprising you as he appears by your elbow, throwing away the trash from the gauze and the tape. The look on his face is hard to describe. Caught between some cross of disappointment and determination. A part of you shrinks at it. At the thought of disappointing him. 

“Let me wash it,” he says, stopping you before you can turn on the faucet. “Give your hands a break. Give yourself a break, okay?”

Some part of you wants to fight it. Wants to say he should try that, too. As if you don’t see how tired he looks sometimes, staying up late to do reports for WE. For whatever reason, he’s working more with them. A few weeks ago, he had to fly to New York. Something about R&D. He returned exhausted from the trip. 

But you clamp the impulse. That’s not necessary. It’s not about him. It’s about you. This is… It’s unnecessarily difficult to let yourself be taken care of right now. You have an inkling as to why but the energy needed for that kind of introspection is lost on you. So, you let him take care of the dishes and slink back to the couch, slouching into the cushions, feeling exhaustion tug persistently at you. 

Yawning, you pull the blanket hanging over the back of the couch onto your body. The Tylenol you took before has already kicked in and with your hunger satiated and your pains taken care of for the most part, you are ready to go to sleep for the rest of the night. 

You fight the impulse, though, sparing a glance at the kitchen. 

“Tim.”

“Yeah?”

“You better eat.”

He laughs and your chest warms at the sound. 

“Alright,” he says, tossing a smile over his shoulder at you. “I’ll eat.”

You nod and turn back to the TV, picking up the remote and switching to the local news channel. 

The poised voice of the GNN news anchor replaces the Spongebob theme song. 

Tim pauses in turning on the stove.

“An incident in the Upper West Side tonight, a laundromat off Cameron Avenue went up in flames after a dryer exploded. Miraculously, there were no casualties inside the laundromat, however, the explosion caused much panic on the streets, resulting in at least one person dead from the rush and many others injured. No doubt, people believed it to be some kind of attack, especially with the recent news that the Joker has broken out of Arkham again and police have been unable to track him down —”

You change it back to Spongebob. 

A laundromat. 

Just a laundromat. 

No real danger. No threat of death. 

All this… because of the collective anxiety Gothamites hold. You aren’t holding it against them, you’re just…

Tired. Exhausted. That’s what this city does sometimes.

A lot of the time.

You swallow past the uncomfortable tightness in your throat, close your eyes, and let yourself be whisked to sleep, where things are easier, simpler, and you can just… forget. If only for a little while. 

━ end notes

1. it was brief but i largely prefer the thought that gotham is not as evil or horrible as people like to make it, or better yet, that the city does stink but people still stay there and they still try to be kind in spite of a horribly corrupt government that is in fact the root of almost all the problems. it's really just the sociologist in me (seriously, that's my minor!)

2. reader briefly mentioned the diamond club, which are typically the seats directly behind home plate and they are crazy expensive. here is the seattle mariners' diamond club prices for reference

3. technically, in canon, i don't believe the knights' have ever mentioned a mascot and what kind. i also admittedly did indulge in letting both the baseball and football team be called the knights but let's ignore that. anyway, i made up the king arthur mascot thing on the fly. couldn't think of anything else knight-related that would work, other than an actual knight. for mlb teams, it isn't always on the nose. like the seattle mariners' mascot is the mariner moose. so, that's why i went with king arthur.

4. dick is not living in gotham or bludhaven anymore and instead in new york because i think he deserves a little (a lot) of space from bruce for his own peace of mind and um general mental health

5. also yeah jason is alive to the public here. i know that is the same in rebirth (i think) but i don't know the details, so if the story behind that is different, that's why, because i also made it up. but it is slightly inspired by this fantastic au on if talia brought jason home after restoring his mind with the lazarus pit, seriously read this, the characterizations are so fantastic; also it's important to me that you all know i am the number one talia truther ever and that shit about him sleeping with her in lost days is blocked from my mind.

ANYWAY. continuing point number five. i have too many thoughts on jason. in my mind and in this, i've changed a lot but that won't Actually be discussed here. there isn't much batfam interaction at all other than these mentions. steph, cass, and duke do appear towards the end (as well as some very very brief appearances by cassie, kon, and bart) but that's really it. it's not very batfam-centric at all, it's more centered around tim and reader.

6. and this is my last one i SWEAR i know the order in which the kids were mentioned in reader's narration was dick, jason, cass, tim, and damian, but if we were going by ages, it's dick, cass, jason, tim, and damian. it is again important to me that cass is a few months older than jason for no reason in particular other than i think it would annoy him and please her.

reblogs are appreciated!

[playandchill]

hehe its gna take me a bit to answer ur dialogue ask so in the meantime >:D - what would Kor's dialogue lines be for receiving gifts? (loved, liked, neutral, disliked, hated) and her dialogue for play date actions? (dining, chatting by the oasis, fireworks etc - ur choice!! ♡)

It's alright, take your time

ALSO THANK YOUUUU

Gifts

Loved:

Gifted Camera:

* Are you sure? It's not everyday you can find a camera. Well if that's the case, then i am definitely over the moon now! Among all the things the Old World left us, i am glad cameras are one of them. I can't wait to test it out. By the way, you should join me. It's only fair to share these moments of joy with you.

Liked:

Gifted Raspberry:

* They look so tasty! Nowadays, I don't get to enjoy them as much as i would love to. So thank you. ...Ah! What do you think about raspberry jam?

Neutral:

* A gift? Oh. Thank you for thinking of me. I appreciate it.

Disliked:

Gifted tomatoes:

* You've got quite the harvest... Sorry, I am not keen on tomatoes. Do you mind if i share these? I am afraid they'll go bad before i get to them.

Hated:

Gifted firearm:

* ..!?! Sorry, but... These things are too dangerous. I can't handle them. It would be better for everyone if you give it to Justice. Um... I should go now, bye.

~~~~~~

Start of a play date:

* Lead the way. Whatever you choose, we'll make every moment count.

Asked about the past:

* It might sound surprising, but i lived half of my life in Walnut Groove. We stayed with my uncle and aunt. I was always fascinated by their job. Imagine living with people who decipher and analyze texts from the Old World. You would expect someone like them to be in Atara or Vega 5, but their love for theatre is too great to be anywhere else.

* My uncle and aunt possess a big collection of literature from the Old World. Most of it consists of stories about death and other heavy themes. How do i know that? They made me read more than half of their library.

Can you believe that the first book they gave me was about a deaf-mute slave who had to drown his dog, his only friend, because of his master's whims. The story was heart-wrenching, but... strangely comforting at the time.

Sand drawing:

*You want to draw with me? Usually, i would say it's a very bad idea, but since it's just sand...

Drawing successful:

* It turned out better than i thought. Soon enough, it will be just a memory for us two and those who were lucky enough to see it before wind does.

Drawing unsuccessful:

* We certainly... poured our hearts into it. What now? Out of sight, out of mind as they say...

[greatwyrmgold]

The other day, I started thinking about what Devil Fruits the Undersiders might like, followed by what parahuman abilities the Straw Hats might want. So I decided to formalize my thoughts into a proper post.

For the sake of simplicity, I'm limiting it to the core Undersiders' powers and the Straw Hats' Devil Fruits. Also a couple of non-DF-users' abilities, since there are six "core Undersiders" and only four Straw Hats with Devil Fruits.

Also, this isn't a powerswap AU. It's assumed that the Undersiders are parahumans before they get this chance, and the Straw Hats are a crew. So they still have parahuman/Devil Fruit powers.

Taylor: Flower-Flower Fruit

Blame this for me writing this entire post. Robin's Flower-Flower Fruit compliments Taylor's powers and M.O. so perfectly. It lets her literally be anywhere within her power's range, to literally reach out to anyone she can sense, or literally watch them with her own eyeballs.

Moreover, her superhuman multitasking would let her use the Flower-Flower power more intricately than Robin could dream of. She wouldn't have the advanced techniques Robin developed over her twenty years evading the World Government with the fruit, but she could restrain a whole bunch of people at once with brute force.

Rachel: Human-Human Fruit

This one is easy, not because I think Rachel would really want the Human-Human Fruit, but because no one else would have much use for it.

I imagine she'd give this fruit to Angelica, in case it helped her with the health problems the terrier accumulated before and during the series. If she got it later in the series, she'd probably give it to Bastard instead.

Alec: Gum-Gum Fruit

I just think he'd have a lot of fun with that power. His friends would be pissed.

Brian: Fish-Man Karate

I'm a little fuzzy on what Fish-Man Karate...does, compared to Hu-Man Karate. But I think that Brian would be more interested in learning the basics of a novel martial art than a gimmicky power. If, for the sake of fairness, he could master it as easily as his teammates eat a fruit, I think he'd jump on that chance.

Aisha: Revive-Revive Fruit

I think the spooky soul powers Brook demonstrates post-timeskip would appeal to Aisha.

Lisa: ???

I gotta be honest, I don't know what kind of Devil Fruit Lisa would want. Certainly nothing combative like the Straw Hats have; she only ends up in superhero fights because her teammates want her to, and she fades into the background as soon as she can. Maybe she'd pick the Revive-Revive Fruit so she could give it to one of the self-destructive people she struggles to stop from self-destructing, but in the timeframe of Worm that person is Taylor, and she already has a different Devil Fruit.

Considering the Straw Hats I've picked for the other half of this...I guess she ends up with something from Sanji by default. Maybe his...(wiki noises)...genetic modifications? Sure. Why not.

Sanji: Imp's power

Imp's power isn't invisibility per se, but it would still let him peep on naked women, just like the Clear-Clear Fruit. Let's move on.

Robin: Tattletale's power

Superhuman intuition would have obvious utility for Robin's people-watching hobby, her archaeological passion, and general curiosity. I expect she'd give herself migraines from overusing the power for at least the first few days.

Luffy: Regent's power

I just think he'd have a lot of fun with that power. His friends would be exasperated.

Brook: Grue's power

Grue's darkness is visually spectacular in a way most of the Undersiders' powers aren't. You can work that into a live performance, at least if your performances have the right vibe. And, well...Brook's face is a skull, so he either has the right vibe or no vibes at all.

Chopper: Bitch's power

I don't have any deep character-ful explanation, I just think post-timeskip Chopper would be more comfortable with such a "monstrous" transformation power.

Jinbei: Skitter's power, I guess

Like Lisa, Jinbei doesn't really fit with any of the Undersiders' powers. Maybe Bitch's if you altered it to work on whale sharks, but even that's a stretch. Anyways, Skitter's power wouldn't appeal to any of the Straw Hats, nor to most anyone else in the setting. Or any setting. It doesn't even appeal to Taylor until she's forced to invent ways to use it.

Anyways, I'm not sure what Jinbei would do with Taylor's power, but it's his now. Merry Christmas.

[thirsty-4-ghouls]

What frustrates me the most about liking the fallout games and elder scrolls games (I still need to play more of them and there are CERTAINLY exceptions) is that i don’t actually know what it is exactly that i like about them. People will be like “Bethesda games suck” and I’m not going to disagree that having mammoths fall from the sky and my gun sink into the floor forever is good game mechanics, that it’s a work of art in the coding department, but i don’t know what it is that makes me love the experience of playing them. People will be like “oh, you like that thing? Try this” and what they suggest isn’t bad, but it doesn’t have the same, idk, combination of things? I just wish I knew what the exact combo was so I could look for more of those things. I can’t put my finger on it and I’m not sure I can find the same combination of those things anywhere else. I don’t really care that the fighting isn’t super dramatic every time, hitting things and blowing things up is fun by itself to me, i don’t need a work of art there. I like the characters and the way you can just go do shit, especially when you don’t have a super pressing timeline. I can build a house before stopping the end of the world in Skyrim (multiple times) and it doesn’t actually make the time more stressful. If I want to take it super seriously I can try and grind through the main plot and after that I’ll still have a bunch of stuff to do! And the things I do will affect other things, but in a certain way I can’t explain? I can’t put into words. I know that they aren’t the finest masterpieces and I’m sure that there are games with things i like about these games but done better, but do they have the combination? The one I can’t put my finger on? Probably not. I play games to have fun and there is so much fucking around I can do! There are little details in the environment, little things to npcs. There are certainly things that left me unsatisfied, but there is also a bunch of things that do? I’ll admit to not playing their newer stuff though. I’ll consider eso but my brothers have already tried some of their other new stuff and left me with some not great reviews. I kinda wish people would stop trying to recommend me games because “oh, you like that part of that game? Here is one that is so much better. You’ll see how terrible the one you’re playing is” because I’m playing the terrible one for a reason. I like it, even knowing it’s not the best, and i would love to see more games that do that thing, but if you are recommending them because they are “better works of art” or “better mechanically” are you also recommending them because they are fun? That’s why I play games. I have my limits, and I respect other people who play games for the sake of the art form alone, but sometimes terrible or just okay is fun too, sometimes with less stress, and fun can keep me occupied for hours. I’m not saying I never play a game for a story, without much of one I often do get bored. I wouldn’t play the ace attorney series if I didn’t like stories too, but i loooove sandboxes and i can’t put my finger on why i like those Bethesda sandboxes so much. It’s infuriating because I really do want to find more stuff that scratches that specific itch, but the vibes are never quite there. I don’t expect the exact same thing, but I do want to try more of that sort of thing, yet I can’t put my finger on what it is about the thing that I need to look for! Very frustrating.

I like lore and environmental storytelling and interesting npcs and sandbox games, i don’t enjoy super complicated combat because i am stupid. I like being able to pick and choose things and seeing one thing affect another but not needing to do things in a specific order. Is that all? I don’t feel like it. There is something more and I can’t put my finger on it. There are obviously games I play that do not check off every single box of mine, look at the ace attorney series! But those ones don’t really take as much of my time. Once you finish the story you just kinda, leave it for awhile. You’re done. You might go back later, but probably not right away. With the games like Skyrim and fallout I can just come back after a busy day and do random low stress tasks and activities, or I could go hard at it for a bit, either way I have fun. I don’t know how to replicate that. I also like when they add some elements like the sims. I know some people hate it, but it gives me even more shit to do, and I can have a part of the map that feels like “this is MINE!” and I can leave my stuff (and some npcs) there and feel like I’m not just shoving it wherever. Sure, you get beds when you join certain groups, but in Skyrim and fallout 4 you can have your own space. If i don’t want to go on some adventure after a long day I can just garden or something, even when it’s winter irl! (Although the gardening isn’t like irl gardening, it still feels better than nothing). I know a lot of people hate how they put certain things I listed into a game that is “supposed to be about the story, or fighting” but i like the eclectic combination of activities, and i feel like they manage to do it without the things feeling like a completely separate game. It still feels tied in, unlike some games where it feels like they just shoved it into the game on the side without any connection I guess. I’m not explaining this well and I’m sure there are people who absolutely hate the things I listed, but there are plenty of games without them, I’m trying to find more with them.

And it has to have interesting npcs, even just mildly interesting ones that you can fill in the blanks for in your boredom. I can’t stand the feeling of being in a completely empty world (with the possible exception of Pokémon go, but they have added so much stuff that it feels parallel to the real world, not completely separate and empty) although, when it comes to Pokémon go, I actually did stop playing for awhile because it felt so empty, now you can at least interact with other players a bit more (even if I’m not great at finding others to play with) and they have added more npcs. I play that game so i don’t get bored at the grocery store and can convince myself to go out and walk around sometimes, so it’s not the same. Idk what I actually really want from a game, I can’t put my finger on it.

[rockheadcd]

@electrivolt said: Oreburgh is... different. It's the only way Volkner can really define it. It's a complete 180 from the warm weather and ocean breeze of Sunyshore. Even when it's close enough to Twinleaf, it still feels too different, doesn't it? And he just can't tell why. ( it's because there is nothing tied to such a turbulent past here, isn't it? maybe something the kid is not ready to admit just yet. )

He's still trying his best to listen to Roark's excited rambling about the new fossil he's dug up this week, genuinely trying, even when Volkner himself is much quieter than usual and he's not sure he's entirely there for the day. There's just been... a lot going on lately, both in his head and around him, still so much to unravel and come to terms with in this endless adjusting to an entirely new life that doesn't really feel all that deserved even after so long— it's just one of those days, right?

And in all that mess he's trying so hard to keep to himself, Volkner forgets that Oreburgh is primarily a mining town. He forgets entirely the kind of 'mons most commonly seen there, the ones that help with all that hard work and keep the city alive. ( he forgets that here, it's different too. how those 'mons are helpers and not pushed into vicious creatures that can snap and tear anything in their path down without hesitation at the slightest prompt— )

The Steelix is too close. Its tail nearly slams down on the ground as it moves. All Volkner sees is the massive iron snake mere feet away— and there's cold eyes staring him down, uncaring in his anger, all too willing to let the massive 'mon snap and crush and—

( he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't— )

"—It was really cool 'cause the coal and sediment just peeled away perfectly and there it was! That was a whole rib sticking out! Mamoswine used to be bigger, from this alone!—"

A young Roark babbles on, friend beside him in stride between days of schooling and Roark's peculiar willingness to work in the mines alongside his dad—things were taking such an interesting turn of events, especially now with Volkner on this side of Sinnoh in what felt like an overnight decision ( little did he know, really ). Canalave's mining operations were ongoing, so Roark had gotten the sense of relief from his dad that he'd reconnected with a childhood friend. He didn't think anything of it, at the time, as infuriatingly content as he appeared to the world and it's troubles.

Such a strange dichotomy between himself and Volkner had certainly not gone unnoticed among the locals, for reasons Roark didn't quite understand. Volkner had always been more reserved in almost every setting besides home. That was just how he was, wasn't it?

When he looks over, what Roark sees is not reservation, it's genuine fear. He hadn't even noticed the Steelix to begin with, so used to the rumble and thumps the Onix line were apt to make, using their tails as a counterweight to ease movements along both pavement and rough dirt alike. He was used to this.

Volkner was seeing something else. He doesn't know what to do.

"Hey, Volk—? Are you good?" he asks, but he doesn't get the response he was expecting after all these moments. Not quite there, not quite on the ball—is he scared of those? It would make sense, they're formidable and intimidating with that height and this unkind expressions, but..

Ah, he's still staring at it. That's not right. He's not even breathing right.. is he okay? Is he okay?—

( he's not, his gut instinct tells him. none of this is a normal reaction to a 'mon no matter what caliber. he needs to get him away )

His first instinct is to pull him by the arm, so frail despite the baggy jacket that hides his frame, just—anywhere away from the main avenue that peels off towards the Oreburgh mines. Volkner is so light, strangely so as they're both the same height, but perhaps it's better in his favor to pluck him out of perceived danger as quickly as possible. "C'mon, c'mon, walk with me—" he rushes under his breath, although he's more than willing to pick him up if need be ( that protective instinct is strong, isn't it? ).

The best he can do in all of his impulsive decision-making is tuck him around the side of the Pokémon center, a couple of Rattata scurrying down the alley and off along the rain gutters. It's good enough to keep the streets out of the corner of his eyes. Still, Roark's worries are scribbled all over his face, gently grabbing both of Volkner's shoulders and squeezing carefully. "Hey, it's gone. Are you okay, Volk? I've never seen you do that..."