#Fucking please? I've already had one fatality

[deergirlslut]

this is a hell of a post to see literally the night after I thought I killed someone with my train

[hotvintagepoll]

LAST POLL OF ROUND 6

Propaganda

Ingrid Bergman (Gaslight, Casablanca, Notorious)—A lot of the time hotness in a movie is just about words and framing. "You're the most beautiful person here" [vaseline lens] well I sure hope so because that's who you cast. But when, in Casablanca, they call Ingrid Bergman the most beautiful woman in the world... they were not fucking lying. And such a dynamite actor too!! I'd only seen Casablanca up until last year, and there she's confined to love interest. But in Gaslight she was maybe one of the most incredible actors I've ever seen!!!! Goddddd shes so fucking hot and cool.

Lauren Bacall (To Have and Have Not, The Big Sleep, Key Largo)—"Just put your lips together...and blow" excuse me ma'am i'm briefly going to turn into a kettle. She's the quintessential Femme Fatale who may betray me in the end but I'd let her it'd be worth it

This is round 6 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Ingrid Bergman:

God, she's fantastic. She's both beautiful and a compelling actor who's more than capable of putting the whole movie on her shoulders if necessary. It's worth noting that while her beauty is conventional, she was seen as refreshingly "natural" with more eyebrows and less makeup than many other leading ladies of the time. She's well known for her role in Casablanca, but in Notorious, Spellbound, (both available on archive.org ) and Gaslight (1944) she shows how immensely capable she is.

I mean...she's Ingrid Bergman. I feel like that should be enough, you know? She's physically beautiful (her eyes!) but watching her is like a transcendent experience. Her voice, her expressions... beautiful woman, beautiful actor.

I'm a gay man but even I understand her appeal. I'll watch any movie she shows up in. Gorgeous woman.

Just try and watch her movies without sighing wistfully, then get back to me!

Choosing 1-3 movies where Bergman was at her hottest was agony because, of course, she was always at her hottest. Not just because she was beautiful but because she was absolutely willing to go up against the bs women in Hollywood were constantly dealing with. When exiled from Hollywood for having an affair with Roberto Rossellini, not only did she refuse to apologize at any point, but she went on to say that Hollywood's films had grown stagnant and boring to her. Though she said she appreciated her time working there, she wanted to try new, different techniques (hence starring in Italian neorealist films, working on stage, and acting under directors like Ingmar Bergman). She was not afraid to chase after her artistic ideals and go outside the box regardless of what society had to say about it. From her first movie to her last she killed it. There's so much more to say about Bergman's career and life, but I've already written five million words so I'll stop at that.

One of the most incredible actors I've ever seen on film. Her facial expressions are so intricate and poignant that I cannot look away. I'm either ace or straight, but damn she made me question that.

SEVEN TIME OSCAR NOMINEE QUEEN. Girl also PULLED, having affairs with famously hot men Gary Cooper and Gregory Peck IN ADDITION to her three marriages...sexy

She has a very natural beauty to her, and she's from Sweden!

She left Hollywood and only became more beautiful. You could drown in her eyes. She can look innocent AND like she's seen it all. She is effortlessly elegant. She's played Joan of Arc (automatically hot) AND was in the movie that coined gaslight as a term. And where would we be without that!

She was known for being a breath of fresh air on the movie scene at the time with her windswept hair, dreamy smile and soulful eyes. I have loved her in every movie I have seen her in - she was just magnetic!

Where do I even start. There's a neighborly quality to this beautiful, talented actress that makes her hotness one of a kind and her looks impossible to forget

With a career spanning five decades, Bergman is often regarded as one of the most influential screen figures in cinematic history. Known for her naturally luminous beauty, Bergman spoke five languages – Swedish, English, German, Italian and French – and acted in each.

She's hot, don't get me wrong, but I've always found her very approachable, like she could easily be a member of my friend group

Where do I even begin with Ingrid Bergman? I fell in love with her with her astounding performance in the 1956 version of Anastasia -- the best Anastasia movie in large part due to her wonderful and touching performance. She's got this amazing, fascinating intensity to her in whatever role she's in. She commits 100%, and she's got this light in whatever she's in that's stunning. She's utterly convincing no matter what she plays, from an amnesiac possible lost princess, from a nun, from a woman taking her revenge on the town that wronged her, to light romantic comedy. She's never missed in any role I've seen her in! Also she became quite the MILF.

Lauren Bacall:

"She is soooo neat. And hot. And everything. That one scene in To Have and Have Not where she says "you know how to whistle don't you? You just put your lips together and blow" altered my brain chemistry during media archaeology class and here we are."

"The VOICE, the SLINK, the EYES. Woof."

"Lauren Bacall was a major lesbian awakening for me. Every picture of her makes it look like she’s about to destroy you physically and emotionally (why is that so hot, I may need help). She had incredible long running chemistry with her husband, Humphrey Bogart, but was an absolute star in her own right. I’ll never be over my crush on her."

"She's got that confident, no-nonsense air about her. She's a boss babe who knows what she wants and gets it DONE. Staunch liberal Democrat her whole life. Campaigned for RFK. From Wikipedia: "In a 2005 interview with Larry King, Bacall described herself as "anti-Republican... A liberal. The L-word". She added that "being a liberal is the best thing on Earth you can be. You are welcoming to everyone when you're a liberal. You do not have a small mind."" Beautiful hair. Beautiful eyes. Beautiful lips. She's just beauty. LISTEN TO HER VOICE. TELL ME THAT'S NOT THE STUFF THAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF."

[apomaro-mellow]

Wrong Number 5

Eddie had been having a greatest time eating in his apartment that anyone could have. Because he wasn't alone. He was with Steve. And then he got to share one of his childhood favorite movies with him. Even though it was a first date, Eddie got the feel that casual was okay. So he'd started the video call with a red t-shirt and black jeans. He knew the odds of Steve seeing his bottom half but he wanted to look nice all the way anyway.

When Steve answered the call and Eddie saw him fill the screen with a very respectable "first date" shirt, he imagined the bottoms were probably a good pair of jeans or maybe even khakis. Steve looked like a khaki guy. What Eddie did not expect was to be flashed when Steve got up in the middle of the movie to get a drink.

But he got up, giving Eddie an eyeful of a bulge in navy blue lace. And then Steve turned and Eddie got to see it from the back. He had to have been hallucinating. There was no way he had actually seen that. It had to be an illusi-and he was coming back and those were definitely panties that Steve was wearing.

"....Eddie?" Steve looked at his wide eyes. The man hadn't spoken for a full minute.

"Baby...are you wearing something naughty?"

Steve bit his lip. "I wasn't trying to be naughty. Robin just thought that I could...well, use the confidence?"

"Don't tell me a pretty thing like you is insecure, I won't believe it", Eddie smiled.

"Well those were Robin's thoughts, not mine." Steve turned the movie down a bit and it was clear Eddie and lowered the volume on his end too. "Do you like them?"

"My brain went to moon. I think you're trying to kill me."

Steve's already high confidence jumped to the ceiling. It was nice to be appreciated.

"Can I see them again?", Eddie asked.

"I thought they were fatal?", Steve smirked.

"You know, I've decided I've lived long enough. And if I have my choice of how I go, I choose death by Steve."

"Okay, but if I have a choice, I'm keeping you alive. But if you insiiiist." Steve had returned to his seat on the floor when he got back from the kitchen, and now he rose up to sit on the couch. His legs were crossed, blocking Eddie's view.

The man on his phone whined. "Don't make me beg."

"Hmm, but what if I like begging?"

"Please, please baby, pretty please, lemme see you?" Eddie's hands were pressed together in prayer.

The way he was positioned (in the phone, on the coffee table) it was like he was kneeling before Steve. Slowly, he uncrossed his legs and even spread them a little, smiling when he heard Eddie's intake of breath.

"Shit...Were you planning on showing me this tonight?"

"If you were good...maybe", Steve teased. "What do you think? Have you been a good boy?"

Eddie nodded frantically, hair flopping, jaw dropped as Steve shifted and he got to watch the bulge between his legs move. He would do anything. Beg, kneel, bark, whatever Steve wanted him to do. Fuck, if he was really there, his head would already be in between his legs.

"I bet you could crack my skull with those legs, Jesus."

From his vantage point, Eddie could only make out up to the bottom of his mouth and while he liked his current view, that just wouldn't do at all.

"I've got an idea...What do you say to moving this to the bedroom?"

Steve grabbed his phone and started walking. Eddie straight up sprinted and collapsed onto his bed.

"You're not going to have anyone burst in with a 'code red', are they?", Steve asked as he got onto his own bed, laying down and holding his phone to his face.

"I have blocked out the entire night for you, Stevie. My crew knows that all Code Reds are to be handled by my second in command."

Okay, that made him feel a little special. Steve bit his lip. "I've never really done anything like this before..."

"What? Taking a date to your bedroom? Once again, I won't believe it. You're probably beating them back with a stick." Eddie was literally looking at him. There was no way he didn't have a line of admirers going down the street.

"I meant on like...video. So how do you want me?"

"Well I typically get a burger with my shakes", Eddie waggled his brows.

"Eddie", Steve laughed.

"Wait, I can do better! Can I get a split-top bun, since you've got a whole bakery in the back?" Eddie beamed as the screen shook while Steve was laughing. "Just get comfortable, baby."

Steve did just that, lying on his back, holding his phone above his head. Eddie was in a similar position in his own bed.

"Okay, I think I've done the whole 'teacher is secretly a model' bit before but Christ alive, it's like you've got no bad angles."

"Eddie, I think you're stalling", Steve grinned. At first, he had been nervous about doing this over video, but now it seemed like Eddie was the one who was anxious.

"If I stall by complimenting you, is it really stalling?"

"If you were here...what would you do to me?", Steve asked.

"I would kiss you so hard, you'd pass out", Eddie admitted. "Full on Pepe LePew treatment. I'd start on your hand and make my way up and then I'm not letting those lips go until they're raw."

Steve brushed his fingers against his mouth. It had been a while since he'd been kissed like that, but Eddie wasn't done.

"And don't think I haven't noticed how those moles go all the way down. I think if I get started kissing them now, I can be to your thighs by Christmas."

Steve didn't miss the strong implication of Eddie's physical presence. They hadn't really talked about meeting in real life yet, both of them aware of how risky it could be to meet someone like that. But as time went on, the dangers seemed to melt away.

Steve's hand trailed down his body. He made sure to angle his phone so that Eddie could see just that. "God, I've thought about your hands so much..." His hand came back up to touch his lips.

"I can tell you want to, baby. Go ahead and suck on them. Pretend they're mine."

Permission granted, Steve stuck two in his mouth. Enraptured, Eddie started to paw at himself through his jeans. Steve's mouth was so pretty and it was already so wet. It didn't hurt that he was already moaning. God, he needed to find out where Steve lived and buy himself a plane ticket. He needed to get his hands on him yesterday.

"Mmm, and you know, once my fingers are nice and wet, I like to put them elsewhere. Where do you want me to touch?"

Slowly, Steve pulled them out of his mouth. "Everywhere", he said, lightly panting.

Eddie's canines showed as he smiled. He unzipped his pants, purposely making it as loud as he could so that Steve would know. "I'd like that too. But let's narrow it down, beautiful."

"How's about I show you?"

Eddie's eyes got wide as Steve changed positions and even moved some pillows around and now he had a front row seat to the most prime ass he'd ever seen. Steve was on his knees and bent over slowly. He pulled his panties to the side with one hand and pushed one of his glistening fingers inside.

"Aaahh, Eddie", he moaned, bringing the other man back into it.

"Fucking hell, look at you." Eddie used one hand to pushed the band of his boxers down and bring out his cock.

Steve pushed another into him, pressing his forehead against the bed. He didn't know what he'd been so anxious about. He wanted nothing more than to have Eddie looking at him. Eddie getting hard and jerking off while looking at him.

"Eddie...I need, I need you..."

Eddie spit in his hand and kept stroking. "Tell me, angel. What do you need me to do?"

Steve whined and Eddie watched as his ass shook, fingers sinking in deep before pulling them out and pushing in again. He bet anything if Steve turned around, he'd see a wet spot on those panties.

"Don't worry, Stevie, I'm gonna tell you what to do. Is that okay?"

He saw Steve's head shake in what could've been a nod, but he was glad when he got the vocal confirmation. Eddie directed Steve and soon he had turned (Eddie had been right about the wet spot) so now he was facing the camera. The ass shot was hot but Eddie wanted to see his face when he came. He now also had a pillow under his hips to help with the angle.

And damn if he wasn't an absolute vision, rutting against the pillow, lips parted in a perpetual moan. Eddie had gotten some lube for his hand, but he knew his fist paled in comparison to Steve Harrington.

"Shit, I needa have you Steve. Wanna feel you, make you mine."

"I'm already yours", Steve said, making Eddie whimper. "I'm all yours, Eds, no one else's."

Apparently he was in a really possessive mood because that just put him right over the edge. This beautiful man was pleasuring himself and he only had eyes for Eddie. He made sure his cumshot was in the frame and watched as Steve's eyes glazed over. His licked his lips and bucked into his pillow, Eddie's name leaving his mouth on a sigh.

Eddie swallowed, his throat a little dry. "Can I see?"

Steve didn't need to ask what he meant. He picked up his phone and rose up on his knees, showing Eddie the tip of his cock peeking out of his panties, cum cooling on his stomach as his shirt had ridden up.

"Mmm, fuck. What's that rule in your classroom? About not wasting good food?"

"If you were here, I'd let you lick it all up", Steve said.

"Yeah, about that...can we...?"

"Talk? How do you feel about morning afters?", Steve asked.

"Usually they're pretty awkward", Eddie admitted with a shrug. "But considering I don't need to worry about you kicking me out..."

"Are you free for breakfast?"

"You mean brunch?"

Steve smiled. "It's a date then. Good night, Eddie."

"Good night, my darling."

Part 7

Tag Team (CLOSED)

@anne-bennett-cosplayer @estrellami-1 @newtstabber @omletlove @ifyoudonlysurrender @rehfan @morganski-19 @corvidcantina @dragonmama76 @just-ladyme @tinyplanet95 @goodolefashionedloverboi @idoquitelikebread @kittydeadbones @manda-panda-monium @rhapsodyinalto @paintsplatteredandimperfect @keylime-green @ihavekidneys @samsoble @honorarybrit81 @swimmingbirdrunningrock @aizawa-emma @deleataecount @thesuninyaface @fromapayphone @justmeinadaze @hbyrde36 @queenie-ofthe-void @resident-gay-bitch @bestwifehaver @dangdirtydemons @ellietheasexylibrarian @perseus-notjackson @pyrohonk @holysteddie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @mrsjellymunson @geekymagicalpotato @notaqueenakhaleesi

[quixoticall]

To Hell I Go

MASTERLIST

Suggested Listening: Anything Zach Bryan but particularly, "Something in the Orange", “Open the Gate”, and "I Remember Everything"

Chapter Warnings: Gun violence, injury, some light death ideation, Billy is here, death of an animal

WC: 2.8K

Author's Note: Hello! It's been a while! Please know I'm working on TCGU! But I've been really inspired by Zach Bryan recently and this concept of the Final Girl of the West which is how this idea was born. I hope you like it!

_______________

“Sheriff Hopper’s after us. Has his new Pretty Boy deputy with him too.” 

The sun is high and bright and bothersome but you’ve been on a job for the last month, which paints everything bothersome,  even Max’s warning. 

“Didn’t know Hopper was working with anyone,” you muse, as you dismount your horse, Calliope, and hand the young girl the reigns. Your muscles are stiff and achy from riding so long and you smell like a manure pit. You desperately want a proper bed—or a shallow grave—to fall into. 

“He’s new. Hops probably needs the help on account of his leg being fucked up since you shot him,” Max responds, admiration tinging her voice. 

You scoff, “I didn’t fuck up his leg, he’s just old and fat.” 

You had barely even grazed him. 

“Pretty Boy, huh?  I’m sure your brother is seething about that.” 

Max glares at you through her lashes, “he’s not my brother,” she warns. 

You know this, of course, you’re just in a bad mood and looking for a bruise to poke. You should probably apologize but Max’ll get her lick back soon enough—it’ll be easy with you, too. You’re all bruise. 

“Billy hates him, already ran into him and the Chief in Amarillo. Came home all black and blue from their scuffle, ended up running him off the trail and he fell off his horse.” 

You whistle lowly, knocking Billy Hargrove off his horse is no easy feat. He must’ve been angry after that.

“He said that they had a list of all the gang’s members. Not our names or nothing, just descriptions, I guess. Apparently, Hopper has you on the list as ‘crack shot girl’. ”

You drink this information up, eyes scanning the horizon, half expecting Billy or Hopper or even Creel to spring out any moment.  Nothing but the wind through the grass, though. 

“What does he have you as?” You probe. 

Max nearly pouts in response, “Red.” 

You’re trying not to laugh, and instead grapple to change the subject. 

“What about the ‘Pretty Boy’ deputy? Does he have a name?” 

You don’t care too much, you want to keep the conversation going, it’s the only real one you’ve had in weeks. 

“Heard it was Harrington or something like that,” Max shrugs, quickly losing interest in favor of brushing Calliope’s mane. 

It has to be “something like that”, you decide, because you knew for a fact there wasn’t a single Harrington west of the Appalachians. There hadn’t been in years. 

_______________

Steve Harrington was the first in his family to leave Wyoming in thirteen generations. It wasn’t by choice. 

Steve’s daddy had been a cattle rancher. He hadn’t owned any land like yours had but he was the best bull rider in all the West. That was, until his fatal fall off the saddle when Steve was barely old enough to ride himself. 

The heartbreak of her true love’s death had made a ghost of Steve’s mama, effectively making him an orphan. 

He was thirteen when he had come to your Daddy’s ranch, threadbare hat clutched tightly in his fists nervously as he asked for work. 

You were twelve then and watched the whole exchange from the top of the stairs with your sisters, the three of you drinking him in with an odd curiosity. He had been all limbs back then, thin and awkward but as tall as a man. His face was uncreased and fearful, giving away his true age. You listened, unseen as the young boy stuttered through an explanation of his pitiful circumstances. 

He wasn’t looking for charity, he made a point to specify, but work. He could ride and wrangle and he knew how to work the land, too, he explained, chest puffing with pride. He would earn his keep, he propositioned. 

The ranch was always in need of hands, and your father was always benevolent to necessary causes and in circumstances that made him seem like a better man than he was, so it was a done deal before night’s end. 

_______________

“Son of a bitch,” you exhale through gritted teeth, desperately trying to reload your goddamn shotgun. 

It was supposed to be an easy enough job—a little stagecoach stick up right outside of Tombstone. You had been scoping the target for days, a miner and his family making their way back East after striking it big in the mines. They were obnoxiously flagrant about their wealth—just like all New Money—and it was obvious that they were traveling with their coffers full of that fine California Gold. The plan was that you, Billy, and Tommy would ambush their stagecoach sometime around twilight before they reached Tombstone proper but then Max had decided to tag along and, while she was your favorite member of the gang by miles, she had no place at an armed robbery.  

The whole operation was slowed down to accommodate the tagalong and suddenly it had become too dark and late to hit them before they arrived in Tombstone, so you had to adjust and hedge your bets on ambushing them when they left the small town the following morning. Someone must have recognized the crew that night and tipped off the sheriff, though, because next thing you know, the four of you are about to run the stagecoach off the trail when you hear gunshots and Hopper’s gruff demands for your surrender.

There goes that easy $800, you sigh to yourself, steadying your aim over your shoulder. You’re a lousy shot at this angle especially while riding a horse, but you’re not hoping for a miracle, only to distract long enough to give Max a chance to get away. She’s the slowest of the four and you refuse to leave her behind. (Even if all of this is kind of her fault.) 

On the opposite side of the road from behind the stagecoach, you see a sharp movement— the deputy, you’re sure. From the corner of your eye you catch fragments of familiar hair, eyes, lips and suddenly your finger slips on the trigger, a stray bullet flies behind you, spooking a horse and causing some commotion. You hope it’s Hopper’s but you can’t bring yourself to check. You can’t bring yourself to do anything. At all. Because there, on the other side of the road, all tan skin and freckled-faced is Steve Harrington, alive and older and looking at you with an expression of shock matching your own. 

“Sunshine?” He shouts over the gallop of hooves and in hearing his voice you’ve lost all doubt that this was some sort of joke you managed to play on yourself. 

It’s him. Truly. 

What you say back is lost to the wind as a lone shot rings out and suddenly you’ve lost your balance on your horse and you’re sent tumbling down, fingers fighting for purchase along your reigns. 

Steve’s stunned face and the smoke from his gun are the final things you see before hitting the ground. 

Son of a bitch.

_______________

You and Steve became fast friends, being close in disposition and most importantly, age. 

While you loved your younger sisters they were just that: younger. At six and eight respectively, Hattie and Lottie were far too preoccupied with dress up and tea parties, hobbies that you had also adored at their age, but at the mature age of twelve, no longer stimulated you. In Steve you found a confidant and an accomplice. 

You snuck him extra portions at supper and spent your spare moments following him around reading aloud from one of your many books. He had a penchant for war epics and horror while you liked romance and mystery. Both of you could agree, though that Westerns were the best. 

In exchange for your generosity, Steve taught you how to ride and shoot and lasso.

He was the best teacher truly and would often outdo men of twice his age and size when it came to rearing and riding. He learned everything from his daddy, he had told you.  Steve talked about his father a lot. About what he was like and everything he was exceptional at and how the crowd had gone stone silent when his broken body hit the dusty ground. 

“That’s how I’m going to die too, one day,” he had told you, grim but not sad. “On a bull in Cheyenne. Probably the same one, he’s the only one that could take me out.” 

“How do you know how you’re gonna die?” You awed at him.

“Just a feeling in my gut. Sometimes you just know,” he shrugged sagely. 

You nodded along and tried, desperately so, to will your gut to give you a precognition about the circumstances of your own death.

“I don’t know how I’m gonna die,” you admitted to Steve after a long moment of self-assessment, “but I know you’re gonna be there.“

You had no clue what possessed you to say that other than the fact that you knew it to be categorically true. 

Steve smiled in response, pleased. 

_______________

You wake up under a sky of pinprick stars. Dreams of childhood vows and muddy fields filled with promise fade as you take in your surroundings.

There’s a fire burning next to you and a sharp pain running along your entire body, burning to match. Max suddenly appears by your side, looking equal measures relieved and frazzled. 

“What happened?” You ask weakly. 

“Pretty Boy shot Calliope and you fell into the ravine. Had to fish you out of there and find a place to lay you down.” 

“What about Billy and Tommy?” 

“They left us.” 

Of course. 

“Bastards.” 

“Bastards,” Max agrees. 

“And what about the sheriff… and the deputy?” 

“Sheriff fell off his horse when you shot him and his deputy went after Billy. Didn’t see where though, but I’m sure he didn’t catch him.” 

“Probably not,” you croak before accepting the canteen Max brought to your lips.  Billy was a menace on a horse, agile and quick in ways most men could only dream and he already had too much of a head start. 

You try to stand up now, too fast evidently, since Max rushes to your side to help you along when you waver.  Eventually, you’re on your feet, stumbling forward with only Max keeping you upright, your whole body screaming at you to stop. 

“Come on then, Red, let’s go back home.” 

Your whole body aches so much your vision blurs and there’s a pain along your ribcage that may hint at a broken bone. The ride back to the Creel House on the back of Max’s scrawny horse is utter agony but at least Max has gifted you a mercifully silent journey by not trying to make conversation.

“You know him,” Max murmurs. It’s nearly morning when she finds enough courage to bring it up.

“Pretty Boy called you ‘sunshine’,” she continues, “I heard him.” 

You freeze. 

“You must’ve heard wrong then. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

You leave it at that.

_______________

By the time you were sixteen, you felt like you knew Steve better than you knew yourself. You could read him like a book—every crook of an eyebrow, every sideways glance, and their meaning were neatly categorized in your mind. Part of that was the familiarity bred by endless idle hours together and part of that was the burgeoning ache that had been festering inside of you in the past months; the soft, comforting ember of friendly affection had given way to something hotter, something you couldn’t bring yourself to define yet but singed your skin at the sight of him and made you want to chart his every mood like sailors charted the stars. 

This was exactly why you could tell he was upset even though he denied it. Something about the way he clenched his jaw while he aimed his gun at the row of cans sitting on a broke down fence a little too hard indicated that he had something weighing on his mind. 

“You’re meant to hit the targets, you know,” you goaded after he had missed all of five shots. 

His jaw clenched harder. 

“You can’t be cross just because I’m the better shot than you,” you needled further. 

“I’m not cross,” he argued back, crossly. 

“Yes, you are! You’ve been sullen and cross three weeks now even though you say otherwise and it’s driving me mad so, why don’t you stop being stubborn and tell me what it is that’s making you act like this and we can fix it and be back to normal. I don’t want to spend my last week here watching you pout all over the ranch.”

He sighed a drawn-out, guttural thing, and then suddenly, it hit you. 

“Wait, are you mad I’m leaving?” Your tone wasn’t accusatory as much as it was curious. Truthfully, when your parents had share the news that they were sending you to a finishing school, you had been devastated at the prospect but you tried your best to keep your true feelings from view. Your father had made it known that he had gone to great lengths to secure your spot and your momma got misty eyed when she spoke about how many doors this opportunity would open for you.

“No, I’m not mad you’re leaving,” he argued back and flinched at how unconvincing he sounded. You knew deep in your bones that you'd miss Steve the most when you were gone. No matter how fair you'd go or how'd long you'd be apart, you're sure you'd miss Steve.

“Steve, you know I’d rather be here, shooting cans than anywhere else, even that fancy school,” you cajole. It's a simple, earnest statement but as far as you could trust yourself saying without confessing your devotion.

“You say that now,” he petulantly threw himself down on a tree root and you moved to sit next to him, “but as soon as you make friends and meet new people, I’ll be dust.” 

You laughed at the uncharacteristic display of self-pity. “You really think I’d find someone I would love more than you?” 

The idea of it was so ludicrous you didn’t even realize the carelessness by which you threw out such hefty claims of affection. Of course, you loved Steve and he you, and while you were never scared to voice that to each other before, now the word meant something different—at least to you it did. 

Your eyes shift down to your boots, hoping he didn’t pick up on the change in your heart. 

“Not more, just different.” 

“Different how?” 

“You're going to find someone,” it was his turn to get flustered and glanced at the ground, “... someone you want to spend the rest of your life with.” 

“Well, I want that to be you,” you responded, not thinking and far too quickly. 

“No, I mean, someone you want to marry,” he spits out, exasperation being quickly replaced with embarrassment as his words sank into place.

You stalled at the implication your heartbeat becoming almost deafening. Steve was afraid you were going to go out and find someone else to marry and leave him behind. Was it possible that he was equally consumed by that same burning affection that had been sieging your heart for months?

Out of the two of you, you had always been the braver one. The one that always jumped in first, the one to take a risk on a whim. And, while it terrified you and made your voice small and wavering, you couldn’t help but say right back, “I want that to be with you, too.” 

Steve beamed in response. 

_______________

Tommy and Billy had beaten you and Max back to the Creel house. At least the bastards had the decency to look a little ashamed as they watched Max support your limping form through the threshold. Mostly, though they looked surprised. 

“Thought the deputy had gotten you,” Billy whistles lowly through the toothpick that is perpetually resting in the corner of his mouth. 

“He killed my horse,” you bemoan. “ Max had to fish me out of the ravine on her own, no thanks to you two.” 

The blond man shrugs in response, “We couldn’t go back. Thems the rules, you know that.” 

You do know that but you are miserable and tired and just looking for someone to blame for the life you had fallen into so you glare back. 

Billy is unfazed by your glare and in a rare moment of kindness, offers to acquire a horse for you during his next round through the nearby ranches.  This uncharacteristic show of pity makes you realize you probably look as bad as you feel and for a brief moment wish that Max hadn’t pulled you out of that ravine. 

You manage to stumble onto your cot, body raked with pain and you lay there, unmoved until night comes and it’s not until the dark has truly settled and you are sure that no one could possibly see, that you begin to cry.

Silent tears stream down your face for your companion, your horse, the last thing you called your own. One more thing stolen away--and this time, by a ghost no less. A gift from your daddy when you had turned seventeen, her name plucked from one of your books on Greek mythology she had been your companion when you had felt most alone.

Calliope was the final reminder of a life long gone and now she’s just another thing you’re left mourning.

Next

[wannaeatramyeon]

Could you please make another unhinged reader piece but this time with her going against Charles Choi? (I really love the one you did on Vin Jin!!)

Anon, so so sorry for the delay and tysm for reading! I've been putting off Charles in the first place cos it just seems big y'know?

Unhinged F!Reader links here (or check masterlist): Gun Park | Goo Kim | Samuel Seo | Samuel Seo Part 2 | James Lee/DG | Jinyoung Park | Eli Jang | Tom Lee | Ryuhei Kuroda | Eugene | Vin Jin

Charles Choi with Unhinged F!Reader

"Huh," Charles wonders, "Why do I hear final boss battle music?"

How long has it been since Charles has felt this?

An overwhelming, crushing helplessness.

To think his downfall would come from a nobody. Somebody so insignificant that their existence was completely unknown to him.

An easy, fatal mistake.

"Elite?" the sound of your mocking tone reaches his ears despite the blood trickling out. "Elite compared to what?"

Silly boys and their silly nicknames. They're all the same. Elite, Big Daddy, Rabid Attack Dog, the Legend.

Compensating much? Pathetic.

Some little boys just never grow up, having tasted an ounce of power and thought that was all there was. Such big fishes in a tiny putrid swamp.

Your fingers scrape along Charles' once carefully groomed beard, now smeared with blood and spittle.

"What a silver fox. Guess that's a benefit of you being so past your prime."

The words should hurt, but Charles can face reality. He's no longer the young man he once was. Not sure he would even be a worthy opponent for you if he was.

How strange that in these moments it is Gapryong that he thinks about. How he wasn't really a worthy opponent for Gapryong neither, needing to secure his way to the top with underhanded dealings and James Lee.

Charles drifts in and out, thinking about the Pre-Generation, about Tom Lee and Jinyoung Park.

About how nobody has warned him about you, how he didn't see you coming until it was too late. Swaggering towards him in a deserted street with soulless eyes and a chilling grin.

"Charles Choi?" you had asked, tucking away a slip of paper into your breast pocket, "Or should that be... Elite?"

And that was the beginning of the end.

Or maybe it was the beginning of the end years ago, and now his chickens are coming home to roost.

Charles felt your first lethal attack before he could see it, remaining arm snapping and the heat of blood gushing and pouring out. Voice screaming on reflex before he could register it was his own.

Now, even with you easily in touching distance, Charles can't bring himself to move. He has nothing left to give. And was there ever a time he ever felt truly depleted? Not trying to brute force or scheme his way to the very end?

All fight has left him now.

In his delirium, words escape and leak unhindered under his breath. Some names that ring a bell with you.

You chuckle. "Tom Lee? Jinyoung Park? Oops, I got to them too."

Then you lean down, closing the gap between your bodies, lips ghosting over his ear, sending shivers down his spine.

"Gapryong Kim though? I heard you got to him years before I could." You look Charles square in the eye, your words landing and his eyes widen in panic.

His final secret out.

With that you throw your head back laughing, uproariously and deranged. That is what he's worrying about now? What a wretched man.

"I'll give you anything you want," Charles pleads.

Your laughter abruptly stops and replaced with a scathing look. How fucking predictable. Ugh. This whole thing is starting to bore you.

"I've heard it all from that that twink already. Eugene or something. It didn't end well for him."

"Maybe," you think outloud, examining your hands caked almost completely in red, not remembering if you actually painted your nails that colour or if that is Charles' blood too-

"I want your other arm."

"...I see." are his final words to you, recognising any further pleas will fall on deaf ears. Tone calm yet all he can hear is the pounding of his own heart.

The last thing Charles see before he closes his eyes is the quirk of your lips and bloodlust etched all over your face.

In the darkness, he waits for you to decide his fate and for his empire to crumble.

[flutt3rb4tz]

i hate when people who dont have marfans make/headcanon characters with marfans as some quirky trait. i really do, i've seen it a lot in my life as someone who was diagnosed at 3 with the condition and it honestly grinds my gears they always do the most stereotype-y traits, or ignore how much of a struggle it is to live with marfans, or how marfans can fuck up your body further by just how much shit it causes.

to put it into perspective, i got tagged like a fucking animal at school because they didnt want to take too much care into explaining that i needed extra care if something happened, or that people should be gentle with me because i could die on school grounds. ive sat cooped up in my home most of my life, i've only been on a fair ride once because getting on a roller coaster could harm me as well. i need help walking or getting around because my body cant always handle it, i have other problems due to marfans that have hurt me greatly for my entire life.

i'm slowly going blind from marfans and theres nothing a doctor can do that will stick. i risk aortic dissection simply by being hit in the chest, i used to be afraid of going to bed because if anything hit my chest too hard i could literally fucking die then and there, because my heart would fucking collapse on itself and theres a decent chance that i wouldnt make it to the emergency room.

it's not just some trait, it is a disability. and it's not quirky!! it was never fucking quirky!!! getting discriminated against for being disabled by the age of 4 wasnt fun! it wasnt silly! it was traumatizing!!!!

if you're going to make a character or headcanon a character with marfans take into account how much of a stereotype you're making them. there are short people with marfans, fat people with marfans (like myself), poc with marfans, there are people who cannot walk or function because of marfans, people with marfans arent scary or shy or weak all the time. we're human people! we vary!

talk to actual people with marfans. look up posts about the condition from people with the condition. dont confuse marfans with EDS. just have common sense!! its exhausting trying to look at content from people like me and either seeing headcanons, EDS posts, or people telling everyone with marfans that they have no hope (this ones common on reddit, but it applies).

people with marfans dont immediately die either, btw. i saw a post recently that was just "haha this character better have had amazing doctors or his marfans would kill him in 2 seconds!!!" and that's not how it works. of course it can be fatal thats with all things, but dont act like its an immediate death sentence, please. i'm sure a lot of us have heard it enough already

[melishade]

Attack on Prime New Age Anthology: Return to that Sick Mind IV

Main Story

Return to that Sick Mind I

Return to that Sick Mind II

Return to that Sick Mind III

"What nonsense is this?!" Skybite demanded as he pointed at the screen while Jetfire's mouth hung open.

"Megatron's got feelings! Apparently!" Jazz declared incredulously.

"It's...incredible!" Cyberwarp confessed.

"It's disgusting!" Cyclonus shouted.

"Ultra Magnus, this is madness!" Windblade addressed the Commander, but she saw that he was already looking nauseous from the amount of high grade energon he had been drinking.

"I think Ultra Magnus is going to out of commission like the rest of us if we keep watching this," Ratchet proclaimed, "Knockout, please pull Bumblebee out before I lose my sanity further."

"Negative," Knockout denied.

"Knockout, why are you defying an order?" Windblade demanded.

"We still need to gain information on a few things," Knockout explained as he tapped the keyboard, "I've been recording Megatron's memories for later, and he's been explaining information about the power of the titans, and these humans that have also been advocating for him. But I haven't heard much about her."

Knockout showed a picture of Mikasa. "And this person keeps showing up on the screens, but I haven't seen him amongst the humans." Knockout showed another picture of Eren in his human form. "He's shown up quite a bit in these memories."

"You wanted to apologize to the humans?" Bumblebee asked in disbelief.

Megatron realized what he had said and grimaced.

"To Armin, Hanji, whoever's still alive, and...what about that girl that you were comforting when I first came here. I've been seeing her a lot. Who is she?" Bumblebee asked.

Megatron was confused at Bumblebee's statement. "Mikasa Ackerman. She should be with you and the other humans."

"We...we didn't find her after the battle," Bumblebee answered.

"What?!" Megatron exclaimed, "She was still alive and as far as I'm concerned, no fatal injuries!"

"Look, I don't know!" Bumblebee insisted, "Everything was in a tailspin, and Optimus was critically injured and then Armin asked us to save you-!"

"What?" Megatron demanded. The memory changed into that of Bumblebee's, immediately after the power of the titans had disappeared. He saw Bumblebee hear someone calling out for help and ran towards the sound, with Miko following close behind and Wheeljack limping to the cry for help.

Bumblebee then skidded to a stop when he realized that Armin was directly in front of Megatron's damaged body.

"You have to help Megatron!" Armin begged.

"Are you fucking nuts?!" Miko screeched at him, "He's tried to kill us and take over our planet!"

"And he helped to save mine!" Armin retorted.

"You think for one second that we're just going to-!"

"I KNOW HOW YOU FEEL, BUT I JUST CAN'T LET HIM DIE! NOT AFTER EVERYTHING WE'VE BEEN THROUGH! PLEASE HELP HIM!" Armin screamed.

Bumblebee was extremely conflicted. This random human was trying to save Megatron?! He was asking them to save Megatron?! Before Bumblebee could even make a choice, he heard Wheeljack groan in defeat before hobbling over to Megatron's unconscious body and pulling him over his shoulder with his remaining arm.

"Wheeljack?!" Bumblebee exclaimed.

"Wheeljack, what the fuck?!" Miko demanded.

"Look, scrap is really weird on this planet!" Wheeljack proclaimed, "We'll lock him in the Nemesis, get the dark energon out of him, and figure out what to do next!"

"No way! I'm not doing that! Bumblebee!" Miko snapped her head to the warrior, "Bee!"

Bumblebee's attention was on Megatron's flickering optics and the dark energon leaking from his chassis. He then turned his attention to Armin, and saw that his eyes were filled with desperation.

"Please," Armin whispered.

Bumblebee grimaced in frustration before running over to Wheeljack to help support Megatron.

"Bee?!" Miko exclaimed.

"Tell Knockout or anyone to prepare a place on the Nemesis for Megatron!" Bumblebee ordered.

"Dude, he killed you!" Miko emphasized.

"For frag's sake, just do it!" Bumblebee shouted at her.

Megatron shook his helm at the memory. "I don't understand. Why would Armin do that?"

"I guess...you changed enough for Armin to want and try to save you," Bumblebee relented.

Megatron looked to be deep in thought, stepping away from the memory to think. Bumblebee could see Megatron contemplating something, like he was putting the pieces together. A memory flooded the area, and Bumblebee saw that they were in Hizuru...at the top of a palace. Megatron's holoform was standing next to the same person he saw at the beginning of the memories.

“All of this could be yours,” Megatron declared, “You could rule all of this. An Ackerman, a descendant of the royal blood line, a powerful soldier. If you took the crown, you would be unstoppable. So why do you not want it?”

“…If I were to take this title, I would never be able to lead a normal life,” Mikasa declared.

“The Queen has the title on Paradis,” Megatron retorted.

“But Historia’s not living a normal life,” Mikasa reminded, “Levi made her go along with the coup and become the queen. She knows nothing about actually running a nation and had to learn at a fast rate.”

“You could learn faster than her,” Megatron retorted.

“She has to hide her relationship to Ymir,” Mikasa declared, “The only ones who know were at their wedding. If the public found out, there would be chaos. On top of that, Ymir has less than six years to live as well. They can’t live normal lives.”

Mikasa rested her hands against the railing. “I don’t want power. I don’t want this crown. I just want a normal life.”

Megatron stared at Mikasa and saw the upset expression on her face. “What would constitute as that ‘normal’ life?”

Mikasa lowered her arms against the railing, watching the birds fly away. “I live in a small cabin, maybe in the woods, or maybe in a cottage. I do remedial tasks like housework, chopping up wood, washing clothes. I would probably grow vegetables like my mother, or hunt like my father. When I come home from hunting, I…I have a family. A family waiting for me. A child runs up to me, and I would give them the biggest hug in the world. My husband would greet me and we would share a kiss. We would have dinner together. I would tuck my child in and kiss them good night. I would go to bed with my husband, and we would fall asleep in each others’ arms.”

“…What a boring, mundane life,” Megatron declared.

“But it would still be my life,” Mikasa smiled bitterly, “A normal life. No orders, and no titans. No Marley or Eldia. I just want that, but I will never be able to have it. So the only thing I can hope for is just to have the people I love by my side as long as possible.”

Mikasa rested her head on the railing. “This world is so cruel, but…it is truly beautiful.”

"She doesn't want to be found," Megatron declared, "Mikasa Ackerman is a formidable soldier and the first human I respected."

"I don't blame you," Mikasa admitted, "As a species, we're rather pitiful and cruel against each other. Praying on the weak to survive. Sometimes I wonder how Optimus is able to see the good in us if he's willing to sacrifice his time here."

Megatron was rather surprised by her response. "I didn't expect that kind of response."

"I've experienced it firsthand," Mikasa explained, "This world is cruel, but...it is beautiful."

"An odd thing to say," Megatron admitted.

"You don't really think that way," Mikasa assumed.

"See the world through my optics and you may understand," Megatron stated.

Mikasa looked at Optimus' holoform and back at Megatron. "So then...do you hate Optimus?"

"It's complicated," Megatron merely answered, "But regarding what you said about your own kind. Would you really be willing to kill them, even if they are not your designated enemy?"

"I have to," Mikasa declared, "I have people I need to protect, and I don't have time for mercy."

"What if your comrade turned out to be a traitor?" Megatron asked.

"Dead men tell no tales," Mikasa answered.

"What is your name?" Megatron asked.

Mikasa was confused but answered anyway. "Mikasa. Mikasa Ackerman."

"Well then, it will be interesting to see what you are capable of, Ackerman," Megatron stated.

"But she never wanted the life of a soldier or even a ruler," Megatron continued, "She wanted a peaceful life free of conflict, and she wanted to show me what that peaceful life was like playing games and seeing the lanterns at the Hizuru festival."

Bumblebee saw memories of the two of them playing games at the Hizuru festival. He saw both of them put on different masks.

"But her greatest desire was spend that peaceful life with someone who was marked for death," Megatron declared.

“There was some…questionable information,” Megatron admitted, “And I say that lightly. The Ackermans are said to have a fierce loyalty to someone they care about. Other information described it as the Ackerman trying to find a host. Trying to find someone to serve like the King. The data I found said that it was inaccurate; that the Ackermans were just naturally loyal passionate. But this world doesn’t have the best technology, so I wouldn't take that information at face value.”

“What are you implying?” Mikasa demanded.

“Mikasa, your devotion to Prime’s pet was something I was never fond of,” Megatron told her bluntly, “It’s the one glaring flaw about you. If he is ever in danger, you would be willing to throw away the mission just to ensure his safety. But now I question that devotion. Is it because you genuinely care about him, love him even? Or is it because you’re an Ackerman that need to serve her master?”

Mikasa grew angry. “You don’t know anything about me. I grew up with him. We’ve been through so much together. We survived the titans, we survived the king.”

Mikasa tightened her hand around her scarf. “He taught me how to live. He wrapped this scarf around my neck. He-,”

“Will die within seven years,” Megatron interrupted.

Mikasa felt like cold water had been dumped on her.

“Whether or not the information I’ve gathered is accurate or not, that is something that you will have to come to terms with,” Megatron declared, “If this Ackerman devotion is real, are you going to let it affect you when he dies? Are you going to try and find another host? If not, how will you move on from him? Your love for him affects your actions? What happens when he’s gone? Because I know for a fact you’ll outlive him because of your power.”

Megatron saw the conflicted and scared expression on Mikasa’s face. She tightened the grip on her scarf as tears almost came into her eyes, and Megatron felt...conflicted with what he said.

"And no matter what she did and gave to him, he always drifted farther and farther away from her, causing her nothing but grief," Megatron continued.

“I…I made a mistake,” Mikasa whimpered as tears formed in her eyes.

Megatron raised an eyebrow in confusion. “What?”

“Eren asked me, what I was to him, and all I could think about was what you told me about the Ackermans that I told him I wasn’t sure,” Mikasa explained as the tears fell, “Eren looked so…horrified by my answer! I don’t-! Did I drive him away? What if I had given a different response?”

“Mikasa, I am certain that your response had nothing to do with Eren going off the rails,” Megatron told her, “Now leave so I can-!”

Megatron froze when Mikasa clung to the holoform fabric and rested her head on Megatron’s chest. Megatron could feel her body tremble, but he could not see her tears.

“Please, I’m begging you. Please find Eren,” Mikasa begged him.

“Mikasa-,”

“He and Armin are all I have left of my old life,” Mikasa sobbed, “I know I’ll lose Eren, but what if I lose Armin? I-! I can’t! I’ll be all alone again. I don’t want to.”

“Why…are you even asking me?” Megatron spoke.

“You’re the only one who can,” Mikasa answered, “I’m begging you: please fix my mistake. Please fix it. Please.”

Megatron placed a hand on Mikasa’s shoulder, but didn’t push her away. “I…cannot promise I will yield results,…but I will do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Mikasa weakly mumbled, “Thank you for trying.”

"She probably disappeared when no one else was looking," Megatron declared, "She...no longer wants to be part of the fight."

"...you seem shaken up about that," Bumblebee remarked.

"It is her decision, and she's been through enough. I'm not going to impose," Megatron declared.

"...he never gave us a choice," Cyclonus had spat out.

"Bumblebee, this is Windblade. I need you to inquire about the human this Mikasa Ackerman is fond of," she ordered, "There are multiple reports and people referencing him by name."

"Seems that...Eren is the cause of everyone's problems," Bumblebee remarked, "But Optimus cared for him enough to hesitate to kill him. Even the humans cared for him...how in the Pits did someone like him decide that genocide was the best option? Who even is he?"

"...my opinion on Eren is negatively biased," Megatron admitted.

"Show me," Bumblebee requested.

"...Eren Jaeger was someone that was given the powers of the Attack Titan by his father, Grisha Jaeger," Megatron explained, "Before I arrived, he was placed in a much more compromising position because of his newfound power and the fear that came with it. Optimus decided to start training him as a result."

Through Megatron's optics, Bumblebee saw Optimus in his bipedal mode, quietly addressing Eren and the teen looked on with concern.

"He was impulsive, reckless, selfish...a reflection,...and he adored the ground that Optimus walked on," Megatron continued.

Megatron raised an eyebrow as he looked back. "So you have an unreasonable anger towards me? I haven't done anything wrong to you or your friends. Fear, I understand."

"Look, Eren's just being a little shit because he's going through puberty," Hanji interrupted.

"Don't defend him," Megatron ordered, "I know rage when I see it. Now tell me: why do you hate me so much?"

"Eren don't fucking answer-"

"Because you made Optimus suffer," Eren declared.

"I said things that day I've come to want to take back," Megatron confessed, "Because it led to this."

"YOU WERE RIGHT!" Eren screamed, "YOU WERE FUCKING RIGHT, OKAY?! I WAS NEVER HUMANITY'S HOPE AND MY EXISTENCE WAS A JOKE!"

Megatron took a small step back as Eren's arms fell to his side.

"I took power that wasn't mine," Eren began was tears began to fall, "I couldn't use my powers correctly, letting my friends die. Thomas, Mina, Hannes, Levi's squad, I couldn't do a damn thing. I put all of my friends in danger. I put humanity in danger, and wasn't even able to help figure out the secrets of the titans. I ate my own father, and I wasn't strong enough to save my mother."

Eren hung his head and covered his eyes with his hands. "You were right. I wasn't needed. I always ended up preventing humanity from moving forward. Armin and Mikasa worry about me too much, while Optimus is just wasting his time on me. I'm just…I'm just some stupid kid and everything special about me came out of a fucking syringe! Historia won't take the power so there's no point! There's no point in me having this power! I might as well just end my life since that would benefit humanity more than me being around!"

"He tried to take his life many times, and I had stopped on a few occasions," Megatron continued, "Looking back on it...I should have let him perish."

Bumblebee was taken aback by the rather cruel statement, but with everything that he had been seeing in Megatron's memories, there had to be a good reason. "...Because he caused the genocide."

"...I don't know when Eren started to divulge or think of enacting the Rumbling," Megatron explained, "Maybe it was when he learned that humanity wasn't extinct. Maybe it was learning of the thirteen-year lifespan. Maybe it was when he started seeing memories into the future. I tried everything I could to stop him without killing him, simply due to the fact that I had to considering Optimus and the Survey Corps."

Bumblebee saw Megatron make multiple attempts to stop Eren in anyway that he could, from using a team that freely chose to help him stop Eren from taking the Survey Corps, to sabotaging Eren from taking a titan power during an attack on a town, to tag teaming with Arcee to stopping Eren's plans.

"But it still wasn't enough," Megatron relented, "He still followed the same path that I did, of his own free volition. I wasn't able to get him to stop in time."

“Wait…” Megatron whispered as Eren walked away from him.

“Wait!” The cry got louder, but Eren didn’t stop.

“STOP!” Megatron screamed out to Eren, forcing the titan shifter to stop in his step. Did…was Megatron…begging?! Was Megatron pleading with him?!

“Listen to me! Eren!” Megatron begged as he tried to free himself from his prison, “It’s not worth it! No matter what you think or believe now, it won’t bring you the satisfaction you want! You won’t be able to live with any of it! YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO LIVE WITH WHAT YOU’VE DONE!”

Bumblebee saw Eren consider it. He saw that Eren looked like he was considering to stop, but he continued to press onward.

“No! NO!” Megatron yelled as Eren continued walking without looking back. “STOP!”

"And neither was Optimus,"

“Eren, NO!” Optimus yelled as he leapt for Eren. However, Optimus was horrified when a shot rang out and Eren’s head was blown clean off. Megatron turned his attention to the direction of the attack, and saw the smoking canon of the Marleyan weapon on the ground. Magath looked so hopeful at his action, but something unexpected happen. A glowing centipede like creature erupted out of Eren’s titan body and reconnected with his head. Eren then let out an unholy scream as blue lightning came down from the sky and struck the titan shifter. The force almost sent Optimus flying back; he had to force himself to stand his ground. 

"And now we're here." Bumblebee saw the hot, barren, and desolated landscape before him. The indents of the Colossal Titan feet were present and massive, hot steam radiated throughout the area from the Colossal Titans, and the ground was littered with crushed bodies and smeared blood.

"If I had killed Eren during every single opportunity that I had, I would have done so," Megatron declared, sitting down on the edge of a Colossal Titan footprint, "I might have been hated by them, but...I could have handled that hatred. I could have and should have done everything to prevent this."

Bumblebee couldn't help but sit right now next to Megatron. "You feel remorse for what you've done."

"...All of it," Megatron admitted.

"I never would have imagined," Bumblebee declared.

"Neither have I," Megatron agreed, "I don't know why. I don't know what made this world so different. I should despise the being I've become...but I can't."

"...It would have been nice if you had actually become better and stopped the war before it got too far," Bumblebee stated.

"...I know that the apology means nothing considering who I am. Even so, I'm...sorry...for all the pain and suffering I put you through." Bumblebee snapped his helm towards Megatron, but he kept his gaze straight ahead.

"...I-!"

"Bumblebee, we're pulling you out!"

"Wait, what?! Don't pull me out yet!" Bumblebee placed two digits on his comm. link, "I still need to know more! What about the Eldians?! What about the-!"

"By the Allspark, I almost forgot." Megatron shot up to his pedes, "Knockout, I need you to record this information!"

"What info?!" Bumblebee demanded.

Megatron grabbed Bumblebee's shoulders. "The power of the titans might be gone, but the Eldians are still not safe!"

“Attachments make us humans,” Calvi proclaimed, “Compassion makes us different from the Eldian devils.”

“And yet you treat Eldian children like dirt even though they’ve done nothing wrong at all,” Megatron retorted, “Blaming it on their ancestors even though they wouldn’t do the same acts now.”

“How can you be so sure that they wouldn’t?” Calvi asked.

“How can you be so sure they would?” Megatron countered.

Calvi sighed. “Even if they didn’t want to, that doesn’t change the fact that they can turn into monsters that devour humans. That fear will always be there, and the resentment will remain as well. The only way for there to be peace in this world is if the Eldians are gone forever. Once Eldians are no longer useful, the world leaders have a secret agreement to execute them all. They signed it and everything. So no matter how you treat them, it won’t change the fact that they will be killed. Don’t bother wasting your breath on them.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Megatron asked.

“Because you’re nobody,” Calvi answered, “You’re in no position of power to change the way the world thinks or feels. It’s pointless to try to change anything. And if you told them, they would most likely freak out and we’d have to turn them into titans for the war.”

“You’re a rather cruel man,” Megatron proclaimed.

“It’s more realistic than cruel,” Calvi retorted as he walked away from Megatron, “The world will never accept Eldians.”

Bumblebee watched as the memories began to collapse and turn into dust, floating towards an glowing exit back into his mind. Bumblebee could feel himself getting pulled in, but Megatron adjusted his hold to grab onto Bumblebee's arm.

"Whatever you do, make sure to get that memory to Optimus if he's still alive or anyone else in the Survey Corps!" Megatron ordered, "If there are enough world leaders left on that planet, they will enact that plan out of anger and vengeance! The Tybur will choose to keep his mouth shut out of preservation! But the world will come after the Eldians! Please, please get that information to any of them!"

Bumblebee felt his servo slipping out of Megatron's own.

"OR ELSE HISTORY WILL REPEAT AND EVERYONE WILL HAVE DIED FOR NOTHING!" Bumblebee screamed as he was pulled away from Megatron and back into his own mind. The Warrior gasped as he sat up from the berth, panting heavily. His vision adjusted to the room, and he saw the Autobots and the Council staring at Bumblebee in shock.

Knockout quickly checked the monitors and sighed with relief. "Thank Primus, Megatron didn't follow."

Bumblebee rubbed his optics as he felt the patch get disconnected from his helm by Ratchet.

"Bumblebee, how do you feel?" Ratchet asked.

"I...I...I feel like I'm going to be sick." Bumblebee covered his mouth.

"Join the club," Cyclonus seethed as Bulkhead grabbed Bumblebee a bucket.

"...So what are you going to do with this information?" Smokescreen asked the council.

"I think...we need to sit and think about this," Windblade decided, "This is a lot to take in."

(Alright! Four parts! Hooray! We'll return to the humans in the next part of the anthology).

[somethingsomethingwords]

Hello everyone. New year, new story. This one is kind of a niche one. It's a PJO!AU, and also keep in mind the myth of Achilles and Patroclus. I wanted to write about destiny and tragedy, and maybe succeeding in escaping them. As always, comments are more than welcome. Enjoy💜

When Charles enters the room, he knows that this is where his battle starts, still miles away from the actual battlefield.

He gently pushes the door to the infirmary open, and is not surprised to see the other sat on the bed, looking as though he had tried to stand up but failed, with his head in his hands and a bandage already stained with blood on his left thigh.

The blonde looks up, and in his eyes he can see the red hue, but not because of his father's powers. They are bloodshot and puffy.

He'd like to kneel in front of him, rebandage his wounds and comfort him, but he can't. He has to be strong. For the camp, for their friends, for him.

So he just walks until he is in front of Sebastian, gathering enough courage to pose the fatal question.

Everything seems to vibrate with the sound of the incoming tragedy, history repeating itself, never ending sorrow.

"Seb, where is the armour?" That's it, quick, simple, clean.

Many emotions cross his face, and then they all disappear, leaving behind a blank mask.

"No" he says, final.

"Seb, you know I have to. I'm the only one that's left to do it" he can feel the fear starting to make itself known, but he can't let it win, not today.

"Charles, you are not doing it. We'll find somebody else. Hades, I'll do it myself"

Even if his tone is low, his words are firm.

"Seb, there is literally nobody else. It's either me or we lose" And just as he says it, the desperation is starting to feel like something solid.

"I said no. Give me some ambrosia and nectar and I'll deal with it" As he says the words, he pushes on the bed to stand up. It's not even a half step later that his legs give out, and his knees dropping on the wooden floor.

Charles could see it coming, but he did nothing to stop his fall or help him up.

"Sebastian, look at you. You can't even stand, and other ambrosia will kill you, we both know it. Just give it to me, and then..."

"And then what, Charles? I watch you leave camp to never come back? Because you and I both know how this story ends"

"Thanks for the vote of trust" But even as he says it, he knows it's not about trust. It's about prophecies, about destiny, about eternal returns.

But Charles has to raise his temper, so that this will be an angry goodbye, not a sad one.

And, just like he always does, the son of Ares sees through his strategy, and the fury quickly fades.

But without anger, all that's left is shaky voices and wet eyes.

"Charlie, please, listen to me. Stay here, at camp. Defend the children. Let me go" he says as if it's the most logical thing in the world. Or, even if it were, as if Charles is going to listen to logic. He never has. He is not about to.

"Seb, we could fucking see your femur through the beast's slashes like two hours ago. Nectar is not magic. I believe in you more than I've ever believed in them, but even you have your limits. We are still human, Seb" he keeps talking while helping the other on his feet, leaving one of his hands in his and intertwining their fingers.

"So help me put on your armour, then let's go doing what we can to save as many lives as we can" This time he doesn't stop the shaking, doesn't stop the tears, but keeps looking straight into Sebastian's eyes, trying to express all that he can't say through them, trying to impress the colours there into his mind for the last time.

Even as Seb shakes his head, Charles knows he has won. Not because of the power of his words that he will use to rile up every remaining fighter towards the battlefield, but because he can see the despair, hopeless and cruel and inescapable.

He presses his free hand to his cheek, and slowly kisses him as if they have all the time in the world. One last kiss, one last shared breath.

When he pulls back, Seb uses their connected hand to lead him to his cabin, limping slightly.

It's dark and empty, all his siblings guarding the still too young kids.

Gods, they all are still too young for this. But they don't have a choice, it's either this or failure, and failure is not acceptable, for neither of them.

Sebastian's bed is the one nearest to the front. His evident need to always protect makes Charles smile, and it also makes him fall even more in love with Seb.

From beneath it, the blonde takes what looks like the sturdiest armour of all times: the Celestial Bronze culrass shone into the low lights, the helmet with its red crest, the wooden aspis.

Charles accepted all of it, except for the xiphon. He will not leave behind his Bronzen spear, nor his Stygian Iron dagger.

Dressed in Sebastian's armour, with the long cheek guards hiding his face, he knows he can get the other campers to fight. He has to.

Sebastian stares at him, maybe thinking this is the last time they will see each other. But Charles knows it is not. Even if he were to die today, he knows his soul will find Sebastian's. Even in another life, they are predestined.

When he begins to turn, Sebastian gently raises his still tied hand to his lips and he kisses his wrist.

"We will meet again. I swear it on the Styx" he professes in ancient greek.

With a final smile, Charles turns towards the door, towards where all the other campers are bundled.

He isn't Charles Leclerc anymore, Monegasque son of Aphrodite with the most powerful charmspeak of the last 3 centuries.

He now is Sebastian Vettel, German son of Ares, ready to lead his cabin towards the battle, ready to win it.

[artificialqueens]

🎁 Lonely This Christmas (Bitney) for Cheetah - Lita

SECRET QUEEN 2022 by @artificiallita, for @opalescent-cheetah

A/N: When I got the list of tropes etc to possibly explore from Cheetah, one thing that really stuck out to me was the idea of exploring aromanticism or atypical relationship dynamics - and if anyone knows my writing, you know that I've never exactly written 'normal' Bitney (I can only apologise to all victims of the San Junipero AU lmao) so this was super super fun. Loosely inspired by V pointing out that I write Bianca in the Femme Fatale AU as somewhere on the aromantic spectrum, although she herself might not have found the words for it yet, I wanted to explore that a little more while also writing some silly festive fluff (a month late lmao.) 

Cheetah, I hope you enjoy this <3<3 Hope your holiday season was magical, and thank you for inspiring this fic since I had a ton of fun with it. Much love!!

(Full A/N restored! -V)

*****

“We’re sorry, the person you are trying to reach is unable to take your call. Please leave a voicemail after the-”

“Fuck…” Courtney ends the fourth attempted call, and drops her phone into her lap. Her head sinks into her hands. It’s the middle of the fucking night in Australia - of course her mum isn’t answering her phone, she’s probably asleep. So is Kim. So is…well, it’s more likely that Vanity is shitfaced and in the middle of a club with no service, but either way she’s unreachable. Stupid fucking New York and its stupid fucking shitty winters. 

It had been snowing heavily when she woke up that morning, and hadn’t stopped all day. She’d gotten the news via a Twitter notification in the cab to the airport - all flights bound for NYC were being diverted, and all scheduled to leave it had been grounded. She’d hoped for a miracle, but the odds of one occurring had dwindled into the single digits as she’d arrived in the airport to be told her flight was delayed by five hours. It had been outright cancelled twenty minutes ago. 

 She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her suitcase, staring down a never ending line of closing check-in desks - the departure boards above them, bright red CANCELLED labels next to every listed flight, feel like they’re mocking her. Adore was right, she’d left it too late. Court makes a mental note to listen to her roommate more often. Adore had fucked off home for the holidays a week ago, of course - blissfully unaware of the current mayhem in JFK Airport and probably stoned halfway to a coma with her mom. Lucky cunt. 

What kind of idiot waits until December 23rd to fly halfway across the world back home for Christmas? Well, her and by the looks of things a couple of hundred other idiots, pacing and yelling into cell phones and arguing with the poor arseholes at the customer service desk, as if they could do anything about the bloody weather. Courtney is trying to summon the willpower to brave the cold and shuffle out to the waiting line of taxis, where it looks like half the population of the city are lined up with pointlessly packed bags and weary faces and screaming kids. It’s already Christmas Eve in Sydney. 

Courtney feels her eyes welling up. Between work, and fighting to get the time off work to get home at all, and packing and shopping and everything else, the stress has been melting her head for weeks. And now this. Horrible, crushing defeat - falling at the last hurdle with no solution in sight. Maybe she could swim to Australia? It’s starting to get dark; the snow still falling down in sheets and wind blowing with such force it feels like it’s shaking the wall she’s leaning against. Fuck this for a laugh.  

“Hey stranger.”

A familiar abrasive voice. Followed up by a slightly-too-hard nudge with the toe of a sneaker. Courtney looks up, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. 

Bianca’s dark hair is spilling out of her ponytail, LV holdall slung over one shoulder as she stands in front of her in sweatpants and a parka. She looks a hell of a lot more zen than most other people waiting around; face unflinching and almost entirely unbothered.

“I don’t know what you’re waiting for, this shit isn’t going anywhere any time soon,” Bianca continues, gesturing to the window with her head. Courtney cracks half a smile. 

“I don’t know either,” Courtney shrugs. “If I leave, I have to accept that I’m fucked and I don’t want to do that yet.

“‘Fucked’ is a strong word,” Bianca says with a snort of a laugh. She offers Courtney a hand, pulling her up off of the floor. 

Bianca was the intimidating, take-no-shit head bartender of the club that Court worked as a shot girl in; it seemed like she’d made it her life’s mission to make everyone who came into contact with her think she was a total cunt. However, there was an element of trying too hard that Courtney had always plainly seen through - Bianca being a closet softie wasn’t anything close to a shock. She’d been the one that took the GM to task when he’d tried to refuse to give Court time off to go home over Christmas, and probably the only reason that Court wasn’t there right now, in a miniskirt and fishnets trying to upsell high-end tequila to groups of drunk Wall Street cunts on their office night out. 

She’d also been the subject of a long-unrequited crush that Courtney had been harbouring since she started working there two years ago. Not because she didn’t care, or because she didn’t like her. Court had woken up in her bed a few too many times for that to be the case. But Bea doesn’t shit where she eats. Like she’d said the last time she’d rebuffed Courtney’s suggestion to go for brunch the last time they’d gotten too drunk and woken up naked and spooning. 

It was confusing, and at times a little frustrating - but that didn’t change the little spark of happiness that Courtney had felt cracking through the misery when Bianca appeared, or the way that watching her eyes light up when she laughs makes Court melt. She’d let the silly crush be a silly crush if it meant she got to keep Bianca around. 

“So, what’s your plan exactly? Sit here and feel sorry for yourself until the snow melts?” 

“Something like that.” 

“Well, I’m going home like a normal person - I drove here, do you want a ride? 

Courtney nods a little hesitantly. 

“Actually,” Bianca says, noticing the uncertainty on Courtney’s face. “I could probably use the company, do you wanna come hang out at my place? Saves you sitting around feeling like shit by yourself.”

“Yeah,” Courtney says, a smile creeping onto her lips. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

******

“Hold on a fucking second,” Courtney lifts her head up from Bea’s lap. 

She’d gotten to Bianca’s apartment and originally sat at a respectful distance on the other side of the couch - they’d chatted idle shit for a while, bitching about work and people they knew and how much Christmas sucks as a holiday. All the stress and chaos and planning, and spending money you don’t really have on people you don’t really like. And then Courtney had cried a little about not making it home - actually, she’d had what most people would describe as a mental breakdown. She hadn’t seen her family since last bloody Christmas, missing god knows how many birthdays and milestones. She and Vanity had been planning their New Year night out for a month. She was homesick - a state she practically lived in, but that was so much worse now that she’d been touching distance from getting there and then couldn’t. Bianca had gotten a little closer, pulling into a hug and letting Court leave a wet patch of tears on her sweatshirt. 

Then they’d ordered takeout and opened a bottle of wine - finished that and then started on a second. Bianca’s studio apartment is warm and homey, and Bianca’s presence is warmer. And now they’re here. Bianca has a hand tangled in Courtney’s blonde hair, there’s Hallmark garbage playing on the TV, and Court wishes every night could be like this. Fuck, Courtney thinks she’s in love. 

Bianca has her other arm around Courtney’s shoulders, their legs tangled under a blanket as glow from the streetlights creep through the curtains. She’s never seen Bianca this soft; this tender. Her eyes are a little glassy, but she looks so content, and so fucking beautiful in the soft light. 

“What?” Bianca tilts her head. 

“You were at the fucking airport too - and you’ve not complained once about not getting home. I get that I'm being a drama queen about this, but that’s weird. 

“Because I don’t really care,” Bianca shrugs. “I’m missing the annual family argument and my grandma asking me a hundred weird judgy questions about why I don’t have a boyfriend yet - big fucking deal. I don’t have to deal with them, and the situation is out of my control so I don’t get in shit for not coming, it’s a win-win.”  

Courtney is stunned into silence for a second. 

“What? Some people have a shitty relationship with their family, this is news to you?” Bianca laughs, clearly noticing the look on Courtney’s face. 

“No - I just…I don’t know. I just never thought about it with you - you’ve got your shit together, you’re happy. Well, ish. Didn’t think you had all of this like…internal angst,” Courtney says, and then hiccups. She reaches for her glass. 

“It’s not angst - this isn’t ‘mommy and daddy don’t love me because I’m a queer’ shit - it’s just…I don’t know. It’s nothing. We’re not close - we never have been. And I’m happier on my own.” Bianca says, her shoulders hunching a little bit.  And then: “That new start fucking sucks, right? Magnolia or whatever her name is.”

“Hey, don’t change the subject! We were having a moment - you were being vulnerable! This is progress!” 

“Cunt,” Bianca protests with a chuckle. “What more do you fucking want from me? We’re not friends until I’ve told you the ins and outs of all of my inner turmoil? Because there’s not much there.” 

“I’m just saying, you’re a bit…I dunno, cold? You try to pretend that you’re all big and scary, but you’re not - and you keep pretending anyway."

“Your point?”  

“My point is I really fucking like you, and it’s like you-”

“Bitch, you think you’ve been subtle about that?” Bianca laughs. “I know. I know you really like me. And I’m sorry if I’ve given you the impression that I don’t…I don’t know, like you or value you as a friend and want you in my life. It’s not that - it’s just fucking complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Courtney sits up, her brow furrowing. “Because at this point, it feels more like being led on. You’re so nice to me, you make me so happy - and then you make me feel like a crazy person for thinking there’s something there and wanting more.”

Shit, Courtney feels more strongly about this than she’d realised. Bianca flinches. 

“Because I don’t like it when there’s more,” Bianca says with an exhausted sigh. “I’m terrible at relationships - I always have been." 

“But I don’t mind that, I’d-” “Trust me Court, you really, really would. I don’t talk to anyone that I’ve ever dated any more. It sucks, it makes me feel like shit - it probably makes them feel worse. I don't do it on purpose, but I don't think I feel the way that people are meant to feel about this kind of stuff. It's just hard and confusing and stressful - and then it ends, and I’m by myself again, so I might as well be by myself because I’m choosing to be. Not because I’m a shitty girlfriend.” 

She puts her head in her hands. Courtney feels a quiet pang of guilt - in the first instance because this is the closest thing to upset she’s ever seen Bianca, and equally because she’s thrown off the balance of what was a fucking amazing time. Bianca had made her forget about Christmas, or missing her fucking family - about any of the sadness she’d been carrying when she came in. She’d made everything feel better, and then Courtney screwed it up as a thank-you. 

She remembered a few of the exes. Raja and Katya and Dela - all completely unalike in every imaginable way. Courtney remembered being horribly jealous of them when they came into the bar, watching how happy they seemed to make Bianca from a distance and hating it. And she always remembered it going downhill; Bianca casually complaining about how they’d been fighting over nothing, or how whatever-her-name-was hadn’t spoken to her in days.  And Bianca had always mentioned that it ended completely off the cuff - completely unbothered. Or so she seemed. 

“Bea, I’m sorry…” 

Courtney frowns. “Bianca, I’m…” she pauses to think. A lot of what Bianca just said sounds a little familiar. “Do you think it’s possible that you might be aromantic?"

“The fuck does that mean?” Bianca furrows her brows.

“It’s like, kind of similar to asexuality-” “I know I’m not that,” Bianca says, accompanied by a little snort of a laugh. “I think you do too.”

“Yeah, I do,” Courtney can’t help but let a little exhale of a laugh escape. “But it’s a lack of romantic attraction. So instead of not being into sex, the idea of being with someone or needing a relationship to feel fulfilled doesn’t do anything for you.”

“So you’re telling me I’m some kind of fucking weirdo who doesn’t know how to love people?” Bianca says, accompanied by a confused, slightly embarrassed chuckle. 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying - because clearly you do. You care about people - you just don’t need to date them to prove that.” 

“Huh,” Bianca nods.

“Look, that’s something you need to figure out for yourself - but I don’t mind either way. I just thought this whole time that you didn’t want to go out with me because you didn’t like me.”

“Not even close,” Bianca looks at the floor, smiling. “This doesn’t mean that I don’t care about you, or I don’t want you in my life. Actually, it means I want you in my life so badly that I don’t want to risk screwing that up by dating you - since I’ve never had a relationship that I haven’t screwed up.”

Courtney bites her lip. Secretly, she thinks she’s been imagining a future in which Bianca gets over herself and then they spend the rest of their lives together. And secretly, she’s always known that’s infantile and stupid and impossible. This feels final; but the sting of the rejection isn’t there like she thought it would be. Maybe because it’s not really a rejection. 

“Anyway, it’s not like I’ve not tried a hundred fucking times to help you get over it,”Bianca continues.

“How exactly?” Courtney laughs, perplexed.

“Valentina, Aja, Joslyn, Shea - any girl at work mentions anything about being into girls, and the first thing I do is throw them at you. I’ve been trying so fucking hard to set you up with literally anyone else for the last year. You didn’t just think you’re that irresistible to every single sapphic-leaning woman you’ve ever met?”

“Well, I don’t want to say yes, but…” 

“Fuck off,” Bianca laughs, Courtney tossing her hair. Then: “I’m sorry, Court.”

“You don’t need to be sorry either,” Courtney says, picking herself up a little and smiling. “I think I saw this coming. Or, some variation on this conversation happening at least. I’ll get over it.” 

“Look, compromise - we can go back to cuddling and watching sappy movies, and then after tonight, you move on and find someone to pine over that isn't me. And I'll still be there for you, as a friend. Okay?”

“Okay.” 

Courtney nestles herself in Bianca’s lap again. Bianca smiles softly, gently pressing a kiss to Courtney’s forehead. Courtney feels a flutter of butterflies in her stomach. She likes this  - even if she knows it won’t last. After tonight, they’d part ways again; back to an occasional lingering glance across the bar, or a hand hovering over a waist on a night out. But why should she wake up right now? 

******

“Bea- fuck, what time is it?”

Courtney says groggily, lifting her head off of the couch cushion. She’s still wearing the sweatpants and cropped Gerri Halliwell tee she’d put on yesterday morning. Bianca is standing in front of her, fully dressed with a Starbucks cup in each hand. She hands one to Court - almond latte, extra shot and chestnut praline syrup. The fact that Bea had remembered her coffee order makes her melt. 

“Six-thirty. Get up and get your shit together.” “Why?” Courtney asks, her voice dry as she rubs the sleep out of her eyes.

“Some of the snow cleared overnight - there’s a flight from LaGuardia to Toronto at ten am, you can get a connection to Sydney from there and be home by the 26th. I know it’s not perfect, but it’s something.” 

“Bianca, you didn’t have to…” 

“Yeah, but I did. Come on, let’s get you home to your family.”

Courtney stands up, pulling Bianca into a tight hug, her eyes moist. And then she stops, pulling back a little. 

“What about you?” 

Bianca gives a tight-lipped smile. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

[aeternxm]

(from lunarwill)

The blow had tore through him as he desperately tried to protect the two behind him. The blue haired man hadn't expected one of the monsters this weird world had to shoot from range until the huge spike like projectile tore clean through part of his chest. Even he knew a fatal injury when he saw one his eyes wide. He still kept fighting until Myde finally managed to put up a barrier the monstrous bugs and critters could only beat against it flutily. At least the ex-nocturne had saved himself and Lea for the moment. Isa fell to one knee gripping his sword using it to hold himself up. It wasn't until Lea got to him that he collapsed into his arms. Myde came over in a hurry attempting to heal him but the injury was too severe.

He reached up brushing his knuckles against the red heads cheek weakly. "...I'm...I'm sorry..to leave you like this...You know I love you more than anything else in this universe right?" He grit his teeth looking at the blond. "Don't let him linger here...you promise me you'll carry his ass out if you have to."

"I promise" came the quiet already tearful voice of his other friend.

He started coughing it felt like the worst pain he'd ever had but at the same time it was already starting to numb. And he was just so so tired. "I love you.."

unprompted | @lunarwill ( for ultimate sadness, please listen to sailor song by gigi perez )

it's like time slows down -- almost like he can see it before it even happens and yet, he's useless to stop it. isa's too far -- lea could try and do something, but it's like he's frozen in fear, can only stare hopelessly as the projectile connects, tears straight through isa like he's nothing. there's a scream -- desperate and loud, isa's name -- is that him screaming? no it's --

lea gets knocked down from behind, struggles with everything he's got, manages to swing his keyblade behind him and kill whatever it was that had attacked him. he clambers up, eyes darting frantically to try and find isa again and as soon as he does, it's a mad dash to where the other is. lea barks something in myde's direction -- a command, fucking help him -- he's hurt! help him! lea doesn't care if he sounds mean, doesn't give a shit about anything other than getting to isa as quickly as he can, pushing forward despite his muscles aching when he sees isa fall to one knee, holding himself up by only his sword.

❝ --isa! just stay there -- i'm coming! ❞

he doesn't know if his words reach, drops to his knees and skids a little before he's finally, finally reached isa. lea can't look at the wound, knows it's bad but refuses to admit to himself that it can't be fixed. ❝ --hey, hey. i'm here, i've got you -- myde's gonna fix you right up, okay? don't worry about a thing, myde can fix this. you'll be fine, isa -- hey, you'll be fine. ❞ tears as isa collapses into his arms, and lea's not sure if the words are meant to be a comfort to isa, or himself.

lea keeps his gaze fixed on isa's face, propping him up as best he could -- the other hand cradling his face, trying to keep his attention. lea's only all too aware of the blood that wasn't his own, staining his clothes. he's only all too aware of how pale isa looks, how weak he seems. no! stop thinking like that -- fucking stop it. isa's gonna be fine -- he won't leave, he can't leave.

please, lea thinks. please don't take him from me. not now.

❝ stop talking like that, you're not going anywhere. myde is gonna fix this -- right? ❞ a sharp look directed towards myde, but the look of pity he gets in return has lea sobbing, looking down at isa again. ❝ you're not gonna die, i won't let you -- you're not allowed. so stop with the goodbyes -- this isn't a goodbye. you'll -- it'll, god. please -- isa, don't leave me. i don't-- ❞ he can't finish the sentence, his whole body shaking and he tries, tries desperately, to kiss isa. it's awkward, given their position -- but lea needs him to know that he's not going anywhere -- he's not giving up. there wasn't a force strong enough on any world that could pull lea away from isa, not now, not ever.

❝ i can't do this without you, isa. please, please -- i love you. are you happy? i said it -- i love you. i'll say it as much as you want just stay, fuck -- please, don't leave me-- ❞

it's the hand on his shoulder as isa fades away, it's the the way myde looks like he's crying as he tries to pull lea away. lea fights him at every turn, refuses to go -- if isa's gone, he's going with him. ❝ let me go -- no! i'm not fucking leaving him, myde -- please. ❞ his body sags against the blond, all fight in him gone as the sobs overtake his body.

❝ bring him back -- please. i don't... i don't know how to do this without him. ❞

[artyandink]

Heya, my love!

Ok, first of all, I looove that you started with a definition/profile of a femme fatale. Very on brand for a Reid story. Also shows a dedication to your craft in form of research (I assume? Or do you have a genius brain like our baby Reid?!) that I personally value a lot.

This was actually born from yes, an in depth study of the monstrous feminine and femme fatales from movies and books, but the profile was written by me 😁 That was to cement it as a CM story and I wanted to give the background on the reader without actually giving it. Put a personality to the name before you meet them. I have an IQ of 149, not as high as 187 😅

Could Spencer possibly be more Spencer? I doubt it. The info-dump with the added confusion about Morgan's nickname for the drug - Why would he ever call it a smoothie when this is anything but healthy?! Do semantics mean nothing to Morgan?! - reads so much like Spencer. I feel like bits like this one are crucial when writing his character and you 100% nailed that, not just here, but throughout the entire story.

That's how I really wanted to make Spencer Reid... Spencer Reid. I did agree slightly with the possibility of s12 Spence being who the reader deals with here, but by what I've seen S7-9 Spence really gives the feel of can be innocent versus can wreck you five times over. Exhibit A is this piece here. Exhibit B is in the works.

One of my personal favorites is when someone talks while being kissed repeatedly in an effort to shut them up. I ate this bit up 😩

I had this scenario with Spencer in my head for a while, and this was me having a brain child and getting all that out in the most filthy way I could imagine. I was as scared to write this as I was to write lipstick, baby.

The way I said "oh fuck" out loud.

Well, uh, literally as well, so you're not wrong for saying it

Yes, yes, yes. Let go, baby. 😩

This was born from the thought of how if Spencer was consumed by his work for so long that if he was given the chance, he'd go nuts. Brain child.

What a breaking the fourth wall moment right here. I felt attacked. I felt seen. Heard. Understood.

Honey, I was speaking from my own perspective too. That man's fingers would have me weak. No questions asked.

The fucking audacity of this man to be giving a lecture while eating you out. Like, I absolutely see this happening, and I hate how much I love it. It gives a sense of superiority that he undoubtedly feels in this moment. Very Dom!Spencer for sure. Eating you out is just as easy for him as maintaining information, so why shouldn't he absolutely show off?

This was a thing that came to me the moment the eating out started, and this was me:

I got a brainwave. Why wouldn't Dr Spencer Reid show off how well he can eat pussy and also his profiling skills? Why the fuck not?

This line got me off from a literary perspective. Delicious writing.

Was that irony, darling? 😁☺️💜

She might've won by getting him in bed, but he is the ultimate winner with that line. My man's got a point 😂

I mean-- winners all around, am I right?

Arty, this was a delicious read! I am officially petitioning for you to write more Spencer, please 😌

One is already on the way! It's going to be an extremely different read from this one, I think. But I'm so glad you enjoyed, and I hope I see your feedback more! A joy to see 💜

Arty ;)

‘34 château margaux

SUMMARY: Spencer never knew to feel about you. Actually, he did. You were a career criminal, but also a liaison for the FBI, which prevented your arrest. You’re cunning, manipulative, persuasive and oh, so seductive. Spencer was warned against you, and he knew it. But even a genius profiler with an eidetic memory couldn’t resist you. Even a genius profiler with an eidetic memory can’t help but lose control around a woman like you.

TW: mentions of smoking, wine, seduction, badass reader, s7 Dr Spencer Reid, mentions of organised crime, mobs and mafia, Spencer’s weak for reader the poor baby, Hotch slander, smut

STW: Spence doesn’t stop the reader from kissing him, marking, oral (f. receiving), brief handjob, praise kink if you squint, dirty talk but Spencer style, degradation I think, wine play (I think), temperature play as subtext, ass slapping, profiling during sex, threat of exhibitionism, light choking, switch!Spencer, switch!reader, pussydrunk!Spencer, slight overstimulation, fingering

SONG INSPO: Greedy by Ariana Grande, Acapulco by Jason Derulo, I Did Something Bad by Taylor Swift and Make you Mine by Madison Beer

Femme fatales had a specific profile.

The "femme fatale" is typically depicted as a highly attractive and enigmatic woman in her late twenties to early forties, often characterized by a seductive allure that masks her manipulative and dangerous nature. Her primary weapon is her ability to ensnare men through charm, beauty, and sexual allure, ultimately leading them to their downfall.

While her motivations vary, she is often driven by power, revenge, or hidden trauma. Early literary examples include the biblical figure of Delilah, who betrays Samson, and Salome, who demands the head of John the Baptist. In classical mythology, Circe and the Sirens use their allure to seduce and destroy men.

The femme fatale's archetype is also evident in later works like Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth, who manipulates her husband to commit regicide. This profile of a femme fatale highlights her as a complex figure whose allure conceals a more sinister intent.

That was your profile.

Hotch had warned Spencer not to get too close to you, because you knew how to use your everything, and you had a sweet spot for the latter. Not because Spencer really was a likeable son of a bitch, but because you found him more fun than the other agents.

You were a pretty face, sure, but you were also a genius. A Dr Spencer Reid level genius, but you were the side of the spectrum that dissolved into a life of high crime and corruption.

Instead of becoming a federal agent - or law enforcement - you were the trusted advisor to a lot of the mafia and mob population, and even that was enough to put you away on charges of incitement/inchoate crime. But you were useful, extremely useful, so you also then became the liaison for the FBI whenever the mafia or mob circles became involved in an investigation.

This time, you were, as the unsub of a case in Las Vegas, Nevada seemed to be purchasing drugs like M99, ketamine and small doses of chloroform, mixed with LSD. It was a powerful mix and the dose was enough to cause immediate system failure and then death. The drugs were being purchased from casinos which were rumoured to be the cover of Vegas’ mob circles.

Your hotel room was the kind of thing Spencer only hoped to see in movies, with warm lighting, patterned red wallpaper, mahogany flooring with underfloor heating, glass and gold tables, mahogany dressers and a huge king-size four poster with curtains the same colour as the walls. There was a liquor cabinet as well as a fancy looking cooler, and it was nothing like Spencer had been used to seeing as he grew up in this very city.

It didn’t feel like his territory anymore. He wasn’t as comfortable as he usually was around these parts. He took the couple steps in, having closed the door behind him, now standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

Maybe you weren’t in. Phew.

“Dr Reid.” Came the voice that made Spencer feel like he was on fire, a perfectly manicured hand brushing over his shoulder as you walked up from behind him, having come from the bathroom that was no doubt as fancy as the bedroom itself. After all, this was the penthouse.

You lived it big as a career criminal.

You stepped out from behind him, lips that he’d unintentionally imagined on his body stretched into a smirk as you picked up a quarter-full wine glass from the table and took a sip. You were killing him, wearing a black silk robe with just the right hint of lace, which stopped at your mid thigh and had a neckline that had his eyes dropping briefly before he schooled them and gave himself a very firm lecture inside his head.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Again, that voice, the cadence of it, Spencer couldn’t understand how something as simple as a damn voice could have him so unbelievably weak for you.

Spencer raised his hand in greeting with his bravest attempt at a smile, like he usually did.

“It’s a case.” He dug in his messenger bag, handing you some photos of some bodies. “Someone’s targeting bank workers around Vegas. It’s a ‘drug smoothie’ of M99, ketamine and small doses of chloroform, mixed with LSD. Morgan dubbed it that. Actually, smoothies are meant to boost the health of the drinker and contain nutrients from a liquid base such as yogurt or milk puréed with fruit, vegetables or items in a mixer, so I don’t see how this particular drug mix is a smoothie— a milkshake perhaps, as it hasn’t got as much nutritional value beside providing substantial energy through the intake of sugar and carbohydrates.”

He paused, seeing the soft, amused smile on your face, the light of the room casting a perfect shadow on the curve of your cheek. It felt like you were ethereal. “Did I say too much?” Spencer said meekly, rubbing his jaw.

“Not at all, Dr Reid, I completely agree. You can tell your friend Morgan to change it and you have my wholehearted support.” You gave him a nod, your head tilted and eyes looking big with the way you were looking at him. “You have no clue just how much your knowledge turns a girl on, baby, no clue at all.”

Spencer cleared his throat, realising that he was veering off topic and also almost salivating at the sound of you calling him baby. Having to lecture his eyes once again for looking at your legs that seemed to go on for days and seemed to also be calling for him to grab, knead and grip. “We need to stay on topic. Hotch needs the information about the case, and you need to give it.”

Spencer couldn’t help but always let his mind drop into the gutter at the sight of you. It was a Pavlovian response at this point— pure, unbridled instinct.

He couldn’t help but notice that with the way the robe draped on your body, you had nothing on underneath. That kind of assumed information had Spencer reeling.

You waved a perfectly manicured hand with scarlet nails, dismissing the idea of maintaining professionalism. “Hotch needs this, Hotch needs that. No offence to him, but he’s got a lock on you, Dr Reid. Enjoy for a night, let your hair down.”

“Well, t-the phrase ‘let your hair down’ originally was meant literally back in 1850, which was its first recorded usage but it has its roots in the 17th century. It was taken literally because women wore their hair pinned up in public, but the meaning of the phrase was to ‘get familiar’.”

Oh.

“Sorry, I can’t.” Spencer added hurriedly, searching for a notebook and pen in his bag. Licking his lips subtly at the sight of your v-neck and the way your hair framed your face. The curve of that pretty neck he wanted to kiss and lavish so it made those pretty lips fall open—

Jesus, keep it together.

“Anyway, do you want some wine?” You asked, tapping the bottle. “‘34 Château Margaux. This hotel really does have good taste.”

“I don’t drink on the job.” Spencer answered coolly. “And definitely not with criminals.” He would had Hotch not warned him— bad Spencer.”

You pouted, feigning upset. “That just breaks my heart. Putting my job against me? I’m only the advisor to some very powerful forty-and-above men who want some sexual gratification and overall ego boosts and also carry some lovely baggage with mommy issues written all over it. They want a pretty face to spill their secrets to, I give them that and get some cash in return.”

You saw the look on his face. “I’m not apologising for being a career woman.”

“Yet you liaise with the FBI about all that these forty-or-older sexually frustrated men tell you.” He countered quickly, firmly looking you in the eye. Not down at your lips, not at your tits, nor your thighs.

Spencer shook his head in exasperation, even though a shiver ran down his spine at how you advanced towards him, undoing his tie with a practiced hand. “What- ma’am, you can’t do that—”

“Ma’am?” You laughed, getting the maroon tie off and dropping it to the floor, unbuttoning his collar deftly. “Jesus, sweetie, that makes me feel old. Call me by my name, don’t be shy.”

Your name slipped off his tongue in barely a whisper, and became his only known prayer when he felt the warmth of your hands through his shirt, sliding up and up until the searing heat ran over his neck, resting in his hair and trailing down his arm, your nose brushing his before slotting in place.

Oh, God, he thought as you took his hand in your own soft one and guided it to press against your thigh, the fingertips of his index, middle and ring finger feeling silk while his palm, thumb and fifth finger felt smooth, creamy skin.

Oh, fuck, he thought as your lips got close enough to his to be a teasing venture into the cracks in his walls and defences that he’d flimsily put up against you.

“I’ll give you the information you need.” You said softly, in a way that had Spencer’s breath hitching. He should have looked away. He should’ve removed his hand from your thigh, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He was stuck like that, entranced by you. “You just need to let loose for me. For one night, I’m all yours. Drop that professionalism, Dr Reid. Let yourself go.”

“You’re a career criminal.” Spencer murmured, his hand beginning to rub your thigh, gripping slightly at the end of the downward stroke. Bad hand.

“Semantics.” You smirked, biting your lip— oh, hell, that did nothing for his self control. It made him want to kiss those lips until they bruised or swelled, until they numbed. His hand on your thigh made his tongue long to devour your pussy. The way you were looking him made him feel like he was merely a puppet on strings. “Come on, Dr Reid. Don’t deny yourself a good time, hm?”

Spencer would’ve answered, but then your lips pressed against his, and suddenly, he had clarity. That this was wrong, so very wrong. But it felt so damn good. His hand now kneading your thigh was wrong but felt electric.

He pulled back, but his mouth didn’t need to do the chasing that they ached to do. You did it for him, silencing any bubbling protest. You kissed him for the sake of coaxing him to give in, to just kiss and touch until his lips and conscience went deliciously numb.

“We can’t-” He felt your lips against his, a hum replacing his words, unknowingly stepping back towards the bed. Or maybe he knew. “We - mm - Hotch will - mhm—”

“Baby, what Aaron Hotchner doesn’t know what hurt him.” You murmured, pushing him back onto the bed. Spencer fell back without a protest, taking you in, especially as you straddled his lean form that had scooted up the bed, set his messenger bag aside and began popping the buttons of his shirt while grazing his lips with your own, teasing him, taunting him and daring him to let go as you rolled your hips slow and steady against his.

A grinding motion that drove him insane and made him moan and gasp. The fabric of his trousers really did nothing to alleviate the friction and pressure.

Spencer’s hands shot to your hips, unknowingly helping you and guiding your movements under the guise of getting you off him. “Ma’am, I mean—” He whimpered your name instead of saying it like a normal guy would, “please, d-don’t—”

Saying don’t stop was the intention, but he held himself back with the rapidly fraying thread of control. His eyes screwed shut then opened wide with a gasp, wanting to lose himself in you.

He wondered if this was his state with every woman or just you.

Definitely you was the answer when you took your mostly empty glass of wine, pouring the remaining contents over his chest. Your cold hand cupped the side of his neck, a shiver flitting over his warm skin as you then bent forward, lapping up the liquid from his chest. Sucking, drinking the earthy-noted wine with a suspiciously high efficiency. A moan that even surprised him left his mouth when you ground down against him again, your tongue on his skin, and he never hated his trousers more than right this moment as the fabric strained against his clothed need.

He loathed them when you reached for the sash of your robe, untying the waves of tantalising silk fell off your shoulders and over the side of the bed, revealing nothing underneath.

His mouth went dry.

He swallowed.

He snapped.

Within a second, you were flipped over, Spencer’s lips crashing down on yours as he kicked his shoes off, toed his socks off as he kissed you like he was going feral, hand tangling in your hair as he practically rutted against you, hard and fast and oh, so relieving.

He was gripping your face, free hand pushing the loose strands of hair out of your face, nipping at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue and making the blazing journey down your neck, which you bared to him gladly.

“Is this what you wanted?” Spencer panted, sucking at your pulse. “You wanted me to lose control, baby? Yeah, you got it. You. Got. It.” He punctuated the last three with nips to your collarbone and followed up with presses of his mouth on the swell of your tits.

You couldn’t even think, just letting out moans and sighs and needy whimpers of his name and unintelligible sounds, which did good to satisfy his frustration. Spencer’s mouth enveloped your nipple, sucking while tweaking the other between his fingers to have you arching into him and a smirk forming around his temporary fixation.

He switched his attention, pushing you down by your waist with his free hand to keep you from arching up. “Sit pretty and take it.”

Oh, those words sent a hot shiver up your spine. And then back down again, straight to your already soaking pussy.

He let your tit go with a small gasp, his eyes zeroing in on the prize and prompting him to start kissing down your stomach and nipping at your thighs.

If you chose to wear that robe for another person in the near future, they’d see his marks on your thighs. His. That was a thought that had a warmth swelling in his chest and cock.

He pushed your legs apart, holding them apart with his elbows and biting his lip at the feel of your hand in his hair. Testing the waters, his middle finger pushed with no resistance into your throbbing pussy, which had you gasping and moaning his name, while Spencer groaned yours upon feeling how you squeezed merely one finger.

Spencer had long fingers. Imagine what that meant for all you ladies out there.

He would’ve began pumping it, but he withdrew it and began licking it clean, tasting you on his tongue and almost whining at how good it was. Ignoring your whimper at the loss of contact, he maintained very intense eyes contact with you as he licked one long stripe up your cunt.

That didn’t last very long. The moment he got one proper hit of you, his eyes rolled back, then closed, mouth fell open, and he properly got to work, drinking you up like you did that wine on his body.

You’d honestly never been with a man as dedicated to eating pussy than Dr Spencer Fucking Reid.

“I’ve profiled you, y’know.” He murmured, still lapping at you and acting as if you weren’t writhing, moaning and arching your back - a complete mess - while he was having a fucking casual conversation with you and being the little shit that caused it.

He paused to suck at your clit as if it was all casual and part of a daily routine, little hums and encouragements between words where he’d absolutely devour you and make it look like him playing poker. Easy. “You’re promiscuous - mmh - like Lady Macbeth, except without the - mhm - implied infanticide and insanity.”

Spencer used his elbows locking your thighs in place to spread you open and get a new angle, and god damn it worked, because while you were crying out his name to Jesus and the holy mother Virgin Mary he was acting like this was another day at the office. “You use your body to get what you want - that’s it, be loud, baby - and on all counts it works. You also know how to play into people’s - fuck - psyche. It’s what makes you a textbook femme fatale.”

His middle finger slid in again, along with his index - both ridiculously long - and he crooked them just right, reaching places you didn’t even know existed and hitting the bullseye that was your g-spot all while tracing his name on your clit. Again, acting like you weren’t a complete and utter mess by now, but you were too far gone to care.

“You have an ability to see someone’s emotional desires— now, for example.” Spencer glances up at you, his free hand massaging your thigh and his fingers working you, pumping in and out and making sure his thumb got your clit while he talked. “It makes you highly manipulative, a-and your confident demeanour makes it - so tight, pretty girl - easy for people to trust and confide in you, hence why you’re the advisor to a lot of the mafia bosses on the FBI’s most - mmh - wanted list.”

Upon feeling and seeing how close you were, even if you didn’t know it yourself, Spencer smirked up at your face, looking like the prettiest picture with your eyes rolled back, mouth open, hand holding the sheets and your cheeks as pigmented as they could go. “But you’re easy to read when you’re in a vulnerable position. So why don’t you be a good girl, and come for me?”

You came apart easily at his cue, your high crashing over you like a fucking tsunami, feeling him lap at your pussy to clean you up— or so you thought. He actually didn’t stop, murmuring something about “one more” as his brow furrowed in concentration, really zeroing in on his target.

Not stopping, not letting up.

You were pretty sure you saw God and his army of angels frowning upon the sinful deed you two were partaking in, and how you were partaking of each other, while Spencer continued to steal your thoughts with that damn talented tongue and fingers.

He moaned at the taste of you, feeling drunk on everything you were giving him. Your sounds, the feel of you, the taste of you— you consumed all his senses.

You were a forbidden fruit. He was eating it. Except he was taking more than just one bite of the apple.

When you came again after a few more practiced licks, you felt a lot more sensitive then usual, but the satisfied look on Spencer’s face told you he’d made you come twice instead of once.

Testament to his skill, you guessed.

Spencer wiped all the residue of you off his chin with his thumb, licking his lips and quickly sucking the slick off by popping the thumb into his mouth. He made it look like his everyday Tuesday.

Then he undid his belt buckle and dropped it aside, his trousers and boxers going with as he pressed kiss after kiss to your body on the slow journey up. Spencer groaned as your hand wrapped around his cock, your thumb teasing the head before your hand began to move up and down… until he stopped you.

“Not right now, baby.” He chuckled. “Another time. Statistically, I’m fifty percent more likely to come if you do that.”

“That’s the idea.” You winked, but removed your hand off his dick anyway.

“I’m sure it is.” Spencer smiled, then looked around. “Do you have condoms? J-Just cause using protection during sex, particularly condoms, is crucial for several reasons, both from a-a health and social standpoint. First, condoms are one of the most effective methods for preventing the transmission of sexually transmitted infections, i-including HIV. These infections can have long-term health consequences, some of which are irreversible or even life-threatening. By using a condom, you're significantly reducing the risk of both contracting and spreading these infections to your partner. Second, condoms are a reliable method of birth control when used correctly. They prevent sperm from reaching the egg, thereby reducing the likelihood of unintended pregnancies.”

Then you pulled out the top drawer of the bedside table, which was full of condoms of all sizes. Which had him both slightly jealous and sheepish. “Oh, uh, thanks.” Spencer grabbed one, tearing the foil off with his teeth and expertly sliding the rubber on and entering you so fast your moan came in delayed timing.

“Fuck.” You gasped, especially as you adjusted to him and even better when he started moving back and forth at a steady rhythm, pulling out almost completely before pushing back in, feeling your pussy practically mould to him in a way that had his eyes rolling back and hips snapping forward harder.

It made your nails claw at his back, which made him bite his lip and release it, claiming your lips in a hungry kiss. ‘34 Château Margaux. It had an earthy taste to it.

Your perfume was intoxicating, and he smelt of new books and a cologne that drove you mad. You also got notes of butter popcorn from his time watching Russian movies and his lips distinctly tasted of you and you only.

It felt like your claim on him.

Next thing you knew, he’d pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach and thrust into you again, his mouth latching to your shoulder and leaving marks as he took your neck by his hand, not squeezing hard, but just enough to let you know he was there.

“So tight. How’re you gonna look - shit - all those mafia bosses in the eye, huh?” He panted, punctuating his words with a snap of his hip while you were reduced to cries of his name. “When you can’t walk because of an FBI agent?”

“Spencer, fuck!” Was the only admittedly pathetic thing that came from your mouth, along with a whimper when his hand came down on the side of your ass, soothed by a rub.

“That’s right, baby, call out for me.” He murmured, sucking a mark under your ear. “Make sure everyone in this hotel can hear.”

You found yourself coming at the words, gripping the pillows with your eyes rolling back, Spencer’s own copying as he felt your cunt clamp down on him like a vice. His hand on your throat squeezed a little tighter - but he was aware that it wasn’t enough pressure to cut off an airway - with his head dropping to your shoulder, pressing kisses to the heated flesh as he followed with a few clumsy, shallow thrusts later.

Oh, he knew what he did was wrong. He just couldn’t help himself when presented with you.

Spencer pulled out of you, both of you practically spent of all your energy. You rolled onto your back, wiping away a forming tear due to your sensitive pussy being wrecked by Dr Spencer Reid, but it was worth everything.

“I forgot one thing.” He murmured, moving so he could pull you into his chest and kiss your hair. Remarkable how this man can go from a hot dominant to a hot nerd. “From your profile, I mean.”

“Yeah, Dr Reid?” You smiled, kissing him softly yet intensely, drawing a hum of contentment from his lips.

“You, ma’am,” Spencer cheekily emphasised between kisses, “are very sexually proficient.”

That got a laugh from you, breaking away to playfully swat his chest, which got a noise of surprise from him and a small "son of a bitch!". “Is that your way of telling me this was mind blowing sex?”

“That isn’t how you tell someone that?”

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[blueparadis]

The Girl in Red

+cw : f-reader, soft smut, mature language, gun and violence : a gun attack, foreplay, slight gun-play, mention of prostitution, alcohol and cigerettes, short monologues wc : 1.5k type : oneshot

+au ' notes : It feels like forever! When I've last written on Sanzu? This a part of au-dvent collab hosted by @kenzumekodma ; hope you enjoy it :) tap here to view my works

"Isn't she lovely?",Mikey asks as Haru's straberry eyes swirls all over your exposed body. "Fuck, she's gorgeous!" Ran hisses hardening his jaw yet Rindou scoffs at his shameless confession. Mikey snaps his fingers beckoning a staff among the smoky hub-bub of the brothel. "Yes Sir! How many I help you?"

"Tell me about the girl in red!"

"Her? Ma'am runs this place. It's rare to see her around the lounge although she does take clients."

Manjiro hums in response. He gulps down the raw whiskey and throws the wildest question,"so, who's gonna approach her?"

"She wouldn't like that for sure!", Takeomi asserts taking a drag from his cigarette. He is not entirely wrong but how can ever a sea of sadness not long for the full moon of happiness.

You were so afar from those boys as if it's the other side of the sea. Every pair of pupils lurked upon you, your smile , the way you walk , the way your hair swayed across your shoulders when you turn around and the way you command your subordinates, sex-workers.

Manjiro can't just avert his eyes from you, he is absolutely smitten by your beauty. As he watches you resting his cheek upon his palms, he notices a familiar stature : a man with fuchsia bleached hair dressed in lush green tailored tuxedo. Manjiro abruptly shifts his gaze to look for Sanzu and he is nowhere to be seen. "You gotta be kidding me!", Manjiro curses while Ran just watches Sanzu intently curling his toe one upon other on the table.

As Sanzu approaches he is blocked by a pair of men. He sighs but doesn't lose his composure.

"May I have a word with her , please?"

"Do you have any booking, sir?"

"No, I don't!"

"Then i can't help you—

The very next moment Sanzu grabs the collar of the staff and flicks away disrupting his balance.

"Apologize!" , you state staring right through him leaving him absolutely speechless. He blankly stares at you but you remain unaffected. And by the time, the loud commotion has already sedimented gathering all attention to both of you.

"It's okay ma'am! I'm fine. He is a member of —

"Yeah? So?"

Sanzu is surely perplexed yet he can't just burst his big fat balloon of ego in front of everyone, especially in front of his gang members. Ran's gonna be tease for god knows how many years. His Adam's apple bobbed as his lips parted,"He stepped on my foot that made me hella angry!" ,with a feeble scoff.

The staff nods in approval trying to end this cold war as soon as possible 'cause this encounter might turn out a fatal one. Sanzu jolts as he feels an arm around his shoulders. He turns his head finding Mikey standing beside him. Sanzu's slim lips part as he speaks, "I'm extremely sorry for my behavior. Please excuse me!"

Mikey slides his hands upon his back, pats a little and speaks,"May I have a word with you?"

You watch his dark eyes, ivory locks grazing his eyes and a curve on his lips that seemed so out of his character. "I'm not sure when since I'm busy this week. Manjiro's eye brows furrowed as you continued,"how about next week?"

"Okay! We'll send a car to get you in!"

"No. It won't be-

"Oh please , we insist!" , Manjiro adds in an apologetic manner.

You made yourself comfortable as you sat opposite to Manjiro on the couch. His eyes fixated on you as he slightly tilts his head, exclaiming,"So, you really came!"

"I had to!", you murmured licking your lips followed by a bite. Sanzu stood behind him, eyes inspecting your gestures. He watches as you get rid of your furry cape exposing your glimmering shoulders. His eyes shifts a little down as you curl your fingers over your pendant and suddenly he yells,"Everyone duck down!"

In a flash Sanzu jumps over Mikey's seat and reaches your end to cover you. The four walls of glasses shattered into pieces while a bullet grazed Sanzu's collar. Mikey lifts himself up scanning his side and commands,"Haitanis you're up!" He shifts his gaze upon you and sanzu, who's still crouched over you. "Haru, take her to the safe room!"

It's been two days and you're still here. They thought it wouldn't be a good idea to let you go; you insisted politely since buisness might go downhill. Manjiro agreed yet of all people he recommends haru to be at your side. There was this one time when you were busy in adorning yourself, he requested; very bluntly : "stop taking clients already. Our all sex-workers are slowly getting on the line. We're working on it but I don't want see you motionless & naked!"

He is not wrong but you can't deny business in such a crucial time. Sanzu doesn't talk much but when he does he reeks of rage.

Sanzu is now seated behind you while you're busy in plucking out hairclips giving him a display of your beautiful strands. Your lips hesitate but you swallow it down to get rid of your undeniable curiosity that's been wrecking havoc since the first meet.

"Do you hate me, Mr. Haruchiyo?"

"Why do you ask? Does my lady have kindness for a nobody like me?"

You leave your seat, approach towards him; stood in front of him. He shifts his gaze on you as you pull up your loose thin night-gown preparing to have a seat on him.

"What're ya- you press your calloused index finger on his lips taking a seat on his lap. His gaze falls at you while you cups his face. He shuts his eyes; he doesn't want to deny you but doesn't want to be this close to you either.

You kiss his cheeks as he took your lips in between his while his hand curl up to your back to pressing you close to him with his gun in his grip. You continue to sink yourself in him as he slowly melts in your embrace. He breaks the kiss. Faces inches apart, mouth glistening in the dim light of your room as he lays you on the couch hovering over you.

He removes your cloth over your face, blocking your vision so as to run his fingers on your skin. Your arch under his tender touches.

"Try not to move", he whispers placing his gun over your belly. The cold sensation perforates through your ignited skin as his soft, slim lips runs over your thighs. He watches your response as his fingers run all along your thighs, grazing near inner thighs, testing your patience. The gun shifts up and down as his touch resonate within you. He cowers to kiss your belly button while you exploit your lips amongst your teeth, letting out soft moans.

His face is now close to yours. His breaths fall on your lips, cheeks and all you wanted is to watch him; how he looks when he's vulnerable, weak, undeniable. His strands fall upon your face and you let out a chuckle. He takes his gun and keeps it upon the side table. His hands roams over your belly as he whispers,"do you really think you're a thing to be hated?"

"How would I know?", he softly pecks your protesting lips silencing you. He removes your cloth totally giving you a view of himself. You palm his face, rubbing his scars with your thumbs as his muscles stretch from ear to ear.

"Are you like this with all your clients?" ,he asked and you look into his eyes replying that it depends on the clients.

You shove him away getting out of the couch but he grabs your hand pulling you into his lap again. He wraps a velvet serape around your bewitching nakedness.You close your eyes in reflex while he kisses your temple; maintaining the touch he whispers,"yes, I hate you; i hate you because you make me nervous!"

"Your cute boss won't be happy about this!" you blurt out to break this sexual momentum. "Cute huh?", he thinks back.

He jolts back in surprise with a cackle,"Mikey? I don't think he's interested in you like the way I'm!" You cock an eyebrow at him thinking "so who's nervous around me again !"

He lets go of his hold; leaving him at his dismal as you proceed towards the exit of the room. Sanzu locks you in his embrace pressing his chest against your back. Your hands busy in keeping the feeble clothy membrane around yourself while he shoves his hands in pocket. Taking your long hair locks he wraps your hair into a messy bun. You could see his eyes focused on his handiwork through the mirror. As he tucks the hair pin onto your updo his lips dash onto your nape , devouring desires rising like a tide.

"Mikey, told me to take care of you! And that's exactly what I'm doing!"

[system-of-a-feather]

when u wrote "We will judge you if you buy a bred parrot for any reason other than saving it" i dont really understand why its bad to buy bred parrots so can u please explain? i've had cockteils in the past and want to be informed. /gen /neu

So parrots as a whole are arguably some of the largest victims of the pet trade imo but also some of the pets with the least amount of like... publicity to let people know how bad and extensive it is. Like on a first level, there is all the poaching going on in places the parrots are native to which is HORRIBLE for 5000 reasons (just watch Rio for a general idea though), but the second layer is that there are massive breeding mills that are absolutely horrible for parrots.

This is particularly so because parrots are "highly profitable" and ones like cockatiels and budgies specifically are parrots that have a high demand and they can breed a lot, very frequently and with "little care" if you dont - ya know, care for their welfare like most breeding mills do.

So if you are getting a bird from a swap meet or somewhere where there are like 20 birds in a cage outdoors being sold by someone who doesn't have an independent shop, those birds are probably being mass bred, back to back, with little concern for inbreeding or welfare.

Like, our mom is of the mindset that "all bird pairs should get the chance to breed once" which I have some gripes with, but nothing enough to be loud about it since I know and have always overwatched how the chicks we did raise were handled and reared + personally gave extensive care and diligence to both parents + was very selective with who got to take them home; but cockatiels themselves tend to have clutches of 2-5 and can be sold in about a month or two depending on how shit your ethics are. Then they can immediately start another clutch if they wanted to right after. Repeated clutches especially with low calcium (which is common if you dont give a shit about birds like breeder mills do) which can be horrifically fatal to cockatiels and result in egg bounding which is honestly a horrible way for a hen to die and unfortunately common for those that don't keep an eye on their hens and provide regular calcium to their diet.

So if you are getting a bird that was bred by someone that has a lot of birds suspiciously and especially if they aren't socialized, you are probably getting a product from there. I've seen it personally and two of the birds we got were from those but only because they were genetically fucked up and essentially disabled and biologically morphed to the point the sellers put them under the table so that wandering potential customers didn't have to look at it. I'm pretty sure he was inbred as hell because he had a relatively rare mutation, and in those cases where there is a bird that is going to be high maintence and care need that you CAN provide, you should absolutely avoid supporting these and people who see no problem with it, I either intend to educate or they disgust me if they already know

Then there are the more professional private breeders that tend to do banding and have hyper socialized birds, which I have less of an issue with but I am judgey on this is largely because there is an extreme "housing crisis" for parrots where due to them being factually HORRIBLE pets and people not knowing that before getting them + their incredibly long live + just how high maintence they are and how easy it is to "accidentally abuse them" there are A LOT of parrots out there that need a home, that have owners that are trying to find their bird a home, and if you get a bird that is professionally and ethically bred - you are taking a bird that already technically has a decent owner already.

If you just want a "really cute and friendly very sociable bird to go out with" fair enough I guess, but its kinda part of the problem and honestly, there are SO many parrots that need a forever home that have had absolute shit luck for months, to years, to DECADES due to their life span. Getting one from a professional breeder - while good and all - is kind of communicating that you are more interested in having a pet (to which I would say, if that is the case, get a zebra finches, a canary, a pigeon, a cat, a dog, an actual domesticated pet if you want a pet) rather than having the proper understanding of what it means to own a parrot which means to own a wild animal.

Parrots should NOT be pets. Parrots should not be perceived as pets. No one should WANT a parrot as a pet. Every good parrot owner will advise you against having a parrot as a pet. Approaching parrot ownership with the mentality of it being a pet is a very dangerous thing to do and frequently what leads to a lot of "accidental abuse"

I could honestly write a doctoral thesis (who knows I literally might) on the various complexities an issues regarding parrot welfare, the parrot trade, and the crises parrots are facing but like, thats the jest of it.

The only reason owning a parrot is okay is because we have fucked up such a large portion of parrots to the point they can't live in the wild so the only option is to keep them as pets. As a result, owning a parrot should be seen as owning a wild animal and should be handled similarly.

It isn't a hill I will die on, and so as long as you aren't abusing parrots and own up to the problematic role you play when you buy from a breeder, Ill just sneer a bit and judge but its one of those things where I just give a defeated sigh cause I know not everyone can care about these guys as much as I do and as long as the bird is being cared for, I'm just happy there is >A< happy bird.

TLDR Breeder mills are way too common and horrible and if not breeder mills then basically #adopt-don't-shop

[simnostalgia]

I'm the person who scraped GOS! I already wrote a response to this post but couldn't find the original but now that I have, I'm going to rewrite my reply.

First of all, I wanted to say. Thank you for everything you do for our community. You've really been a major part of The TS2 community from the beginning!

Second, you'll stop me from archiving when you pry the archiving software out of my cold, dead hands.

Do you know about Plumb Bob Keep? That's a real question because as the TS2 modding community gets ever smaller and becomes more and more insular it gets harder to know who is on what moderation team and who co-runs what. However, if you do know Plumb Bob keep you'd know that recently the owner died. Which meant that suddenly the entire community had to scramble.

Fortunately, they were able to get in contact with the family (in their time of mourning) to ask "Hey, sorry about the dead girl, can I has password please? I need my fix of virtual doll clothes"

I don't blame them for this. They'd obviously put a lot of time into this and the reason I know that is because I got approached to see what I could do when the site was offline and they were still trying to figure out what to do. Unfortunately, when a site's only existing documentation exists in the WayBackMachine that makes it basically impossible to scrape.

And this isn't even the first time this happened, when Yahoo Groups shutdown, ArchiveTeam had trouble talking to MOST older simmers because they were so fucking touchy about their content. Literally our community has a reputation for being obnoxious about TOUs and 'rights' to the point where they'd basically given up trying to archive anything that had to do with The Sims.

So if you thought that this was because I was concerned that you were running into the ground. Rest assured, I'm doing this in case you get in a fatal car accident so we don't have to call your mourning loved ones to ask the very cringe question: "Do you know about the forum from 2008 that your spouse/son/father/sister/daughter/mother ran? Can we have access to it please. I have recolors that I'd DESPERATELY love to get back."

As far as bandwidth goes, I do my best to make sure that I scrape with as little intrusion as possible and your load is lighter since you don't host any of the actual CC or even 75% of your own images.

Now, we could talk about what this really is: a pissing contest. But don't worry. I have no real interest in encroaching on your territory of running an alternative style sims 2 forum from 2008. I love GOS, or I wouldn't have made sure that it didn't fucking disappear into the ether.

But believe me, no one is choosing to look through a list of 10,000 zip files without images or descriptions as a replacement for a fully functional forum with like... images of the items. My archive of GOS is pretty much only for creators and people who know EXACTLY what they're looking for.

And that goes similarly for everyone worried about their precious TOUs in the comments of the original post. No one, and I mean no one, prefers to dig through an entire fucking ass ton of files labeled shit like "[POOKLET] SKYSIMS MESH 007 - UNNATURAL COLORS"

In fact, I've had several creators thank me because the scrape unearthed some shit they'd thought they'd lost. And if you don't like it, or me, get in line. I assure you there is metric fuck ton of people from patreon who hate me far more.

However, I would like to say that whenever you / or any other creator who is mad about this / literally any simmer, is searching for a dependency because someone got in some obscure internet drama and deleted all their cc or Mediafire got shut down by the RIAA or whatever the fuck.

You, for as "annoyed" as you are, will remember the big ass zip file and CTRL + F your ass to what you're looking for. And I'm going to say it now, for when that moment comes:

You're welcome. No hard feelings.

As long as the adsense revenue and donations cover most of the costs, GoS isn't going anywhere. So far my out of pocket cost is less than 25% of the total costs for the site, which is within my budget still. I'm hoping this coming year will be the same but ad revenue is down. I understand ads suck and do my best to remove the auto generated page take over ones and keep them small.

But you know what scraping the site does? Increases bandwidth and server load which costs me more money. This annoys me. I have a budget man.

If I were not willing/able to continue, then there would be an announcement on GoS. All costs are paid annually. The biggest in May which is the hosting itself, the domains are scattered throughout the year. All in it's only about $225 annually.

I mean, if someone is concerned about the state of the site, they could. I dunno. Ask someone?

[rawrienstein]

Late night Elden Ring thoughts.

So I beat the game a little less than a week ago and just let my thoughts float around about it.

I honestly don't think Open World is a good genre and Elden Ring being the best at it is more because it already had an established formula it adapted. I keep imagining the better traditional Souls style game in my head. The most interesting/fulfilling things to navigate are the dungeon-esque areas because they have all the stuff you expect from a traditional Souls style game as opposed to, "Well I'll just horse past this dumb shit later nerds."

Density.

It's not feasible to make an open world game dense. Elden Ring is one of the few that I've completed because it does it's best to be as dense as it can. But the further you go, the copy pasting to get dense just gets more obvious.

It took me 100 hours to beat to satisfaction, but I'd gladly give back 50 of those if I could not fight the same boss 7 times. Or bosses that whose new challenge is, well there's two of them. Or well now he's got a friend. Or there's literally no difference this is just a regular dude now you deal with all the time.

I don't want to look at this same mini dungeon tileset for the 10th time in a row. Oh, this is new, wait this is a new cave mini dungeon tileset, I'll be seeing these 5 times again. Cool.

Ah, palette swap dragons, usually one of the coolest creatures reduced to "Well each one gets two unique attacks."

I think exploration is my favorite part of From Software games. They generally come up with really interesting takes on traditional fantasy, and their level design is really good. They really figured out what a jump button means for exploration! It's really good! But the practically over-reused assets stuff just kinda kills it for me.

I'm glad they figured out horseback combat. It's good and works, but fuck that if I can get more unique areas/creatures instead.

I'd also really appreciate more non-aggressive overworld creatures. I really like the jellyfish. I'm glad I can just chill with most of them. Wish there were more like that. Friends...

To get off the open world rant I also just need to scream about how Souls combat will always be shit with it's three fatal flaws that it's kept for the past every game in the series.

Input buffer and lack of consistency of it. Sometimes it holds on to an input for a full 5 seconds and will perform it at the earliest opportunity and usually the worst. And other times it's just doesn't at all. It's difficult to figure out what triggers this and I still don't know. I just know one easily repeatable excessive input buffer example is jumping heavy attack and then any attack right after pressing the heavy. It usually forces the next attack or input after the jumping attack finishes. Which is just way too long to hold onto an input.

Lack of input buffer override. The input buffer could be overcome if I could just put a different input in the front of the queue instead of the follow up attack I got interrupted from I'd like to just guard instead now, oh it's just going to attack after being combo'd for 3 seconds. Cool. Thanks. Gonna horse back here from the grace site now.

Somehow an even worse camera with worse lock-on/targeting. Some of the white target placement on enemies just don't make sense and result in frequently whiffing while literally in their boundary boxes. I cannot be in any closer but my thrust weapon is pointing somewhere in the sky and not a hurtbox at the feet. Cool design for this enemy. Camera also being too close so I can't see the enemy except for parts of their feet. Please just zoom out a little? Just a widdle?

Okay I lied, here's a fourth. Input delay for rolls due to being the same button as running, that's just stupid. Like, just extremely stupid. No.

I'm just going to end my gamer rant here. There's a lot of cool stuff in Elden Ring. It's still worth exploring. I hope everyone enjoyed their time. The bespoke stuff is really cool and what I expect from FromSoftware, but I also don't want an Elden Ring 2.

[gingersnaaps]

at your window

hanahaki: the fictional disease where a person, afflicted by unrequited love, grows flowers in their lungs and stomach. unless the love is reciprocated, the disease will grow fatal. there's one workaround, though - one that issei matsukawa is very interested in: the plant can be physically removed.

wc: ~3.8k

tags/tw's(PLEASE PLEASE READ): n*fw, masturbation only(no sex), stalking, snuff, gore, blood, yandere!matsukawa, sorta necro(attraction but not sex), noncon filming, fem!reader but no mention of genitals

a/n: for @suedebunn's april showers collab // this is the most self-indulgent thing i've ever written and i spent way too long on it. it's supposed to lean towards horror?

i don't want minors interacting with my content

March 8th, 2013

[12:47 am]

The longer Issei sits outside your window, the harder it becomes to stop himself.

His face is pressed up against the dusty glass pane, peering inside at the outline of your sleeping body, and he finds that he can’t help but fixate on it. You look so peaceful, so tranquil, completely at rest as your mind flits between the shadowy realms that dreams inhabit.

He wonders what kind of wonderland you’re in right now - if it’s cotton-candy pink and delightful, just like you, or dark and hazy and spun with danger.

You’d look beautiful in any setting, he thinks, and finds his hand inadvertently drifting downwards.

His gaze rakes over the rise and fall of your chest, taking in the flashes of bare skin where your sheer nightgown rides up, his breath catching as his palm glides over his clothed cock. The friction feels so good - there’s no question that he wants this, needs this - and he wastes no time unzipping his pants and reaching in to free his dick. He doesn’t need to fantasize much, not when you’re mere feet away, instead making sure he sears every detail of your sleeping form into his mind: your fluttering eyelashes, your shallow breaths, the soft glow of your skin in the moonlight.

Issei quickens his pace, stroking up and down the shaft of his cock with purpose, thumb flicking over the slit. His breath huffs against the glass, clouding the surface until it’s dripping with condensation, but he still sees you as clear as day in his mind even as the real image of you blurs. You’re blissed out and relaxed, shoulders free of tension, your lips curving slightly into a smile.

He closes his eyes, rolling his head back as he works his cock, every single brush of his fingers leaving him twitching with sensitivity. You look like an angel, picture-perfect and frozen in time and consciousness, as if you were a framed picture or a museum exhibit preserved just for Issei to admire. Just for Issei. He lets out a quiet groan at the thought as he cums, his hips stuttering and cock jerking up.

You turn over fitfully in your sleep.

Looking down at the cum dripping off his fingers, he wants nothing more than to crawl in through your window and wipe it on your face. It’s an unmistakable mark of ownership, a sign that you belong to him alone, but he hesitates. He’s a bit of a shy guy, you see.

He can wait.

-

March 14th, 2013

[10:01 pm]

He has to conceal himself a bit better tonight than he would on his normal visits. This time, he’s a bit early, and you’re still awake.

His back is up against the siding of your house, right beside your window, but he can still see you in the periphery of his vision. You’re sitting at your desk, bathed in the warm light of your desk lamp, hunched over some math worksheet and scribbling furiously with the pencil in your hand.

Forget the moon; you glow even prettier as the world around you fades to dark.

Just like every other night, he takes in every detail meticulously. Your hair is messier than it was the previous day - maybe you hadn’t washed it in a while? He doesn’t mind, because it’s endearing when you’re messy and imperfect, barefaced in your pajamas, a little rough around the edges.

He thinks it’s similar to the way you’d look after being fucked stupid, if he closed his eyes and tried to picture you being ruined.

Issei tries very hard to ignore the way his cock strains in his pants at the thought.

-

March 23, 2013

[11:30 pm]

The mild spring breeze carries the sweet scent of fresh blossoms and green grass, leaving behind the wintry chill that he had to shiver through each night to be at your side - well, as close by your side as he could get.

These little visits have become a part of his life now, as ingrained as waking up in the morning or eating three times a day. It’s comforting for him to watch you from his spot outside your window each night, admiring you as you go about your nighttime routine, puttering from your desk to your bathroom to your bedroom.

He’s started to take some pictures, maybe even a shaky, pixelated video or two, just to tide him over when he’s alone by himself. They’re no replacement for the real thing, obviously, but it’s enough for him to be able to carry around a reminder of the way you look and sound all the time, even if it’s just a shadow of what you’re like in person. He’ll scroll through his camera roll, fingers trembling with excitement, hissing as he brings his hand down to stroke at his cock.

It’s always better in person, though. He sees you more clearly, hears the sound of your voice muffled through the walls, and most of all, he’s closer to you.

Issei likes to make it last, likes to prolong the pleasure as much as possible, so he always starts off with slow, gentle, pumps, gliding up and down his cock with his index finger and thumb curled into a circle. It’s honestly a miracle how you haven’t noticed yet, because he always tends to lose himself after he starts.

Face pressed close against the window in order to get the best view possible, his warm huffs of breath cloud up the cold glass as he strokes himself faster. His eyes rolling back into his head, his two digits of measured stimulation give way quickly to full, hard, pumps of his cock until soft moans start to spill from his mouth.

It’s hard to resist when you’re right there.

Tonight, you’re sprawled out on your bed, phone held above your face as you chat with your friend on video call. You’re shaking with laughter at some silly joke your friend’s telling, head thrown back and chin tilted upwards, face shining with joy, and he suddenly feels a warm, warm feeling of arousal course through him.

Seeing you happy turns him on, makes his cock so hard even though he just came minutes prior.

The sound of your voice carries through the walls, carefree and bright, chattering on and on about some assignment - or maybe it’s a complaint about the teacher, he’s not too sure - and he smiles contentedly at your silly little worries. Too cute, really.

You suddenly cough.

It’s an ugly sound, dry and strangled, and he cringes at the way your body tenses up and shakes. The coughing fit feels far longer than it actually is; every second of your hacking and wheezing is compounded by the panic gripping him. He watches, helpless, as your face turns ashen and grey, his heart seizing with dread and pounding in his chest.

It’s over as quickly as it begins.

You smile weakly, brushing it off as you apologize to your friend, but he can’t shake the uneasy feeling that settles at the pit of his stomach. He tugs up his pants, bare thighs and dick feeling awfully exposed in the night wind, and scurries back home. Maybe another night, then.

-

April 1st, 2013

[12:09 am]

You’re not in your room today.

Issei leans his head against the cold glass of your windowpane, hands shoved into his jacket, his mind clouding at the edges and overrun with possibilities. He doesn’t recall seeing you making plans with friends the previous night, and there’s not much you could be really doing right now - you have no boyfriend, no plans that he knows of, no real reason to just be gone.

He’s always thought of himself as a calm person. He doesn’t fall victim to temporary urges and flights of emotion the same way that Oikawa or Iwaizumi might, doesn’t do anything reckless on whims he knows will disappear just hours later.

But there’s just something about you that always makes him lose himself, isn’t there?

The window is fogged up with condensation, obscuring his view inside your room. He reaches out the sleeve of his jacket, wiping away the dew clinging to the surface, and squints as he tries to make out the scene in the dim lighting.

On the floor, awash in a pool of moonlight, lies a yellow flower petal spattered with blood.

-

April 4th, 2013

[4:46 am]

Issei’s not stupid.

He knows what the flower petal means, knows what your sickness means. He’s read about it in books, heard the tales from his parents friends, the whispered legends and hushed myths that make one thing clear:

You belong to someone else.

It’s a thought that fills him with revulsion. You already have Issei; is he not enough for you? Are you such a whore that his devotion falls short of what you’re so clearly greedy for?

He’s stopped restricting himself to just his nightly visits. They’re not enough, not when he can’t seem to go five minutes without his thoughts inevitably drifting to you - you in your fluttery, sheer nightgown, lying in your bed, your frame growing sicker and frailer as the blood drains from your cheeks and your coughing fits grow more frequent.

You can hide it from the prying eyes of your friends at school, from your teachers, even from your parents(as long as you make sure to roll your eyes a few times and lean into that murky, illusory persona of teenage angst), but here in your bedroom, your sanctuary, all your vulnerabilities crawl out and bubble to the surface, bared to your four off-white walls and his eyes only.

You can’t hide this from Issei; not the symptoms, and certainly not the disease.

He sets his alarm every day early enough to hear the nighttime croaking of frogs, the shrill, insistent chirping of cicadas, hours before the sky bleeds daylight, making his way over to your house. He stands outside, silent, his fingers pressed up against the window.

He doesn’t know why he goes anymore. You look ugly when you’re sick. Your healthy complexion has given way to grey, and his dick goes limp every time he tries to jerk himself off. It’s a reminder of the fact that he can’t ever have you the way he used to dream about: lively, healthy, and wholly devoted to him and him alone.

At this point, the pictures and videos of you are the only thing he has left, a pitiful reminder of everything you used to be. He has no use for those other girls from porn sites online, or even the scantily clad social media posts of his classmates. Issei only wants you, but you aren’t quite who you used to be, and every time he trudges home after staring through that stupid window, there’s always a bitter aftertaste in his mouth that makes his blood curdle.

It’s not that he’s jealous, exactly. He doesn’t really give a fuck who you’re pining after, because it’s you he cares about. He wants to own you, to possess your body, mind, and soul, wants you to end up at his side one day, acknowledging him with tears brimming in your lovely eyes, voice raw and hoarse as you chant thank you Issei, thank you, thank you for watching over me, Issei, i’m yours, Issei, i love you, Issei

Maybe it’s no wonder he can’t stop thinking about you.

-

April 19th, 2013

[11:52 pm]

He finds you passed out on the floor, surrounded by crumpled piles of faded carnation petals. They’re a sickly yellow, browning at the edges, tinged with blood and vomit and spit. It’s a scene straight out of a movie, illuminated by the waning moon, the cold, pale, uneven light casting shadows that dance across your body.

-

April 24th, 2013

[2:03 am]

Issei is nothing if not a practical man. If there’s a problem, he’s going to fix it.

He’s had enough of waiting, anyway.

-

April 25th, 2013

[12:00 am]

He’s never actually been inside your room before. It’s eerily quiet, save for your shallow, rapid breaths, all outside noises absorbed by the walls and curtains. It almost feels like he’s dreaming as he makes his way over to your bedside, his shadow stretching and bending in the distorted light like those funhouse mirror reflections.

Your lips are parted slightly, mouth agape as if in waiting, and he can’t help but run a finger along your cracked, ashen lips.

Issei shivers.

He’s never been quite so close to you before. It’s almost anticlimactic, the way he ends up at your side. He won’t lie; he had been hoping for a different ending, one with more sunshine and roses, one where you’d be smiling happily by his side as he tenderly holds your hand.

But he can’t change the way things are, and he’s more than willing to make the best of what he’s got.

He doesn’t have any surgical tools that might’ve been more fitting, but he supposes a kitchen knife - one he’d sharpened just yesterday - should work well enough. He runs a finger along the back of the gleaming metal, admiring the way it glints, brilliant and blinding, even in the midst of the dim room.

The old, worn, bed creaks beneath him as he climbs carefully on top of you, straddling your torso, taking care not to place too much pressure on your body. He reaches out to caress your face, brushing a loose strand of hair aside as he appraises you. In sickness, you were nowhere near as beautiful as you were before, but your proximity almost makes up for it; Issei can feel your heart thrumming beneath your skin, can feel the huff of your breath on his hand as your chest rises and falls.

He almost regrets having to do this.

Bringing the blade up to your chest, he begins to cut through your paper-thin nightgown. As the fabric rips, it falls to either side to reveal your chest, and his breath catches. The soft curve of your tits are stained with red, little green buds of growth peeking out from your chest and between your ribs. Blood blooms across your skin, thorns and stems pricking out from the smooth surface of your skin, standing out in stark relief as the sick, twisted, unnatural growth threatens to burst out of your body.

He flutters his fingers along your delicate skin, trailing gentle touches down your stomach, completely absorbed in the way you look and feel.

So absorbed, in fact, that he almost doesn’t notice the way you tense, eyes blinking awake, as pain lances through your body.

Issei’s quick, though - far quicker than you, at least, and by the time you open your mouth to scream, fear catching in your throat, he shoves a large hand over your mouth to muffle any of the unpleasant noises that threaten to spill out.

“Shh,” he whispers, voice hoarse and foreign in his own chest. He’s not used to speaking to you. “If you don’t hold still, it’s going to hurt even more.”

You freeze in terror at the implications of his words, eyes catching on the blade pointed at your chest. There’s a sudden urge to lash out, to fight back - but it quickly passes. You’re not stupid.

You know that he’s far stronger than you, far faster, and as his calm, remorseless gaze latches onto your body, you realize very quickly that any resistance would be futile.

He begins his work as soon as he feels you go limp beneath him. You’re still trembling slightly, shivering from both the fear and the cold, completely exposed, completely at his mercy. You’re still not sure who he is; maybe you’ve caught a glimpse or two of him in your classes in the past, but for the most part, he’s still a complete stranger.

Issei, on the other hand, knows you very well.

As the knife slips beneath your soft flesh, your bed quickly turns into a sea of scarlet, of vermilion and ruby, of wine-red blood that grows from a trickle to a stream to a rushing, spurting mess that stains your sheets and spills onto the floor. He can feel the spatters of your blood on his face, his clothes, can see the periphery of his vision growing red as the blank, white walls turn crimson.

He finds it’s a bit difficult to hold himself back.

Cutting you up feels like catharsis to him. He’s never seen you quite like this before, but he thinks this version of you looks very pretty, your eyes rolling back into your head, your chest shaking uncontrollably as he rips his knife through your flesh over and over again. A small, barely audible whimper slips from your lips, and he feels a shuddering mix of pleasure and revulsion wash over him.

The stark white of your bone peeks through the ripped, bloody mess. Perhaps he’s finally gone far enough.

There’s no slit or hole for him to find - he wasn’t quite so careful - but he reaches a hand in to dig around at what used to be your stomach, and begins to pull out the flowers from the roots. They’ve spread to your lungs, climbed almost all the way up your throat, the green stems and yellow flowers twisting and threading between your organs and ribs. He removes them one by one, meticulous and careful, tossing them aside as he searches and prods and kills every last trace of your disease.

The lungs are by far the hardest for him, the branches of tissue packed densely with blood vessels and capillaries, and he has to pry the clusters apart to remove the growth that’s embedded itself within the organ.

If you think about it, he’s really doing you a favor.

A wave of relief courses through him when he’s finally finished. It’s unfortunate that it had to end this way, with your face screwed permanently into that pained, tortured expression, but it’s nothing he can’t fix - he brings a bloody finger up and adjusts your features until they resemble something slightly more pleasant.

There’s no heartbeat anymore, he realizes, no rhythm thrumming and pulsing beneath your skin.

He climbs off of you awkwardly, swinging his legs back over the bed. The quilt, pooled around your ankles, is still remarkably clean considering what the rest of the room had been through, and he pulls the soft, white cover over your mangled body until it comes up to your chin.

If he moves backwards a little and squints, it’s almost like you’re still asleep.

And if he tries really hard, uses his imagination to fill in the gaps and blot out the unnecessary bits, the blood smeared on your cheeks and lips almost seems like makeup, covering up that ugly, ashen complexion from your sickness, like a rosy imitation of what he used to find so beautiful.

Maybe it’s all in his mind, but he thinks you really do look better dead than sick.

He knows it’s not right.

He knows he shouldn’t.

He also can’t quite bring himself to care.

Cursing softly under his breath, he hand wanders until it finds the growing outline of the bulge in his pants. It feels so good to do it right in front of you, especially when you look better than he’d seen you in weeks(as long as he sort of squints), and he shudders with pleasure as he palms his cock slowly.

He usually likes to hold back a little, but there’s really no point this time - it’s the last time he’ll ever be this close to you, so he might as well make the best of it, right?

His cock is rock hard and dripping with precum by now, straining with arousal against the pressure of his fist, gliding and stroking along his curved, thick length until he begins to feel that warm heat coiling in his stomach. He kind of wishes that you were still alive to see him jerking off to your perfect face, pumping his cock desperately as he fixates on the fake blush of your skin. It’s almost exactly how you look before you fell sick - minus the gore splattered on your sheets, of course - as long as he pretends that you’re still breathing, that your pulse is still thrumming steadily beneath those soft, white quilts.

He fists his cock a bit faster, rhythm increasing as he feels his balls growing heavier, his dick flushed and desperate for release. Although he’s sad that you’d never be able to fully participate, he supposes it’s for the best.

Better dead than hung up on someone else, right?

As he turns his gaze back onto the flowers he’d ripped out from your chest cavity, he feels a perverse burst of pleasure coursing through him. He can’t help but feel proud of the way he’s made everything right, how he’d gotten rid of that annoying little crush you’d been harboring for weeks. If he closes his eyes, he can almost see the way you’re thanking him from the afterlife, tears of gratitude and joy in your eyes at the freedom he’s finally given you.

Issei finishes with a low, pleasured, groan, his cum spilling into his waiting hand as he strokes himself through his orgasm. It’s one of the strongest orgasms he’s had in quite some time, and he can’t help but think it’s the commemoration you deserve.

As the blood rushing in his eardrums slows, the hazy, uncertain world around him seems to stop spinning, and he feels himself being pulled back down from his high. If he strains his senses, he can hear the nighttime din through your walls, quiet and ever-present. He looks outside, the streetlamps flickering dimly, staring off into the inky stillness of the star-lit night.

Funny that he’s finally on the other side of your window.

Maybe he should leave you one last present.

-

April 26th, 2013

[9:00 am]

When they find you in your bed the next morning, your mother screams and your father cries.

They never saw it coming, did they? You were a good girl, someone who always did what they were supposed to do, said what others told them to say, acted exactly how they expected you to. Never got yourself into the slightest hint of trouble.

It’s a horrific scene: their precious daughter, limbs mangled and organs torn up, stomach and chest cut wide open as if straight from a horror movie. The room seems to swirl with hostility, and the four walls, once your sanctuary, had turned into an image of brutal, bloody, violence - with your body as the centerpiece.

It’s not until they step closer that they realize the dried, white, glaze on your face is cum.