#I hope this gets my vision across! it will have to come out organically in writing

[kazeofthemagun]

@8radicaldragon8 asked the summoner:

10 c: (a way that they are improving on any of the above!)

What the fuck is wrong with my character?

Haha, this is gonna sound rambley without (fresh) context.

As much as he resigns himself to acting in accordance to a higher design, that in itself does not mean he can't improve on a personal level. His own flaws and insecurities still exist separately from the duress of purpose - such as his core fear: losing Kumo, especially as a result of the damage he himself had caused.

Kumo is Kaze's everything, both as his fellow Unlimited companion on the quest to end Chaos, but also as a friend and someone he considers a charge. This possessiveness gives birth to paranoid and harmful behavior, with Kaze himself erring always on the side of caution, which has led to isolating and emotionally (or, in one scene, physically) hurting Kumo on several occasions.

However, he hates to see his "other half" suffer, even if said suffering may seem to be in his best interest. Indeed, Kaze has never been great at interpersonal relationships and has always been either far below or far above others in Windarian hierarchy. The former teaching him some toxic lessons about authority, and the latter forcing far too many burdens, far too fast for his age.

At his core, especially now that he is linked to Bahamut, Kaze struggles with perceiving others as equals. Not in the sense of combat skills; But in the capacity to make their own decisions and shoulder responsibility. The gunman's crippling fear of Kumo returning to Anarchy is an example of such.

At the start of the verse, freshly post-canon, he still views Kumo as a naïve boy and seeks to control him through fear. Throughout the verse, he will learn to better respect his other's views and decisions, even in the event they stand in opposition to his own. Meeting his equal on equal terms, and undoing the damage done to his own perception of interpersonal relationships by Silver Storm.

In doing so, he must also allow himself to be loved in turn - for a being hated by everyone and everything cannot reliably show love, either. He even went as far as to cast away his name out of fear of ruining the image of the brother beloved by Aura - and by Kumo. But a dead thing cannot be held accountable, which means he must come to accept being alive, changed as he now is.

In accepting Kumo's help, in allowing his other's purpose of Salvation to extend to his own cursed self as well, the Black Wind may yet learn that he does not have to resign himself to being a monster and nothing else, and that even beings tethered to impossible decisions can still find peace in the little inbetweens. That he can be both Rorahm and the Hunter, and Rorahm does love his Seejvariil dearly. A discovery that will in turn allow Kumo to accept his own castaway name and reconcile with his past of slaughter.

Ultimately, since Salvation cannot save himself, someone else will have to.

[chris-prank]

Hello

I really like your Atlas and your Jacce

Can you tell me how they would react/take care of Reader if they woke up/showed up for service one day and Reader was sick and unable to play?

Hi to you fellow yandere enjoyers! 😆 I hope my answer was worth the wait!

The only thing I could think about for “service” was like servicing for spicy time? I’m really sorry if that’s not what you meant! (Sometimes my english is no englishing)

CW: Suggestive content and dubious consent

･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡..｡.:*･

Jacce crawled under the covers, ready to put his mouth to good use. But as he was pulling on the rim of your underwear, his action was put on halt by a hoarse voice muffled by the piece of fabric over him. Then a light shined onto his face, making his eyes squint. Once his sight adjusted and you came into view, the man could clearly see the sickly color of your skin.

“I got sick overnight…” A well placed cough followed suit, proving your point.

Jacce gave you an apologetic frown, “I can still do it i-if you want! I don’t care about getting sick if it’s your germs.” As he said it he pressed a chaste kiss against your inner thighs and kept up eye contact.

You grimaced at his words and pushed his head away from between your legs. The man whined at the sudden physical rejection, giving you puppy eyes. How could he say something so cute yet disgusting at the same time?!

“You shouldn’t say stuff like that! Plus I’m not in the mood anymore.” You huffed.

“S-sorry!”

And so, for the rest of the day, you were doted on by your lover, from breakfast in bed to going out to buy all the medicines you needed. Despite your warnings earlier, it still didn’t stop Jacce from stealing you quick kisses every now and then.

Who could have guessed that he got sick three days later.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Atlas’s had everything prepared to a tee. Rose petals leading to your bedroom, a cute revealing outfit on his back, candles to set the mood, etc. Sure you didn’t ask for all of that, but he wanted to make it a memorable night for you. He was showing the extent of his love for you after all. Human courtship was supposed to be this extra… right?

Before the sound of a fist knocking at the door could be heard, the android was already set in position, his sensors having heard your footsteps already from an inhuman distance. He had knelt down, his pale hands resting on each of his exposed thighs. He could feel a slight glitch of anticipation pass through his vision as the door creaked open. Atlas readied himself for your surprise and excited reaction.

As you saw the display before you, you were indeed surprised at first, but it followed suit with a face full of guilt.

“Oh Atlas… ”

Your partner rose up in an instant, grabbing your wrist and bringing his other hand to your forehead. In truth, he didn’t have to do all that, since he had a functionality that allowed him to know the living organism’s body temperature. He still did it every time anyway because it made him feel closer to you. He swore that this morning your metabolism seemed fine and yet. He felt as if he should have been more efficient to prevent your health from ending up in this state. Human afflictions were such an unpredictable thing and he hated it.

“Don’t mind the setup, I’ll take down everything.” He swiftly said.

As he backed away, Atlas could feel a warm overheating feeling all over his face and chest, but paid it no mind, surely it was just a reaction from his program to the sudden change of objective. He blew out all the candles laying around and collected them in the process. The heat seemed to spread further across his cheeks as he glanced down at his skimpy clothes only to be met with your gaze once he lifted his head up.

“I’ll go change if I make you uncomfort—“

You grinned before he could finish.

“It’s not because I’m sick that I can’t enjoy a beautiful view. Come and relax with me, you can always clean up later, pretty boy.”

･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡..｡.:*･

I really hope this was what you were expecting!

[a-d-nox]

mc persona chart observations (part one)

@yoursaintvalentine i don't really get what happened to your ask it wouldn't let me type and answer it - so i am just going to tag you! hope you enjoy!!

paid reading options: astrology menu & cartomancy menu

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💼 1h gemini (3°, 15°, 27°) and/or mercury people excel at expressing themselves, whether through writing, speaking, etc. their wit and humor often make them seem "engaging" to others.

💼 1h gemini (3°, 15°, 27°) and/or mercury people often struggle with indecisiveness when it comes to committing to a single career path.

💼 1h gemini (3°, 15°, 27°) and/or mercury people come across as articulate, clever, and approachable in their professional or public life. communication is one of their most valuable tools for building their career and public reputation.

💼 1h gemini (3°, 15°, 27°) and/or mercury people are excellent at networking, solving problems, and thriving in complex working environments.

💼 1h gemini (3°, 15°, 27°) and/or mercury people excel in roles that require persuasion, teaching, and/or public speaking. their ideas often have a significant impact on their career. they naturally gravitate toward professions that involve communication, media, marketing, and/or education.

💼 1h scorpio (8°, 20°) and/or pluto people draw others to them, even if they’re not overtly seeking attention. its usually because of their aura of emotional intensity and general vibe of knowing all.

💼 1h scorpio (8°, 20°) and/or pluto people have the air of a natural leader, so people are likely to approach them as though they are in charge even when they are not. however, during a crises they are highly adaptable and resilient - they are the best choice for leading a group.

💼 1h scorpio (8°, 20°) and/or pluto people are deeply committed to their ambitions; when they set their mind on a goal, they pursue it with focus and resilience. obstacles only serve to fuel their determination - they achieve what they set out to do.

💼 1h scorpio (8°, 20°) and/or pluto people have difficulty trusting others or delegating responsibilities in professional settings.

💼 1h ruler in 1h often indicates others seeing them as a natural leader who is comfortable being in the spotlight.

💼 1h ruler in 1h indicates taking initiative in life. challenges are met head-on; they prefer to carve their own path rather than follow others.

💼 1h ruler in 11h people often like to be part of a group / surrounded by like-minded individuals. they may not be as productive alone as they are when around others.

💼 1h ruler in 11h people may naturally take on a leadership or prominent role in group settings. they often feel a sense of responsibility to organize / inspire collective efforts.

💼 1h ruler in 11h people's success often comes through collaboration, networking, and/or connecting with people who share their vision.

💼 aries (1°, 13°, 25°) mercury people's confidence is a strength, though they might occasionally speak without thinking things through, leading to misunderstandings and/or conflicts.

💼 aries (1°, 13°, 25°) mercury people's careers might involve starting something from scratch, whether it’s a business, initiative, and/or creative endeavor.

💼 aries (1°, 13°, 25°) mercury people are quick wits with sharp communication skills making them a formidable presence in professional debates/discussions. they make good defensive lawyers and/or politicians.

💼 sagittarius (9°, 21°) mercury people pursue careers or roles where they can continually learn and share knowledge. teaching, writing, public speaking, and/or mentoring are natural fits.

💼 sagittarius (9°, 21°) mercury people might struggle with sticking to one career path; they crave variety, exploration, and freedom. which often leads to frequent shifts or expansions in their professional life.

💼 sagittarius (9°, 21°) mercury people often spread themselves too thin because they pursue "too many" interests.

💼 mercury-pluto aspects often indicate their communication style being compelling and often holds a certain intensity that draws people in. they speak with authority - others are likely to feel that their words carry weight, even if when they don’t say much.

💼 people with mercury-pluto aspects are natural investigators, researchers, and/or strategists.

💼 mercury-pluto people have the uncanny ability to perceive the underlying motivations / hidden truths in situations; they are adept at reading people and understanding what’s really going on beneath the surface. they make great psychologists.

💼 asc positively aspecting nn people have the ability to attract people and opportunities that support their growth.

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return to the masterlist of planetary & object persona charts

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[pedroshotwifey]

Beg For It

Pairing: Virgin!Din Djarin x afab!reader

Word count: 3.9k

Tags/warnings: piv sex, oral (m), cock worship, virgin din, premature ejaculation, teasing, humiliation, sub din, dom reader, degradation, cockpit sex™, embarrassment, age gap (younger reader), din djarin's monster cock, helmet stays on, pet names, snarky reader, experienced reader, stuff I'm forgetting (c'mon guys, it's me.)

Summary: You make a shocking discovery about Din and decide to do something about it.

A/N: Hey babes! Sorry if you're waiting on TTF or FB rn, but my brain does not want to cooperate atm. TTF 4 should be out relatively soon, but I'm not sure about FB. I hope you like this fic, bc I have no idea where it came from 🤣 My asks are always open in the meantime!!

***

“Fuck, it’s tight in here,” you complain as you stuff yourself into the small alcove exposed by the panel that was just removed from the Crest’s wall. 

“And a fucking mess. Do you ever organize this shit, Din?” 

The exasperated sigh that comes from behind you is enough to answer your question. 

You roll your eyes as you reach for the tangled ball of wires in front of you. No wonder the lights have been flickering. You’re lucky it wasn’t anything worse than that. 

“Who would even be doing this shit if you didn’t have me? Not like your broad ass could fit in here.” 

Mando scoffs behind you. 

“We got along perfectly fine before you,” he argues. “Grogu could fit in there, I’d have him do it.” 

Now it’s your turn to laugh. 

“Yeah, that would go over well.” 

Din ignores your quip as he comes up to your side and nudges you with his boot. 

“Hey! Can you not?” You turn your head to bite out at him even though he can’t see you. 

“Scootch over,” he demands. “I need to see what you’re doing so you don’t blow the ship up or something.” 

“Wow, it’s really reassuring to know how much faith you have in me, Mando.”

You swear you hear him bite down on a laugh and you smile despite yourself. You squash yourself to the side as much as you can, allowing a small gap so Din can peek in beside you. He groans as he lowers himself to his belly. 

“Poor old man,” you can’t help but tease. “Bad knees getting to you?” 

“Shut up,” Din quips. 

You don’t actually know how old Din is, but you’re placing your bets on late thirties or early forties. Definitely older than you either way, but not quite old enough to be deserving of your quips. That’s not going to stop you, of course. 

By the time he’s looking inside, you’ve untangled the mess of wires and separated the two that need to be switched. 

“Damn it, Mando, you’re blocking my light. I can’t see shit.” 

He sighs for the umpteenth time today. 

“Really? There’s plenty of light,” he argues. 

“Yeah, maybe when you have a fucking night vision mod in your helmet. Get up and tell me what to do from there.” 

He obeys but you swear you hear him mutter something about being bossy through a groan. 

“What have you done so far?” 

“I’ve separated the red and blue wires from the rest.” 

“Okay, go ahead and pull them both from their outlets.” 

You try to pull them off, but you can’t quite reach the outlets on the back wall. 

“Damn it,” you mutter. 

You shove your knees under yourself and arch your back in attempt to push yourself further into the wall. Straining a bit, you’re able to grasp both ends and successfully tug them towards yourself. 

“Got it, what now?” 

“Put the red wire where the blue wire was, and the blue where the red was,” Mando instructs. His voice sounds much raspier than it had a second ago, making you quirk a brow. 

“You okay there?” you ask as you finish the task. 

“Yup,” he croaks. 

“Okay, I’m coming out.” 

You start to wriggle yourself back, and you hear Din make a strangled sound before biting down on it. It’s not until you feel your ass waggling with your movement that you realize what has him so worked up. A sly smirk quickly spreads across your face as you decide there’s no harm in teasing him a bit. 

You groan and arch your back further as you back out, your ass up in the air as much as you can get it. You take your sweet time sitting up once you're out, and you can almost feel the heat coming from Mando by the time you do. You turn around to face him only to find that he’s avoiding your gaze, his hands clasped together casually in front of his crotch. You honestly wonder who he thinks he’s fooling—there’s not much that could hide a tent that size. 

“What’s the matter, big boy?” you ask sweetly. “You look a bit flustered.” 

“N-nothing.” 

You have to physically bite down on your lip to avoid laughing at his voice crack. You’ve never heard him struggle so much. He clears his throat and tries again. 

“Nothing’s wrong, cyar’ika.” 

“Hm. You sure? Because I’m pretty sure you were checking my ass out a second ago.” 

Din chokes on nothing as soon as the words are out of your mouth. 

“I was not!” He bites out in a panicked tone. 

“Nothing wrong with it, I get it. I’d check out my ass, too,” you laugh and shrug. He looks down at his feet and your brows furrow. This might be the most flustered you’ve ever seen him. 

“Dude, it was just an ass, not a big deal. I’m sure you’ve seen much more than that,” you chuckle lightly. 

He slowly looks up at that, and time comes to a stop as things click into place in your head. 

“Holy shit,” you say, bewildered. “You haven’t seen more than that. You’re a virgin aren’t you?” 

You grin when he says nothing in response. No fucking way the Mandalorian hasn’t fucked or been fucked before. Hell, you’ve wanted to fuck him since you came aboard this junk pile of a ship. Damn, you’re going to take this opportunity and fucking run with it. 

“Poor baby Din, never had pussy before,” you coo at him as you stand all the way up. “What’s the matter? Is it too small? Maybe you don’t even like pussy. You want a big strong man to fuck your ass?” You know you’re just spouting anything you think might get under his skin at this point. 

“N-no,” he bites out, though there’s not much conviction behind it. You continue walking towards him, forcing him toward the cockpit’s pilot seat. 

“No? You don’t like cock, Din?” 

“I think you need some help, big guy. You clearly need someone to dominate you, since you don’t have the balls to step up yourself. You’re lucky I’m here, I can show you how good it can be.”

Din’s hands move closer to his clothed cock to hide the twitch that ensues from your words. You see the movement and it only spurs you on. He gulps again as you keep walking toward him.

“No, I-”

“Take a seat, Mando.” 

He crosses his arms and stands up straighter, leveling you with a defiant stare you can practically feel through his beskar helmet. 

“I will do no such thing.” 

“Oh,” you reply, crossing your arms and returning the look. “But you will.”

You glance down at the impressive bulge in his flight suit, smirking when you catch him shift ever so slightly under the weight of your gaze. 

“I think you want to sit down for me, Mando. And I think you’re going to be begging for my cunt by the time I’m done with you.”

You take a step toward him, and you can see the subtle way he stops himself from taking a step back in response. You stop in front of him and let your hand down to graze his covered length. There’s a sharp intake of breath barely heard throughout the hull. If you had been standing where you were a few seconds ago, you would have missed it. 

“Sounds like you already want to, actually.” 

You cup him fully now, and a strangled sound slips through his tightly sealed lips. 

“Poor little virgin Din, doesn’t even know how good he could have been feeling all this time,” you tease, giving him a light squeeze. 

“S-stop,” he grits out, uncrossing his arms to grab your wrist with one hand. Your movements come to a swift stop. 

“Ask me again, and I will,” you tell him. “But I don’t think you really want that, do you? I think you want to stick your dick inside my warm pussy and come your dumb little brains out.”

There’s a brief silence as you stare each other down, and you can almost feel the way he starts to consider his options. 

“I-”

You give him another squeeze, tighter this time, and his hips buck forward as another animalistic sound tumbles from his tongue. 

“Fuck, please,” Din whines as he gives up trying to hold back. You grin wildly at the sound. 

“Please, what, Din? What do you want?” 

“P-please fuck me!” 

Your hand flattens against him and starts to rub sensually up and down, giving him enough friction to have him shivering with each pass. 

“Okay, baby. Sit down like I told you to, and I’ll take care of you.” 

He nods as you start to lead him backwards, the back of his knees hitting the cockpit chair and forcing him to follow your instructions. 

“What a good boy,” you lean forward to coo at the side of his helmet, right where his ear would be. “Why don’t you take your cock out for me?” 

You push yourself away from him, your hands placed on either arm rest as you lean over him. Din hesitates for a moment, clearly not used to the kind of vulnerability you’re asking him to surrender. 

“Go ahead, baby. I promise I won’t make fun.” In fact, you know you won’t. Judging by the massive tent in his pants, there is absolutely no way that Din Djarin is anywhere near small. Not that you’ll tell him that, of course. 

You stare intently as he gulps and lets his hands trail down to unbuckle his belt and shakily pull his zipper down, revealing his boxers. He waits a beat before pulling himself completely out, and you have to fight to keep your jaw from dropping when he does. 

“Holy shit, Djarin,” you gawk. “Well, your dick definitely wasn’t the problem. Scared some people off if anything.” Honestly, it almost scares you. You don’t think your hand could even fully wrap around it if you grabbed it right now. 

You look back to his helmet, making what you hope is eye contact. Judging by the way he shifts in the seat, you’re pretty sure you’re spot-on. 

“You’re so pretty, Din. It’s a shame nobody’s ever told you.” 

“T-thank you,” he breathes, his head turning slightly. 

“I want you to put your hands on the armrests while I show you how pretty I think you are.” 

He hesitates, obviously still not sure about any of this. 

“Go ahead,” you prompt. “Unless you want me to cuff you to the damn chair.” 

At this, he quickly obeys your request and lets his hands go to grip the rests. His cock slaps up, hard and leaking against his covered stomach. He twists his neck all the way to the side, avoiding eye contact as much as he can manage. As much as he’s resisting giving in, you can see how his chest heaves with desire. In this case, the lust is simply stronger than the embarrassment. 

You quickly bring a hand up to grab at the bottom of his helmet, roughly jerking his head back to look at you. 

“You’re going to watch me while I suck your cock. If I see you look away, you’re not going to like what happens after.” 

Din shivers and nods, shaken slightly by your authoritative tone. 

“Say ‘yes, ma’am’.” 

You watch his throat bob as he gulps down his nervousness. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathes out. 

“See, you can be such a good boy when you put your mind to it.”

You slink down to your knees and place your hands on his thick, tense thighs. With your eyes level with his cock, you’re able to watch the way a spurt of precum dribbles down from the tip. 

“Look at that, baby. Little dick is drooling already and I haven’t even touched you.” 

Din tenses and clenches his hand but makes a point not to look away. Good, at least you know he’s listening. Who knew how easy it is to tame a Mandalorian? A little humiliation and degradation can go a long way. 

You lean forward, grabbing hard onto his thighs in reminder to keep his hands where they are as you stick your tongue out to scoop up the precum leaking down his shaft. His hips jut forward, and you swear you hear a quiet whine from his helmet. You can’t help but chuckle lightly.

You decide not to waste your time with little licks, and instead lean forward to take his entire tip into your mouth. Now you definitely hear a whine. You struggle to shove more of him into your mouth and down your throat, his girth making it much more of a task than it needs to be. 

You can feel yourself getting wetter just from the thought of how deliciously he would stretch you out in other places. It really is a damn shame he’s kept this absolute monster tucked away for so long. 

His fingers twitch at the same time his head slams back into the headrest, though he keeps it angled down so he can keep watching you. You have to swallow a few times to work him all the way down, and by that time you can almost feel the way he’s tightened up to restrain himself. 

You take pity on him and pull back, resisting the urge to gag as his weight drags across your throat again. A string of spit connects you to his shiny cock as you smirk up at him. 

“Tell me how it feels, sweet boy.” 

“F-feels s-so good, c-cyare,” Din squeaks. 

“Yeah, you want more?” 

He nods furiously and you immediately flick the tip of his swollen cock, earning you a strangled yelp as his hips buck wildly. 

“What’s the matter? Finally got your dick wet and suddenly you forget how to speak?” 

He begins to shake his head before catching himself and giving you a verbal response. 

“N-no–I mean, yes, yes I want more! Please touch me,” he thrusts his hips forward again, though you're not sure if it’s voluntary or not. 

“Alright, since you asked so nicely.” 

You quickly grasp him and start to pump him furiously, leaning to him again to drool on his tip. The extra lubricant makes your hand glide more smoothly, your pace picking up to the point where you can see his balls drawing up. 

You work your mouth in tandem with your fist, worshiping his throbbing cock with open mouthed kisses and gentle nips on the exposed skin. You close your eyes for a second to savor the way he feels between your lips, and the salty flavor that graces your tongue. If you died with Din Djarin’s dick in your mouth, you would die a happy woman.

“C-cyare, I-” 

He cuts himself off as you quickly pull yourself away, leaving him with nothing but your cooling spit to focus on. 

“No, no, no–ung–I, p-please!” 

You laugh at him as he thrusts up, trying to find some kind of friction. His voice sounds wet, almost like there are tears in his eyes. 

“Aww,” you stand back to admire his writhing body. “Poor thing can’t remember anything but ‘please’. That’s cute. Not hard to get you dumb, is it, Mando?” 

You start to strip in front of him, and his hands come up from the armrests. 

“You better not be moving your fucking hands, Din,” you warn. “I know where you keep those damn binders, don’t think I won’t use them.” 

He groans but lets his wrists back down. His feet shift instead since there’s nothing else he’s able to move at the moment. He whines again as your top comes off with your bra, and then your pants with your panties. 

Fully naked and obviously soaked, you stalk toward him yet again, stopping to place your hand on his shoulder as you climb into his lap, careful not to touch his cock just yet. You settle your thighs over the tops of his and spread your legs. 

When you look up at him, he’s staring you back in your eyes, refusing to look down. You smirk once you realize why. 

“Don’t get shy on me now, baby boy,” you say. “Go ahead and look at my pussy, I know you want to.” 

You watch him slowly lower his gaze and breathe out a curse once it lands on your seam. Leaning forward, you whisper again to the side of his helmet. 

“You can move a hand, Din. Spread me open.” 

He visibly trembles at your command but lifts an arm none-the-less. You feel his fingers trail gently down to where you want him, but he stops just short. 

“T-take my glove off, please. Want to feel you, cyar’ika.” 

You smile at him and carefully bring his hand up to pull his glove off, his dick twitching as you do so. You lick your lips as a tanned and scarred hand is revealed. It’s ridiculous how attracted you are to that simple appendage. You wish you could see his entire body, but you know that’s not a likely scenario. 

Once his glove is discarded on the floor, he moves back to your cunt and sucks in a harsh breath as he feels you. 

“You’re s-so wet,” he says in a way that makes you unsure if he meant to say it out loud or not.

You laugh quietly and guide his hand so that he can prod at your hole, to which he chokes. 

“That’s all because of you, sweet boy.” 

You move your hips forward, and his fingers slip through your seam, your slick collecting on the rough pads. You grasp his wrist to bring his hand to your lips, opening your mouth to suck your tang of the digits at the same time as you let your pussy push against the underside of Din’s cock. 

Another animalistic noise accompanies the way his entire body jolts at the sudden contact. With a pop, you pull his fingers from your mouth to make room for the giggle that bubbles up from your throat. 

“Poor baby’s so sensitive!” you exclaim as you grind against him, making him groan with each pass. Both of his hands grip down hard, one on the rest and the other on your thigh. The man has a fucking grip, you’re sure there will be five little bruises littered across your skin tomorrow. You wonder how good that grip would feel on your hips as he drills himself into you from the back, and file that thought back for another day. 

You shudder as his tip bumps up against your clit, sending little shocks up your spine and making you dizzy. 

“Gonna fuck you now, baby boy,” you breathe. “You want that? Want to stick your cock inside me?” 

“I-ungh-yes, yes!” 

“Yeah?” you ask as you keep up your movements. “Beg for it.” 

“P-please,” Din asks a bit too quietly for your liking. You would bet all the credits you won that he’s blushing under that armor right now.

“Oh, come on now, you can do better than that.” 

There’s a short moment where you think Din isn’t going to do it, and a lump of disappointment gets stuck in your throat. Luckily, he doesn’t make you sit with it for too long. 

“Please, please put my d-dick in your pussy, want to feel you, please! I-I can’t–I want–”

In the middle of his babbling, you lift yourself up and line his cock with your entrance, slowly lowering yourself down. His hands fly to your hips at the same time his thoughts fly from his brain, unable to think of anything but the way your tight pussy is parting to welcome his fat tip. 

He’s never felt anything quite this pleasurable before, the sensation nearly blinding him as you work yourself down onto him. 

Your head tilts back as Din holds onto your hips for dear life. The combination of that pressure along with the burn from his cock stretching you out is almost too much. You can feel a heat bubbling at the base of your spine, and he’s not even all the way inside of you yet. 

“Oh, god, that’s so good, Din. You’re so good.” 

He whimpers in response, though part of that may be due to the fact that your hips are now flush to his. You’re both panting, a sheen of sweat coating both of your bodies. You can’t see the perspiration on Din, but you can feel the moist heat emanating from him. 

You open your eyes, not realizing they had been closed in the first place. You’ve never been this fucking full in your life. You swear you can feel him all the way up to your throat.

“M–plea–please move,” Din begs and lets his helmet rest on your forehead. His entire body is shaking with the effort of not blowing his load too quickly. 

You grant his request, starting to rock your hips as you bring a hand to settle on his neck, delighted to find a damp mess of curls peeking out from his helmet at the nape. Din gasps as you tug lightly while lifting your hips. 

You start a slow but steady rhythm, your skin slapping against each other each time you bottom out. His heavy cock drags against your walls, making your toes curl. A little whine sneaks out from Din’s concealed lips every time you sink down on him. 

A lewd moan tumbles from your lips as you feel him punch against your cervix, tucking in further than you’ve ever been able to reach before. 

“Fuck, Din! You’re so deep, baby!” 

“I’m not g-going to last l-long, Meshla,” Din strains. 

You ride him harder, taking that as a challenge. The tight thatch of hair at the base of his cock catches on your clit as you slam down on him, bringing you further to the brink. Something white hot flashes within your body, blinding you momentarily. 

You’re not even able to tell him you’re close too before you’re clamping down on him, and he’s shouting as he loses control. Your moans tangle together as you soak his dick, your legs trembling unlike you’ve ever experienced before. 

Din wraps his arms around you as he thrusts up into you, spilling himself within your heat. You’ve never in your life seen or felt anyone come as much as he does. Every time you think he’s done, you feel another spurt of his seed clinging to your walls.

By the time you’re both coming down, your ears have started ringing and your breathing has calmed down enough for you to get a word out, though you’re not sure Mando’s quite capable of that yet. 

“Y-you good?” you manage to gasp. 

You feel Din nod against you, and give yourself permission to lean against him. You’re wrung fucking dry. If this is what it feels like when you’re on top, what might it be like when Din’s in charge? The thought makes your body shudder and your pussy quiver. You sit in silence with him for a while until he finally breaks it with a voice just above a whisper. 

“C-can we do that again?”

You laugh at hearing the last thing you expected to come from his mouth after that. 

“Fucking maker, Din.”

***

Thank you for reading!! Please consider interacting if you enjoyed this!

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

༶•┈♛ 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑 ♛┈•༶

𝐀𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐬𝐞・l.f.

—You can't fall in love with him, he can't fall in love with you—that would be apocalypse.

LEE FELIX was your new bodyguard, and you hated his guts. In a world where all humans are expendable hate was your only shield from pain. Now you're 5,956 miles from home, landing in Seoul South Korea with your infuriatingly perfect bodyguard on a very important mission—locate and eliminate the man responsible for sending your father's worst criminals to prison. How is this anonymous figure forcing such dangerous men to confess to their crimes and more importantly—why aren't they just killing them? There's so much to uncover, so much that could go wrong. Will you be able to keep it together, seeing felix every day for the next year? Will Felix be able to dismantle your iron walls?

words・tbh...this is a long one my fellow hoes... pairing・bodyguard!felix x mafia princess!reader genres mafia!au, bodyguard!au, enemies to lovers, forbidden love, slow burn, found family, mystery!au, hurt and comfort warnings・overall violence, getting knocked out, fights, knives, guns, blood, kidnapping, use of date rape drugs (no rape...you'll understand later), drunkenness, spicy-kissing but no smut maybe haven't decided, SEXUAL TENSION!!...more coming soon

a/n・I struggled so much trying to write this fic. I certainly couldn't have done it without the lovely @jeonginsleftcheek who was my biggest supporter from the very beginning and all the way through when I had a mental breakdown, an existential crisis, a small writing hiatus, changed the plot, then changed it back, then changed it again, and changed it again but she helped me through it all. I truly cannot thank you enough for all your help. I hope I did it justice.

disclaimer: in reality, the mafia is inherently evil, their entire existence revolves around organized crime, which includes, but is not limited to: murder, sex trafficking, kidnapping, theft, etc. this entire story is a work of FICTION and is by NO means a reflection of stray kids or reality at all so please keep that in mind while reading. thank you.

“𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲.”

—Sade Andria Zabala.

The dream always begins the same.

You're switching between attendees, twirling into suited men's arms, only to be handed off to elegantly dressed women, the length of their sparkly gowns catching on glassy heels. The opulent ballroom, with its vaulted fresco ceilings and marbled floors, sparkles beneath the light of diamond chandeliers dangling above your tilted head.

Without fail, you trip into a large man's chest, his gloved hand clasping your waist right before you fall. You only see half of his dazzling smile before the world transforms, a thousand stars bursting in your vision as he dips you down, holding you closely, carefully as though your skin was made of precious jewels. It is through the gentleness of a faceless man's fingers do you realize that you haven't once, throughout the entire night, cracked a grin.

Cue the indicative signs: an explosive warmth blossoming in your chest, a blinding smile stretching across your lips, and suddenly, with debilitating intensity, a feeling like you are for once truly free.

You never get a chance to fully discern your feelings, not before the floor trembles, the dancers dissolving into darkness. The shadows circle around your ankles, gnarled faces clawing their way up your calves—terror coils underneath your ribs, pulling you apart from the inside out.

Hopelessly, desperately, you search for the man's solace, fingers tugging at the sleeves around his shoulders, and somehow, in the chaos of your actions, you find yourself settling the pad of your thumb just under his jawline. He doesn't pull away, God, you wish he did—the shadows don't give you enough time to process the consequences of your actions before they go for his throat instead.

They snare him by the jugular, wrenching him out of your grasp, slamming his back into the wall hard enough to make him crumple. The darkness blankets his limp figure, falling over his shattered spine.

Anguish tears through your chest, ripping out of your throat in the form of a guttural scream. You try to chase him—you always do, you never learn—you don't get two steps forward before the cherub fresco drips off the ceiling reverting back to its original form.

Blood.

Angels weep crimson tears; deep red rivulets that crystalize into claws over fractured ceilings. You should have known your freedom was ill-fated from the beginning—thick, heavy blood slithers down your throat, coating the pads of your fingertips with the manifestation of a curse.

You never feel it. The sickening crack of your heart tearing from your ribs; steaked straight through a frescos crimson claw. They assure the next time you look at the man will be your last.

So you remain, paralyzed in clouds of umbra, until you gather enough strength to lift your neck. Until your eyes find his crumpled body, overturned and limp.

Who is he? You're left to wonder. Why can I never see his face?

You never find the rest of the man's face, it is far too covered in your blood.

a/n pt2: sooo i know that i have teased the hell out of this fic...and i swear i am still working on it. ngl idk if this even counts as a teaser, this is just the very first scene in the actual book of a fanfic but yeah! hope yall like it and comment if you wanna be tagged!

taglist @lililixie, @hwangjoanna

[lets-try-some-writing]

A Brother In Need

A gift for @nova--spark and a partial continuation of this post by her (ft. my fic blurb for it).

Sometimes, when things are dire, the Matrix can tear through the very walls between worlds. It can call out to others, summoning Primes to aid a brother in need.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

Optimus grunted as another shot scorched his armor. The upgrades he’d received were doing nothing against the raging force of nature that was Megatron. A jetpack was useless against a forged flyer. The Magnus hammer, which he’d not so quietly borrowed, was doing slag all do deter his foe.

Being taken prisoner had done nothing to calm Megatron or make him less of a deadly opponent. With Ultra Magnus out of commission, all Optimus could do was try to buy time while the Autobots got themselves organized. The battle had already raged for almost five minutes, a near eternity for Optimus, who, as much as he hated to admit it, was certainly not built for war. He could only hold off for so long, and with no allies en route, he was essentially a sitting duck.

Every dodged attack slowed him down. Each hit he managed to land seemed to bounce right off of the warlord. Even with the Allspark resting within its casing around his neck, providing him with energy he sorely needed, he was still losing. Bit by bit, he was pushed back closer toward civilian regions. It had never gotten this bad, not even on Earth.

“Foolish Prime. You will learn the meaning of suffering for daring to put me in chains.” Megatron flew at him yet again, and all Optimus could do was struggle to keep his frame from overheating as he forced himself to dodge. Unfortunately, Megatron was faster, hitting his jetpack with a well timed strike and finally sending him careening toward the ground. Optimus adjusted mid-fall, slowing his descent and landing on his pedes. However, as he attempted to get back into the skies in the hopes that it would limit civilian casualties, his jetpack failed to function. It puttered uselessly against his back, reminding Optimus again of just how dire things really were.

“I’m not going down without taking you with me!” He taunted his foe, running as far away from housing districts as possible. The Allspark weighed heavily around his neck, thrumming with strange energy he did not understand. It did little to aid him, but its glow reminded Optimus of what he was fighting for. 

Megatron could not win. Not while Optimus still functioned.

“I will strip you of your armor, one plate at a time!” Megatron roared in outrage, landing with a thunderous crash that left Optimus reeling. He clutched the Magnus hammer, not letting himself focus on the faint tremor of his digits as he raised the weapon high. He checked his comms, frantically letting his optics flicker around the area in hopes that someone, anyone, would come to his aid.

He saw and heard nothing. No one was coming. He was alone.

“I’d like to see you try.” He could sense the stress warnings for his servos running across his vision, but Optimus dismissed them. He needed to keep fighting, to buy more time for Sentinel to get things in order as acting Magnus. He doubted his former friend would actually aid him, but if Optimus could do something to give the Autobots a chance, then he would gladly put his life on the line yet again.

He took a deep vent, the world slowing around him as Megatron unsheathed his blade and leapt forward. Optimus distinctly recalled wondering if there would be anything left of his frame once the battle was done as the warlord’s blade met his hammer. 

The shock rattled his entire frame, knocking his shoulder from its socket. He didn’t have time to cry out in pain before he was forced to try and block another hit, then another, and another. He tried to fight back, but every time he tried to land an attack, Megatron’s blade cut through his armor like it was made of tinfoil. He was covered in gashes, each burning as they bled. He stumbled, trying to keep his balance as Megatron smiled, stalking forward and pushing Optimus up against a wall. 

“This is what happens when you play soldier, Optimus Prime. Now, you will die like the disposable pawn you are.” Optimus spit up energon, coughing as he clutched a particularly deep wound with one servo. The Magnus hammer was held weakly up in front of him, his entire arm shaking from the effort as he prepared to block. Part of him hoped that his team would arrive and save his sorry aft. The rest of him was praying for a decently quick and honorable end, perhaps a blaster shot to the spark.

Unfortunately for him, Megatron had other plans.

The warlord swung his blade, sending the Magnus hammer flying away from Optimus’s grasp. He cursed, getting into a combat position despite how battered and tired he was. His vents were flared wide, his fans running on their highest setting as he panted and tried to play hero. Everything ached and burned, his vision flickering from energon loss. But he was not given a chance to even try to preserve his honor as the hilt of Megatron’s blade collided with his helm, knocking him to the ground.

He cried out in pain, no longer able to stifle the agony of his failing frame. He heard Megatron laugh as a kick landed on his abdomen, sending Optimus flying against the wall behind him and leaving him to purge what little he had in his tanks before coughing up energon that had to have come from something internal being ruptured. 

He shook in terror that he could no longer mask as the warlord loomed above him, his towering frame now no longer anything close to the storybook villain Optimus had come to know. He prayed for salvation as Megatron took his time, hitting him again and again and kicking him around like some sort of training dummy. Every hit broke something else, shattering plating or snapping components that were likely vital. 

Optimus tried to be brave. He tried to keep being snarky, if only to buy time. But as he lay utterly beaten amidst the rubble of their battleground, he could only cry while pulling himself into a sitting position. There was nothing he could do now except try to die with a small iota of dignity. 

“Ratchet, Bulkhead, Bumblebee, Sari… I’m sorry I won’t be coming back to all of you.” A choked sob broke through his tortured venting. As Megatron cackled, Optimus touched the container the Allspark still sat within. He prayed in silence, hoping that the phenomenon that gave him life would heed his quiet plea. 

He wasn’t religious. He had no god to worship as the humans did. But he still hoped… that maybe, somehow, the thing that made him would have mercy on his spark.

“Goodbye, Prime.” Megatron’s blaster powered on, sickening purple and flooding Optimus’s vision as he raised his helm in one final act of defiance. If he were to fall, he was going to do so, looking death in the optic. He would not cower, not even in his final moments.

He stared down the blaster barrel, uncaring of how it made his optics flicker due to the brightness. But as he watched his death come closer, he felt warmth emanate from the container around his neck. He dared not look away from Megatron, but as blue light began to drown out the purple, Optimus could only gasp in awe at what occurred mere nano-kliks later.

A shot fired, but it was not Megatron’s blaster putting Optimus six feet under. Instead, bright blue energy impacted Megatron’s armor, scorching his seemingly untouchable plating and earning a cry from the warlord. Optimus gawked, his agony momentarily forgotten as he followed the source of the shot, his optics setting on a figure that towered over even Megatron.

A faint blue figure flickered in and out of existence, becoming more solid with every passing moment. Optimus’s optics widened as the mech stepped forward, his frame setting into reality as he held his arm up, the limb having transformed into a blaster without so much as a klik of hesitation. He stood proudly, his armor battered and scarred but still strong. His shoulders were sharp, and an autobot badge stood out clearly amidst the scratches and dents. His legs were long and built for combat; his waist was thin but his torso was heavily armored. A crack ran along his windshields, but it seemed to mean nothing for the mech who stood so powerfully on the battlefield.

Optimus watched in complete awe as the mech stalked forward, a battlemask firmly in place on his face as he fired shot after shot at Megatron. With grace that Optimus had never seen in anyone before, the mech strode forward, breaking into a steady run as his arms turned from guns to blades. In an instant, the mech, who looked so much like Optimus in color and overall design, met Megatron in combat. Their blades sparked, their grunts of exertion echoed across the battlefield.

Megatron tried to push back, but the mech was swift with his blades, cutting through Megatron’s defenses and slashing his armor clean open with rapid movements. Megatron stumbled back, screaming a curse in a language Optimus did not know. The mech, his counterpart, responded in kind with a quick kick to the chassis, sending the warlord sprawling after a pitifully short fight. It seemed that despite his failure to bring down his foe, Optimus had indeed tired him enough so that his counterpart had little issue bringing him to his knees.

A smug part of his spark flared in glee at the revelation.

“Serves you right, you glitch.” He raised a middle finger in Megatron’s direction as Autobots finally appeared in the distance. His counterpart knocked Megatron upside the helm, forcing the Decepticon leader into temporary recharge. Then, without a second thought, he came to kneel before Optimus, his battlemask slipping away.

“I apologize for failing to assist you sooner, little brother. The call of the Matrix can be slow at times.” Optimus carefully reset his optics, but the scene did not change as his counterpart tenderly picked him up as if he were but a newbuild. The Allspark pulsed against his chassis in response.

“It seems your reality has different rules than mine, but you need not fear. We are one and the same, merely separated by time and a barrier between worlds.” The other mech, the other Optimus, smiled in a soft manner before holding Optimus close. He coughed weakly, the pain slowly overwhelming his senses as his counterpart held him close. He wanted to speak, to ask who this mech really was.

But he found his questions answered as the other Optimus carried him to his team, passing him off to a very worried Ratchet. He stared, still in shock, as the other Prime began to flicker and fade, his existence starting to vanish like smoke.

“Rest well, young Prime. May Primus light your path.” With those final words, the other Prime disappeared as if he’d never been there in the first place. Megatron was bound and carted off, Ratchet strapped him to a gurney and rushed to get him hooked up to an IV. All the while, Optimus stared up at the sky uselessly.

He didn’t know how or why, but through the thing that hung around his neck, Optimus had been saved by another version of himself. A mech who carried his name, his burden, and his rank.

He’d had his life preserved by a brother.

[ticifics]

Walking Home with a Daydream

Robbie x f!reader

Summary: In which Robbie walks you home

Warnings: just fluffy, no use of y/n, pre relationship

A/N: I watched the movie (it became one of my comfort movies, actually) , so I decided to do something.

The bell above the door chimed softly as you entered, gripping the strap of your backpack while your heart beat a little faster than usual.

The store was cozy and organized, with a simplicity that seemed to reflect the personality of the person who ran it. And there, behind the counter, was him. Robbie.

His brown, tousled hair, the strands falling carelessly over the bluest eyes you'd ever seen. He was busy with something—stacking tea boxes on a high shelf, his arms stretching out with natural ease, and the simple white t-shirt slightly riding up with the movement.

"Hi," he said when he saw you, a friendly, effortless smile curving his lips. It was nothing to him, but to you? Heart racing.

"Hi, Robbie," you replied, trying not to sound nervous. But who were you kidding? He did this to you every time.

His mom was behind the counter, watching everything with that maternal look that seemed to know too much. She smiled when she saw you approaching and quickly started putting the items you grabbed into bags, efficient and attentive as always.

"So, how are the classes going?" she asked, her voice warm and kind, but with a hint of mischief hidden between the lines.

"Ah, it's fine," you answered, hoping it wouldn't be too obvious how much your eyes kept drifting back to Robbie. He was now on the other side of the store, arranging the vegetables with an almost exaggerated concentration.

When you finished paying, his mom glanced at the full bags and then at her son, who was already coming back to the counter.

"Robbie, why don't you walk her home? It's getting dark, and those bags look heavy," she said, leaving no room for argument.

"Sure," he responded immediately, grabbing the bags before you could protest.

"You don't have to, I can carry—"

"It's fine," he cut you off, the easy smile still on his face. "It's just a little walk."

You left the store with him by your side, the cool afternoon air lightly brushing your face. Robbie walked with casual steps, but you were hypersensitive to every detail. The way his fingers looked strong holding the straps of the bags. How the sunlight created a golden glow in the strands of his hair.

"So, are you still rehearsing with the band?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

"Yeah, we're playing on Saturday," he said. "You should come," he added, almost too casually. But his eyes? Focused on you.

"I... can come," you replied, your heart racing again.

"Cool."

His word echoed in your head with a devastating simplicity, but you were already lost in a whirlwind of chaotic, bubbling thoughts. Cool.

He thought it was cool. Did he really want you to go, or was he just being polite? No, he seemed sincere. But what if he just wanted more people in the audience?

You tried not to think too much about it while walking side by side, but it was practically impossible. With every step, your mind drifted further away.

Robbie. On stage. With a bass in his hands. You'd heard his band before, but always from a distance, trying not to look desperately in love. He was good. No, he was amazing. He always lost himself in the music, his eyes closed, his fingers moving across the strings with impressive ease. And the most impressive thing? He wrote the songs.

You always wondered about those lyrics. What inspired the words he put on paper? And now, a ridiculous, silly idea popped into your head, making your cheeks flush immediately.

What if, just what if, one day he wrote a song about you?

Jesus, what a pathetic idea, you thought, but it was too late. The vision was already clear in your mind: Robbie, sitting somewhere with a notebook, the pencil tapping on his lips as he thought about how to capture you in a lyric.

"Are you okay?" His voice snapped you out of your daydreams.

"Yeah! I mean, yeah. I'm great," you answered too quickly, stumbling over your words and almost tripping over your own feet.

He smiled at you, that slightly crooked, carefree smile that made the ground beneath your feet seem a little less solid.

"You got quiet all of a sudden," he commented, his blue eyes fixed on you. And of course he would notice. Robbie was kind. He always noticed.

"Just thinking," you muttered, looking down at the ground, hoping the heat in your cheeks wasn't too obvious.

"Thinking about what?"

You opened your mouth to answer but realized you had no idea what to say. Imagining you writing a song about me sounded like something from a diary, not an actual conversation.

"I... I think I'm excited for the show," you improvised. It wasn't a lie. You were very, very excited. And completely nervous.

He looked surprised for a second, but then something in his eyes softened. "Really?"

"Yeah," you replied, and the warmth in your cheeks spread all the way to your ears.

"Cool," he said again, but this time the tone sounded different. Softer, almost thoughtful.

The walk to your house was ending too quickly. The gate to your entrance was in sight. You wanted to stretch out the walk. Just a few more minutes, maybe. Just a little more time with him.

Robbie stopped when he reached your door and carefully set the bags on the ground. He straightened up and looked at you, his blue eyes illuminated by the golden light of the late afternoon.

"See you Saturday, then?" he asked.

"See you Saturday." You couldn't stop the silly smile from spreading across your face, even if you tried.

He hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say something more. But instead, he just smiled back.

And when he walked away, you stood there, by your front door, your heart racing and thoughts spinning in circles.

Saturday couldn’t come soon enough.

[coveofsecrets]

"𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍"

─── ✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

-> Platonic! yandere! Eustass Kid x reader

-> Warnings: spoilers for Kid's backstory, violence

-> Word Count: 1k

-> Me when. Me wheb. I love. Eystass Kid. btw this might be a lkittle mini-series bc this has been something ive been rtotting about so. yes.,

─── ✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Distress.

That is the expression etched onto his face.

This man you don’t know, he has his red lips pulled across his face, eyes unbelievably wide as his pupils are ballon-like, nostrils flaring in correspondence with the ragged way his chest moves up and down.

Clearly, he’s not okay.

“Mister…?” Your voice, shaking against your own will, calls out to the man. “Are you… okay?”

As if remembering he exists, the man jolts, a step 

mouth opening to breathe in, and then-

Nothing.

All that comes from him is a sound- something similar to a word, but it’s indecipherable with how much his wheeze strangles the syllables.

It’s almost as if he forgot how to speak, the concept of language lost to the one in front of you. 

For some reason, that scares you.

One moment, you were just playing with a friend in your hometown… and another, you’re in some dense forest, with a stranger who could easily snap your bones in half.

When he came storming in and faced you, you thought he’d be able to help you understand where you are, but the expression on his face and his indecipherable speech quickly crushed your hopes.

I…

Silence.

Cold, empty silence.

As the man’s fists clench and unclench, the quiet pricks at your stomach, gently threading its way in and sewing an eeriness into your internal organs.

You don’t like it.

You don’t like it at all.

As the hush continues, the thread only gets tighter around your intestines, squeezing and squeezing until they explode.

Before that could happen, though, the book was reopened, and the man has remembered what words are.

“Why do you look like that?”

…huh?

His tone is low, almost like a bite; a wolf, sinking its teeth into its prey.

The prey being you.

Unfamiliar situations are the perfect time to hurt a person, and you’re right in that situation.

“Answer me, dammit!”

An ocean’s roar, a step forward.

Violently, you’ve flinched back, a yelp escaping your lips, “I- I don’t know! I look fine-!” 

“No the hell you don’t! You look like a child!” Thunder accompanies the bed of water, something sharp in his voice. “What happened to you for you to look like that, huh?!”

“Wha- huh?!” Quickly, your vision becomes blurry, tears running down your cheeks- a usual occurrence, for you. “I’m- I am a kid! Who are you?!”

What you ask serves to only add fuel to the fire, the red-haired man yelling, “‘Who am I’- what do you mean ‘who am I’?! It’s me!” Violently, he gestures to himself, as if that’s supposed to help.

‘Me?!’

You sob, “What do you mean?! 

“Don’t play dumb!” The more he speaks, the louder he gets. “Cmon, use your thick skull to remember! I’m your captain, remember? Eustass? Eustass Kidd?! You gotta remember something-!” Your name is hissed, rough and almost desperate.

You falter.

My name?

Once again, that thread starts to squeeze.

Eustass Kid?

The Eustass you know is a kid. A small, scraggly child who’s shorter and a year younger than you. He’s got red hair like the man before you, but your Eustass’s hair is dirtied by the constant dirt and soot he’s roughing around him.

This guy… this guy, is not your friend.

Not only does he look completely different, but he’s an adult. He’s probably just trying to fool you, by saying your name.

Noticing your hesitance, the man before you grunts, “You know me!” Violently grabbing your shoulders, yanking you to face him. “You…” His voice softens, eyes shining with something you can’t place. “You know me… You have to.”

You have to know him.

Four years ago, you, Killer, Heat, Wire, and Kid, had all formed a pirate crew; hopes set high, and hands raised towards the stars, you all wanted one thing: to make your captain The Pirate King.

To make your captain the sole inheritor of the One Piece.

For four years, you all voyaged with that goal. Obtaining new crew members, slaughtering everybody who dared to laugh at him, and watching his bounty steadily climb…

For four years, that was done.

For four years.

There’s no way you could’ve forgotten all that.

There’s no way that four years of memories are gone, just like that.

There’s no way, with a touch of a random asshole’s hand, you’ve turned back into a child, just like that.

Just like that.

But it has, hasn’t it?

Eustass’s grip on you tightens.

It has, and now, you’ve been turned back into the crybaby you used to be, sniffling and whining as you always do.

“God- dammit…” The captain exhales, shaky and short.

What does he do?

His mind is jumbled; a singular race track, with lanes that all intertwine with each other in a way that’s chaotic, all the emotions he’s feeling crashing into one another to create a giant, tangled, mess.

Rational thought does not exist in his mind, it cannot be processed because everything else is just screaming at him because how dare that bastard turn you back into a child, how dare they remove years spent on the seas, memories shared, exploits indulged in. He’s going to kill them. Eustass is going to tear them apart and make sure they were never fucking born.

Yet, in the middle of all of that jumble, lies a singular question in his mind that is clear.

What’s he going to do with you?

You’re a kid.

Not only that, but as far as he can remember, you were a stupid little sniveler. A weak, little thing who could barely throw a bunch for the life of you.

You can’t defend yourself. 

So what does he do?

On one hand, If you came aboard his crew, you would have no way of self-protection in the scenario of an emergency. Anybody could come up and kill you.

On the other, he can’t just leave you here- or anywhere, for that matter. He doesn’t trust any sort of bastard to take care of you. They could use you as leverage for any sort of favor from the Kid Pirates, and the thought of you being hurt makes him want to throw up.

At the end of the day, he doesn’t want you to die.

Although you may not remember, at the end of the day, you’re his crewmate.

His friend.

…he doesn’t want to let you go.

No.

He refuses to let you go.

[david-talks-sw]

I got a good feeling about "The Acolyte"

Not even kidding. Like, I've spoken before about why I'm wary of it.

George Lucas' Star Wars is something that intentionally has black and white morality, rather than shades of gray. Those movies are meant for kids and projecting a "gray" morality onto them then proclaiming it was George's vision all along is doing so in bad faith.

The narrative of the Prequels doesn't frame the Prequel Jedi in as negative a light as Leslye Headland, Dave Filoni, etc etc do.

See here for more details, but bottom line: yeah, a show that has a darksider as the underdog is bound to demonize the Jedi (who are the actual underdogs in the Prequels), and obviously that rubs me the wrong way.

BUT.

The trailer looks fucking cool. It really really does.

And more importantly? I've done some research... and Leslye Headland is ticking a lot of good boxes, in my book.

1. The Acolyte won't be a 10-hour movie.

I've criticized Disney Plus shows before, explaining that a big source for most of their issues is that these series are being structured as "long movies" rather than, y'know, actual shows.

But in this interview with Collider, Headland addresses that: it'll be a series. Not a long movie that you need to watch across four weeks.

Thank God. You have no idea how much that comforts me. Finally a showrunner who's, y'know, actually running a show.

And this goes hand in hand with what she told IGN, here, about how she's going about building suspense.

Yes! Exactly! That's how it's supposed to be!

Like, compare this to Baylan Skoll's storyline in Ahsoka.

In no possible way was that emotionally-fulfilling. For 8 episodes we had no idea what he was after, and the season ended where we still don't know. What does he want? What is he after? Your guess is as good as mine, it's something Mortis-related.

So yeah. Maybe getting the Emmy-nominated trained screenwriter on board to run this was a good idea.

2. Maybe the Jedi will not be as demonized as I originally thought.

Don't get me wrong. 80% of what she says about the Jedi makes me cringe. It's the typical fan's interpretation and y'all know I disagree with that interpretation.

It's painful to see her refer to the Jedi as an institution (not how the Prequels' narrative frames them) and to see her frame "Balance" in the "oh there's so many of them and just two Sith, that means the Force is out of balance" meaning... but at least she acknowledges the Jedi are a benevolent institution.

They're not an "elitist force hiding in their ivory tower" as others have described the Jedi.

Moreover, there'll be a variety of Jedi POVs, many personalities.

Yord Fandar, is described as a strictly by-the-book Jedi Knight and guardian from the Jedi Temple, is an overachiever and a rule follower.

The question now becomes: will the narrative frame him as "your typical Jedi" or is it just this one guy? I'm hoping it's the latter.

I also like how her reasoning goes re: Jedi drawing their lightsabers.

Which explains the hand-to-hand combat seen in the trailer.

This teenager is coming at Carrie-Ann Moss with a dagger, of course the Jedi won't draw her saber.

3. She's a fan of Star Wars... but a screenwriter first.

You can tell in the interviews she's a fan. She's using words like "BBY" and "EU" casually. In the above-linked interviews she's bringing up the Nightsisters, Timothy Zahn, The Clone Wars, she mentions she has a tattoo of Ralph McQuarrie's concept art of Leia, the High Republic books, etc.

She's done her homework. She's a fan.

But the vibe I'm getting from these interviews is that she's weaving in these various lore-elements in a more organic way, rather than in the "fan-servicey" way Dave Filoni has been doing in his shows.

The references and Easter Eggs will be there, but the narrative won't bend over itself just so you can get it. Crafting a good story comes first, and Andor is a beautiful illustration of why this is true.

Which is why I was never bothered about one of the writers never having watched Star Wars before getting the job. You need those fresh eyes when you're tackling something of this scale.

That makes sense to me. Maybe it's because of my own screenwriting experience, but yeah. That out-of-the box perspective is precious.

And like, obviously, that writer watched the films eventually, but for some reason everyone who bitched about Headland omitted that detail and opted for a more bad faith interpretation.

Hm. Wonder why.

Maybe it's the same reason that months ago this clipped audio circulated socials without context, in which she debates whether Star Wars only came from George Lucas and only Lucas is the key.

The FULL context of that interview reveals that she's actually:

debating the "autheur director" myth and positing that it was achieved by a collective of excellent filmmakers and craftspeople that George was skilled and smart enough to recruit...

the studios now think it's a simple as hiring one guy and throwing money at him, because they have no idea what the fuck they're talking about. See Napoleon (2023) for example.

Yes, she also does a jab to the Prequels, which speaks to the generation of fans she's a part of... but overall she's giving Lucas props whilst also stating an ideological difference, that's it!

George is a proponent of the "autheur" theory, Leslye isn't.

However, guess what, in like half the talks George gave post-selling Star Wars? He's giving shoutouts to everyone who helped make the first film, even remembering their names.

So I'm not even sure he'd vehemently disagree with Leslye, in fact they'd prolly have a conversation about it and immediately bitch about how stupid studio executives are :D

But that's not as incendiary, is it? Again, the more I do the research, the more it feels like the reason most of these influencers are hating on her is purely sexist.

I mean, on IGN she's even acknowledging that she does plan on taking stock of fan reactions for Season 2.

It's not a guarantee that she'll incorporate the feedback, but at least that's more consideration than, say, JJ Abrams or Rian Johnson gave the fandom.

She's even bringing the moral ambiguity that the Gray Jedi-loving edge-lords love so much.

"No, she's a woke feminist! Anything she does is evil! Eww, girls!"

🙄

Needless to say... I'm gonna give it a shot.

I think it's gonna be a good show, I think it's gonna be a solid story.

I'm crossing my fingers that they won't as biased against the Jedi as it seems they'll be. Even if they are... if it's still an enjoyable experience, I'll gloss over it.

As @gffa states in this post:

Worst case? It's not a story from George. I can dismiss it from my headcanon without a moment's hesitation :D

[ladymoody]

RED LIPSTICK

mattheo riddle x fem!reader

︎warnings: flirty, alcohol, smoke, drugs, throwing up, swearing, breast cupping, possessive behavior.

word count: 1,3k

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ masterlist ; playlist ; characters list ; my website

it’s september again, a not-so-hot-month anymore, yet not cold yet. I was walking with blaise, wearing my favorite leather jacket and my hair down, a bit messy. we were heading towards draco’s manor where he was used to throwing huge parties for the slytherins and of course, he had invited us.

it was about midnight, and the streets were almost empty. blaise was walking beside me on the roadside sidewalk, protectively trying to keep an eye on passing cars.

“are you going to get high?” he asked.

“maybe. you?”

“is that even a question? malfoy hasn’t made a decent party for years, of course, I’m gonna take the opportunity.”

blaise chuckles, knowing that I will have ended up wasted like always and he will have needed to carry me to my room again.

(time skip)

the lights were flashing, enough to make you dizzy and confused. blaise and I were used to it, but the loud music tested our limits — I’ll admit that.

“grab my hand.” he said as he started to make his way into the thick crowd. I took his hand and I followed him, merging with the sweaty and dancing people. I could smell the alcohol and the smoke and I couldn’t wait to get drunk and forget.

blaise spotted draco and waved at him, draco saw us and approached us as well.

“zabini, y/l/n. welcome.” draco said.

draco and blaise chatted a bit as if I wasn't desperate to touch alcohol, and seeing them casually having a conversation with this loud music was annoying me more and more.

I started watching the crowd, checking if I could find any other friend of mine that I could leave blaise for, and there our gazes met. mine and mattheo's.

god, I hated that man.

everybody knew him, and I knew him too, maybe even too well for someone who hadn't had a proper conversation with him — but rumors spread quickly, and I knew for sure that he was a bad influence.

I saw him stop dancing, he was rubbing against a girl that I didn't know but she didn't look as if she minded, and he started walking toward me. not even a second passed without him breaking the eye contact with me and I was getting uncomfortable.

he had a drink in his hand and his usual cut across the bridge of his nose, he greeted blaise.

I didn't know why I was so disappointed but I thought he would come up to me. I knew we didn't talk much, yet somehow I had hoped for him to have a word with me instead of his usual male friends.

"what's up, zabini." they started chatting, and I couldn't help espy his eyes so lingering and magnetic.

"sorry, what was your name again?" he finally shifted his gaze on me and I felt a shiver running down my spine as his eyes laid on my lips.

"y/l/n. y/n yl/n." I said and he simply nodded, getting his attention back to blaise. this time I noticed how he stole more looks at me, maybe he didn't like my presence there.

mattheo and I met many times, yet shared so few words. the only time we talked was for a divination project — he was my deskmate and mrs. trelawney paired us. mattheo didn't really work with me and left all the work to me while was probably fucking around. I recall us organizing a meeting to work together but he never showed up.

I decided to go look for pansy, my best friend, and see how she was doing.

"excuse me." I mutter as I leave my friends to merge into the crowd. it was so hard trying to spot a brown-haired girl in a room full of flashing colored lights and people moving around everywhere, but somehow I managed to find her eventually.

"pansy!" I called her out and she turned around, immediately smiling at the sight of me approaching her.

we hugged and talked for a bit, then she led me towards the alcohol.

(skip time)

my vision was corrupted by the amount of vodka drunk and weed smoked, I couldn't stop laughing with pansy as we literally took turns throwing up in the toilet.

"how are we still fucking alive...?" pansy panted, grinning.

"I don't know, but I swear this is the last time I'm getting this wasted... it's too much and the idea of smoking joints while drinking wasn't the best, huh?"

"oh sorry for trying to indulge your urge to get completely vulnerable and plastered."

I rolled my eyes, and then the women's restroom door opened wide. I couldn't perfectly see who it was, but I could tell by the manly figure that it wasn't a girl.

"oh sorry, ladies." a familiar voice said. mattheo? as pansy started to puke in the toilet again, I stood up from the cold floor and walked to him to have a better view.

"what the fuck? this is the girl's restroom." I said, stumbling to get to him.

he chuckled and smirked at the sight of me being that drunk and goofy, but I could tell he wasn't so sober either.

"I got confused. I drank a bit and couldn't see the sign on the door." he casually said, incredibly close to me.

and there something inside of me lit up. I didn't know what it was, but the way he spoke to me, finally shifting his attention on me, looking at me with those big brown eyes of his and his innocent face — and mattheo was everything but innocent — made me feel... attracted by him.

"you're here all alone, y/n?" his voice snapped me back to reality, the way he remembered and said my name was almost electrifying.

"there's pansy-" I couldn't finish my sentence as his hand reached out to brush a strand of my hair off my face. I just looked at him confused, captivated, and needy.

I realized at that moment that I wanted him, even casually, but I did.

"why that red lipstick?" he asked, a hint of anger in his voice.

"it matched the outfit."

"it doesn't suit you." he bitterly said. I was puzzled and slightly offended until he added something more.

"I'll ruin it for you." he said before crashing his lips to mine.

what the fuck. that’s what I thought. I had always thought of him as the “womanizer” and the type of guy that will use you, leave you, and think he owns you but still not want anything serious. he was somehow famous in the school and I hated him, but maybe the alcohol made me a bit bolder, a bit less of a thinker, and I just found myself not pulling away from his lips.

he pushed me backward as he kissed me, his hands firmly gripping my hips as he pulled them towards his. I backed against a door, opening it with our weight and stepping in.

mattheo’s hands were now wrapped around my waist and my arms around his neck. he forced me against the wall and kept devouring my mouth. it wasn’t a sweet kiss, it was more an angry kiss as if he was letting all his anger out on me. I wasn’t complaining, though.

his right hand started to wander under my top, getting to my bra and cupping my breast to squeeze it hard. I let out a moan at his gesture, and he immediately broke the kiss.

“wear less makeup next time,” he said as he pulled away, opened the door, and headed towards the restroom exit. my lips were now swollen from the intensity of the kiss, and my red lipstick was almost fully gone. I stood there in confusion, looking at him with a mix of lust, anger, and disappointment.

damn.

[ma1dita]

this will be our year

this was a request! find it here

words: 2.5k

summary: james does his best to plan reader's birthday! it's not as easy as you think

warnings: james is a leader not a planner, fluff!! bestfriend!james returns mwahaha

a/n: so sorry for this being literally two weeks after your birthday anon! life was kicking my ass but i hope you enjoy! writing many characters is something im trying to learn to make more organic

(posted and edited too many times to count 11/6/23)

—

There are a few things in life that James likes to think he’s very good at: making plans, pulling pranks, playing quidditch, and doing absolutely anything he can to make you smile. At first, he would laugh it off when his friends would say you two had something special. He is a gentleman, after all. James is the type of friend any of the girls would trust with a secret, or the one to borrow hair potion from when you’re in a pinch.

He loves to join in the gossip and crash your sleepovers when the boys are being ‘dreadfully boring’ (his words, not yours). He holds your bag when you walk to class (only yours, he’ll push Marlene’s books to the ground and run off laughing), bribes Peter with an extra helping of bacon to move his butt out of ‘your seat’ (whichever one was to the right of him) at breakfast, and definitely writes to his mom asking about what to get you for your birthday (and how much he’s been wanting to ask you out for almost about three years now).

Right... James is a great friend, so when you get all excited about your birthday, gushing about how you want to celebrate this year, he takes one look at the excitement on your face and hatches the perfect plan. Or so he thinks.

“I just can’t wait to celebrate with you guys, and not have to worry about exams, or projects, or boys, or curfew…” you muse, laying across Mary and Remus’s laps as everyone’s gathered in the common room. Sirius, and Peter are chasing each other with throw pillows while Dorcas and Lily share headphones on the other sofa. James beelines towards you, crawling across the open space.

“Boys? What boys have been worrying you, dove?” he says snidely, sneaking towards the space near your belly, looking up at your relaxed figure.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Mary giggles, and Remus huffs back laughter as he pats your head. James peers up at you as you smile knowingly.

“It’s a secret.” you smile, reaching out to poke his chin.

“You keep secrets from me now? From your most good-looking, bestest friend ever that plans the coolest awesomest birthday parties for you?”

Well, he did have a point. Ever since he accidentally flung you into the Black Lake third year in a prank meant for Snape, he’s almost always waited on you hand and foot. He had to, for your immediate response to laugh and flip him into the lake ���qualified’ you as a Marauder (plus he thought you were really pretty—he swore he stopped crushing on Lily the next day.) And every birthday since has been bigger and better. Fourth year was the movie marathon out on the quidditch pitch; Fifth year was the picnic out next to Black Lake, and now you couldn’t wait to see what he has planned.

You look at the boy thoughtfully, smiling down at him and he swears it’s his favorite sight in the world.

“You don’t always have to know everything, Prongs…”

He chases after your hand with his mouth, trying to chomp one of your fingers. Idiot.

“Of course I do, or else no birthday party for you!” he jokes, and you giggle at the notion. He wouldn’t dare. He loves to celebrate you. Maybe this will be the year he asks you out… Is that cheesy? Or lame? James sighs, fussing with a string on his sweater, suddenly silent amongst the chaos of his lively friends. He’s got a lot of work to do.

—

The next week was filled with James’ hasty preparations and all of your friends were put up to the task of making his vision come together. Remus and Peter would get the booze, Mary and Alice would bake the sweet treats, Sirius and Lily were working on decorations, and Marlene and Dorcas were busy enchanting a record player to amplify through the party space James would get ready in the Room of Requirement. He’s been a little high-strung, overcalculating his endless to-do list to impress you.

All of them have been so…busy, and it was a bit lonely. You thought they might plan something with you, or for you, but you haven’t seen much of them in the past few days. Every bump in the corridor or spotting in the common room was a flurry of hushed whispers and giggles at jokes that flew over your head. Even dinner with them has been oddly silent, like watching a film but not being able to penetrate the scene that unfolds.

Peering down at the map one day after class, you see your friends’ names flitting around the map, all of them hanging out together, but not with you. That is, until a big hand nabs the parchment from your grasp.

“Hey!” “Sorry doll, need it for something important.” Sirius grins, pulling Lily along as they walk off briskly.

“Do you guys want to study later?” You call out after them, and they keep on walking, hands in their cloaks. Weird.

Many more of your requests have been denied. It’s a fickle thing, to suddenly feel unwanted in your group of friends. As a Marauder, you’ve earned your place there. But if Remus and Peter didn’t want to sneak out for a midnight snack, and Alice and Mary went shopping already, without you… Marlene and Dorcas were nowhere to be found.

That means you only had your favorite person to badger… James. You drag him into a broom closet after Muggle Studies one day, crossing your arms and looking up at him with frustration.

“Jeez, love, you’re stronger than you look!” He says sheepishly, hands landing on your waist.

“What are you all up to? Where have you been?” The pout on your face makes his knees weak, and it’d be so easy to just tell you….

No…He thinks, hardening his resolve as his thumb reaches out to smooth the crease in your forehead.

“Prongs,” you whine, poking his chest. The dim yellow lightbulb swings overhead, almost clobbering him in the skull.

“Why, you miss me that much?” He grins, prodding at your cheek. It’s cramped in here enough, and he hunches over your frame, unable to stop his smile at the look on your face.

“Yeah. I miss all of my friends. I sound like Moaning Myrtle whining after you lot! I wanna be involved in whatever you all are doing…” Delicate hands pull at the drawstrings of his hoodie and he feels like his chest tightens too.

“Hey, we haven’t forgotten you, so don’t worry, pretty girl. Your birthday’s coming up, right? You excited for that?” James’ thumb rubs at your cheek and he really wonders if, in any other instance, this could be platonic. Surely, you must like him too, right? Everything he does is to make you smile. He feels like he’s in a one-man show trying to embellish himself for your attention, and he’s waiting for the applause. Your hand grabs his as you lean into his touch.

“Got anything special planned?” You ask teasingly, and James can feel the warmth of your smile in his palm.

“For you? Of course.” He squeezes your cheek and you rip away from him, laughing. As you walk out of the closet, your shoulders bump as he wraps an arm around you.

“Don’t worry too much, dove. It’ll all work out,” he says, glad that you’re smiling again. “Wouldn’t let you have a terrible birthday. Never in a million years.”

“Exactly. What type of best friend would you be?” You smirk, walking off to your next class.

The thing is, he hopes you won’t be best friends by the end of it though. James huffs as he puts his hands in his pockets, walking in the opposite direction. This will be the year…. And it’s unsure if it’s a promise to himself or to you.

—

Of course, it wouldn’t be a Marauder plan of action without some mayhem. James had taken it upon himself to organize his big list of to-dos, assign jobs, and make sure everything was set up for your birthday. The Room of Requirement was decked out in enchanted sparklers, a huge cake was adorned by a spotlight in the corner of the room, and all your friends were there to celebrate you. Mary’s putting the final touches on the gift pile before she looks to Sirius and Peter, who are horsing around the room running through the balloons.

“Something’s missing,” she remarks, and the others scamper around to figure out what it is. Lily double checks the sound system for your favorite songs, Marlene makes sure the drinks are flowing and at the table set up in the back. Dorcas whacks Peter and Sirius to stop popping the balloons, and Remus, the smart one, turns on his heel to stomp towards James, who is looking like he could implode from stress at any given moment.

“Prongs…” Remus muses, unsure if he should laugh, or wring his neck.

“What did I forget?” he says sheepishly, looking down at his watch. A balloon pops.

“Did you invite the birthday girl?” Oh shit.

“HAH—Moony, you’re not supposed to be the funny one here, of course I….” his eyes fall down to his scroll of to-dos, looking at the only thing unmarked on his list.

• Get her to come to the best birthday celebration ever.

“I forgot to tell her, didn’t I…”

Right. James might’ve glossed over that one. His nervous laughter shrivels at the sight of his friends’ faces of disbelief as they bombard him with questions and profanities and so, he bolts out of there, trying to find you on the map.

—

Surprisingly, James finds you in the kitchen, sitting infront of a lone cupcake and the house elves singing you the worst rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ there ever was to magical folk. What should be his plan of action? Acting nonchalant, or owning up to his flub? All of his thoughts go out the window when he sees your despondent sigh at the lit candle, thinking your friends have forgotten his absolute favorite day of the entire year.

“Pretty girl, why are you so sad?” he says, rushing to meet you at the table. You’re pulling at your sleeves and looking at the cupcake in disappointment.

“Did you all forget about me?” you ask, bottom lip trembling at the notion. James shakes his head rapidly, so much so that his glasses are skewed as he looks at you.

“How could we forget the best birthday girl?”

“I’m the only birthday girl, and I haven’t seen any of you today. You didn’t even eat dinner with me,” you pout. Your huff of a sigh blows out the sad little candle, and it almost makes you want to crumple up in embarrassment. Your finger reaches out to sample some of the icing, and you bring it to your mouth, James following the movement with his eyes.

“I’m sorry dove. I might’ve messed up for this one,” he mutters, hating to see you upset.

“If you forgot to plan anything, it’s okay…. You’re not obligated to.” Your head falls to the slope of your shoulder, looking bashful at the idea of being celebrated. But James hasn’t gone all this way to see you unhappy.

“That’s the funny thing about it, erm…. I need you to come with me.” He pulls at your arm, but you won’t budge. How mortifying to conceptualize how you feel in this moment, feeling smaller than ever. A birthday is just a day, after all. Maybe they can make it up to you tomorrow.

“I dunno Prongs, I think I should just go to bed and wake up with a better attitude, yeah? It’s really oka–HEY!” James lifts you out of your chair and throws you over his shoulder, securing you to him before he bolts out of the kitchens. Your vision is blurred and all you can see is the massive muscles rippling down his back as he runs. His bum is quite nice too.

“James Potter, what in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing? Put me down this instant or I’ll hex you into next week!” You screech, before he puts a silencing charm on you to not alert Filch of your antics. You reach out to hit his buttock as he exclaims, “Ow! Cheeky…. I promise you’ll like this, dove. You really thought we’d forget your birthday?”

There comes a point when he paces back and forth in front of the same stretch of wall and you think he’s insane, talking to himself and turning in circles. After the third lap, he sets you down, your arms crossed and quite stern at the trip he’s taken you on. James smooths your hair down before he looks you in the eyes, standing a bit closer than a friend would, but Godric is he excited to show you his work.

“Ahem. Do you really think I’d forget your big day, pretty girl? It’s my favorite day of the year!” He smiles and you shake your head with a smile. He nudges the door open to reveal all your friends, yelling “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

Still inaudible, your mouth is gaping wide in shock, silent laughter escaping your mouth. Marlene and Dorcas carry the cake over to you before they sing in all sorts of tunes, none of them on key and possibly worse than the house elves. The light of the candles caresses the warmth in your cheeks as you look at your friends in wonder. You mumble something like a ‘thank you’ but they can’t comprehend it until Remus undoes the charm, whacking James across the head.

—

Later, James sneaks behind you, throwing an arm around your waist, whispering ‘Happy birthday’ for the millionth time, but he’ll never get tired of telling you how much he cares.

“Are you happy, birthday girl?” he smiles, and you get on your tiptoes to give him a kiss that lands on the corner of his mouth. The applause is back, thundering in his ears before he realizes it’s the sound of his heart when you’re near.

Yeah, this will be the year everything changes. His plans are racking up into a list in his brain as you gaze at him all starry-eyed and smiley. Your friends are all looking at you knowingly, and he can’t wait to get to work, for there is just so much to do.

—

“In case you foolishly forget: I am never not thinking of you.” - Virginia Woolf

taglist: @jsjcue

love me some tunes! i listened to this while writing: this will be our year by lowland hum

[yallthemwitches]

“It’s horrid for you, you know.” “No worries–I do loads of things that are bad for me,” he smirks. “Oh? Like what?” He falters, the rushing stream of banter getting interrupted by a fork in the river. Maybe she is imagining it, but she sees the words start to form on his lips. Fancying you. 

Happy New Year! Enjoy a final fic for 2024 and see you on the other side with lots more fluff with these cuties.

Read Below or on AO3!

“Hey, Evans.”

“Hey…quidditch knobhead?” 

He cracks a smile that sends her heart soaring out the window along with the cigarette smoke. 

Like always, he appears as though a vision. Standing in front of her in his quidditch uniform, a crudely made sash slings loose across his torso with the words Quidditch Hero emblazoned in gold, the addendum of knobhead hastily added in Black’s unmistakable elegant scrawl. 

“Thought you would like my new title,” he grins a little wider, his lips looking too soft and dangerous to linger on. 

“Love it—hope it makes it into the awards case.” She offers a smile and hopes he hasn’t picked up legitimacy since they’ve last spoken, otherwise he’d see how the sight of him windswept and sweaty turns all her cognitive function into melting goo.

It’s why she had sequestered herself to the far outreaches of the common room. Under the guise of being nonchalant she can keep her heart at bay and not let the dam holding back all her infuriating feelings come pouring out with one sip of spiked punch. But that isn’t to say she hasn’t been watching him—she doesn’t have the option. For better or worse it had been like that in these past few weeks: the world swirling like brush strokes in an impressionist painting while James stands out, hard lined and striking in the forefront. 

Just another thing not to linger on.

“Was wondering if I could share a smoke,” he says with a lopsided grin. It’s one of the ones that could mean anything and her eyebrows rise beyond her fringe.  

“You don’t smoke.”

“I could smoke—you could teach me. Sirius says I need to find something better to do with my mouth than talk all the time.”

She laughs and her head falls back against the stone—and she’s thankful because otherwise he would see the blush that has sprouted on her cheeks from his rather forward innuendo.

He grins wider, a glowing, ethereal expression she has noticed he always does when he gets her to laugh like that. If I could bottle up a sound, it would be your laugh he had said a few days ago in some murky passageway. I’d listen to it until I went deaf.  

“It’s horrid for you, you know.”

“No worries–I do loads of things that are bad for me,” he smirks.

“Oh? Like what?”

He falters, the rushing stream of banter getting interrupted by a fork in the river. Maybe she is imagining it, but she sees the words start to form on his lips. Fancying you. 

Maybe it was a trick of the light. 

He doesn’t answer, letting the conversation waft away. She had known for years that James was never someone who could hide his emotions well. Even now she watches a spectrum from playful to anxious to yearning cross past his face like watching water ripple in sunlight. A sudden urge to lean forward and kiss them all away one by one enters, but she lets it pass. Just another feeling to push out the window and die in the cold air.

“So,” he prods, shifting his weight, “Did you see the game?”

“Game? What game?” she says in mock surprise. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

“Oh, y’know, just some blokes on sticks, faffing around—one of which being myself.”

“Oh, right,” she counters, giving herself a little tap to the head, “yeah that little thing–though I didn’t realize you were playing, seeing as you were very discreet.”

He laughs and his sash flutters at his waist. Removing his glasses, he wipes them against the hem of his jersey and the small sight of skin on his abdomen makes her feel ravenous—derailing her thoughts into many recurring memories of times when her hands have skimmed the exact spot, her lips giving soft pecks on their way down… 

“Yeah, that’s what they say about me. Very humble.” He turns bashful, arching his eyebrow and nearly bursting her heart into a thousand pieces. 

“Apparently 100 points worth,” she snorts.

“So you were there.”

Another break in the banter, another silence. Up until this point, she had been doing a good job at keeping the rest of the room at bay, the noise and shifting bodies just fragments of light refracting in her peripheral vision, but their silence opens a hatch and suddenly it all pours in: the rest of the quidditch team drunkenly chanting ROAST THE RAVENCLAWS, the static of some Orlocs tune wafting from the radio, the swaying and heavy petting of couples on a makeshift dance floor now giving her sensory overload.

And yet, here he is, in the forefront of it all, looking so bloody pleased. 

“Yeah, of course,” she murmurs. It’s not a lie, at least partly.

“But I didn’t see you at the end —on the pitch when we won.” His voice goes soft and she has the sudden urge to reach for him. Stop, you are in public.

“Yeah-–I wasn’t feeling…well.” 

She turns away, hoping that looking out the small window will give some respite from the change in conversation, but instead finds James’ image reflecting back at her in the darkness of the Scottish countryside.

“Are you ok?” 

The sound of his worry just wedges the lump in her throat further. Things were so much easier when it was just them tangled together in some dark space where the world couldn’t come dripping in, but there had been a leak in their safe haven for some time now, slowly letting in feelings that were much more complicated than just the joy of his warm skin against hers. As much as she tried to push them away, they continued to creep back, crowding her like a billowing fog.

In the reflected glass, she watches his mouth reopen, then clap shut like a hinged box. His brow furrowed and frustrated by her lack of response. 

“It’s fine. I’m alright…shouldn’t you be–I dunno– taking broom shots with your mates,” she says quietly, turning back from the mirror to face him. 

James doesn’t even glance behind him at the party, his jaw clicking as though on the precipice of something important. Instead, he downs the rest of amber liquid in his glass in one go— the curve of his neck dangerous enough for her to want to flee. 

Placing the cup down on the sill, he uses the proximity to come in closer, angling his body so they are blocked from the fray. He slides his hand down her arm, soft and questioning before reaching her palm and pressing his fingers into the center. 

“I’m not in the mood for broom shots,” he murmurs, “I’m in the mood to hear what’s bothering you.”

He stops pressing, fingers slotting themselves between hers until her own curl willingly. It’s the first time they have done this: shown any sort of affection towards each other in a public setting. A nervous twinge forces her to look over his shoulder to see if any of the party goers have taken notice of their proximity—of how somehow the class prefect has gained a monopoly on the man of the hour.

James watches her for a moment, eyes darting around her face as though looking for answers in a textbook. She can feel the dam inside her coming loose—the sensation of thousand bats fluttering and gnawing at her insides. It's something they don’t do: talk about it. The future, the war, their secret relationship—these were all just abstract ideas when held at a distance, but to talk about them– invest emotion in them–that gave them power.

“Lily—we need to talk.” 

His face furrows, his lips parted. Inside her stomach, the sensation of a thousand bats flutter and gnaw to be let out.

“It’s becoming hard,” he says slowly, clamping his eyes closed. A pool of blush billows just under his glasses.

“It's becoming hard to not have you around.”

She blinks, trying to keep her emotions steady on the surface, meanwhile the bats in her stomach continue to bite though, piercing skin. 

“What do you mean? I’m right here.”

“You know that's not what I mean,” he sighs, dropping her hand. “When I finished the game—y’know landed and everyone was there on the pitch–the only person I wanted to see was you.” 

His eyes were open again, round and full of something resembling pain. 

“I know it’s silly and I have no right to even dream of it, but I can’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to hold you right then—I didn’t even care about the bloody win, I just kept thinking about the second I could find you and—“ 

He looks almost feral now, the words continuing to tumble out.

“--And you should know, even though I’m horrid with words–yet seem to spew them constantly– that you mean a lot to me. Maybe too much…a scary amount, and I need you to say something to me, Evans because I know this might be easy for you and all but I’m dying he–”

It was as though her body moved on its own accord—some dark annals of confidence bursting forth out of her to lean in and press her lips against his. Underneath her, his body freezes, the noise of the party that had slinked in the outskirts of their senses now rushing in again and making them very aware of how brash, how public, they are being. 

It lasts only seconds and she pulls away, leaning far back into the turret of the window like being repelled by an opposing force. 

“God, I’m sorry,” she gasps, wiping her mouth as though to remove the lingering feel of his lips, “I just—you were sort of spiraling, so–” 

She stops speaking, not knowing where her line of thought was going or if it even had a directive.

James blinks, mouth still slightly ajar in the way he had so neatly slotted his lips with hers. 

“Lily—can you just...”

But she leans back further, the dam that has held her together for this long, kept all those easy nights pressed together a casual thing, starting to evaporate into dust and scatter. 

“I think I’m in love with you.”

He freezes, his eyes going wide and glassy. It feels euphoric, finally putting form to the words that had been eating her alive for weeks now. But it doesn’t make it any more terrifying—and she certainly wishes she had thought it through enough to pick a better setting. 

She can see everything he wants just in his eyes. He wants to say I love you too—merlin fuck I always have. He wants to lift her up and spin her, just like he had imagined doing at his quidditch win. He wants to push in, force her legs to part just enough to let him slot against her like all the times they have done before in the solace of her patrols— she can see it because, unlike her, James has never had an issue showing his feelings. She has held him back. She always took the lead. 

“Lily, merlin–I—”

But she presses a hand against his mouth, trying not to savor how soft and warm his lips feel against her fingers. 

“Please—can you just give it a moment?”

She knows she is asking the world—silence has never been his strong suit. 

“How long?”

“Excuse me,” she stammers. Something lights behind his eyes she hasn’t ever seen before and it burns hot. Hotter than any time they have tangled together.

“How long do I have to give it before I can respond?”

Her eyes widen, and something resembling laughter passes her lips. 

“I don’t know? Three seconds? Wh–”

“Three.” 

He presses in, his arms now snaking around her waist, his sash fluttering against her and rising goosebumps on her arms. Around them, the world begins to swirl—everything becoming unrefined and fuzzy. The only grounding she can find is him—but it has always been him, the one sharp, tangible thing keeping her tethered within chaos. 

“James–”

“Two.” 

He exhales against her neck, tracing his nose up her pressure point to her jaw. She tilts her head back, laying against the cold stone, hands pulling him closer until her back needs to arch to hold the weight of him against her. His lips reach hers and her mouth is already parted, waiting to slot against his. But he takes his time, brushing every last bit of blush off her cheeks with fluttering touches, hands grasping as though, if he let go, she’d fall away into the night. 

Later, he will say it back—say all the things he has wanted to and more since the moment he met her in Kings Cross all those years ago. Later, they can explain to their onlooking friends too. Tell them how all the patrols, all the late night studying has been culminating in this moment: them against all odds in the common room windowsill. Later, they will have all the time in the world, but it is of the essence now. He only has a second left. 

“One.”

[libraford]

An approximate conversation of what's going on in the comments section in the post about our city's pride event. Copy-pasted and summarized instead of screencapped because I don't feel like blocking out names today.

Guy: This is the second post I've seen about gay pride this month and NOTHING about Alzheimer's Month or Men's Mental Health Awareness month! Way to go- ignoring the REAL issues.

Me: If you would like to have more initiatives for those causes, there are some forms you can fill out on the City's website. The city made this post because the pride event is on their list of scheduled events, so it makes sense for them to post it.

Guy: So the city planned Pride? That's what I was asking but it seemed to have gone over your precious little head.

Me: As stated in the city's post, it was the efforts of a local nonprofit. You can advocate for your causes as well, but you do have to fill out the proper paperwork for it.

Guy: So the city isn't planning it, but they're promoting it?? Are you that thick in the head? If the city doesn't want to recognize real issues they aren't involved in why would they cherry pick another? Like I said my original comment flew right over your head

Me: have you proposed any events for either of those causes to know for certain that they've been denied involvement?

Guy: Funny you ask yes I've been part of a for non profit organization here that had booths and events even a banner hanging across state st like many others have but yet never a mention. wonder why?

Me: well, that's quite a lot of things! You should be very proud! It seems very important to you that you be recognized and I respect that. Have you asked them for social media posts? I'm trying think of ways to make your vision happen.

(Crosstalk with other people in the thread)

Guy: Nobody is phobic/ scared. love how you guys make up things. There always has been and always will be people that don't like what others do. Guess what? That's called life grow up get over yourself and stop searching for validation because nobody owes you anything.

Me: Well? You don't have to come to pride if you don't want to. I would just avoid that intersection for the afternoon on the 22nd. It's up to you, though.

Guy: I don't need to avoid anything. It's public property and nobody is scared. I'm sorry or has a phobia

Me: Okay then! I hope you enjoy all the community services that will be vending at the event!

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 98)

N was first, climbing down into a small hole in the ceiling, using night vision to make sure the room was safe.

There was flesh piled in the corner, crawling up the wall to reach nearly the ceiling, black tendrils lie dormant all across the floor like living tripwires. One wrong touch and…

Uzi's head poked from the ceiling.

“Can I come down or what?”

N scanned the rest of the room, the control room screens were still online by some miracle, though several of them were busted and several more were tangled in a web of eldritch goo however, let's hope that wouldn't be an issue.

“H-hang on, if you touch the floor we'll trigger a reaction.” He flew up to come face to face with her, “Let me carry you.”

She reached out for him, landing into his hold as her tail lit up the room in a purple glow, taking in the room.

“Damn. This place will be gone in a couple days. We better get out of here fast.” She pointed out, eyelights training on the faintly glowing console. “Bring me over yeah?”

He nodded, hovering over to where she could leap onto the control panel without touching the floor.

[SYSTEM LOCKDOWN : ENTER PASSKEY]

Read the slightly cracked, incredibly dusty monitor and Uzi sighed, mumbling under her breath. “Yeah of course it's on lockdown…”

She pressed a few buttons, getting an error noise on each touch- the entire control panel was completely unresponsive.

“I'm going to have to plug in. Make sure my body doesn't fall.” She turned back to her boyfriend, who ceased his paranoid looking around to meet her eyes; worry creased his frame.

“Uzi this computer has been out here for ages… who knows what sort of virus it has. Plus…” He gestured to the black, slimy tendrils snaking up some of the monitors. “Who knows what this stuff does to computers.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“But the keyboards locked up, and we need the data off this old thing. What other choice do we have?”

“I-I could-”

“No.” Uzi interupted him. “If these things trigger you're the only one that can burn it away. We'd both be sitting ducks.”

He sighed heavily, the knowledge that she was right didn't help his nerves any, his core yanked painfully in protest.

No it's dangerous.

She could get hurt, the kit could be hurt.

Don’t let her go.

“Hey. I got this. You trust me?” She asked, cocking her head with a confident smirk, God, how long had it been since he'd seen that? It's been so much exhaustion and doubt lately…

“Of course I do.” He replies, hovering close just to give her a quick kiss on the lips before parting. “Just be careful, okay?”

She nods. “Duh.” And she reaches for the port above her core, forcing the hatch open, “Ow! Agh… that's not meant to come open without prep I guess.” She hissed under her breath, and fished around in her pocket for a linking cable. “There you are.”

She plugged one end into herself before hunting for an interface port on the console, taking a moment to find it.

She does, it's next to a big red button that was currently pulsing red- she made a mental note to avoid touching it.

“Wish me luck.” Was the last thing she said before she plugged herself into the control panel, body locking up as code crashed into her firewall. Her body winced. She barely felt N keep her steady as she was hit with a flood of errors.

Plugged into another drone, the experience was euphoric, you were connected to another conscious, a soul. But this computer wasn't sentient; and what little AI it possessed was broken beyond the point of functioning. So all the sensation she felt was just her own- and the faint screaming of a dying AI.

ERROR- MEMORY FAILING

ERROR- DATA BACKUP FAILED

ERROR- HARDWARE FAILURE

“Yeah, no shit.” She mumbled, feeling her mouth move as she refocused. Okay, the information had to be in here somewhere…

She began to push through the ocean of errored code, feeling the system push back hard against her firewall. N was right, this thing probably had a thousand viruses it was itching to share with her, let's just hope her firewall held up.

She felt her consciousness leave the confines of her physical body, leaving it behind as she searched through poorly organized files; some were completely corrupted, others were fine, just not useful.

Time lost meaning, the system of the console was incredibly vast, and it quickly became clear she was searching for a needle in a haystack, a dot of purple among a sea of white.

She began to worry, perhaps the information they were looking for had already been corrupted?

That is, until she ran into an encrypted wall of cascading code, denser then the scattering of loose data she'd been able to access thus far.

She pushed against it, purple meeting default white, as strings of encryption appeared on her visor, N watching over her diligently.

[ENTER PASSKEY]

She sighed- or whatever passed for an entirely digital equivalent, beginning to work through the encryption with her own hardware, the solver aiding in her speed.

1s and 0s turned to scrambled letters and white space made to make any unwanted guest have trouble finding the passkey, but a mixture of determination and robotic advantage let Uzi make quick work of it.

P-A-S-S-W

“Oh for- the password is password, I could've just guessed it!” Her body suddenly shouted, startling N and then making him laugh. “Pfft-haha!”

Refocusing, she was able to push her code through the systems firewall, it wasn't entirely painless but she got through.

There was only a single file.

Transmission- Classified [TITANUM-28]

The file was an audio recording, with a set of coordinates attached. She played it, beginning a download into her own system.

“This is Doctor Rosemont, Transmitting from Lab 18. Something… happened.” There was screaming in the background- and a colossal roar.

“The genetic experiments have been a success, modifications to our old C.R.I.S.P.R technology has allowed us a greater range of genetic wiggle room…” There's a crash, and the sound of rapid- panicked gunfire.

“U-Unfortunatly, Subject 5 has uh… escaped.”

There's the sound of shattering glass, and low, feral growling. “If you receive this message, know that Titanium-28 is compromised! I repeat! Titanium-28 is-” The transmission ends with a blood curdling scream and a roar.

The coordinates to the planet are attached labeled very clearly with [QUARANTINED]

A single image is also attached, a satellite view of a planet covered in red and green trees and a canopy so thick you couldn't even see through it from orbit, like images she'd seen of earth, a good portion of the planet was covered in water.

She felt N start to shake her, his voice muffled from the distance her code was from her body.

“UZI! WE GOTTA MOVE!”

Next ->

[danibee33]

hostage

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (goes by “Saint”)

based on a post by @call-me-doll-face! your vision for this song (“hostage” by Billie Eilish) was just too perfect😭 I couldn’t get it out of my head. I hope you love it as much as I do.

tags: angst & smut, ok it’s very angsty, did I cry? yes

word count: 5.7k (sry I got carried away)

+++

The files strewn across your desk only come back into focus at the sound of three crisp, concise knocks on your door. You blink away the dryness, eyes darting toward the open window to see its pitch dark outside now- shit.

Two more knocks resound through the room, they're a little more forceful this time, urging you to push away from the organized chaos, crossing the short span on tingling feet. You hadn’t meant to lose track of time like that, but after the debrief you needed something to distract you, get your mind off the bitter taste the meeting had left in your mouth-

“Target’s in the wind after the attack in Yemen-”

You change the map, zooming in on a tiny Bedouin village- the settlement no more than a speck in the vast desert, “But we’ve intercepted and translated some chatter from local law enforcement that are on Abaza’s payroll.” – the room goes dark for half a second before the next slide flashes on the screen- “Seems he’s following his pattern of hiding behind civilians.”

The room is silent, save for the rapid clicking of Soap’s pen against the desk- one of the restless man’s many tics, and Price’s furious scribbling. Gaz is eyeing the map studiously, his lips twitching as he muses through the routes and planning- no doubt trying to predict what the Captain will do.

Ghost is just.. Looming. Perched in his usual corner, arms crossed over his chest as he contemplates the information and intel given, eyes lazy and half-lidded even when Price stands, coming to stand at your side.

“Bloody good work, Saint.”

He pats your shoulder, taking over your spot as you settle in a seat at the table, and you try to listen intently- short-handing a few notes you might have missed as the Captain dives into the plan. The others pitch in ideas along the way, logistics and safety for the civilian population; but, it was extraction that gave you pause.

“There will be no cover- that encampment is too exposed.” You only realize you had spoken the thought out loud when you hear a soft huff from behind you,

“Very perceptive, Sec.” Ghost grumbles, his usual sarcasm somehow thicker, more exasperated.

Could you have held back your overly dramatic eye roll? Of course. But it’s fucking Ghost, and all you can hope is that he sees it- just like you know he sees your middle finger held up over your shoulder.

He knows you hated the way he ignored your call sign in favor of using the belittling, diminutive of your rank instead. It’s always been ‘Sec’ for him, short for Second Lieutenant, never one to let you, or anyone else, forget that he outranks you-

But, you’re used to it. That’s just the relationship you and him have had from the start, always this brutally competitive tension between you- which never made sense to anyone else. Especially considering your specialities are on opposite ends of the spectrum, each of you serving your own unique role to make the team function and perform like the well-oiled machine it’s been honed into.

And, to be honest, you’re not sure why you ever let him get under your skin either. You’ve worked with plenty of egotistical superiors and subordinates alike, and it’s never stopped you from reaching and surpassing every single goal you set for yourself. If anything, it’s only pushed you to work that much harder- usually at the cost of any sort of personal life, which is actually how you got your callsign-

“Saint” - ‘the only officer in the SAS who might make it to heaven’

You thought it was silly, but over the years it grew on you. And now, it just feels like what your name has always been, even if everyone knows you rarely make it far in the military by being an actual saint-

“Yes, extraction will be the most difficult part-”

Price’s voice brings you back to the present moment, head snapping up when you sense the giant presence standing next to your chair, “It’s a two-person job, then?”

Ghost’s voice has lost all its amusement and sarcasm, and his gaze feels heavier somehow as he looks over the screen. You watch him for a moment, catching all the nuances in his outward body language that are so imperceptible to others- though, you sometimes wish you weren’t so in tune with him. Wish you didn’t know exactly why you could pick up on these things when no one else could..

“That’s what I was thinkin’-” Price nods, looking between his two sergeants, “Soap, you’ll be second, running interference with some well place distractions?”

You watch Johnny practically vibrate with excitement, shooting you and Ghost a wink,

“Ka-freakin’-boom, baby. You an’ me, LT. The dream team!”

But again, you notice Ghost’s lack of snarky response, verbally and non-verbally, it unnerves you-

“Saint, you’ll be with them-”

“No.”

It takes you a second to react, not sure if you had heard it correctly- maybe you had missed something and he had barked the word over another matter entirely. But then, you hear Gaz and Soap be dismissed, and suddenly you’re standing beside Ghost, you and Price speaking the same question at the same time,

“No?”

Ghost shrugs, refusing to look down at you, “Don’t need ‘er there, Boss. Nothin’ she can’t feed us over radio.”

“First, I’m right here- and second, you don’t get to decide what I can or can’t do-”

Price looks at you, his expression only hinting at confusion as he watches you cross your arms now, mirroring your lieutenant's posture, “Captain-”

Something flashes through the stormy blue of his eyes then, something you can’t even begin to place. But it doesn’t really matter, because you don’t get to finish your protests- cut off instead by an apologetic hum,

“He’s right, Saint-”

“What!?”

You’re not in the business of challenging authority, at least not the authority of a man you genuinely respect like John, but you can’t help it- this wasn’t the first time you’ve been benched, and you know it’s not the first time it’s been Ghost the one ordering it.

Price glances at his watch before scrubbing a hand over his face, “Bloody hell-”, he rounds up the files and tucks them under one arm, holding his mug with the other, “We’ll finish this later, clear?”

Just like that- he’s gone. And you’re left with the suffocating shadow still staring at the image on the wall,

“Don’t take it personally, Sec.”

Your hands clench and unclench, nails leaving stinging little crescents in your palm before turning on your heel, “Fuck you, Ghost.”

You know who’s on the other side of your door. You always do. It’s been your routine for the last year and half- You do have to give it to the insufferable fucking prick for coming to you so soon after what he had done, though.

But, sure enough, the door swings open and there he is. Simon Riley, towering in your doorway, covered head to toe in a black hoodie and dark jeans, his face even further obscured under the hood- all you can see clearly are his eyes. And they’re intensely focused on you.

“Don’t worry, Price called.” You say, leaning against the frame-

He gives you nothing, seconds ticking by as he stands there like a statue, slowly scanning your face like he’s done a thousand times before. It used to make you uncomfortable, how he would look at you that way, like he was peeling you open, layer by layer- and it still does, like now. But, you’ve gotten used to his idiosyncrasies, at times even find them oddly endearing, if he weren’t such a dick.

“Can I come in?”

A sigh fills the air between you, followed by you glaring up at him- you want to say ‘no’, give him another big ‘fuck you’ middle finger and slam the door in his face; maybe even say fuck your arrangement all together, because now it’s becoming a pattern, him sidelining you.. But, you do none of those things. Because it’s him. Always fucking him.

So, you roll your eyes and turn back into the room, not bothering to invite him in because he knows the open door is your way of allowing it.

Instantly, your cozy abode feels ten times smaller and a hundred times warmer with him in it- it causes your skin to flush and your fingers to twitch, that restlessness you tend to feel when you were alone with him, crawling over you, burrowing itself in your chest.

“You’re mad.”

“Very perceptive, Ghost.” You throw his words from earlier back at him, crossing your arms because you honestly never knew what to do with your hands when you talked to him.

They always wanted to reach out for him- you were no better than Pavlov’s salivating dog when it comes to Simon fucking Riley. He had trained you so well without ever even having to try.

God, you hate him. And you hate yourself even more for know that’s not true in the slightest- “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doin’ what?” He shifts on his feet, fists still shoved in the front pocket of his hoodie.

You throw your hands up, “Benching me like this! There’s no reason I shouldn’t be on the ground with you and Soap, just like I usually am.”

“There’s no reason you should be, either.”

That awful itch creeps down your spine, tickling your legs and feet. The need to move, to exert some kind of energy before you implode forcing you to pace. You’ll never understand him, no matter how much time you spend together, or how many nights you waste sweaty and clinging to each other, words never meant for the waking world spoken between you- you will never understand him.

Never understand why he can’t just be hot or cold, why he can’t just be mean to you all the time, because at least that way it would be easier to separate what is, and what isn’t.

“You said this wouldn’t change things- I’ve held up my end of the deal. But you.. We can’t do this if you’re going to jeopardize my career.” Simon watches you just as intently as before, eyes tracking your war path back and forth, “I mean, I know we’re competitive and petty, but I didn’t think you would start fucking blacklisting me-”

That seems to catch his attention, head perking up, “That’s not what I’m doin’, Sec-”

“Well then enlighten me, lieutenant.” You spit back, eyebrows furrowing when you see him reach for you.

He gently tugs you closer, gloved hand wrapped around your forearm- closer and closer until you can feel that unbearable heat he exudes, smell the spice of his cologne, the one he only ever seems to wear when he comes to your room. Like he wants to lay claim to you somehow-

“Don’t..” The command comes out without even a hint of conviction, his finger tilting your chin back,

“I don’t want to talk, Saint. Please, not right now.”

It must be comical, how wide your eyes grow at the sound of your callsign in his gruff voice, the way he breathes the small plea- something you’ve never once heard him say. You just barely catch the way his eyes crinkle at the very corners in your stupor. The audacious bastard is smiling like he knows you would melt for it.

He knows you so well.

But the smile isn’t mean, it isn’t to spite you like he does sometimes- no, this feels warmer, like you could reach out and wrap yourself in it.

“Simon.. This isn’t good for us.”

“For us?”, he leans down then, the arm around your waist pulling you close enough to feel his covered lips on your neck, “Or for you?”

Your exhale feels labored and too heavy in your lungs, cursing yourself over and over for how effortless it is for him to unravel you. How just the feeling of his big hands splayed out over your ribs, slowly traveling up and down your body, makes your legs weak- and the heat of his breath condensating on your skin has the familiar pressure steadily growing low in your belly- begging for more.

When he pulls the mask off this time, you can’t help but notice the gentility in his expression. A certain relaxed nature about it that seems so out of place for him. Most of the time, when you would find each other at the end of the day, he would be frustrated or annoyed, or he would be carrying that familiar brand of apathy written all over his face.

Not that it never cracked, you’ve gotten the privilege of seeing him show softness, even if it’s in his own way. A playful wink here and there, a genuine smirk that would reach his eyes for a fleeting moment, or when you got to see the deep dimples on either cheek- the ones that give his features an almost boyishly handsome quality.

But right now, you swear he looks.. content.

And when he kisses you, it’s languid and sweet- the softer skin of his lips contrasting to the way his five o’ clock shadow scratches your chin and mouth. He kisses you like you have all the time in the world, like there’s no place he would rather be than right here, tangling his fingers in your hair- tasting your tongue as it dances around his.

It confuses you, because this is not how it’s supposed to go. There’s rarely ever time for such thoroughness, not that Simon wasn’t incredibly adept when it comes to giving pleasure- it just tended to be like a flashfire, like throwing a lit match into gasoline, volatile and explosive. That’s what you agreed on though, agreed to use each other- use your attraction merely as a means to an end. Blowing off steam. There’s no need to be soft and languid when you could just take the emotion out of it all together.

And that’s just how you’ve always assumed it is for him. You’ve never minded, not really- you were a smart woman, reasonable and logical, but.. You were still only human. Of course you craved that connection, the physical touch; you would never admit that you wanted him to hold you until you fell asleep afterwards, that you wanted to run your fingers through his hair, or memorize every delicious curve and vein and scar on his body-

No, that would mean you thought of him beyond sex, and that was very strictly forbidden.

He walks you backward, lips and hands never straying far as you take turns undressing the other- his shirt is on the ground first, giving you not nearly long enough to revel in the sight before yours is being lazily pulled over your head.

The backs of your knees hit the bed frame, which feels like a reprieve at this point with how utterly weak you feel in his arms; so, you let yourself sink into the foamy cushion, casting your eyes upward for only a second as you quickly work at his belt.

You’re forced to stop though, leaning back when he moves, crowding your space by bending over you on the bed and propping himself up with a massive arm on either side, his face close enough to graze his nose over yours, “You in a rush tonight, baby?”

Petulantly, you lift your chin- capturing his bottom lip between your teeth, you give it just enough of a bite to hear him hiss before laving the tender spot with your tongue. But before you can kiss him again, before you can pull him down on top of you, or your hands can make their way back to his buckle- he easily lifts you up, placing you further back on the bed.

“Simon, what are you doing?”

The question comes out more harsh than you were going for, but he’s not making any fucking sense, and you feel like a top wound too tight, overly conscious of the slick staining your underwear, and the ache in your core that only he can fix-

And maybe for a second, you see a flash of anger in his eyes, standing at his full height while you stare up at him,

“What does it look like we’re doin’, Sec?”

You huff out a incredulous laugh, scooting off the mattress- eyes searching the floor for your shirt, hell, anything to cover up with,

“Oh. Back to Sec, huh?”

Scrubbing a palm over his face, he watches you purposely not look his way, “Fuckin’ hell, do you always have to have it out with me? Can never just let it be-”

“Let it be?”, shirt be damned, you turn back to face him- “Let what be, exactly, Ghost? This is how it’s been for over a year. I mean, fuck, longer than that! You hated me, I hated you- it was perfect. We could fuck each other, and it meant nothing-”

“Past tense.”

He cuts you off, and you feel like you might actually throw something until your brain finally registers what he said,

“What?”

“You’re usin’ the past tense.. ‘Hated’, ’meant’.”

You shake you head, hands coming up before plopping limp at your side, “What the fuck are you on about?”

When he takes a step forward, you take one back, “Words are important, love..” – another step closer, another step away, “‘Hated’ implies that you did, but you don’t anymore.”

“What is this? A language arts lesson?” You try to bring back that anger, that bitterness, but the way he’s looking at you, the way his voice is lower, brassy and rich- it’s hard to feel anything other than him.

A wall halts you, your bare skin protesting against the cold, smooth surface. You wish it would swallow you whole. But, he gets closer, and you’re still there, once again looking up at him,

“I don’t hate you, Saint. I’ve never hated you..” The back of his finger carves a slow path over your cheek, his head tilting to the side, “You were right though, about this not bein’ good.. But not for us- for you.”

“Ghost- I..”

“I’m not good for you. Never have been- I came into this selfishly, thinkin’ that it would be easy, that you would be like all the rest, get tired of me when I wasn’t able to give.. enough. And then it would be over.”

You’re held rapt by his admission, hanging on to every syllable- because you don’t think you’ve ever heard him say so much at once. And certainly never imagined it would have to do with the way he feels about you, bad or otherwise.

“Why did you stay?”

It’s because you’re so lost in the novelty of him in this moment, that it takes an awkwardly long few seconds to realize that you need to actually answer the question-

“I stayed..” — you blink, fighting to make your racing thoughts make sense, “Because you never tried to trick me- or be anything other than what you are, Simon. It was- is, enough. You’re enough.”

His eyelids flutter, a deep, soothing sigh blowing through his nose as he turns away- almost composing himself, in a way, if you know him as well as you think you do,

“You never wanted anythin’ more?”

“No.” You say, and it’s not a lie, you could leave it there- but there’s just something in his eyes that’s begging for more- “Not at first.”

“But now?”

“What do you want me to say, Simon? Of course, I want more. It’s kind of hard not to when you’ve had what we have, had sex with a person, and only that person, for over a year-”

His eyes widen, pupils consuming the honeyed amber that surrounds them right before his lips catch yours in that bruising sort of kiss you know so, so well. It’s full of every single thing he can’t put words to. And for a moment, he nearly gets lost in it, that finely threaded tether on his control slipping further and further- control he’s never been good at reining in when it comes to you.

***

I whisper your name, letting the taste of it linger over my tongue as I try to pull away, try to prolong every second I can get- quietly pleading with you to just slow down. Because I know what comes after-

But the way you chase after my lips, your nails clawing at me, my skin burning under your touch- fucking hell.

You shouldn’t be here, should’ve never agreed to this, with me. You’re too good for someone so broken. You have so much life to live, and I hate that you’ve wasted even a moment of it caring for me- wanting me.

Hm.. Saint. How fucking perfect- because only a saint could bring a devil to his knees.

And that you did. With every lingering touch, and every sweet smile you gave me, everytime you moaned my name, I let you in deeper and deeper. Until I started to hate when you left, hated that I only felt whole when I had you in my arms-

No, I’m no good for you.

Because if I had it my way, I would want to hold you hostage here, right where you belong. Where the world couldn’t touch you, couldn’t hurt you.

I would want you to crawl inside my veins, live in my bones- like you don’t already own the terrible void that’s been in my chest for longer than I can remember.

Might as well take it all. It’s as good as yours anyway.

I love you. I can’t say it- that wouldn’t be fair to you. My love is tainted and ruined, a blasphemous and dangerous thing- it’s only ever killed those I’ve given it to. So, I won’t curse you with those words.

But I hope you can feel it.

“Simon.. Please-” You frame my face in your hands, tugging at my hair, “I want you.”

***

Hearing his name, or maybe it’s the traitorous desperation in your voice, urges him to act. A small squeak escapes when he lifts you up, your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms looped over his neck,

“I’m yours.”

It stuns you, how fluid and thoughtless he says it, like it’s nothing, like he’s said it a hundred times before. Like he didn’t just tell you exactly what you had mindlessly dreamed of hearing from him for months now.

He doesn’t pause though, kissing you again, swallowing your thoughts in his lips- and time slows as your back sinks into the covers. The comfort of his weight settling over you, his hips nestled between your thighs. It’s all so much, too much and not enough at the same time; but you think you could stay here forever, pinned under him, be the object of his desire for as long as he wanted, have him tell you that he’s yours over and over-

The bed dips as he breaks away, working your button and zipper open with practiced movements-

“Lift up, baby.”

You lift your hips, helping him gently tug your cargo pants down before standing and stripping out of his own. And like so many times before, you can’t help but to very disrespectfully let your eyes rake over his bulky frame- your bottom lip trapped between your teeth,

“Jesus, Simon.. That’s not fair.”

“Not fair for who?” He coos, crawling over you again, pressing chaste kisses over your torso as he goes.

A sharp gasp echoes when he latches onto your nipple, his teeth grazing across the sensitive bud, the thrill of blissful pain simmering through you-

“It’s just not fair..” You whine, back arching as he does the same thing to your other, the wet skin cooling too quickly when you feel him chuckle.

“‘M sorry, lovie.”

He teases you for what feels like an eternity, having learned your body better than you know it yourself anymore- only Simon knows how to turn you into putty in his hands, make you soft and pliable, keening and whimpering, a teary eyed mess. And usually he never takes it so far, never ruins you so thoroughly before you’ve even had his cock- but tonight he does.

Tonight, he seems determined to map out every inch of you, even allowing you to do the same in small doses. He lets your fingertips trace over his scars, lets your lips kiss all the broken parts of him-

“Will you tell me about them one day?” You ask, the question muffled against his neck.

It’s an innocent inquiry, honest and genuine, but you don’t miss how he tenses above you before pulling away just enough to see your face. Maybe if you knew him better, had more time with him like this, you would be able to discern the anguish in his eyes- but you don’t see it. Even though you’ll remember it.. this particular moment, it will stick with you far beyond just tonight.

“One day.”

You aren’t sure why you don’t believe him.

All too quickly the thought is lost when you feel him readjust, leaning up on his knees- and your mouth waters at the view, how his chest heaves, already covered in a satiny sheen of sweat; how he strokes his length before looking down to watch how he sinks into you, how you take him so fucking perfectly-

Just like in everything else tonight, he moves at an achingly languid pace- thrusting forward inch by inch, and pulling out just as slow- reveling in the way your slick glistens, all for him.

“Simon..”, you reach for him, needing him close, needing more, “Mh.. Simon- please..”

He comes to you, lets you pull his face down to yours, “Please what, baby?”

When he pushes into you again, it takes your breath away, your muscles clenching as he drives right up against the fleshy wall of your cervix, “You want more?”

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut until you feel him cradle your face, “Mm-mm, I want you to look at me, Saint.. Keep your eyes on me, yeah?”

Without another thought, you open them, your brows knitting together as you search his face. You expect to see something close to his usual bravado, maybe even a devious smirk, or a wolfish gleam; but it’s none of those things. His expression is one of longing and adoration- his demand wasn’t being made out of a desire to control you, he simply wants to see you.

He wants to be seen.

“Ok, Simon..”, you place your hand over his, turning into his palm to plant a kiss to the rough skin there, “On you.”

His next thrust is harder, causing your legs to tighten around him- and even when he finally gives in, driving into you faster and deeper, each time hitting that spot that has you clenching and whimpering, he still holds your face, still keeps his eyes steady on you- entranced at the way you fight to keep your own open for him.

“That’s it.. fuck-” He grunts, crushing his lips to yours, “My good girl.”

The praises he whispers next are far sweeter than anything he’s ever said before, punctuated and interrupted by his own breathless moans. His words and each building noise he gives only drives you toward your end- dragging him right along with it until you’re both falling over the edge.

And it’s your name he says as he spills deep inside you, your name said again like an answered prayer when you hug him closer- both of you holding onto the other like if you let go for even a second, you might drift away.

“I’ve got you..” You say it without really knowing why, but knowing that it feels right. Knowing that he has you, too. At least in this moment- and that’s enough. He’s enough.

How long you stay that way, you can’t be sure- long enough for your bodies to grow limp and the sweat on your skin to dry before he finally peels himself away. And you could cry from the abrupt absence of his warmth, his weight, him.

Thankfully, he’s back just as quick, a warm cloth in hand and a tender touch to clean you up- which isn’t new, Simon’s always taken the time for aftercare, but it’s never felt so.. intimate. He goes about it just as tenderly and thoroughly as he had causing the mess in the first place, his eyes never leaving your skin, lips pressing sweet kisses nearly every place he wipes.

It pulls at you, the pesky prickling of tears stinging your eyes again. Because you know there must be a reason for his stark change tonight- but, you just can’t bring yourself to break the moment by asking why.

He stays with you. It’s not an entirely spoken agreement, he doesn’t ask and you don’t suggest, but when he slips back into the covers with you, you certainly don’t complain. You let him pull you under his arm, smiling into his chest when he kisses the top of your head,

“Good night, Simon.”

You hear him take a deep breath, the muscles under your cheek relaxing as he exhales just as deep and long, “G’ night, Saint.”

***

Watery rays of sunlight wake you, the glow behind your eyelids rousing your mind enough to realize the spot beside you is vacant, the sheets long since cooled. It doesn’t bother you, not really, it’s just Simon. The only clues he left to prove last night wasn’t just some fucked up dream being his scent, still lingering so heavily on his pillow, and the blissful ache between your legs.

And you wish you could stay here, covered in the blankets, wrapped in his smell, reliving the vivid memories as they flash through your head- his words replaying on a loop in your ears.

I’m yours.

I’m yours.

I’m yours.

But your alarm has other plans, your chosen vocation entirely undeterred by your relationships woes and break-throughs. Just another day, right? You would see him at the morning debrief, and again for range training- nothing changes externally. But everything had changed on the inside, for you anyway.

Is it wrong to hope it had for him, too?

You go about your morning routine, joyfully unaware of the decisions made without your knowledge, of the actions taken and the consequences that would follow- you hum along to your music, the faintest smile tugging at your lips.

What a lovesick fucking fool you are.

It’s only when you’re reaching for your phone and keys from the desk that you see the piece of paper, carefully ripped from your own notepad and the silver metallic glint sticking out just beyond the corner.

You don’t recall the next seconds, or minutes- not really even the next hour. It all feels like that soft whooshing of TV static, endless and without form. And you find yourself begging for it to have been a dream, silently hoping that none of it really happened, that he hadn’t knocked on your door, that you hadn’t let him in.

That you hadn’t given him everything, and you hadn’t let him convince you he was yours.

Still stuck in that awful whooshing, you grip the piece of metal so hard you think the impression of his name might just brand itself into your palm, your boots stomping against the tile as you pass by all those familiar doors-

“What is this?”

Price looks up at you, and that dreadful nausea settles in the pit of your stomach when you see the resignation in his eyes.

“Saint-”

“When did they leave?”

“0400.”

They could already be there- Price wouldn’t let him do this.. Right?

“Recall them then, there’s still time. We’ll-”

He gives a long sigh, lips set into a thin line, “This might be our only shot, Saint. It’s not perfect, but there’s still a chance.”

***

There was never a chance.

Two weeks later, you stood on the tarmac- hair whipping violently in the wind as you watch the plane land. You stay there ,silently partaking in your own morbid, self-loathing vigil, still somehow hoping it isn’t true.

But there he is.

Simon Riley. His pine coffin draped with the flag he had fought for.

You watch Soap do his best, limping alongside it, his arms shaking and his eyes stained with tears. He gives you a hug afterward, whispering that he tried, he tried to bring everyone home.

You don’t blame him. Not for a second. You knew when you found Simon’s dog tag on your desk that he never intended on coming back. You knew when you read his neatly written note that you would never see him again. You would never hear his voice or feel his lips against yours. You would never get the chance to tell him that you were his, and that you always had been.

You didn’t know then, that a part of you always would be, didn’t know that he had left more behind than either of you could have imagined.

***

When the doorbell rings, you tear your eyes away from the now framed note. Flitting through the cozy flat with a smile growing on your face,

“Saint!” Gaz sweeps you into a bruising hug, your feet coming off the floor and a giggle erupting from your chest.

“I’m glad you all could make it.” You say a bit breathlessly once you're back on solid ground.

Price gives you a hug next, his beard tickling your cheek, “Wouldn’t miss it, sweetheart.”

“Aye, are ye kiddin’?” Johnny’s kiss lands just at the corner of your lips, his hold tighter, more familiar than the rest- “Miss our big lad’s first birthday? Never, bonnie.”

On cue, you turn at the sound of excited babbling to see the birthday boy in question, looking between the four of you. His copper brown eyes wide with curiosity, and a mess of honey blonde curls on his head.

I was so lucky to have had you..

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.

Your Simon.

+++

well, I’m ruined. and I hope you enjoyed it. I’m really not good at leaving angst too angsty, I’m too much of a hoe for silver linings and happy endings and all that fluffy sh*t.

forever just a lover girl at heart 🥲

[thedragonagebigbang]

Bang Creator Interview: Tumblr: @exalted-dawn  |  AO3: Exalted_Dawn

The Collaboration period has begun! In these quiet months before works are due, we want to foster a sense of excitement, camaraderie, and celebration among our participants. To that end, all participants were given the option of a formal interview by our mod, Dema, or an informal “ask-game” survey. We hope you enjoy getting to know our phenomenal creators as much as we have!

Interview with Exalted Dawn

Ed and Dema talk collaboration, developing a personal style, and a bunch of stuff Dema had to redact but is leaving in to build suspense. 

Dema: I know in the beginning you were debating whether to participate as a writer or an artist, and you went with artist. What was the main driver of that decision?

Ed: It was definitely a combination of a few things. Workload and time allotment being the main influencing factors. My attention span when it comes to writing tends to be a bit all or nothing. I can have periods where I can churn out one thousand words in an hour and then go like two weeks without writing anything at all 😂 And then on top of it, with the new game coming out I was sorta trying to factor in how that would affect my ability to stick to a schedule. Drawing is a lot easier for me to sort of one and done over a weekend so I figured it might be better to start there for my first Bang.

Dema: Oh this is your first Big Bang! I don't think I knew that 😂

Ed: YUP LOL

Dema: When you do a collaboration like this, that isn't a commission but is based on another person's work, how do you navigate that process?

Ed: Well, from a starting standpoint, I really like to have a lot of communication with the person I am partnered with. I love collaboration work and really strive to capture the energy of whatever source material I'm working from. So getting the author’s opinions on their own story beats is a huge help. But aside from that, the element of choice in this sort of project definitely played a part. I got to choose a prompt that fascinated me, and then from there, I read through the material the author currently had and chose a few scenes that really struck me with a strong mental image. Something that when I read it, I immediately thought "Oh that would be neat to see in a picture!" From there, it’s back to touching base with the author and making sure that what ideas I have sorta line up with their vision. I want to make sure its respectful of the work its being based on, while still sorta playing to my own interests as an artist and a fan :3

Dema: You're a very prolific artist, how do you keep all these ideas organized? Do they behave themselves up there in your brain?

Ed: HAH! I would like to say that there's some sort of rhyme and reason to my creative process, but if I were being honest, they mostly tumble about in my brain. When I get stuck on an idea, I tend to fixate on it and continue to develop it in my head the more I think on it. With this prompt specifically, I was immediately hit with this idea of a vibe I wanted to get across in my art from the moment I read it. And then that continued to build and build, until I was left with these pretty complete ideas,  accompanied by atmosphere and layout, that I became stuck on. After that, I just laid them out on paper. (The bounty of inspiration certainly didn't help to make the decision easy XD)

Dema: Are you drawing inspiration from anywhere besides the source material for this piece?

Ed: I AM! There were several pieces my mind immediately went to when I was reading through the source material. Lord of the Rings (specifically the cinematic scenery of the Mines of Moria) and The Song Of The Sea were both big ones that I drew immediate parallels to. The huge scale and vast landscapes as well as the beautiful pattern work and 2D story book style typical of Cartoon Saloon’s work were both things I immediately latched onto for this. But more abstractly, having just read [REDACTED], I was already in the mindset of [REDACTED] when I got assigned to this prompt. Since this one is also leaning into the [REDACTED] genre, it sorta pushed me towards these concepts of strong lighting contrast— stark shadows played against bright light. Bold silhouettes.  I was even considering playing with a black and white inked style with colored accents and a heavy focus on crosshatching to get that sort of [REDACTED] look at one point.

Dema: Mmmmmmm how much of that am I gunna have to redact 😂[narrator voice: it was a lot]

Ed: You can totally just delete the second half if that helps XD

Dema: I don't want to DELETE it I'm just gunna redact it haha. IT'S FINE. Also I love that. Sin City vibes.

Ed: YEAH!

Dema: How did you develop your personal style?

Ed: Many years of frustrated grunting at my own artwork kjdhfhjsgvfd LOL no but actually, what I consider to be most typical of 'my style' (and for this question, I'm going with the main illustrative style I typically use for projects like this, since I definitely have multiple) came about pretty much by accident for the most part. I basically stumbled upon it. I had spent many MANY years developing my skills from, like, middle school up through college, first with pencil and paper and then with a very large desk mounted display tablet, and was sort of trying to get to a point where I was satisfied with the look of my own work. It was a slow process, and I hadn't really been satisfied with my progress and where I was. In an attempt to sort of switch back to the more familiar feeling of pencil and paper, I had gotten an ipad to draw on since it was of a more similar size. I had been playing around with it, and was struggling with the pressure settings on my pen for making line art specifically, so I sorta just threw my hands up in the air and said "Y'know what?! I'm gonna try lineless cause why not!" I made this small, lineless doodle of my Dungeons & Dragons character at the time, and suddenly it all just sorta clicked into place! I've been basically drawing like that ever since, but with the aforementioned handful of stylistic exceptions XD

Dema: What do you feel like you are striving for in your body of work? Or I guess, is there a theme or a feeling or a "spirit" in your work you're hoping to convey?

Ed: HMMMMMMMMMMM THAT IS A GOOD QUESTION! I wouldn't really say I'm striving for any single theme all throughout my work (part of the reason why I have multiple distinct styles is so that I can really draw out the desired vibes I'm aiming for in each individual piece). But from a general sense, I think I tend to focus a lot on capturing emotion and atmosphere, especially in the lighting and color I use. As for the spirit I often capture— I don't think it's super intentional on my part, but for my lineless artwork specifically, I definitely get that there is this sort of adventurous, almost whimsical spirit to a lot of what I draw. Rather than dark dramatic pieces, with lots of sharp lines and dynamic movement, there's this sort of softness and quietness to a lot of my work, like capturing a peaceful moment between all the big dramatic stuff. Even for the tonally and visually 'dark' pieces. Which— honestly— I think speaks a lot more to my own personality and preferences than I maybe intend 🤣

Dema: I love that a lot. Thank you for such thoughtful answers, and for taking the time to be interviewed today! I can't wait to see the final piece.