#WHILE THE BLACK MAN ON TRIAL WAS DETAILED

[jinusajas]

05/04/25; 10:25pm

{ drabbles / headcanons }

[ when you are their favorite love interest ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel, caleb

notes: i know that this has been done before, but this is just my own take on this fun thought, and i hope you readers give this a chance, too (⺣◡⺣)♡

when sylus first heard of this new game that was celebrating its day one launch, admittedly, the onychinus leader had zero interest in it-

that is, until a particular trailer was showcased introducing a rather enticing love interest-

you.

to say sylus was hooked would be a complete understatement. within seconds of your trailer’s release, sylus downloaded the game and got to work. he did not hold back when it came to his spendings, already adding in the details of his sleek black credit card before customizing his mc. after making his mc look as close to him as possible, he chooses you to be his partner while running through the main storyline.

thanks to his endless amount of wealth, he manages to obtain all of your five star cards that were available in game, maxing out all of your memory upgrades while unlocking all of your secret time audios in just a few week’s time. and despite how seductive and alluring you were during those intimate audios, sylus’s favorite card of yours happened to be one of the sweetest memories, with you taking a walk with his mc in the snow.

to say he was enamored with you would simply scratch the surface of his feelings for you, for this man was entirely devoted to you. the story of your life-

the trials and tribulations that you faced gave sylus the strength to continue on with his life. after a particular grueling day working as a leader of a conglomerate, he enjoys laying in bed while replaying his favorite memories with you before falling asleep with your audios playing in the background.

even though many would find his feelings for you, a mere fictional character, to be silly (and maybe a little cringey) sylus doesn’t give a damn-

for he will always bask in the feelings of peace you give him.

admittedly, zayne only downloaded this popular new game after his coworkers convinced him to. during his lunch breaks, he finds himself opening the app to go through the main storyline while being drawn to one of the main love interests-

you.

there was a subtle beauty that he could see from you, with your quiet yet headstrong nature making him crack a tiny smile while he read through the storyline. after finishing the main branch, zayne puts in some time (and some much needed funds) to obtain your five star memories.

yet perhaps what zayne enjoyed more than your memories were the quality time feature that the game had. he had managed to raise your affinity to the mid 50s level and enjoyed watching you study or work with him. even though he knew that you were a character made of pixels, zayne couldn’t help but let his fondness for you grow.

even as he was doing his own paperwork, zayne couldn’t help but sneak glances at you, only to feel his heart clench when you stare back at him with a sweet smile on your face. the cardiac surgeon would quickly look away from you, cheeks dyed a faint rosy hue as his lips were unconsciously tilted up in a smile that lasts.

being a bit of a passionate gamer in linkon, xavier was one of the few players that was able to play the game during its beta phase before the official launch date.

and the reason why he signed up to be one of the first couple of hundred players to test out this new game?

why, it’s because of you, of course!

xavier had come across your trailer during an announcement for your game, and he was completely hooked on your strength and overall aesthetic. when the developers announced that they would allow a handful of players to test out their game, xavier was the first to put his name on the list-

and by some stroke of luck, he manages to obtain your game roughly 6 months before its official release. despite having some minor hiccups with loading screens and a few glitches, xavier thoroughly enjoyed the game while playing through some chapters of the main storyline.

yet what the young hunter really excelled at was level grinding you, his favorite girl. he hates seeing you get hurt, so he will spend a decent amount of his money getting as many of your cards that he could (bonus points if he manages to obtain your myth pair!)

xavier would be the first to clear out any fighting stages with how powerful you are thanks to his careful dedication to you, and when xavier finds out he can keep his progress with you even after the game’s official release, he couldn’t be any happier-

because in xavier’s eyes, it was you and him against the world.

rafayel would be an obnoxious player, simply going through the motions of the main storyline to unlock certain outfits before showing you off with his own mc in hundreds of photo shoots.

being an artist at heart, when he first met your character in the game, rafayel had hearts in his eyes for you alone as he matches his mc’s aesthetic with your own. he loves going on dates with you, finding enjoyment in how you struggled to get the plushies he wanted at the claw machines, or how you would always pout at him when he beats you at kitty cards.

rafayel would also be dedicated to you, managing to get to devotion with you thanks to his own funding that he put in your game. the moment you shyly hand him a box with his engagement ring, the young artist would be over the moon!

he enjoys interacting with you, often teasing you by poking you through his phone’s screen. rafayel swears that he lives to see your cheeks puffed out in a pout while turning your back on him. just seeing all of your cute reactions makes rafayel grin like an absolute fool.

and truly, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

caleb was a f2p player, but had the worst luck when it came to pulling for your cards. 99% of the times, he would pull a different love interest, or lose to a 50/50 to one of your five star memories that he really wanted.

however, him being a f2p player went down the drain when your springtime date banner was announced-

and he was hooked on your beauty and how gorgeously soft you looked in your sundress. due to how lovely you looked, caleb swore that he would do anything to obtain this precious memory. during his day off, he focused his entire attention on getting your banner, using his card to buy the needed pulls to obtain that precious memory.

shockingly enough, you came home to him just a mere thirty pulls later, with caleb nearly jumping for joy when he gets your card. not wasting another second, he plays the date while basking in your beautiful smile. during the memory, caleb couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous of his mc-

because why was his mc able to touch and hold you, while caleb was left feeling like a third wheel?

but he digresses.

shoving down his unreasonable feelings of envy, he enjoys the tranquil kiss scene, his heart melting at the sight of you falling into his mc’s arms before pressing your lips against his.

with a stupid smile on his face, he finishes reading through the memory of your springtime date before spending the flowers he saved up to purchase the exact sundress you had worn during the date.

as he interacts with you, cooing at his phone’s screen about how pretty you were, caleb realized that you were worth every penny.

end notes: hehehe finally some more fluff from yours truly

(⺣◡⺣)♡

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[akindaflora]

Lip Mask

Description: (Established relationship) Chan comes home after tour and can’t get enough of your lip mask and well your lips!

warning: mentions of making out, some grinding, lap sitting, one use of the word saliva, Names used Channie Bang Chan and Christopher, mentions of making a video

Definitely will be blocking no age accounts if your under 18 please avoid this one sorry :)

Author note: Did my best to correct any mistakes and rearranged some of the flow but its pretty much the same as the unedited version! Thanks again for reading. <3

Edited 1/29/25 Word Count: 1,335

It had been a rough, dry day—nothing your skincare routine couldn’t help—and your boyfriend, Bang Chan, was home after the tour. After what felt like years, nothing could ruin your afternoon, not even your boss, who was unnecessarily rude today.

Like always after your shower you dried and changed into some comfy shorts and one of Chan’s many black shirts. Washing your hands you began to first brush your teeth, next you washed your face, then you began applying your face and eye cream and finally you applied your lip mask. When you looked into the mirror you definitely weren’t that far off from a disco ball how shiny your face became.

When Chan and you first started dating you noticed how soft his lips were whenever you kissed or in general constantly not hearing him from you staring at his lips which would be followed by a blush when he called you out on it. Though he was never mad more embarrassed after you would tell him his lips looked absolutely irresistible. But because of that obsession with his lips, when winter came you noticed how cracked yours would get and even had a few days where you wouldn’t kiss him out of embarrassment. To which he would tell you after pouting for days on end, constantly telling you that no amount of crack lips could keep you away. Yet his constant support didn’t stop you from finding new ways to keep them soft and after what felt like weeks of trial and error your lips were finally as pillowy as Chans. Smiling at yourself in the mirror from the memory, you made your way to your living room. Where your boyfriend sat on the couch scrolling through streaming services with intentions to cuddle and watch anything with you. It had been a long tour and he intended to let nothing stop him and you time. At the sound of your feet softly patting on the hardwood floor, he looked up quickly smiling as his eyes met yours.

“Hello gorgeous,” he said with a smirk using one of his hands to pat the seat right next to him, “Come here,” he said quietly as he lifted the blanket specifically for living room cuddles. Quickly walking over you plopped down next to him and laid your head on his shoulder. This small jester said everything that he didn't need to put into words. “I’ve missed you too,” you said quietly to which he responded with a soft hum and an arm that softly wrapped around your back pulling you in closer if that was physically possible. “What have you decided on?” You said softly and slightly turned your head to look up at the man next to you. After a while, he didn’t respond, from what you could see he definitely had a few eye bags from all the traveling and touring. You brought your hand up to softly caress his cheek missing the softness of his skin and the warmth that followed. After being away for so long you kept talking hoping to wake up the sleepy prince.

“Mmmm, definitely not horror right? Or maybe you wanna watch a rom-com but we both know how that ends” you said with a giggle as his head leaned into your touch and yet he didn’t respond only taking in the details of your eyes, your cheeks, and your… lips? While he didn’t say anything he did giggle when you did so maybe he was just tired you thought so you kept talking.

“Ooo maybe we could watch the new season of Dr Stone or maybe Solo Level? Felix is featured on the “ You were stopped by a sudden quick peck. And before you could question him it just kept going but only on your lips. Every time you opened your mouth another attack would happen until you finally turned your head to the side in a fit of giggles.

“CHANNIE” you streaked, “stop it I just put my lip mask on” you jokingly complained.

“I’m sorry baby but your lips are just so soft” the syllables of soft coming out more like a whine from his lips. “just one more,” he said after hiding in your neck out of embarrassment.

After what felt like a few minutes but only a few seconds you sighed heavily and replied with a bemused fine.

Quickly he grabbed your face bring your lips to his own. But what was agreed upon as one peck turned into a full make-out session. He grabbed your waist nearly pulling you into his lap his other hand holding the back of your neck as if he were afraid you would pull away. But when your hands slowly crept up from his chest to move around his neck he made home of his hands softly rubbing circles with his thumb on your waist underneath the shirt you wore. Successfully pulling you onto his lap.

Your lips become messy with the mix of lip mask and the saliva that mixed between your contact with his. With the way your soft lips and his touched it was more like a pillow fight as each lip overlapped the other. Soft moans left his and your mouth, as he roughly swiped your lower half to his. You pulled back as the high of the kiss started to feel less like heaven and more like air loss. Your forehead met his with a few pants passing from your lips that met his own as you tried to breathe.

Still sitting on his lap his eyes looking intensely into yours slightly darkening as his lips were brought into a smirk. “Channie you said only one kiss that was nearly a make-out session,” you said jokingly pouting. He only quietly laughed still out of breath but as if your lips were his cure he pecked your lips more between each huff. You giggle but ultimately move your head back as his kisses move to your neck. The soft pillows left heat from his breath as they made contact.

“Channie” you whined out in between giggles still trying to catch your breath. He only sighed in the home he made into your neck taking in the scent of your freshly showered skin. “I’m sorry but your lips are incredibly soft, I just can’t get enough!” His head quickly popped out of your neck to look you into your eyes. Finally able to see his face again you noticed your lip mask making his lips extremely shiny from your little session. Shinny and extremely pink as you assumed yours to be, you moved your hands to either side of his face softly letting your thumbs run across his checks quickly swiping some of the mask that rubbed its way on the outside of his mouth before you went back in for a quick peck. Also not being able to resist now that your favorite pillows had become a shiny treat. A rich smile filled with joy popped onto his face but slowly turned into something slightly mischievous.

“Channie wait no what about-“ cut off again as he swiftly picked you up and laid your back softly on the couch as he lay over you his hands caressing the sides of your body as his lips found yours again. This kiss not lasting as long as the other but nearly as intense left you pouting from the lack of contact, “We can make a movie if you’re so worried about it” he said quickly tucking a piece of hair that lay on your cheek.

Feeling the blush on your cheeks you quickly looked to the left. Jokingly tapping his shoulder with a loud smack, his name coming out loudly from your mouth “Christopher!” All he could respond was a quick laugh as his hand brought your face back to his lips. Yeah this was definitely an afternoon for the books, how could not be just your Channie and your skin routine against the world?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After writing notes: If you made it to here thank you ❤️ This is my first time writing anything like this so i only hope i could do you all justice with this fluff. But i couldn’t help but keep thinking about this moment with Channie specially since I started doing a lip care routine. And i mean come on you’ve seen this man’s lips.

-YaYa

[quandledlngle69]

⸻ 糸師凛 ITOSHI RIN.

TW; obsession, ritual, demonic things, blood, family trauma, deep detail of body, dolls, pain, corrupt religion, child abuse, mention of strangulation, vivification.

ever since you were young, your mother shunned you for your obsession with dolls. hours were spent crafting your first doll from scraps of fabric, straw and animal bones.

you didn't show your mother your perfect creation–knowing her lips would curl in disgust, and she would scoff, turning her head away while mumbling something hurtful under her breath. something about sin, something about god's unlove for such behaviour.

dolls were unholy, vile objects for the devil to merge with, a mockery of gods actual human creations. thats what she told you as she strangled you with a rosemary, the marks indented in your skin for weeks.

your father was an indifferent, absent man. he had spent not a nick of time with you–rather too engrossed in his scientific pursuits then being a family man. you grew up with no friends, a curse and a blessing; not having anyone to talk to beside yourself, but no one to judge you for your rather unnatural hobby. you recall your younger self passing by a workshops with a collection of dolls, always managing to captivate you; your little nose pressing into the glass, fogging it up with your warm breath until your mother yanked you away.

a part of you hoped for your future self that it was just an awkward phase that you would grow out of–though you never did. the gratification you felt making dolls, slowly becoming more life–like the more you matured–as if on the journey with you, made it unthinkable to ever let go. it was apart of you, and it soon surged into something more sinister; human hair, picked off scabs, even blood was shoved into the heart of the doll, sewn up or sculpted behind an imitation of the protective hard, white, calcium rows.

you wouldn't utter to any soul what you created in the dark, hidden behind excuses of intentions and an insatiable itch of something highly unethical.

the last straw was when a young man you were arranged to be wedded to shunned you once he found out about your 'hobby.'

that only instigated a heated screaming match with your mother, who promptly kicked you out once she realised her fears were concrete, that you would age alone, without a ring ever on your finger.

perhaps its the fact you were a misanthropist that coerced you to endure the next decade locked away in a shrubby attic–the rent cheap and no one to disturb you. you crafted what you had never done before, a life–sized anthropomorphic doll. you've had an image of the perfect man since you were a little girl. sketches ranging from little scribbles from when you were a wee thing, to fully fleshed out realism of this fictional man. sometimes he was in your dreams, a whisper away, smoke in the wind that couldn't be heard.

it was trial and error, and you had almost gone into a deep debt with the overly luxurious, top–quality materials and supplies you had gathered. your hands were rough and calloused from the work, your lungs damaged with the hard dust and particles you were too careless to filter out with a mask. from dawn till dusk, the hours not wasted, yet slaving away, a steaming cup of black coffee always on your wooden desk.

when you had finally concluded your work, you had taken a step back and admired it in all its glory. His face sculpted from your callous but nimble fingers, facial features eerily in harmony with each other, sharp like a cutting edge of a diamond.

his figure loomed over you, much taller than most handful of men walking the city streets. the doll's black hair was trimmed accordingly, bangs wispy sweeping across the right side of his eye; in the dim light, it flaunted a subtle seaweed–green tint. it's glass eyes were the most alluring part, most costly–worth an arm and a leg. a bright, opalescent teal–cold in nature, almost reticent. it's long lashes only tied them together like a ribbon of a bow, imagining if it blinked, they would flutter softly like butterfly wings.

you loved it–no, you were full of jubilation.

a familiar name abruptly popped into your mind, a man of a lover in a foreign book you once read. you quickly snagged a fountain pen, your hand carefully stretching out the dolls foot, scribbling heartedly on the sole bottom of the shoe.

Itoshi, Rin.

────────

you would spend the next few days observing, hours spent just staring rather hard at your masterpiece, never seemingly finding a flaw. you would talk to it, even if it was all one–sided, making you feel sheepish at times, yet you never stopped.

but slowly, the insatiable greed for more than this came to your mind. that this wasn't enough. it wasn't enough to just have this immobile showpiece of yours, hiding away in the darkest parts of your studio. in your dreams, it talked, breathed with lungs, a warm specimen as if it had blood running in it's veins.

it was gormless to think this wishfully.

────────

arguably, this wasn't a good idea, standing in a grotesque cathedral, abandoned long ago. it was the witches hour–there was only pitch darkness, the air smelling faintly of wax, dust, and something unsettling–sacrifice. you stood outside of it, the ominous pentagram bold on the wooden floor panels, the stick of red chalk staining your hands. some of the symbols you didn't understand, almost an ancient text that spoke nothing but sinful deeds. five lit candles stationary on each sharp point, their fire threatening to flicker out.

you didn't know what was more unsettling, the fact this suffocating atmosphere was purely demonic or the fact you were still going through with it, aware of the potential consequences. you were sporting a dangerous game, playing as god. this was damning your soul, that truth was crystal clear when the ritual required your blood, a drop long smeared on the dolls cheek.

then came the words–latin, you think.

you stumbled over them, your speech ever slow, butchering the pronunciation; yet evidently enough to indulge in whatever demonic power you were summoning.

────────

It hurt.

it hurt a lot–why did it hurt?

it started from the inside out, the developing cardiac muscle forming a beat, squeezing and expanding. nerves emerged from seemingly nowhere, flourishing in sparks as they danced like undone pieces of thread to every crevice of his body. a warmth of muscle and fat melded together like butter, limbs jerking, fingers and toes flexible with their contraction and flexion.

for the first time, he involuntarily inhaled, like such a thing was a natural urge. it was sharp, painful, it burned like hot coal in his chest. his lungs, fixed behind rows of bone, spasmed and heaved. he could smell. it carved itself in his nose, it was musty, like mildew and sawdust. he could almost taste it on his tongue. he could blink, delve visually into the blurry world in front of him. his skin felt as though it was doused with gasoline and lit with a match, without the mercy of relief.

he throat ached with a sore.

someone was screaming. is it him? is that deep, agony–filled voice belonging to him only?

his head lolled forward, his whole body alamort, eyes rolling to the back of his head. he struggled to open them, his resolve too weak, eyelids too heavy. he felt a warm liquid running out of his nostril, something red and thick. his new given mind not being able to compose a simple thought in such a nebulochaotic state.

he couldn't understand the sudden cold feeling brushing against his cheek, the sudden invasion of aroma, something sandalwood and paint–like. something hoisted his slugged and limp body up, as if he was still a ragdoll. a sturdy warmth bloomed on his front, a muttering of a voice, his nose brushing against what seemed like a neck.

it was the last thing seared into his mind before the world went dark.

Quandaledlngle69 © 2025

waaaaa i can't remember who to tag for this divider if you know pls lmk

[merakiui]

promising young man.

yandere!riddle rosehearts x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, one-sided student/teacher relationship, obsession, dark thoughts, jealousy, delusion, brief descriptions of blood/gore, violence, death, murder, brief nsfw note - riddle's perfect world comes crashing down with the arrival of foreign exchange student azul ashengrotto.

He meets him in Intro to Psych.

Azul Ashengrotto struggles to parse English, but he’s dressed like a businessman with his pressed suit and leather Oxfords. The only thing that reveals his status as a student is the black backpack he carries to class. Riddle’s seen him around campus a handful of times. It’s hard to miss him when he seems to throw himself into social circles with practiced grace.

This is the first time he’s ever had class with him, though, and so now he gets to see him in a classroom setting. There isn’t much about him that immediately strikes Riddle as odd. He’s well-dressed and prompt with a polite tongue. Every time he speaks in his thick accent, the one that just commands admiration and attention, that tiny Italian flag pinned to the strap of his bag becomes even more apparent.

Riddle’s not sure what he’s doing in this class. Perhaps he’s aiming to study law as well. He’d hoped to find more people with similar academic hobbies and interests and, while he’s yet to form any lasting bonds, he’s been wondering what sort of person Azul is.

On the first day of class, he introduced himself with confidence: “Buongiorno, amici. I am Azul. I look forward to the year with all of you.”

Though the structure and pronunciation of English proved awkward in his mouth, that didn’t stop him from opening himself to others. He’s friendly and outgoing, always welcoming conversation when it’s thrown his way. Riddle finds it impressive. If he were in Azul’s shoes, he’s certain he’d feel just a little lost attending school in a new country, far from home, surrounded by people who speak a completely different language. But Azul is resourceful, a dab hand at communication despite the barrier in vernacular. Perhaps that’s where his charm comes from.

Riddle thought the two of them might get along.

But then Azul proved academically formidable, and then you began to pick his brain after class, during time that was specifically reserved for Riddle so that he could discuss psychology with you.

So now Riddle sits in his seat, impatiently awaiting his chance.

“The law over in here is fascinating,” Azul says, leaning closer as you show him something on the desktop computer. 

“What’s it like where you’re from?”

“Mm. How to explain… The law is…”

“It follows a civil law tradition,” Riddle pipes up, casually flipping a page in his textbook. He does it for show. He’s aware it probably makes him look like an arrogant know-it-all.

You peek past the screen at him. “Oh! Riddle, you’re still here. Hello!”

He hums, warming under your gaze. “I always am.”

“What was it you were saying about the Italian legal system?”

Azul stares at him. An unhappy frown tightens on his face.

Uplifted with pride, swimming in the clouds, Riddle elaborates: “I’ve only just started researching it, but it’s very interesting. In the realm of criminal law, trials are often led by judges or a select few to form a panel unlike the juries we have here. Of course you’ll find differences everywhere. All countries have justice systems and law enforcement. Still, it’s fascinating to compare and contrast the fine details.”

From across the room, Azul’s stink eye has never been more obvious.

“Ah, that’s right. I’ve heard a few things regarding the way cases are handled over there. From what you know, Azul, would you say the system is harsher here than it is there, or is it the other way around?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Azul says, and that polite mask of his slips for a second. “I’ve never done crime.”

Riddle snaps his book shut and rises from his seat. “Let’s hope not. You’ve a promising career ahead of you.” He smiles sweetly at Azul like he’s particularly stupid.

Azul tracks him as he packs his belongings away and strides towards the door. His brilliant blue eyes are dark. “Ci fai o ci sei?” he mutters, clicking his tongue discreetly. “Rompipalle…”

Riddle will later learn these are slang phrases. He’ll learn a lot of things later—things he thought he’d never need to learn.

Thinking it a joke, you laugh and wave your hand about dismissively. “Aren’t you going to stay, Riddle? I watched the first episode of that podcast you recommended.”

Riddle perks up at that. “You watched it?”

“This past weekend, yes. It’s a riveting series. They really dig deep into the facets of a criminal.”

“Don’t they just?” He hugs his textbook close to his chest, nearly vibrating out of his skin. Finally, the moment he’s been waiting for—an opportunity to speak with you. “I’m amazed at how much time and research goes into each episode, and they always treat each case with tact. It deserves so much praise.”

Azul glances between the two of you. Riddle is sick with satisfaction. Once more, his blue hues land on him.

“You like criminals?”

“Not in that way, of course not.” Riddle shakes his head. What a preposterous assumption. “I find their minds to be exceedingly, bewilderingly captivating.”

Azul blinks back at him, owlish. He doesn’t seem to grasp most of what Riddle’s just said.

“In short, I think they’re a fine learning experience.”

“An experience? Non capisco.”

“For those wishing to pursue a career in criminal justice or law. Think of it like watching a tape from a criminal investigation. It’s important to study the interview techniques and tactics utilized by detectives to understand what’s most successful in gathering a proper confession.”

Azul nods along. “Ah, capisco.”

“We’ll cover things like that later in the semester. Don’t feel so overwhelmed, Azul.”

“I’m not. I learn as I go. Grazie, Professor. You’re very kind.”

“I’m happy to help. If you ever need anything, my office hours are on that sheet I gave you. I had a colleague of mine translate the syllabus for you. If you have any questions or need accommodations of any kind, let me know.”

“I will.” He fixes the strap of his backpack and, after bidding you a final farewell, stalks past Riddle out the door. His footsteps echo down the hall until eventually they’re no more.

“Riddle, if you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you.”

“Of course. Anything,” he says hastily, his heart stumbling in his ribs. 

“If you wouldn’t mind, could you help Azul out? I notice he struggles taking notes during lectures. If you’d be willing to share your notes with me so that I can get them translated, that would be great.”

Riddle doesn’t want to share, but this is an opportunity to be praised in spades. “I’d be glad to. I’ll scan and email them after each class.”

“Thanks, Riddle. Your notes have always been so organized. This is a huge help. I’m sure Azul will be just as grateful.”

I’m not doing it for him, he thinks, bitter and envious.

But he just smiles, standing a little taller when you compliment him.

Your notes have always been so organized.

What is he getting so territorial for? He’s had you for four classes in past years. Azul’s only known you for a few measly weeks. That’s nothing compared to the special bond you have with him.

Riddle isn’t worried.

1 September, 20XX.

Dear Diary,

(Name) Rosehearts has quite the lovely ring to it. Far more musical than that of (Name) Ashengrotto. I’m almost certain he sits there in class, silently drooling over Professor. Just last week, he took my seat at the front. The gall to do such a thing! Can you imagine? He must know that seat is the best for getting a perfect view of Professor. It’s childish to bicker over seating arrangements and I refuse to stoop to his level. That said, the seat is mine. Professor’s time is mine.

I’ve deigned to share my notes, but only because Professor put such faith in my abilities by personally asking me. Even though it’s foolish, I’m tempted to sabotage the notes so that Azul will have incorrect study material. But that would be unfair and an infraction upon all that I stand for when it comes to academic fairness. Thus, I’ve refrained from doing anything of that sort. I’m certain Professor would disapprove.

It makes me happy to know Professor listens to the podcast I recommended. I wish we could discuss it at length, but Azul is always there and he takes up so much of what little time there is. It’s infuriating. I wish he would just drop out of the class. That way it will be just Professor and me, as it was intended.

Perhaps he will once the coursework comes knocking.

Sincerely, 

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle slumps forward over his desk and combs his hands through his hair.

“That rotten Azul…” he sneers, his face scrunching into something sour. “He’s always monopolizing your time… Does he not realize how important it is to me—how much I look forward to talking to you? And you smile at him… You look at him with those sweet eyes of yours and he’s completely undeserving of such treatment! It never does anyone any good to be greedy, yet there he is…”

He inhales deeply, holds it for a few seconds, and then exhales.

What am I supposed to do? How can I make this right again?

Azul isn’t breaking any rules. It’s not a crime to seek you out for conversation after each class ends. But therein lies the issue. There is nothing wrong with that. It would be wrong if, say, there was an illicit exchange between the both of you. Like a taboo relationship of sorts…

Riddle startles in his seat, his eyes blown wide.

Azul isn’t having a secret affair with you, is he? Not that it could be considered cheating when you’re not yet married (and Riddle intends to keep it that way). He has a plan. When he graduates, there will be no formal barriers holding him back from starting a relationship with you. He can email you freely without the need to circle back to academics. He can invite you for tea or coffee and the two of you can chat about things that aren’t school, and it won’t be weird or overstepping boundaries. Because he won’t be your student anymore. He’ll be Riddle, your former student. And former students have better odds than current students, do they not?

He’s thought it out carefully. He was raised to be responsible, to do everything right.

And though he’s thought of it in passing—considered what might happen if he were to try to play at being a seductive siren—he’d never truly act on such folly. But Azul… It isn’t too impossible to theorize he might be sleeping with you for a better grade. What if he’s forced you into it? What if he has some sort of wicked blackmail? What if you’re holed up in your office every day, scared for your career, while Azul bends you over the desk and uses that boyish charm of his, that silky-smooth accent, to coax the sweetest of sounds from—

Riddle shakes himself free of that thought. He’s not going to imagine it any further. He doesn’t need to be plagued with graphic imagery, gross as it may be.

Even though he chases the fantasy from his brain, it returns to poke at him. He gazes at his lap, noticing the substantial strain in his pajamas, and groans.

It would be easier if he wasn’t where he is now. Logically, he’s aware he doesn’t have much of a chance. Neither does Azul. Unless he’s sleeping with you in secret. Then he has a chance. But he’s not. He can’t. That’s against the rules.

And even if he was, it wouldn’t be very fair for him to do the very thing Riddle’s abstained from.

His hand closes around his dick. He feels pitiful as he pumps himself to scandalous visions. 

It’s not fair.

He should have a chance. In a perfect world, he’d have you. He’s earned this, hasn’t he? He’s worked so hard. So why isn’t he allowed to have you?

It’s not fair.

Why does Azul get to relish in your attention when Riddle’s left alone in the shadows? Why can’t you look at him like you used to? Why can’t you praise him for knowing all the answers? Why can’t you tell him good work when he does just that? Why must you coddle Azul? Riddle thinks he can speak perfect English. He’s just playing it up to look weak and pathetic—to garner your sympathy!

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

He’s the good one. The one with perfect marks. The one with perfect attendance. The one every professor holds in high regard.

Riddle squeezes himself and sucks in a breath through grit teeth.

He’s not funny like Azul. He doesn’t have that awkward charm Azul has. He can’t speak another language fluently. He’s never traveled out of the country. He thinks he knows everything, but he only knows so much.

He can fascinate you with the intricacies of his mind, each fold primed for education, but Azul can do better because he has social experience.

Riddle can’t believe it. He, of all people, is jealous of someone.

Cum oozes from his dick and coats his fingers in a pearly-white. It isn’t satisfying.

Right then, he thinks his world would be better if Azul stayed in Italy.

Or maybe it would be better if Azul wasn’t in his world at all. 

On his way out of class, Riddle stops Azul in an empty corridor.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

He blinks back, oblivious. And then he smiles, revealing a row of perfect teeth. “What I’m doing?”

Riddle won’t say it. He can’t. Because then he’d be admitting the truth Azul’s trying to pry from his heart, whether that’s his intention or not.

“You know very well what you’re doing.”

A silent head tilt is his reply.

His temper is nearing its boiling point. It’s been on a low simmer ever since Azul first bewitched you, and it’s threatening to spill over.

“I see the way you and Professor look at each other during class. You may think it discreet, but I know.” Riddle folds his arms over his chest, feeling very proud of himself for successfully playing Sherlock. “I can tell there’s nothing formal about it. So how long has this been going on? How long have you been flouting the rules?”

Azul stares at him. His shoulders shake with his chuckle. “You’re funny.”

Riddle startles. His accent—

“I’m here to learn just as you are. What I do outside of the classroom is none of your business, so it would please me greatly if you could stop prying.”

His eyes narrow into vicious slits. “If you lay a hand on—”

“Oh, I’ve done more than that.” Azul smooths the nonexistent wrinkles in his sweater vest. The same brand of sweater vest that Riddle wears. “But you have no proof. The courts here will want that, won’t they? Or is it harsher here? Will you need to peer inside Professor to see for yourself? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never committed a crime.”

Disgust pools in his stomach. He feels like he could vomit, and it isn’t because he’s appalled by the conspiracy Azul’s proposed. It’s because he should’ve been the one to do it if it was that easy. Instead, he musters a mean glare.

“Who are you, Ashengrotto? What do you want?”

“I’m just a student like you. I want to learn lots from Professor.” He brushes past Riddle, his voice a melodious hum. “And some things can’t be taught in the classroom.”

Riddle opens his mouth to let the angry tirade fall, but he chokes on the words. There’s so much he wants to say, but all of it will come out accusatory. And that’s where Azul has him pinned. It’s all baseless accusation.

He doesn’t want to believe it. Surely you wouldn’t… It’s impossible! An academic and social infringement! It’s wrong!

It should’ve been him.

Later that evening, cooped up in his room, Riddle scrawls furious lines in his diary: He’s a liar. A cheat. An embarrassment to this institution. I should be the one who holds Professor. I should be there in Azul’s place. I’ve worked so hard. I deserve it. I’ve earned it!

He can’t let this madness go on any longer. He won’t tolerate it.

Looking at it logically, Riddle has illustrated the negatives and the positives in his notebook.

If Azul’s insinuations are true, then all Riddle needs is valid evidence. Unfortunately, that would mean you might lose your job given the circumstances. If it’s consensual, both of you are equally at fault. If it’s not, Riddle hopes Azul will burn in a terrible blaze.

But if you do happen to lose your job, it would relieve some of the weight burdening his situation. He could start a real relationship with you. It’s plausible! Perhaps not very realistic, but there’s always a shred of hope to be found in misfortune. 

Riddle wonders if he should just ask you and save himself the headache.

He gazes sidelong at Azul, who has since claimed that seat for his own, and chances a glance at his open notes.

That’s Riddle’s handwriting.

He’s sure of it. That’s his handwriting. He writes his notes in cursive. He writes in a perfect, elegant slant. His letters always connect. There’s no denying it; that’s his handwriting on the page.

A disturbing thought crosses his mind: Has Azul been practicing my handwriting?

It sounds impossibly silly. Who would devote so much time to something so witlessly fraudulent? Riddle wracks his brain for a reasonable explanation. Why would he need to practice someone else’s handwriting? Riddle could understand if Azul struggled to write in English. Most of his work is submitted in his native language. You allow this exception even though Riddle finds it unfair. Maybe it’s because you treat Azul’s work like it’s something special, and you jump through all of these hoops just to get it translated. Why can’t you treat his work with that same amount of care?

Riddle drags his pen along the page, scribbling mindlessly. Why is he doing that? He has nothing to gain from writing like me.

But then Riddle realizes the notebook is the same as his. The same color, in fact. He wonders when Azul purchased a new one. Did he purchase a new one, or has he always had this one?

Riddle looks down at his notebook.

That’s Azul’s handwriting.

He blinks twice and rubs frantically at his eyes. When he looks back at Azul’s notebook, it’s to a page filled with Azul’s stylish scrawl.

Have I…been copying him this entire time?

No, surely not! He would never plagiarize. That’s one of the biggest sins of academia. He couldn’t live with himself if he did that!

Besides, he’s not the copycat. It’s Azul in his sweater vest, boasting the same writing implements as Riddle, using the same brand of notebook. Riddle’s not copying him. It’s Azul. It must be.

It can’t be Riddle. He’d never do such a thing.

After class, you call Riddle up to your desk. He hesitates, his heart thrumming wildly, and shuffles over.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Riddle, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.” You withdraw last week’s assignment from a folder and set it down. “You wrote this, did you not?”

Riddle scans the typed document. “I did, yes.”

“May I ask if the Italian was intentional?”

“The Italian?” he parrots, confused. “I don’t understand what—”

In between brilliantly articulated paragraphs, he’s sprinkled in Italian words and phrases.

He coughs out a rattled laugh. “I must have been studying it for another assignment before I did yours. I…can’t believe this happened. It was fully unintentional. I’m very sorry.”

His face is flushed cherry-red. He’s never felt more humiliated.

“It’s not a big deal. I just wanted to ask. It definitely confused me.” You take the paper from him, smiling that understanding smile he loves so much. But then, rather intrusively, he wonders how many times those soft-looking lips have been on Azul, wrapped around him, sending him to cloud nine… “I actually asked Azul to translate it for me. He said all of it was written correctly. You must be very adept in your Italian.”

“I… I suppose I am,” he answers after a tense minute.

His brain is swirling like sediment stirred up on the ocean floor. When did I pick up Italian? I’m not taking any language courses this semester. I don’t even own an Italian dictionary… Just what in the world is happening?

“Ah, you don’t have to look so pale! It’s not going to affect your grade. I only wanted to fulfill this nagging curiosity of mine. Thank you for all the good work you do.”

Riddle nods mechanically. When you ask if he has time to stick around and discuss more psychology podcasts, he shakes his head and mumbles a feeble excuse.

He tears through his desk and all of the drawers in his room in search of it. If it’s not there, he can relax. If it’s not there, he can chalk it up to stress. If it’s not there—

It’s tucked away in his bookshelf. A little pocket dictionary. English to Italian. And it’s been bookmarked and annotated.

Riddle pulls it from the shelf in a baffled daze. When did he get his hands on this? More importantly, when did he read through it? In a hurry, he empties the contents of his backpack and flips a few pages in his notebook.

His notes from class. Dated for today. Written in Azul’s script. And at the top of the page, an exact copy of his signature, a name that isn’t Riddle’s: Azul Ashengrotto.

Riddle peers at his trembling hands. He flexes his fingers, curls them into a fist and then unfurls them.

He seizes his psychology textbook next and skims the chapter index in search of an answer. He lands on it. Page 371. Dissociation.

Two minutes into a phone call with Trey, he’s asked a simple question: “Are you speaking with an accent?”

Riddle bristles. “Of course I’m not. Of…course I am not,” he says, sounding the words out. His brow furrows. Why does my tongue feel so clumsy in my mouth? “I’ve always spoken this way, have I not?”

“I can’t say. I mean, come on, Riddle. You’ve gotta be pulling my leg.”

“You know very well I don’t pull legs, Trey.”

“You told me buongiorno when I picked up.”

“I did not!” he snaps, scandalized. “I said good morning as I always do.” And then he pauses. “I… I did say good morning, didn’t I?”

Trey’s silence is answer enough.

Riddle sucks in a sharp breath. Neither of them says anything.

Eventually, Trey speaks. “Do you want me to come up there? I could bring you a tart or…something. You sound…tired.” He chooses his words carefully. “Silly question, I know, but I’ve gotta ask. You’re not overworking yourself?”

“No, not at all.”

“And you’re getting enough sleep? What about food?”

Riddle frowns even though Trey isn’t there to see it. “I’m fine, Trey. Midterms are coming up. I’ve got to focus. I refuse to fail.”

Again, the other end is quiet. A minute later, Trey says, “Do you have time this weekend?”

“This weekend?” Riddle flips his planner open to this week. “I do.”

“All right. Is it cool if I visit?”

Riddle almost declines, so it surprises both him and Trey when he replies with, “Please.”

“I’ll be there,” he promises, and the call ends before Riddle can say grazie.

Trey brings six strawberry tarts. Riddle shares three with him over tea at the campus café.

“So what’s up?” Trey points his fork at Riddle. “You sound like yourself, but you don’t seem…fine.”

Riddle chews thoughtfully. He can’t confide in Trey because Trey wouldn’t understand. Because he’d apply Trey Logic to everything, and Trey Logic is almost always sensible. Riddle doesn’t want to hear it.

“I submitted an assignment in Italian,” he says instead, casually, as if it’s not a big deal.

Trey looks at him like he’s grown a third eye. “Since when do you know Italian?”

“I dabble.”

Trey laughs. Upon seeing Riddle’s serious expression, the humor sticks in his throat. “Oh, you meant that. Well. That’s…good then? If it’s for a foreign language course—”

“It was for psychology.”

“You…wrote in Italian…for a psychology assignment?” he reiterates, attempting to parse it. He drags his fork through his cut of tart, but he doesn’t bring it to his lips. “Why?”

“I couldn’t say. It perplexed me to no end when I realized it. My professor thought it was curious.”

“It is. I mean, you don’t find that just a little…unusual?”

Riddle stares at him over the rim of his teacup. 

Trey tries again. “Was the Italian correct, at least? It wasn’t all nonsense?”

He nods. “It was as if I was translating and switching between words. Like using the Italian word in place of an English word.”

“Huh…”

“It’s not very impressive. I can do much better than that.”

“I’m not doubting your capabilities. I’m just…trying to understand why.”

Riddle smiles. “Why not? I think it’s very good to study another language. It opens more doors for opportunity, and it’s a challenge that proves rewarding in the end.”

“Is that it?”

“Precisely.”

The conversation comes to an abrupt halt there. Trey changes the subject. They chat the afternoon away.

Later, Riddle returns to his diary.

He writes an entire entry in perfect Italian. Workbooks pile up on his desk; he’s not sure when they got there. He’s filling them out so fast his hand gains new calluses. 

Azul visits your office around the same time Riddle used to. Now it’s Riddle who trails after him, hoping to catch him in the middle of a nefarious scheme. He’s not sure he’s ready for whatever he might learn, but he swallows his rage and carries on.

Azul turns just as Riddle ducks around the corner, perfectly out of sight. He waits until he hears the tell-tale click of those pristine Oxfords against linoleum before continuing. Azul walks right past your office and then he’s gone. Looking both ways, Riddle creeps further down the hall.

Where is he?

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He whirls around, startled, and is about to unleash verbal tyranny when he stops short. You stand there, looking positively puzzled. 

“Are you looking for something, Riddle?”

“No… I—” He cuts himself off. “Actually, I was hoping I might discuss something with you. The final project.”

“Oh, of course! Did you come earlier? I stepped out of my office for a second. Sorry if my absence had you looking all over.”

Riddle falls into step with you. “It’s quite all right.”

He’s not sure what he hopes to find by sitting in front of your desk, gazing at the familiar interior of your office. He manages to get through all of the questions you ask him regarding the final project.

“I have too many ideas,” he lies, “and I’d like assistance in narrowing the topics down to one.”

He glances slyly at the floor. Would Azul be bold enough to hide a voice recorder or a camera somewhere? Or is there something of Azul’s left in here? A cheeky means of marking his territory, maybe?

Riddle turns up empty.

He stalls the conversation expertly for ten more minutes. During that time, he can’t locate anything from his semi-thorough observations.

Maybe it’s hidden in your desk. Maybe there’s nothing at all.

No. No, there has to be something.

He thanks you for your help and, shouldering his backpack, leaves.

Just as he turns down the hall, Azul steps into his path.

“Your mind is exceedingly, bewilderingly captivating.” He snickers like a devil. Riddle wants to punch him. “So many ideas. Where do you have the space for all of that?”

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop.”

“Oh, is that so?” Azul taps at his phone and then turns the screen towards Riddle. There’s a picture of him in the hall, looking awfully disoriented. “It’s not very polite to stalk now, is it, amico?”

Riddle narrows his eyes. “How easily that accent comes. Almost like flipping a switch.”

“Non capisco.”

“You should know you’re going to ruin your life and Professor’s.”

“I’m not.” He smiles cryptically. “You’re going to ruin it for me.”

Fed up with his attempt at mind chess, Riddle stalks past him in a huff.

You walk into class five minutes late, disheveled and breathless. You’re babbling about a meeting that ran late, but Riddle can’t trust that.

Meetings don’t end in frazzled hair and crooked ties.

What’s even more damning, perhaps, is when Azul Never-Late-to-Class Ashengrotto walks in fifteen minutes after you. He sits in the seat beside Riddle. There’s not a hair out of place on his person. Except there is. The glass face of his luxury wristwatch is smudged with a fingerprint.

Riddle wonders what forensics would have to say about that.

He phases in and out of focus during the lecture. He can’t stop searching you for fine details. He can’t stop questioning Azul’s presence beside him.

How dare you? he thinks. How dare you defile my professor? What makes you think you have the right to do such a thing when I’ve been working hard all this time? When I’ve been nothing but perfect…

He glances at his notebook. A single phrase has been scrawled over and over, so manically that the lines loop and overlap in angry criss-crosses. Lo voglio morto.

At the end of class, Riddle catches Azul in the hall.

“I would like to review with you for our upcoming midterm.”

“What an honor.”

Riddle hums. “Let’s compare our notes tonight. You can stop by my room after dinner.”

Azul grins like he can read through Riddle. Like he’s in on a joke Riddle’s not privy to.

“I would be happy to study alongside you,” he says, his accent thick.

Riddle imagines a rope around his neck. A rope of thorns and barbed wire, pressing into his jugular until, inevitably, it severs his head clean off.

Azul arrives on time. He really does feel like an echo of Riddle. Same school supplies. Same notebooks. Same fashion style. Same manner of writing.

Riddle shuts and locks the door behind him. He doesn’t waste time waltzing around the subject.

“You’re the reason Professor was late today.”

“You’re mistaken. I simply lost track of the time.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then what is? I had nothing to do with Professor’s tardiness. If it bothers you so much, why not tell Professor to be more conscious of the time?”

Riddle grits his teeth. He’s sick of this. Sick of these mind games. Sick of all this mental chess.

Sick of the fact that he gets to have you when you should have been Riddle’s from the start!

“You’re a liar! Do you know the gravity of your actions—the severe consequences that’ll undoubtedly befall Professor? Do you know you’re jeopardizing a brilliant mind all for your own immature fun?”

Azul holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Those are harsh accusations. They could ruin my life, you know.”

“Oh, like that’s such an issue.” Riddle scowls.

“Your room is quite nice, I must say.” Azul looks around, his hands in his pockets. He spies the many Italian workbooks lining Riddle’s shelf, and a slimy smirk pulls at his lips. “Imitatore,” he marvels, his eyes bright with an eerie sort of joy. As if he’s just discovered a particularly filthy secret and can’t wait to tell someone.

“If it isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

“And what makes you think Professor would ever entertain you?” Azul rounds on him, still smiling. “Professor loves me most. There was never any room for you.”

Riddle hears the distant crackle of something fraying. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I? All I did was take your best characteristics and make them even better. Italian lovers are a romanticized ideal abroad. You were never an option, let alone a consideration.”

How dare you. How dare you. How dare you!

Azul steps towards the door. “Addio. Le mie condoglianze.”

That something inside Riddle finally snaps, and with it goes his restraint. He grabs Azul’s wrist and yanks him to the floor. There’s a struggle for survival. During the scuffle, Azul claws at Riddle’s arm and face. Riddle kicks him down. And then his fingers wrap around his psychology textbook—all 800-something pages, a hardcover—and he brings it down, brutal like a guillotine.

“How dare you walk away in the middle of a conversation!” he berates, lips curled in a monstrous sneer. “How dare you touch what isn’t yours—what you didn’t earn!”

He thinks he sees a real smile on Azul’s face, but in the midst of blind rage he can’t tell.

He sees red. He feels red. It splatters his room in a mess of broken bone and pulpy gore. It flecks his face, warm and thick and soupy.

It all ends with Intro to Psych.

Riddle is bathed in blue light, afloat on a chaotic sea.

Distantly, in the back of his mind, he can hear his mother in hysterics: What have you done?! Do you have any idea what you’ve just done—the future you’ve so carelessly thrown away?! All of my hard work?! Do you realize what you’ve done?!

And he does.

If there’s anything Riddle has ever been one-hundred-percent certain of in his life, it’s this. He sits on the steps to his dormitory, battered and bloodied, and bites into the strawberry tart clutched between crimson-stained fingers.

Despite the crisp autumn air, he feels warm.

An officer approaches him just as he’s licking his fingers clean of strawberry and blood.

He holds his arms out before the woman can say anything. He already knows what comes next.

Riddle has always wondered what criminals think and feel in the aftermath of grisly crimes. He can’t feel much of anything other than hollow relief. Maybe that’s just the adrenaline snuffing logical thought and remorse. He thinks everything and nothing all at once. He’s sure he’ll feel it all come crashing down when he’s sat in the station for questioning and then the reality of his actions will seep in, awakening him from a vile, murderous dream.

Right now, he isn’t concerned with that.

You lived filthy and you died just the same, Riddle thinks as he’s led to a police car. And now there’s no part of you Professor will ever want.

[jscrawls]

Widows rest

My take on a Black widow! Reader x Batman and Batfam but with a slight twist, reader doesn't know the Bats but they seem to know them...

Warning: contains avengers infinity war spoilers, black widow spoilers, brief mentions of violence, hospitals, poor writing, possible ooc,

Part 8: happy home

🔹🔹🔹

You're officially going ‘home’ today, the doctors have decided that you're well enough to get the boot. It's a little strange to think about, as much as you hate this place it's also the only point of this world you actually know. You have no other base here, no aliases, no hidden safehouse, no Natalia, just you and some strangers. There's been a tension in your shoulders all day, thankfully no one's commented on it yet.

“Are you ready mx Wayne? I've prepared one of the more subtle cars today.” The older man comments respectfully, he's tall, thin, almost haggardly so. yet he carries himself like a military general. Mr pennyworth is an odd one for sure, he eyes the clothes he brought you critically, like he's nitpicking the minute details of you while speaking in respectful deference. It's almost amusing.

“One of the - do you think we'll be attacked or something.” Your tone is flat, yet your words are meant in jest. Though you are curious just how much your husband wastes on cars if there's a selection to pick from.

“If the paparazzi got a sniff of you, then yeah. Might as well count as an attack.” The tall kid mutters as he grabs your bag off the bed, you should probably start calling him Jason instead of the tall one, but eh.

You briefly eye the bag, the only things of ‘yours’ in it is your phone, your medication, and the syringe you managed to keep all this time. You'd tucked that under a layer when you were changing out of the stupid hospital clothes in the bathroom.

“…why would they care about someone leaving a hospital? Isn't Bruce the famous one of the two of us?” The thought annoys and baffles you, most of your experience with press was them accusing you of various assassinations and demanding you be locked away so you're not exactly too keen to run into issue here.

“Mx Wayne, you are a minor celebrity, whether you remember it or not. Being ‘just the spouse’ doesn't mean you're completely hidden in Bruce's shadow.” Mr pennyworth says firmly, his posture straightening slightly, his chin tilting up, he's trying to be firm, He clearly wants to get the message through you.

“…alright, point taken. Shall we?” You start towards the door to your room, both relieved and pissed to leave this place.

“Ahem, are you forgetting doctor's orders?” The tall one- Jason grabs the handles of your wheelchair in the corner, in that moment you want to grab it and throw it off the rooftop.

🔹🔹🔹

You slide the sunglasses a little higher up your nose as you approach the doors, Jason pushing your chair and holding your bag on his arm while Alfred walks in front of you both towards the back exit. Your thoughts drifting towards the next steps, planning your next move…. But why? what exactly are you doing? Playing pretend out of habit, no real mission here. No loyalty or fealty to uphold. No goal in mind. It's a strange train in thought to hit you right as your bathing wheeled out the door by your supposed kid.

You nearly swing an elbow when something is suddenly shoved in your face, a microphone hitting your chin while Jason curses loudly behind you and body blocks the reporter, the duo had been hiding in the bushes like a couple of wild animals.

“Mx Wayne! A word! A word please!” The dark haired woman persists, flailing around Jason while shouting at you, waving her microphone like she's wielding a weapon. “Any comment on your hospital stay? What did you think of your attackers trial? Are the rumors true that you're splitting from Mr Wayne due to your injuries?”

“No comment, don't you people have anyone else to harass?” Jason barks at them, now it's clear to you why he insisted on coming today, he's practically a shield with his stature.

The cameraman tries to slip past Jason, practically kicking at him as he tries to get a close-up of your face. Alfred all but shoves past him as he quickly takes over Jason's job of pushing your chair, grumbling quietly so only you can hear him.

“dear Lord above, no manners these days…”

You're tense, even that small interaction has you feeling put off and unsettled, you're secretive by nature, feeling at odds with yourself already, and now someone's trying to plaster your face on a channel or magazine? Treating you like the press treats Stark? It feels like your skin is crawling, a deeply unsettled feeling nestles in your stomach as you're quickly helped into a car.

🔹🔹🔹

You stare up at the mansion with a neutral expression as you drive up to it, well as the butler drives. Him and Jason have been discussing your physical therapy schedule for a few minutes now while you quietly stare up the long driveway, something about attending every week and needing shots every few days, you really should pay more attention. Gather Intel while you can, yet you're more focused on your newfound freedom.

…Though with the way this place is built, you're still not so free. The manor could pass for a sanitarium, large gates surround the property and you think you can see evidence of security cameras on key points, you agreed to come to this place for appearance sake, but now you kinda wish you'd demanded your own apartment instead. Something private where you wouldn't be locked in a house full of strangers calling you their parent.

“…do you recall anything about this place? Anything…reminding you of anything or…” the butler questions you when he notices your focus elsewhere, Jason glances from the passenger seat back at you with what you can only call a hopeful look in his eyes.

You shake your head slowly, watching as you wheel closer to your next lock-in. “No…nothing at all…tell me a little about it?” Your response is automatic, tone shifting to curiosity and meekness as you meet their stares, though inside you feel hollow as the car parks.

🔹🔹🔹

“-and this is one of your favorite rooms, the library.” Alfred gestures broadly as he opens the double doors, just like with every other room he's shown you.

“Alright…”

You step inside with Jason grabbing your arm like you'll fall on your face, and take it in, the room could pass as part of a public library. It smells musty and old, aging paper and real leather furniture apparent, you walk towards a random shelf and slowly trail your fingers across the spines as you read the titles, Austen, Dickens, Hemingway, Woolf, brontë, the Wayne's are big collectors of the classics it seems.

You glance over your shoulder, catching Jason settling on an armchair with a book in hand, Alfred stands at the door and just…watches you. The old fellow is quite observant you've noticed.

“Something wrong, Mr pennyworth?” your voice is gentle, watching him as closely as he watches you. He shifts just slightly, expression not changing even as Jason looks up from his book to watch.

“Not at all, master Wayne. Are you feeling up for more of the tour? There's still the sitting rooms and the sleeping areas, oh, and the cellars. Silly me.” He's equally gentle, yet you get the feeling this is suddenly a game of some sort. Something telling you to keep a lid on around him.

You fully turn to face him, hand dropping back at your side. “I'm surprisingly tired, to be frank. As little as I've done today…” you don't need to put on an act for that, you're actually exhausted, have been since the paparazzi incident as you left the hospital.

It's silent for a beat, Jason looks between the two of you with a confused furrow on his brow. You and the butler staring at each other like this is a game of cat and mouse. Finally the butler speaks.

“Yes that would happen, being hospitalized for as long as you were can have…. Strange effects on one. Come along if you're able.” He turns on his heel and leaves without waiting to see if you'll follow.

Your brow furrows just a second as you walk after him, was he implying something?

🔹🔹🔹

M.list | prev | next

A/n: we're finally out of the hospital! It only took *checks notes* eight chapters. Lol the interactions are gonna be a lot more interesting now hopefully 😉

Taglist: @cxcilla @mercuryathens @dind1n @redsakura101 @ninihrtss @let-me-dance @ladykamos @one-piecelover @cuntiesweet

[circeyoru]

Darkest Confession = Requested

[Human!Alastor x Serial Killer Enthusiast!Reader]

Everyone have that one thing that really really sets them apart from the group, right? Some can be way too addicted with coffee that they don’t sleep much cause of it, or some can be so obsessed with ducks that they have a whole collection of it (ahem Lucifer ahem anyways…). Either way, usually it’s harmless

No, not you

You were no police officer or detective, or any career related to crime. You were someone simple working from place to place, always moving. Yet you found yourself engrossed with the art of killing. No, you don’t kill yourself. But you love to read about the people that do, specifically, serial killers

To just have the urge to kill and do it then deal with the consequences. It was like the most extreme of goal making. The thing with serial killers is that they mostly pick random people off the streets and kill for whatever reason they have. One can’t link the killings back to the killer because there was none! Oh, how you eat those stories up like a bedtime story

You somewhat study serial killers and their killings, feeling drawn to them enough that you’d move from place to place. It was your drive and your calling. One you keep quite deep down, you’d let this side of you out from time to time, but you had to control it since some might think you deserve the straight jacket or put in a hospital, or just label you as mental

Close friends and your family knew this side of you and said one day you’d be in deep waters for this interest of yours. They had advised you to stop and just push it away, find something else to think. Maybe a romantic partner that you can settle down with?

Hell no! (like Charlie to Val)

You follow serial killer stories from place to place. As sad that it was to know it after the killings were brought to light because of the slow news outlet, you take what you can. You’d mostly maybe catch a glimpse of the killer, behind bars or during trials

There was a few close calls. You recall yourself impersonating a reporter to interview the killer and your interest in them got them to talk, but you had to left before someone caught on you weren’t a reporter. Another time, a writer hired a helper to talk with a killer on trial, you wrote so much notes that the writer wanted you long term

Still no, you left to follow more serial killers when you could

You heard of a serial killer at large. In New Orleans, City in Louisiana. You heard it over the radio from a rising host that took over the hearts of the people, even outside of his hometown. He detailed the killings, even claiming to have seen a few of the bodies alongside the police so he could offer a clearer picture to the listeners of the horrors the killer can do and wasn’t afraid to show off

A serial killer still free and in society. While the other listeners in the cafe shivered and whispers to each other to be cautious or relief that the killer wasn’t in their town or city, you were planning your next travel

Next stop the New Orleans, hunting ground of the Bayou Serial Killer

Settling down was easy since you had been so custom to it. Like always, you wandered a bit, get the feel of the place and its people, the vibe of the city so you can fit in. Then you visited the place where the bodies were found, information provided by the local newspaper and the radio talkshows

You didn’t know then. That someone was following you after a few of your visits to the body dumping grounds. You certainly didn’t know that chance encounter with the radio host was staged

“I’d like coffee, black!” You heard the familiar voice ring. You didn’t have to look up to know the customers and staff members of the cafe all drawn to the man that ordered at the counter. You rolled your eyes. It was the famous radio host, Alastor, he started frequenting this cafe only recently (when you showed up in town) and would take his morning coffee here before he goes live

If only he was a serial killer or someone close to one… You remember the first time seeing him when he entered the cafe. You wanted to approach him, but he was always eyed by the people that put him on a pestasole. You learned to stay clear of people like that because, there were always some fans crazier than the other. Take yourself as an example, with your obsession and addiction to killers

“May I join you, my dear fellow?” Your eyes quickly scanned the place. Why was it so full today? You didn’t say anything and just gestured to the empty seat opposite to you in your booth. Great, now you had to go to work early because you wanted to avoid him. Wait

“Are you writing your script now?” You blinked at the notepad Alastor started to scribble over, you couldn’t just start by asking ‘are you writing your script on the serial killer? Can I see, please?’. Your keen eyes caught the words ‘serial killer’ and ‘bodies’

Alastor chuckled and said he was merely reorganizing his thoughts so he could envision his radio host as smoothly as possible for the listeners. You blink ‘for the listeners’, again with that. But does he really put others first behind himself? Somehow you didn’t think so

Of course his notes got you to put your attention on him. Alastor had to internally grin. He noticed a new face in town after some time. Then he noticed you going to his dumping grounds. He had thought you were a new detective or police to hunt him down by looking over new evidence. He thought he was right when he saw you noting down the surroundings even with the absence of the body

You were followed carefully to check if you had family and/or friends that would make a fuss of your disappearance. When you had none, he thought you were an easy target. But you weren’t a detective nor a police. Imagine his surprise when he only found you returning home. Never once had you went to the police with that notepad of yours

Odd

So he followed some more. It then that he noticed you had a spark in your eyes whenever serial killers or their killings were mentioned. While other would shiver with the sight of fear in their eyes, you had interest and excitement. So odd, but he didn’t dislike it. It fueled his interest in you

He tried striking conversations with you, but you were so plain and common, one he can brush off as a local polite individual. You fitted in with the commonality that quickly and easily. Though his concern was your disinterest and ignorance to him, he once let his assistant to play a pre-recorded show to see your reactions to his killings reported

There it was. You and that spark of yours with that notepad and pen, writing so furiously like you were possessed. You were more expressive and childish even, swaying from side to side, tapping your feet, drumming your fingers. It was like he witnessed your true self. He confirmed it when the topic changed and like a switch, you were that mundane self of yours

It was all so fasincinating to him and he had to talk to the real you. So he staged this meeting. He was right on the money, you would start off with someone common, then poke at your interest, wanting him to start the topic so you’d be involved. Slowly and with time though, you’d just talk outright with him

It was routine for him, meeting you before his show at that cafe and in their secluded booth you basically marked your own when it was in the morning. He’s review his notes with you and then talk about the (his) killings with you, the newest discoveries, the clues that detectives and polices missed, all that juicy details you’d like

Another problem came. You saw him as a friend. He saw you as a romantic interest

To you, it was rare that you could connect this much with someone. No one back home, not even your closest family members and frends, would indulge with you in this interest of yours. No matter how much you spoke your thoughts on serial killers and their killings, Alastor didn’t push you away and even ask questions on your thoughts. You cared so much for him, as a friend, but he wasn’t your interest

To him, you were now one of his reason to kill more. That bloodlust was on par with the spark you’d have in your eyes when he struck again. Some poor victim died and you only focused on him, the killer! He once compared you to his friend Mimzy, she knew and helped his killings, but she didn’t give him the same joy and bubbly emotions he’d have when talking to you about his kills. It wasn’t the same. So were you the one? The one to his cold dark heart.

And he confessed. More than just his feelings

“My dearest darling, I would be so honoured if you’d agree to allow me the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to officially court you.”

“No.” There was no hesitation in your voice, nor was there a pause. “Sorry, Alastor, I just considered myself married to serial killers. Or at least, this one in your town. I love them no matter what. So I can’t accept your feelings. But I hope we can continue being fr—”

Alastor held onto you, it was just a stroke of luck that this place was the secluded forest he was familiar with. He kneeled down on one knee and kissed your knuckles, his eyes staring straight at you with that crazed look in his eyes and that murderous grin he only let his victims see, “Allow me to reintroduce myself. My name is Alastor, the Bayou Serial Killer.”

Note: I had SO MUCH FUN writing for this. Thank you for suggesting this, Any~ (I’ll just call all the anonymous asks this from now on). I would tag the person but this is anonymous request (╯︿╰)

Requests are open, but keep in mind of what I wrote in the Masterlist. I’ll ultimately decide whether or not to write for them. Thanks!

Circe Y.

MASTERLIST

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Legal Thrillers

Legal thrillers - a fiction genre that focuses on crimes, courtroom scenes, and the legal system in general.

Legal thriller authors often source their protagonists from the key players in a court of law such as a district attorney, a defense attorney, corporate litigators, personal injury lawyers, judges, and jurors.

Legal thriller novels feature all the same stakes as standard fiction—strong protagonists, rising action, conflict, riveting climaxes—while decidedly orienting themselves in the realm of the law.

For decades, readers have responded to this genre and made legal thriller books continual bestsellers—particularly in the world of mass-market paperbacks.

Common Characteristics of Legal Thrillers

Legal thriller books vary in length and subject matter, but they tend to feature three common elements.

Main characters who work in the legal field: Legal thriller protagonists tend to be judges, prosecutors, defense lawyers, or jurors. They can also be citizens accused of crimes or accusing others of crimes. This grounding in the world of courts and the law distinguishes legal thrillers from other genres.

Mystery and twists: Some legal thrillers are murder mysteries, where a killer's identity is unknown for much of the novel. Others feature wrongfully accused people, and readers must delve deep into the book to discover the true perpetrators. Readers are drawn to legal thrillers containing twists and surprises, and these twists usually involve criminal activity.

A sense of justice: Justice tends to be a prevailing theme in legal thrillers. While main characters may strive for other things as well—like romantic fulfillment and personal glory—they are often driven by an overriding need for justice. Sometimes justice takes the form of court verdicts; other times it manifests as revenge on perpetrators.

Tips for Legal Thriller Writers

Legal thrillers' enduring success in the world of new books, mass-market paperbacks, audiobooks, and film adaptations makes it an alluring genre for new writers. Keep the following tips in mind as you write a legal thriller novel of your own.

Research the law. The American legal system encompasses federal law, state and municipal law, and even tenets of English common law. Make sure you have a clear grasp of the laws and court proceedings you choose to feature in your novel.

Focus on story and character. The elements that drive the best legal thriller books are those that drive any good novel. Three-dimensional main characters with relatable emotions, a plot that progresses forward, and a setting that feels grounded all make for a compelling story. Details about civil procedure or criminal law add depth to legal thrillers, but avoid overwhelming the reader with legal minutia.

Write with a plan. Legal thrillers must piece together like a puzzle, such that when a reader gets to the end, the climax feels appropriately set up by the story that preceded it. Too many red herrings or a deus ex machina ending can make for an unsatisfying reading experience. Instead, aim to craft a legal thriller like a puzzle or an architectural blueprint where every component plays a role in the final payoff.

Examples of Legal Thrillers

The best legal thriller books combine the courtroom drama with the real emotions and motivations that drive so much memorable fiction.

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (1960): The modern-day American love affair with legal thrillers can trace its roots back to Lee's 1960 classic. On its surface, it is a coming-of-age story about a young girl, Scout Finch, in a small town. Yet its endurance owes to a legal trial in which Scout's father, Atticus, defends a Black man named Tom Robinson who has been wrongly accused of sexual assault by a white woman. The book remains a mainstay of school reading curricula.

A Time to Kill by John Grisham (1989): John Grisham has penned a number of legal bestsellers including The Firm, The Pelican Brief, The Runaway Jury, and Sycamore Row. Yet many readers turn to his 1989 debut, A Time to Kill, as a touchstone of contemporary legal thrillers. In it, a Black man named Carl Lee Hailey enacts revenge on two white supremacists who raped his daughter. Carl's murder case is handled by white attorney Jake Brigance, whom Grisham modeled on himself when he was fresh out of law school.

Presumed Innocent by Scott Turow (1987): Before John Grisham dominated the landscape of legal thrillers, Scott Turow supercharged the genre with this 1987 tale of Rožat "Rusty" Sabich, a prosecutor in fictional Kindle County, Illinois. Accused of the graphic murder of a colleague and one-time lover, Rusty must battle to clear his name and track down the real killer of his colleague.

The Lincoln Lawyer by Michael Connelly (2005): Los Angeles lawyer Mickey Haller—the half-brother of another Connelly character, LAPD detective Harry Bosch—operates his law practice out of his Lincoln Town Car. Like Atticus Finch, Haller is called upon to save a wrongly accused man, and in doing so he uncovers unspeakable criminal activity.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[guardian-of-time-if]

RO Profile: Sentinel, The Witch Hunter

Sentinel, the esoteric elf, is an influential member of the Dragon Seekers, and assigned by their council to protect you while you take your final trial.

The man with no surname is often simply refered to as The Witch Hunter, even among fellow dragon seekers. He guards you faithfully during your trials, and even remains by your side when you return home, claiming your still in danger.

Appearance: Sentinel is the shortest RO. He has a beige skin tone, and shaved black hair. His eyes are violet with golden flakes in them. As for body types, he has a thin wiry build. He also has several tattoos that remain covered. (Will explain in more detail when MC sees them.)

First appears: Chapter 4 (written but not yet released).

Special considerations/factors for romance: Cannot be romanced if you marry Lukyan.

Tags: ro: sentinel

[ltash]

The Bodyguard pt-1

Part 2 & 3 link in the end.

SimonGhostRileyxfemalereader

The boardroom was sleek, modern, and imposing, with dark wood panelling and a sprawling glass table. Sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting sharp shadows across the faces of the people who had slowly filed in, each flashing rehearsed smiles in your direction. You leaned back in your chair, absentmindedly chewing on the end of a sleek silver pen, your eyes sharp, taking in every movement, every fake expression.

Five guards stood silently behind you, their presence a subtle but unmistakable reminder of your authority. You were untouchable here, or at least, that's what you needed them to believe. As the CEO and heiress of Aventis Pharmaceuticals, a company built on generational influence, you knew there were black sheep lurking within your empire. You could feel it in the way certain board members avoided your gaze, shifting uncomfortably under your silent scrutiny.

"Let's get started," you said, your voice calm but unyielding as you set the pen down, giving each person a measured look. "I need the details on the latest antinarcotic project we're working on."

There was a pause before the head of R&D, Dr. Marcus Lewin cleared his throat. He looked pale, though you couldn't tell if it was the lighting or nerves. "Ah... of course, Miss Aventis," he began, shuffling some papers before him. "We're in the third phase of clinical trials now. The formula has shown promising results, minimal side effects, with a faster recovery rate compared to the last version."

You raised an eyebrow, watching him squirm slightly. "Minimal side effects?" you repeated. "We're aiming for a groundbreaking product, Dr. Lewin. I expect 'minimal' to be an understatement."

"Yes, of course," he stammered, nodding vigorously. "I, uh, apologize. We're working on further improvements. There's also some data regarding efficacy rates in the latest testing group. I can forward the specifics to you."

You leaned forward slightly, your gaze hardening. "Forward them to me? Dr. Lewin, I'd prefer a comprehensive update now from you. Or are there... issues you'd rather not discuss here?"

A few other board members shifted uncomfortably, casting sidelong glances at one another. But Dr. Lewin managed a stiff smile. "No issues, Miss Aventis. We've been gathering the results carefully. We're confident we can meet the expected deadline and provide a full report for you to review."

You nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch. "Good. I expect nothing less. And, just to be clear," you said, glancing around the table at the assembled members, "I don't tolerate surprises. If there are any... discrepancies, now is the time to disclose them. Otherwise, I expect total transparency."

A hush fell over the room.

Your gaze shifted to Martin Hayes, the company's CFO, a man known for his sharp financial acumen and, at times, slippery ethics. He sat across the table, his fingers tapping nervously against his folder. He offered a tight, polite smile as he looked up to meet your eyes.

"And about our deal with that company?" you asked, your voice cool, with just a hint of impatience.

Martin cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. "Yes, of course, Miss Aventis. The partnership with Arcadia Biotech is progressing as planned. We've secured favourable terms for both manufacturing and distribution, ensuring a significant reduction in costs while increasing production capabilities."

You tilted your head, studying him. "And Arcadia is still unaware of our... competitive projects?"

He hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, but you didn't miss it. "They're completely in the dark," he assured quickly. "We've kept all sensitive projects under strict confidentiality clauses. As far as Arcadia is concerned, they're our exclusive partners in the development and distribution of the existing narcotic treatments."

You tapped your fingers against the table. "Good. I'd like a written assurance from you that our proprietary research won't leak. If Arcadia or any other competitor even hints at knowing about our new product, I'll know who to turn to, won't I, Martin?"

The colour drained slightly from his face. "Absolutely, Miss Aventis. You have my word; I'll have our legal team draft an ironclad document."

"See that you do." You leaned back, giving him a faint smile as if to relieve the tension just slightly. "And remember, gentlemen and ladies," you added, letting your gaze roam around the table, "we're here to lead the industry-not to compete in petty games. I expect only the highest standards of loyalty and discretion."

A murmur of agreement filled the room, the board members nodding.

You leaned forward, placing both hands on the table, and fixed each board member with a piercing stare. The boardroom fell silent, the tension thick in the air.

"Also, remember this," you said, your voice low but unwavering. "I am more than capable of running my father's company. Each of you is here because you're shareholders, yes, but let's not mistake that for immunity."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed a few faces, and you didn't miss a beat.

"If I find out that anyone here has tampered with our formulas, compromised our products, or made any attempt to sabotage the reputation of Aventis Pharma..." You let the threat hang in the air for a moment, letting them feel the weight of your words. "Then you'll all be sinking with me. I won't hesitate to bring down every last one of you along with this company if it comes to that."

Martin Hayes shifted uncomfortably, his collar suddenly seeming a little too tight. Dr. Lewin was looking down at his notes, his jaw clenched, while a few others exchanged uneasy glances.

"Now," you continued, sitting back but keeping your gaze sharp, "let's ensure that it never comes to that. We are all on the same side, or we should be. Our success is your success. I expect complete loyalty to the vision my father built and entrusted me to lead."

You let the silence settle, watching them absorb your message. Finally, you smiled, but it was a smile of steel. "Any questions?"

No one spoke up, and you nodded in satisfaction. The boardroom felt smaller, suddenly less crowded with ambition and more attuned to your authority.

The boardroom cleared, and with a curt nod, you dismissed the meeting. Rising from your seat, you walked out with purposeful strides, your five bodyguards falling in line behind you, each scanning the area, their presence, an unspoken wall of security. You exited the building and moved toward the parking lot, where the air was still and quiet, almost eerily so.

Your eyes drifted to a Hummer parked discreetly in the far corner. It felt out of place, like a shadow that didn't belong. You slipped into your sleek sports car, the engine purring to life, but an uneasy feeling gnawed at you. Suddenly, figures emerged from the darkness, men with sharp eyes and cold expressions, each one wielding M14 rifles. Diego Garcia's assassins. The Hummer door stayed shut, but you caught a glimpse of Garcia himself watching from within, his gaze locked on you.

Before you could react, a hail of bullets erupted. Your heart thundered as your bodyguards sprang into action, returning fire, but the assassins moved with ruthless precision. In moments, one by one, your guards went down, each man fighting until his last breath but hopelessly outnumbered. You watched in horror, paralyzed as they fell, each life extinguished in seconds. You barely registered your own scream, choked by terror and fury, as the sounds of gunfire faded, leaving only silence and blood.

Your hands fumbled, trying to unlock the doors, but they were stuck, trapping you in the vehicle like a helpless bystander in a nightmare. You felt your pulse race as the shadows closed in, and then Diego was there, standing right outside your window, his face illuminated in the dim parking lot light. He smiled, a dark, twisted smile that sent chills through you.

"Mine," he whispered through the glass, his voice laced with malice and satisfaction.

A wave of dizziness overtook you, and everything spun. His words echoed in your mind as your vision blurred. Helpless and horrified, you slipped into unconsciousness, the last image seared into your memory: Diego's face, and that sinister smile that promised nothing but darkness.

A week had passed since the attack, but the memory of it still haunted you, flickering at the edge of your thoughts as you sat on the plush velvet sofa in your expansive drawing room. Sunlight poured through the towering windows, casting a warm glow over the gleaming marble floors and the breathtaking view of the Los Angeles skyline stretched beyond, grounding you in the opulence of your mansion. The faint hum of a helicopter faded as it settled on the rooftop, carrying with it your new bodyguard: Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley, a man whose reputation preceded him.

The sound of heavy boots echoed through the hallways, each step precise and deliberate, growing closer until the double doors swung open. You rose from the sofa, instinctively straightening your posture as the figure of Ghost entered the room, his presence consuming it instantly. He was massive, towering over you at 6'4", his muscular frame stretching the fabric of his black t-shirt, every inch of him exuding strength and danger. His broad chest and shoulders were carved with the kind of power that comes only from a life on the battlefield, and his thick, muscular thighs tested the seams of his black cargo pants. A holstered firearm rested against his leg, a stark reminder of the deadly world you were stepping into.

But it was his eyes that struck you the hardest. Deep brown and unwavering, they locked onto yours with an intensity that felt almost physical, as if they could see straight through every secret you held. A skull-patterned bandana covered most of his face, concealing his expression, but his gaze was enough, it was fierce, calculating, and unyielding. His buzz-cut hair, a dirty blonde, caught a hint of sunlight, and a jagged scar traced down his left temple, the brutal souvenir of battles fought and survived.

The contrast between the two of you felt almost surreal, his raw, masculine power against your delicate, fragile beauty. At just five feet tall, your frame seemed almost dainty by comparison, a striking contrast of elegance and strength. The soft material of your dress hugged your figure, emphasizing the curve of your waist and your petite, curvy form, while your brown, doe-like eyes met his with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

"This is Ghost, ma'am," he nodded, his voice low, gravelly, resonant. The sound of it sent a shiver down your spine, filling the room as thoroughly as his presence did.

You hesitated, caught off guard by his intensity, before extending your hand. "Lieutenant Riley," you greeted, your voice steady even as you took in every detail of the man before you. "I've heard a lot about you."

He accepted your hand, his grip firm and respectful, but his eyes stayed sharp and assessing, as if already calculating every risk, every angle of protection.

"Welcome to my mansion. How was your journey?" you asked, settling yourself elegantly on the velvet couch, your posture flawless.

"The journey was fine, ma'am," he replied, his deep voice rumbling through the room. He took a step closer, crossing his arms, his gaze intense and assessing. "The view from the landing pad is quite something, too."

You felt his eyes linger, moving over you, taking in the details of your petite frame and the way your bodycon dress clung to your curves. He tried to keep his focus professional, but it was hard not to notice the finer details.

"Tea, coffee, or whiskey?" you offered.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Whiskey," he replied without hesitation, his gaze still fixed on you.

With a small nod, you rose from the sofa and moved to the bar across the room, reaching for the bottle of Kentucky bourbon. His eyes tracked your every movement, lingering on the bare skin between the thin straps of your dress. The dress hugged your form perfectly, and though he kept his face stoic, his attention remained unwavering as you poured the amber liquid into a glass.

You turned, holding the glass in your hand, and extended it to him. He stepped forward, his calloused fingers wrapping around the glass, brushing lightly against yours. The brief contact sent a jolt up your arm, but his face revealed nothing, not a hint of reaction. He lifted the glass to his lips, taking a slow, measured sip, all the while keeping his gaze steady on you.

You leaned back onto the plush sofa, crossing your legs elegantly, watching as he brought the glass of bourbon to his lips, taking a slow sip without breaking eye contact. The slight tension in the room was palpable, each of you sizing up the other, feeling out the boundaries of this unfamiliar relationship.

"So," you murmured, a faint hint of curiosity in your tone, "you wear the skull mask, Ghost..."

His eyes narrowed slightly above the edge of his mask, a flicker of irritation passing through them. He lowered the glass, studying you in silence for a moment before he replied, his tone even. "It's part of the job," he said. "Helps me keep things... impersonal. No one gets to see my face."

You tilted your head, not breaking his gaze. "Not even me?" you asked softly, a subtle challenge in your voice. "Not even the person you're here to protect?"

There was a beat of silence, his eyes dark and unreadable behind the mask. For a moment, you thought he might look away or ignore the question altogether. But then he spoke, his tone a shade more guarded. "Protection is about distance, ma'am. Masks help with that. It's not personal, just how I keep a clear line between my duty and... everything else."

You took a slow breath, absorbing his words. "Clear lines, huh?" You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand as you studied him, his formidable frame, his stoic face, the shadows that clung to him. "Is that what works best for you, Lieutenant? No attachments, no faces, just the mission?"

He held your gaze, unflinching. "It's what's kept me alive." His answer was calm, unwavering, as though he'd thought it through many times before.

You nodded, acknowledging the harsh reality he lived by. "Well, I suppose I can respect that," you replied, your voice soft but thoughtful. "But you should know, Ghost, this won't be a typical mission. There are things at play here that... don't fit within clear lines."

He didn't respond, but his intense gaze on you seemed to deepen, like he was silently bracing himself for the unknown. Finally, he gave a slight nod, the barest hint of understanding in his eyes.

"Understood," he said, his tone low and resolute. And in that moment, you realized that, for all the distance he wanted to maintain, his presence, steady and unyielding, was exactly what you needed.

"Diego Garcia," you said, your voice quiet but resolute. "The Santiago Cartel."

Ghost's expression darkened. The name carried weight, a reputation steeped in violence. "Diego Garcia," he repeated, his tone grim. "Powerful, ruthless, no ordinary drug lord."

"He's bigger than Valeria Garza. More dangerous than El Sin Nombre."

Ghost's gaze was sharp, intense. "I know. Santiago Cartel is one of the deadliest in Mexico, and Garcia's the head of the snake."

"He's after me," you admitted, feeling the weight of the words as they left your lips.

Ghost's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"My company produces anti-narcotics," you explained. "We sell the cure. He sells the poison."

Recognition flickered in his eyes. "You're cutting into his profits," he said, understanding dawning. "You make him look weak."

"We're about to launch a new antidote," you continued. "One that blocks the effects of drugs like cocaine, fentanyl. It's still in testing, but it'll be on the market soon."

He nodded slowly, processing it. "The cartel won't let that happen. They'll do whatever it takes to stop you."

You felt a shiver at his words but pushed on. "He's already killed for it. My bodyguards... I watched them die, right in front of me."

A muscle tightened in Ghost's jaw. "He killed them in front of you," he said, his voice low, edged with anger. "Bastard doesn't play by any rules."

"He sent his men. They were armed with M14 rifles. My men didn't stand a chance."

His expression grew grim. "M14s. No wonder your guards didn't make it."

"Laswell suggested you," you continued, watching him closely. "She said if anyone could handle Garcia, it'd be you."

He met your gaze, a flicker of confidence in his eyes. "She's not wrong. I've dealt with men like him before." His voice was calm, unshaken. "And I'll take him down.

"Let me show you around," you said, motioning for him to follow.

Ghost nodded. "Lead the way."

The mansion was sleek and modern, blending luxury with privacy. As you walked through the marble driveway, you passed the tall, solid wooden door into the living room, its polished granite floors gleaming in the light. To the left, a door opened to the swimming pool area, surrounded by greenery. Above, a glass skywalk connected the house, offering a view of the water below.

A spiral staircase led to the second floor where your master bedroom and its luxurious bathroom were located, complete with a Jacuzzi and a high-tech shower. The back lawn opened up to the underground parking area.

As you walked, Ghost took in everything with a sharp, calculating gaze. The mansion wasn't just a home, it was a fortress. Every detail, from the barbed wire to the strategic location, was a reminder of the protection it offered.

"Like what you see?" you asked, watching his reaction.

Ghost's expression was unreadable, but his voice was steady. "It's secure," he said, eyes flicking over the property. "More than most would need."

"It's still smaller than other mansions here," you countered.

"Smaller, yes. But more secure," he said. "Most billionaires settle for an alarm system. You went further."

"The reason I don't go bigger is security," you replied. "I know Diego could breach it, but it's L.A. He'd think twice."

Ghost nodded. "Smart. L.A.'s dangerous, but Garcia would hesitate."

"Good. Let him be intimidated. Makes my job easier."

He shifted his attention back to you. "What about inside? Armed guards?"

"Outside," you said. "The perimeter's covered."

He raised an eyebrow. "Inside?"

"You..." you trailed off, letting him fill in the rest.

Part 2

Part 3

Pic credit: VhenanVirabelasan

https://www.instagram.com/vhenan_virabelasan?igsh=MWpmdnVzaXN5czYyZg==

[love-and-deepspace-wiki]

Surrounding Characters: Luke & Kieran

Ages: 18

(In the spring of 2046, they were both 16. At that time, Rafayel was "22", Zayne was 25, Xavier was "26", and Sylus was 26. Since Sylus is currently 28, this would mean the twins are currently 18)

Birthday: Unknown

Employer: Sylus

Occupation: (basically whatever tasks Sylus needs done)

Workplace: primarily, Onychinus' Base

(Update: In light of the new World Underneath story "Mischief", I've updated this post to include more detailed information about the twins. In addition to this post, Luke and Kieran each now have individual posts that are linked below)

Luke

Kieran

Random Facts

Details:

Luke and Kieran are twins employed by Sylus. They first appear in the Main Story when they rescue the protaganist from the "Man in Black" who had taken her from The Nest. They subsequently appear in the recently released World Underneath story "Mischief".

Throughout the game, they function like Sylus' errand boys, enforcers, assistants, etc. They're like his rignt hand men, handling various tasks at his (and sometimes, the protaganist's) request. They're described as "eccentric, rule-breaking twins" who "enjoy playing pranks". Their in-game note says they "often wear masks to conceal their faces", but we've yet to see either of them appear unmasked.

Note: Interestingly, the protagonist makes mention of expressions of theirs (for example, seeing them do things like smile) that wouldn't be visible behind the masks they're depicted in. So, I'm unsure if they have removed their masks in interactions we aren't shown direct footage of.

Background:

In the World Underneath story "Mischief", we learn that Luke and Kieran were both research subjects under the Ever Group's supervision. Their subject ID was 808. After multiple attempts to escape, they finally succeeded when they were 16.

After Protocore exposure, they both showed rejection reactions and researchers concluded that "transformation occurring within three months is highly possible". For this reason, they were being transferred to the disposal site for termination when they made their escape.

Since they were projected to only have three months of life left, they opted to go out with a bang by killing Sylus. Though there was a real possibility Sylus would kill them, Luke said he'd rather "get killed and die early" than transform.

Through their story, we learn that:

The twins have identical builds, movements, and (originally) identical faces.

The twins mutually influence each other's visual, pain, and auditory senses

Luke can see images within Kieran's field of vision and vice versa.

When one experiences pain, the other feels it in equal measure.

Restraining one of them effortlessly subdues the other

When they act together, they're even more coordinated than one person.

Luke is always in the light, and Kieran in the shadows.

They grew up on the streets before being placed at Ever's research facility.

While at Ever's research facility, the twins became experts at fighting each other. They learned it could earn them painkillers or sedatives. If the fight was severe enough, it earned them a pass on the next day's “trials”.

The twins often used their identical appearances to convince an opponent that there was only one of them. The first person who didn't fall for this trick was Sylus.

Masks:

After their attempt to kill Sylus failed, the twins expressed a desire to work for him instead. Upon this request, Sylus tells them to prove themselves by fighting each other.

In the middle of combat, one of the twins began to transform. From within his body, black crystals crawled up his body and face. Though the other twin didn't transform, they still experienced the same agony. To escape the pain, the transforming twin considered killing himself. But rather than risk harming his twin in the process, he ultimately opted to gouge the crystals out with a knife. As a result, that twin was left with grotesque scars covering his face and body.

In order to still look identical, Luke had matching masks made for them by one of the 303 twins (inferred to possibly be Philip from the Odd Workshop).

Clothing:

Both twins are only ever shown wearing matching black outfits, which consist of the following:

A bird-like mask with red accents

Shorts

Leggings/tights?

Boots

A black top

A hooded, long-sleeved top

A vest-like outer garment

A belt with ornamental feathers

Leather gauntlets

The only notable difference in their outfits are the number displayed on their hoods and the placement of a decorative ring on the attached horns.

Notable Quotes:

Kieran: "She ours, by the way. We called dibs a long time ago."

Luke: "I'm really curious… She's brave enough to drink from a black glass."

Interesting Facts:

Kieran refers to the "Man in Black" as "that ungrateful traitor"

When Sylus arrives, they leave to take care of any remaining troublemakers before ultimately bringing the protagonist to Onychinus' Base.

[mysticqueer]

mirrored souls

(dexter morgan x serial killer! reader) Ch. 1/? masterlist

Not many people can say that they've escaped from the Bay Harbor Butcher. But you can.

(fem reader implied but not explicit. mentions of sexual abuse and child abuse. descriptions of gore)

Rufus Beyer.

The name, while unsaid, tasted bitter in your mouth. Rufus was a caucasian man, five foot eleven, with dark hair and possibly the worst goatee you had ever had the misfortune of witnessing. He was laughing at something you’d said, his obnoxiously loud voice still barely registering over the pounding music surrounding you. The intense scent of alcohol, sweat, and weed permeated the air. The blinking lights and vibration of the hip hop-blasting stereo only made your surroundings all the more disorienting. Luckily, you were used to it.

You laugh back, purposefully pitching your voice higher than usual. Smile, you think to yourself, and you do. Not just with your mouth, but with your eyes, your body. Rufus is in no condition to detect the fakeness of your disposition, but you don’t like to take chances. Best make it believable. You sway slightly, just barely tripping over your own feet. You hadn’t had a drop of alcohol tonight, but Rufus didn’t know that.

You’d followed the man from North Carolina all the way to Miami, stalking him for days before making your move. Three months ago you’d read a headline that had made your blood boil.

Local Man Released After Faulty Trial–Child Abuser Let Loose

You’d read into the details of that case. They were appalling, something you didn’t like to think too much about. They’d been enough to lead you back to your hometown–Miami, your original hunting grounds. You normally made a point never to double back over your own tracks, but Rufus was worth it. Every time he met your eyes, you saw red. Every time he laughed, you wondered if he had laughed the same way while he committed the unthinkable. You had to do this. 

“Be right back, baby” Rufus says, winking at you before heading in the general direction of the bar, slinking through the inebriated crowd with the practiced ease of a snake. You take the opportunity to take stock of your surroundings. 

You’re surrounded by couples, all making out and grinding on one another. Nobody’s attention is on you, not even in your general direction. You quickly make your way to the restroom–a single room, no stalls–locking the door behind you.

You look into the mirror and find somebody both familiar and unrecognizable. Makeup piled on to hide your original features. Your outfit, colors you don’t particularly like ripped in the most promiscuous areas possible. Of course, you weren’t playing as yourself tonight. You check your stash: lipstick, check; pocket knife, check; gloves, check. There wasn’t enough space in your party clothes to carry much else, but this would do. You reapply your lipstick quickly before heading out, when something unexpected happens.

You’re a fighter: you always have been. Somebody prepared for anything–God knows you’d made sure of that a thousand times. And you’d prepared for this night. You’d learned Rufus’ MO, his habits and patterns. The plan had been oh-so-perfectly laid out in your head. You’d lure Rufus into his car, get all the way to his home before striking. You’d leave no evidence behind and be out-of-state by the time police caught so much of a whiff of anything wrong. You’d done it so many times before. It was a routine you were comfortable with. Maybe that’s why you’re caught by surprise at what happens next. A man shoves his way through the door. It’s not Rufus, and that’s all you’re able to ascertain before the man raises a hand. You feel a sharp prick in your neck, and everything goes black.

-

You wake up strapped to a table.

You instinctively try to shoot up, but don’t make it so much as an inch. You’re carefully restrained by somebody who clearly knows what they’re doing. You’re stuck to the table by your legs, chest, even your head is held tight by whatever restraints you can’t see. Duct tape, you’d assume.

Your stomach goes cold at the same time your head goes empty. Fuck. There’s no room in this situation for panic, so you carefully usher the emotion out of your mind and try to think. Your head is groggy, from whatever you were drugged with, presumably. You focus all your brainpower on remembering what happened.

The club–bright lights, loud music, and an evil man with a sharp smile. Rufus, right. You’d followed him there, flirted with him. All had been going well until your trip to the bathroom. You recall opening the door, an unfamiliar man shoving himself inside, and then nothing.

Not much to be gained from those memories, especially since your internal image of the man who’d taken you was fuzzy and incomplete. Instead you focus on the present.

The rest of the room looks oddly blurry and monochrome. It takes you a few moments more to realize that it’s not the room: the entire area surrounding you is covered top-to-bottom in plastic wrap. There’s only one other thing to look at besides the odd coverings.

There are four photos taped to the top of the wall: chillingly familiar faces that you’d hoped to never see again. A well-dressed dark skinned man, Jose Martinez. A short, plump woman with a tired face, Georgia Hubert. A young man with a bright grin, Kade Mathews. An older, retired man with a receding hairline, Randolph Hollin. Only a fraction of your victims, but enough to stir complicated thoughts inside of you. Slowly but surely different memories piece together inside your head, like puzzle pieces you aren’t sure are meant to fit together.

Plastic wrap. A desperate woman’s meaningless apologies. A Miami newspaper. A sobbing teenage girl, afraid of the world. Victims of a serial killer–what was the name? Graying hair died a violent red. A picture of a dark-skinned man on television. Blood stained satin sheets. What was the name? 

A man steps into the room, and although you’ve never seen him before, the name–an old memory–finally surfaces in your thoughts.

The Bay Harbor Butcher.

-

The man before you looks…well, ordinary. 

He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt and black leather gloves. A rubber apron, a protective face-shield that you’d seen surgeons on television wear. He’s in his mid-to-late thirties, maybe, with reddish hair and a well-built body. He stares down at you, his face blank and his eyes unreadable.

Calm, you think. There’s a certain depth to his eyes that makes you almost feel like squirming. Instead you meet his eyes with your own, silently challenging him to some game you don’t even know the rules to. The corner of his mouth quirks up, just barely, before he turns away, stalking to the other side of the room.

“You gonna tell me who you are?” You ask, voice unshaking. You’ve been through too many life-or-death situations to show fear so openly. But you wish you could see what he’s doing–you can’t turn your head even a little bit.

“Who I am–” the man starts, before getting momentarily distracted. You can see in your peripheral vision him looking down at a table before picking something off of it. “Doesn’t matter much, does it?” He finishes, and you finally see what he’s picked up–a scalpel. He looks at it, not you, as if it holds the secrets to the universe. He sounds so casual–like an office worker juggling a phone call with his work. Like talking to you only holds a fraction of his attention. That is, until he returns to the head of the table. He says nothing as he expertly slices a cut into your right cheek, taking a drop of your blood and placing it carefully onto a glass slide. The puzzle pieces multiply, flying in circles around your head.

Blood Slides. Dismembered Bodies. Criminal Records. An idea floats into your consciousness.

“Why me?” You ask, softly, like you’re unbothered by the answer. In truth, the answer to the question is the most important thing in your world right now.

“Why don’t you ask them?” The man uses a large butcher’s knife to gesture towards the four photographs. “Did they ask the same thing, before you murdered them?” His eyes look into yours once again. Cold, calculating. Bingo.

The manic laughter that bubbles out of your chest isn’t faked. The absurdity of the situation, the adrenaline, it starts to get to you. The man’s expression doesn’t change much.

“Murder? Is that what you’d call it?” You ask the man. Your last bid at survival, you hold nothing back as you continue speaking. You nod your head as much as you can toward the picture of Jose Martinez.

“Jose Martinez– three counts of sexual battery and two of manslaughter. He was let out on bail in Cleveland before running to Miami. He didn’t change, either, just ask his ex” The man’s eyes flicker between you and the photo. You don’t stop talking.

“Georgia Hubert. Three counts of child abuse resulting in death. She locked her kids in a cabinet and let them starve to death, did you know that? Kade Mathews killed two pledges in his frat and got his daddy to cover it up. And Randolph Hollin?” Your laughter intensifies, and you don’t think you could make it stop if you tried. “Poisoned three of his ex-wives. Not that anybody could prove it. So tell me, would you call it murder?”

It takes a calculating eye to catch the subtlety of human emotions when they’re being masked. And this man, you can tell, is good at masking. But there’s conflict behind his eyes. A mix of emotions as his mind runs a mile a minute. He isn’t staring at you, now. Just looking into the empty corner of the room, as if there’s somebody there talking to him. His hands have stilled in the air–the freeze part of fight, flight, or freeze. He’s panicking, you realize with some satisfaction. You only hope for your sake that he is who you think he is.

The man seems to come to some sort of resolution, bringing his eyes back to your own. The butcher’s knife silently presses against your throat, a threat, a promise. His expression is so intense you almost look away. Almost.

“So you aren’t a murderer, is that it? Just, what? A garbage disposer, a debt collector?” His words hold the most emotion you’ve heard from him so far. You get the feeling that your next words are important. Maybe the most important of your life. You think for only a moment before answering.

“No, I am.” You say, quietly, with no doubt the man can hear you in this surreal room of dead-air and metal. The man's eyes don’t move from yours. “I just have standards. And something tells me you do, too” Your eyes flick around the room for a moment before landing back on the man.

His eyes study yours intently, searching for something. If it’s deception, he won’t find any. You didn’t say a word that wasn’t true. It’s almost a relief. Now? He’ll either kill you, or he won’t. You aren’t entirely sure which you deserve, not that it matters. You aren’t the judge, jury, and executioner today. He is.

The man raises his knife. You hold your breath. Not even a hint of regret washes over you.

You hear a sharp rrriiippp of plastic as the binds holding you down are cut open, sliced through easily with a weapon that’s taken who-knows-how-many lives. Only a moment later, before you even have a chance to sit up, the man disappears.

[ladyodium]

I Could Not Prevent It

S2x7

TW: I am going to be discussing some very heavy topics. I will ask that yall respect these topics. I will be going into Domestic Violence, Lynching, Racism, R/pe, and Gore. (SPOILERS IF YOU CONTINUE TO READ!)

So, as a Black Woman this was a hard watch. From the beginning of the lynching Louis, Claudia and Madeline were bagged and dragged off into an unknown place. Louis was being beaten on the floor while Claudia was thrown in the rat box and had people on top of it so she wouldn’t get out.

I want y’all to notice how only Madeleine is not harmed, Santiago is messing with her mind, but Claudia and Louis are being physical harmed. They all had their achilles tendons cut to the bone to prevent them from walking, they weren’t allowed to speak and if they did the coven vampires would punish them. Claudia and Louis lose their names, they are now “The accused”, Madeleine is the only one whose name is said.

The bagging, dragging, the torture, the beatings, and the mock trial all hit a little too close to home. You have two Black people and a Jewish person on stage and I can’t help but think how traumatizing this must be for Madeline. Who was dragged from her shop by an angry mob, forced on her knees and had her head shaved. Then she continued to have constant harassment on her shop and person, let’s not forget she was almost graped, and no one was going to save her. 

The film that shows in the back ground as Lestat is telling his “story” is such an important detail. “A white man who just came to New Orleans and is being Hunted by a Black male.” We the viewers know that this isn’t true. Lestat pursued Louis, Lestat wanted Louis, Lestat was obsessed with Louis. But Louis can’t convey that, he’s not allowed to speak, to defend himself. Claudia, Louis and Madeline have to sit and watch a Butch of white people laugh and mock them. They have to sit and suffer for something that was really their last option. 

Diction is very important. When Santiago is questioning Lestat he uses words like “you were forced to…you were manipulated….you were sad, and lonely….you had no choice.”

Lestat is the victim in this lynching, he was the one who was hurt, not Louis, not Claudia. He was a victim of love and passion! Of loneliness! Louis was the one who pursued him, manipulated him, made him lonely.

“I..,a vampire, was being hunted…”

“Louis was saying “come to me”…

“Speaking your own unspeakable desires…in hopes that I would come to you”

“Louis was deceptively agile with words”

“He abandoned me in our town house”

Lestat is not the victim in his relationship with Louis. Is Lestat a victim and an abuser? Yes, these two things can be true at the same time, but he was not the victim for what he did to Louis.

Claudia and Louis are described to be these two black vampires who killed their loving Maker (master). The flashback to the fight that happened really messed with me, so I’m just gonna believe that Louis, Lestat and Claudia’s versions of the fights some of them were true. The portrayal of trying to make Louis this monster who rejected Lestat and was an animal himself because he consumed animal blood is telling.

Often Black people are seen as monsters, they are the aggressors even when we are victims. I want people to understand how Louis and Claudia being Black played into their vampirism. They are immortal creatures of the night, but they are still BLACK. New Orleans was notorious for its lynching and Louis was not safe from that, no Black person was. People will say Louis was a pimp and he’s manipulating Armand and Lestat, but I feel like yall fail to understand that Louis didn’t have options. A black man in 1960 New Orleans didn’t have the options to become anything greater than what white people allowed him to be. We see that when he plays the poker game, when he helps Anderson and gets called a Nigger, and when the race riots happen and they burned down his business. 

“She called me an angel…..they burned her building because of me….”

(Context: Claudia thought Louis was God’s angel coming to save her and Louis feels guilty because she was going to die just because Louis was a black man dominating the market. )

Santiago has humiliated Claudia by making her this minstrel act. To have her sing, dance, and parade around like a fool in front of a white audience. He hates that Louis doesn’t want to join them, and that Louis is fine by himself. Louis grimacing as he watches Claudia was my face throughout that episode. He then displays her private diaries to an audience, he tells them to pass it around! Mocks her accent, makes fun at her pain and sorrows. I’m pretty sure he read what happened to her with that vampire who graped her.

She’s not a victim anymore but a prop they can laugh at and mock for their own amusement. She was right when she said “this isn’t a trial, it’s a stoning.” It’s a lynching happening in real time. Notice how Madeleine is the only one allowed the option of redemption, she’s allowed to choose her fate. She chooses death with her companion, and she had my heart for that. She really was a ride or die.

Claudia’s last act is to perform her song to the masses one more time because that’s what she was, entertainment. The way Santiago picks up her yellow dress as some kind of token really made me think of how millions of white people would have picnics and bring their children to watch the burning, lynching of black people and then they would take tokens of the kill.

To conclude, this was a hard episode and Lestat was pissing me off. Also, ARMAND IN HIS LITTLE ASS PLAYPEN?! BFFR! Shout out to the actors! They really made this episode.

[g0blintears]

[Yandere! Dead By Daylight x Reader]

Summary: You are a mystery to both the survivors and killers within the fog. A servant of darkness, a creature created by the entity itself, you are the shadow behind the scenes that provides the survivors with the necessities they need to survive, while also assisting killers with the weapons they need to sacrifice. You are a servant void of humanity, but not one that seeks out despair. An empty slate that perhaps just needs to be taught a little bit of hope and empathy to help the survivors escape once and for all.

Seven. Dark Sense

Time worked differently in the realm. Sunlight didn’t exist, and the sky was always painted a dark, inky black. Nothing was ever overgrown, and the survivors never knew when they were going to be summoned into a trial until they found themselves alone with only three other people in the middle of an abandoned campfire. If it wasn’t for the entity’s servant, who would often have a routine schedule for meal time, they wouldn’t have ever known when it was the appropriate time to eat and sleep.

Now having woken up from his rest, Felix, along with all the other survivors, found themselves sitting at various tables with their trays of plain bread and baked potatoes placed in front of them.

Currently, Felix sat in front of his childhood best friend, Élodie Rakoto. Wearing a loose fitted, long sleeve crop top that complimented the pendant wrapped around her neck, and dark black jeans that fitted for comfort, said woman with coily black hair and dark brown eyes was someone who usually carried herself with a smile of confidence and a face that always looked like she was coming up with mischief. However, as he whispered to her the current theories some of the other survivors had previously talked about, the woman couldn’t help but look at her blond friend in worry.

“You guys are planning to, what?” She asked in a whisper shout. Her eyes darted both left and right as she made sure to keep her voice low from wandering ears. “Are you guys actually doing this?”

“Well, the plan isn’t really in motion. We still want to gather more details and see if this is even worth working out. But, if they do show any signs of being capable to evolve, we will plan this out more thoroughly.” 

Élodie looked at Felix, dumbfounded before scoffing. With her fork, she dug into her potatoes. "You guys are crazy. So crazy." She muttered, her thick French accent seeping with each syllable. Stuffing her mouth with the unseasoned potatoes, she continued, "But if this plan of yours works, make sure the servant of darkness learns how to season. This shit tastes awful."

Felix sighed, “We’re being serious.”

“And so am I!” She exclaimed, pointing at Felix with her potato still attached to her fork. “Look at this! It’s not even cooked all the way! Last week Ace’s potato wasn’t even cooked! He and David ended up playing hackysack with it.”

Ignoring her words, Felix frowned. “I actually thought you’d be more optimistic about this.” 

Ever since he met Élodie on Dyer Island, Felix knew that she was someone who was stubborn and assertive. Élodie was always down for an adventure, someone who was willing to take risks. A troublemaker if you will. So imagine his surprise when his usually devious friend looked at him the way he usually looked at her whenever she had something crazy planned. 

Rolling her eyes, Élodie placed down her fork and sighed. “Look, we all want to escape, but trying to escape through the entity’s servant? That’s crazy! What if it backfires? We don’t know what happens to people that step out of line. It hasn’t been recorded. Hell, we don’t even know what happened to the people that were in this realm before us. All we have is that journal.” She then motioned to the book under Felix’s arm.

At her words, the man subconsciously gripped the leather binder. 

“And it hasn’t really been as helpful as we had hoped.”

Felix pursed his lips, “I know. But it’s a start, don’t you think?” The male’s grey eyes clashed with his friend’s dark brown eyes, his stare bored into her with desperation. “How long are we going to be here? How many more deaths are we all going to be forced to endure? If there is another way to escape this hell, why not take it? What exactly do we have to lose?” 

“We don’t know-” She began to answer, but was cut off by the blond.

“Exactly! We don’t know. Élodie, for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always been one to never shy away from the unknown. Back in Dyer Island, you were the one to encourage us to step out of our comfort zone. You were the one to tell us to accept ourselves, but to also be open minded to chance. You lead us to grand adventures, and that in itself should show how incredibly clever and brave you are. So why not take one more risk?” Although desperate, Felix’s words held his truth as he reminded his friend of their days back in their youth.

As he looked at his friend expectantly, Élodie chose to ignore his last question and instead crossed her arms over her chest and rose an eyebrow at the male. “Trying to use your flattery skills on me to get on my good side now, huh? Very sneaky of you, Ritcher.” 

For a moment, the male didn’t know how to respond. But as soon as he caught a glimpse of her smile, the male shook his head and let out an airy chuckle, “But it’s working, right?” 

Élodie hummed, “Very tempting, but I still think it’s a bad idea.” She then looked at Felix with a grimace on her face. “Plus, I don’t know how I can be of any help. You should know better than anyone that my memories and yours aren’t all there.”

Felix’s brows furrowed, the once laid back attitude he had with his friend diminished as he mulled over her words. 

“I know, but I still think you could help me explain some things to the others better. Unlike everyone else here, we at least grew up knowing of the entity’s existence before arriving here- especially you. You have at least some knowledge of creatures similar to the entity and its servant. That’s why we wanted to let you know what was going on. You can give us some more insight from your own experiences.”

Élodie looked around once more. Speaking of you and the entity made her skin crawl, almost as if you were listening to the two of them speak at that very moment.

“I don’t know…” She trailed off. Although she was unsure, Felix was right. They couldn’t go on like this. The pain of dying was agonizing, especially in the most brutal ways. At this point, she wanted to die and just stay dead. But of course, that wasn’t an option. So if they had to resort to wild theories, maybe it could possibly lead to somewhere better than here.

But there’s still a chance that this could end badly, very badly. She couldn’t think of what could possibly happen. Afterall, they’ve endured it all. What if there’s more though? Something worse? What could be worse than death in a form of recycled torture? 

She didn’t know. 

She wanted to take the risk, but at the same time, she felt hesitant. The last time she went into something without a plan, she had led her and her friends' parents to vanish. Her memories were foggy. She couldn’t remember much of that day, but she did remember that she was the reason the entity took them. She remembered the distraught and regret she felt once she exited that lab, but not with her parents. She remembered the spiral of obsession she went through trying to find them, all of it leading to where she is now. 

Into the unknown.

This plan, if gone through, could end badly. And she wasn’t sure if she could endure another incident like that again. Her once obsessed mind was now beginning to heal after all those years of guilt. Could she really go through it all again? Squeezing the fork in her hand, the woman shook her head. She couldn’t.

As though reading her thoughts, Felix reached out his arm from across the table, and squeezed his friend’s hand. Instantly, Élodie was brought out of her thoughts and gazed over at Felix with wide eyes. 

“I know what you’re thinking, and I promise we will be careful. You don’t have to help if you don’t want to, but I know your strengths and I know you could help us plan this out.” Giving the top of her hand one last squeeze, the male sent her a wink and a small smile. “Afterall, The Pariahs are smart and fearless, remember?”

Reminding her of their childhood friend group name, the woman instantly regained her confidence. She chuckled and shook her head, “Alright. Alright. I get it.” Pushing his hand away, Élodie went back to eating her now cold food. “Fine, I’m in.”

Brushing back his blond hair, the male grinned at his friend. “Good.”

Looking around for a bit, Felix watched as most of the survivors dispersed after their meals. One after the other, they all walked their separate ways until finally Dwight, Feng Min, Yun-Jin, Zarina, and Adam joined Felix and Élodie at their table.

Once the group was together, Felix spoke to the group.

“Élodie says she’s in.”

“That’s great! The more the merrier.” Zarina exclaimed, then clasped her hands together before gazing upon the group. “So, how’s this going to work?” 

“Well, we should figure out if this plan has the possibility of even working.” Adam interjected, “We don’t want to be too hopeful. We could be unintentionally screwing ourselves over by feeding the entity if we do so.”

“Mm, good point.” Min hummed, “Does that mean we shouldn’t tell the others?”

“Probably not.” Dwight muttered, and pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “We don’t want to give false hope to the others and as Adam said, feed the entity. So let’s try keeping this to ourselves.”

“Okay, so don’t tell the others and don’t be too hopeful. What else?” Min quirked an eyebrow, looking at the group that turned to Dwight and Felix.

Dwight cleared his throat, “Well, since Élodie‘s agreed to help us, we can review what we do and don’t know.” His gaze then went over to Yun-Jin who was sitting at the far end of the table. “Especially since we have a newcomer in the realm.”

All eyes went to Yun-Jin, who brushed back her hair to hide her discomfort.

Élodie nodded, “Right. Sorry, I never introduced myself.” She then sent Yun-Jin a brief smile and a curt wave of her hand, “Élodie Rakoto, occult investigator.”

“Oh!” Yun-Jin’s eyes widened at this new piece of information. That explains why the others were so adamant on scheduling another group meeting but with Élodie involved. “So you’re familiar with all this stuff?”

“Yes. Both Felix and I have a bit of knowledge on the realm since we both grew up together, me a little more since I decided to make a career out of it.”

“Wait, you two knew each other outside the realm?”

Élodie snickered, “Yes, our parents were part of the same group called Imperiatti.” She then rubbed her temple in thought. Her eyes screwed shut as she tried to recall any of her memories, but as always, came back with nothing but static.

“Honestly I wish I could tell you guys what they did, but as most of you guys know, neither Felix or I have any memories of our lives that involve the entity or its servant. We just know that our parents were part of some sketchy ancient council that had something to do with the entity.”

“It wasn’t like worship, right?” Yun-Jin cut in, eyes wide as she stared at Élodie. She didn’t mean to sound judgmental, but from her perspective, if the two grew up worshiping the entity, she knew she could not trust them. “You guys weren’t part of a cult, were you?”

Élodie turned to her with a frown, “No. Well, we weren’t at least. I can’t speak for our parents, but I highly doubt it. When our parents were taken, I remember how scared they were for us. They fought off the entity. I just don’t remember what they did, but they ward it away long enough for us to escape.” 

Min groaned, “So we don’t know anything other than the basics from the journal. Great.”

“Journal?” Yun-Jin repeated, just as Felix raised up the book for her view. A dark leather bound book with yellow tinted pages was in full display as he placed the book in the middle of the table.

“It’s a journal written by a past survivor named Benedict Baker.”

Yun-Jin’s breath hitched in her throat, “Wait, what do you mean past survivor? There were others before us?” She then focused her eyes on Dwight, “People were here before you? I thought you, Meg, and the others showed up here alone?”

“We were alone.” Dwight confirmed, “When the four of us— me, Claudette, Meg, and Jake, when we arrived here, we were here alone. No other survivors. Just us at the campfire with the servant to greet us.”

Yun-Jin brought her hands to cover her mouth, “Oh my god. So there is a way to escape? Right? If there were others here before, where did they go?”

The group looked amongst themselves. 

“We don’t know.” Zarina interjected, her voice soft as she gazed down at the journal. “The journal just stops after ten entries. He claimed that it was becoming too much. His sanity was slipping and his hope shattered, so he left the journal behind. He apparently wrote more, but pages have been torn out.” 

Fuck.

Yun-Jin ran her fingers through her hair. Just as soon as she felt the sense of justified hope, it all came crashing down. “So we don’t know what happened to them?” She whispered.

More silence ensued.

“Well, from what Benedict wrote, with each "death" we become weaker. Little pieces of our souls get consumed by the entity. By that alone, we can only assume that— well...” Adam struggled to find his words. His leg bounced from under the table as his mind jumbled as to what happened to those past survivors. 

Fortunately, Adam didn’t have to finish his sentence as Feng mumbled under her breath what they were all thinking.

“They were devoured.”

Yun-Jin wanted to cry. She wanted to scream and throw a tantrum. She thought that there was no possible way to escape, but apparently there was, but it wasn’t as good as their own predicament. 

“…what happens if you’re devoured?” She asked, her voice hushed as she glanced at the group with red teary eyes.

Élodie sighed, “We don’t know…we could be met with peace— no longer feeling pain or joy since we would seize to exist, or we could be sentient and still feel every single pain of every life force the entity has consumed. But from my own studies on dark magic, I would place my money on the latter.”

“Oh god, what if we get devoured by going through this plan?!” Yun-Jin shouted, her eyes glanced at the group in alarm.

“Keep your voice down!” Min hissed, “We don’t want you-know-who to hear.”

“How do we know they’re not listening right now?” Yun-Jin scoffed.

“I’ve already checked with them and they’re preparing for the next trial with the killers.” Dwight answered, “So we have nothing to worry about.”

Yun-Jin frowned, “How do you know? I thought they were like— I don’t know, otherworldly? How are you sure they aren’t eavesdropping right now?”

“They may be a cosmic being, but they are far weaker than the entity, so they do have their limits.” Élodie reassured, “We’ve since learned that their omnipotent abilities aren’t as vast as we had once thought. My guess is that they can hear and see all, but they don’t truly hear and see everything. Like when looking at a picture for a moment, do you truly see all of the details in the work? Every paint stroke and sponge mark? Or when you are in a crowd in a city, you can hear bits of every sound, but not every conversation to its fullest extent. Since being in this realm, that is at least the conclusion me and a few others have come up with for their abilities.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Yun-Jin frowned, “Well, okay then, what if we get devoured, huh?” Yun-Jin snapped in frustration. “I thought you guys said that there was nothing to lose.”

“There is nothing to lose,” Min commented, sitting up straight and crossing her arms over her chest. “We get devoured if we go through with another escape plan or not. Might as well take the risk.”

“And we don’t know if those past survivors were devoured or not. For all we know, they may have escaped.” Zarina pointed out, easing the tension of the others.

Yun-Jin slowly nodded. Although she was still overwhelmed with all this new information, she at least could feel her worries ease as she was reminded that her survival was probable, she just needed the others to help.

“Fine then. What now?”

All eyes turned to Dwight. 

Said leader felt his face flush in embarrassment, but he covered it up by coughing into his fist. “Right. Well, now that we got most of the basics covered we should see if there is even a slim chance of the servant caving into an emotional connection.” His eyes then ventured to Élodie. “Is there a chance for them to rebel against the entity? Or at the very least, help us out?”

Élodie pursed her lips in thought, “Honestly? Yes, but a very slim chance. Back when I was collecting artifacts for my employer, he let me read up on ancient manuscripts, some of which described ancient gods called The Elder Ones. They were different forms of gods, some of which created the very concept of life and death. World eaters and realm creators. These gods would often create various sub species to play different roles.”

”One example of this being this really grotesque monster race that were built to be mountains of sorts, kinda like a living castle but with multiple mouths on its body. It was tanky, and at the very center of its core was where some of The Elder Ones would reserve their life force. They were usually seen as lower beings, and, well, they eventually gained consciousness and rebelled against The Elder Ones because of their lack of respect. Now it’s said that they peacefully reside as illusions of mountains and feed upon anything that stumbles across their backs.”

Élodie nodded to herself. Having read many manuscripts of different religions and tales, she often thought that maybe some of them were simply made up. However, being placed in the realm of the entity, having spoken to other survivors that come from vastly different times and worlds, she could undoubtedly say that it’s a possibility that some of those manuscripts told real lore of otherworldly places.

She just wasn’t sure how they could have possibly traveled from one realm to another.

“That’s just one example of the servant defying its role. There are many of these stories of creatures that would turn on their creators because they’ve either found a new purpose or were tired of the mistreatment.” Élodie bit her lower lip, “However, these creatures were always shown to be more…expressive than what we’re currently dealing with, so that’s why I think this theory can work to a certain degree.”

She then gazed up at the group, her eyes meeting Felix’s warm grey eyes.

“So you’re saying there is a chance?” He asked, eyeing his friend with a growing smile.

Élodie looked upon the group, all of them staring at her to give the final judgment. 

“Well, if there’s nothing to lose, I say let’s see if we can get a little expression on them.” She then grinned, the thought of this theory working actually sounded more and more real the further she thought on it. “If we can sway them enough, see if they have the capability to feel or even think to themselves, I think we have a pretty good shot.”

Looking at one another, the group found themselves feeling a wave of an emotion they haven’t truly felt in such a long time. It was a surreal feeling, and one that they all knew to be dangerous, yet they latched onto the feeling with an iron hold, refusing to let the emotion slip away into the entity’s grasp. 

They were going to get close to you. They had to.

The next trial was approaching, and so far, you hadn’t seen or heard from the killer who was supposed to be next to hunt.

Standing by the empty campfire, your dull [eye color] eyes watched as the flames of the fire pit flicker and dance. The crackling noise of the campfire burned as time went on, but it never once lost its flame. It continued to burn. Emitting a heat that you knew was nice for the mortals, but for yourself?

You took a step forward, your hand barely reached out to touch the flames.

It burned at your skin, but you couldn’t feel that. Instead, you watched as the fire engulfed your hand, not burning it and not causing it pain. Your fingers merely touched the flames, as though it was touching open air.

You couldn’t feel it. 

Suddenly, you put your hand down. Barely audible, you could hear breathing. Soft and scarcely present, but you could still make it out. It approached from the darkness of the forest. Despite knowing the intentions of the killer, you didn’t bother to move. Instead, you kept your eyes focused on the flames, awaiting the killer’s next move.

As quick as a shuddered breath, you could feel a presence loom behind you. One arm wrapped around your torso, and another holding out a knife in hand over your face.

The presence didn’t speak, but you didn’t need to see who they were to know who was behind you.

Your eyes glanced at the shining silver blade. A mirror image of yourself was present, along with the masked killer with a ghoulish appearance.

It was Ghostface.

[artificialintellegencefreak]

Godpoke-sona!! Detail rambling and headcanons below the cut (Like a lot. A lot a lot)

Details about my creature in no specific order

-No one knows their name and when asked they jokingly replied with 'N, you'll have to earn the rest of the letters.' Their chosen name back home was Horns, they're thinking of changing it though.

-They're mute though fluent in sign language (a drainfolk variant), this has some complications. Not everyone knows sign of course so they usually carry around a notebook if they absolutely have to resort to writing conversations, Megapon has helped a lot.

-This unfortunately means they can't talk to Alexei at all without Megapon. :( (Someone please teach my mans to read???)

-Non-binary/Agender/???, they don't really care about gender, they're them and that's that. (They/Them before coming to the Grove but meeting Huzzle gave them some confidence so now they're trialing They/It)

-Drainfolk! An Earth family adopted them as a baby, this has had...consequences.

-Furry all over, it's technically green but it's such a dark shade most people assume it's black, you can really only tell in bright direct light.

-When their Earth family took them in they thought it would be pretty easy to hide the fact that Godpoke was drainfolk. They grew up trained to be completely covered head to toe, they were given the option to be completely shaved otherwise. Needless to say they've gotten very used to long pants and sweatshirts even in the middle of summer. They're familiar friends with heat exhaustion.

-Their horns are very small, only an inch or so and rather dull sticking straight up from their forehead. They're kind of glad they never got any longer, it would make it hard to wear hats.

-It was a bit of a tense time when their horns grew in. They had been allowed to leave their hair out, it looked natural enough but now they had to add hat's to their regular outfit. It was... a lot. They've gotten used to being invisible or trying to avoid attention. Becoming the Godpoke has been a big change.

-They don't really have proper claws, they're not even sharp enough to help open boxes. But they wore gloves to cover them anyway. No beans on their hands sorry :(

-Their eyes don't actually glow, but because they're such a bright color in contrast to their dark fur it's definitely giving cat eyes in the dark.

-They're kind of uncomfortable being exposed at all, but they're also pretty sick of being over heated all the time. So the poncho is a compromise, covered, but breezy! (Razzma helped them find it.) They're not quite ready to try shorts.

-The bandana is a new addition but they've been so used to neither being seen nor heard growing up that they never really developed proper social queues. They absolutely cannot smile on command and generally look about emotional as a brick wall. (Provided that brick wall is not Bauhauzzo)

-The messenger bag goes with them everywhere. It contains a water bottle, a notebook and lately, Megapon! (We'll say hammer space is readily accessible to people in this universe. Seriously why is Megapon that big.)

-Quick Trigger warning for this one! (Unintentional self harm) Because my godpoke is a reflection of myself I unfortunately gave them my bad habit. :( I've got chronic 'pick-at-skin-around-your-fingernails-till-you-bleed' so my godpoke scratches at their arm till it bleeds a lot. It's unintentional but tends to happen more when they're stressed. Post rift their arm is almost always bandaged. :(

-Quick tangent, I imagine in addition to their designated domains, the gods also have some mortal assigned dominions. I.E. Huzzle Mug is the patron god of trans people! While Godpoke did come to see King's ascension (at least that's what they told people back home) they also came to see Huzzle Mug for a 'blessing'.

-Headcanon: Huzzle Mug loves being seen as the patron trans god, and sees trans people finding themselves as an act of self invention. It often helps people with their transition via a godly boon, (Huzzle does a lot of magical top/bottom surgery). It can't alter bodies too much though, that much godly energy would probably fry a mortal brain, so alas it cannot make you a dragon but sometimes people come to it with more out there requests. Asking for inhuman traits isn't unheard of and generally accepted in the Grove, but as more animalistic traits are seen as a sign of drainfolk heritage most people don't ask for those.

-(I imagine drainfolk come in a very wide variety of forms. Why you might ask, when our greatest representation is a bunch of similar looking funny little blue guys? Housecat Man. Housecat Man is why. What's his deal? Where'd he come from?)

-So! My Godpoke's tail is not natural! They asked Huzzle Mug for it after everything settled down and it was clear they were going to be staying in the Grove for a while.

-My Godpoke is very used to being ignored or just straight up not noticed so the tails' purpose is two-fold; to help them feel more like 'themself' and also! To be loud! It looks mostly furry to match the rest of them, but has layered scales on the underside that they can shake to imitate a rattle snake's rattle and a stiff mat of fur at the end that if they whip just right can make a whip crack sound. They really only do that if they feel they're being talked over though. Just because they don't have a voice doesn't mean they don't have something to say.

Anyway if you read this far, thanks! Hope you enjoyed my little guy.

[femmefirmware]

Stronger than Code

The room smelled of polished wood and wealth. A long, obsidian-black table stretched across the center, surrounded by figures in pristine military uniforms and sleek corporate suits. Holograms flickered above the table—data streams, performance metrics, projected kill ratios.

Vance Aldrin stood at the head of the room, hands clasped behind his back. His voice carried the practiced ease of a man who had sold weapons before, a man who knew how to make war sound like progress.

"Gentlemen, what you're about to witness is the future of warfare. No pilots, no human error. Just precision. Efficiency. Victory."

A massive screen on the far wall lit up, showing a barren, cratered battlefield. The feed came from a reconnaissance drone hovering above, capturing every inch of the landscape. In the center stood a lone mech—painted in military grays, its armor thick and battle-worn. A Sentinel-class war machine.

Inside, Arrow sat in the cockpit of Cestia, rolling her shoulders against the harness. The pre-battle checks had been routine. She'd been told this was a weapons test, a stress trial against some combat drones. Nothing more.

"Telemetry reads fine," Cestia's voice chimed in her helmet. Cool. Steady. "No abnormalities."

Arrow exhaled through her nose, running her fingers over the controls. Her loadout was standard: the X-77 Arc Rifle sat in her primary slot, charged and waiting; Hydra Rocket Pods lined her mech’s shoulders, micro-missiles preloaded for rapid strikes. Adaptive Plating monitored her armor integrity, while her Reactive Shock Barrier was primed for emergency defense.

Overprepared for drones, but orders were orders.

"Any idea what we're up against?" she asked.

"Negative," Cestia replied. "No combat signatures detected yet."

Arrow shifted in her seat, gripping the controls. Something about this felt off.

Back in the boardroom, one of the military commanders adjusted his posture, frowning. "She doesn't know the details?"

Vance smiled thinly. "A soldier fights best when tested, General. Besides, the machines don’t need an advantage. This is simply a demonstration of inevitability."

On the screen, movement flickered at the edges of the battlefield. One mech. Then another. Then a dozen.

Arrow’s fingers tightened around the controls as her radar flared to life.

Multiple hostiles detected.

"Twelve signatures. No IFF tags," Cestia reported, her voice steady.

Arrow’s heart gave a single, sharp beat. Drones didn’t carry IFF markers, but twelve? That wasn’t a routine stress test—that was an ambush.

She swung Cestia’s optics toward the ridgeline ahead. Figures emerged from the haze of dust and distant fires—sleek, angular, and unmistakably military-grade. Their metallic frames caught the weak sunlight, reflecting it in cold, artificial flashes. No insignias. No cockpits.

Autonomous mechs.

Her stomach twisted into knots.

“This isn’t a weapons test,” she murmured. “It’s a goddamn execution.”

------

In the boardroom, the assembled commanders murmured among themselves, watching the autonomous mechs take formation. Their movements were synchronized, unnervingly smooth—no hesitation, no wasted motion.

Vance clasped his hands together, voice level. "These are the VX-99 Autonomous Combat Units, better called ACUs. Each one is equipped with onboard tactical processors, capable of analyzing and responding to battlefield conditions in real time. Faster than any human. More precise than any pilot."

Onscreen, Arrow's mech shifted stance, rifle rising.

"Now," Vance continued, "we see the difference between man and machine."

------

Arrow didn’t wait. The second she had a clear shot, she took it.

Bolts of blue energy streaked through the air, hammering into the nearest machine’s chest. The first few rounds impacted harmlessly against the armor—kinetic dispersal fields redirecting the force.

Then the machines returned fire.

Tracer rounds laced toward her, cutting tight, overlapping paths. The barrage wasn’t wild or erratic—they were boxing her in, predicting her movements before she even made them.

Cestia reacted first.

"Defensive pulse—activating."

A concussive wave burst outward, warping the air in a shimmering ripple. The first wave of bullets scattered, thrown off course by the disruption field.

Arrow took the opening and moved.

She fired a tether, the line snapping forward and latching onto a ruined structure to her right. The instant it locked, the winch reeled her in, yanking her out of the kill zone just as the next salvo shredded the ground where she had been standing.

Landing hard, she swung her rifle up and fired another burst—this time, aiming for the exposed joint seams. The rounds struck true, melting through servos. One of the ACUs staggered, its balance thrown.

Arrow didn’t hesitate.

A quick thought armed the warheads on her back, locking onto the crippled machine. The launchers barked, micro-missiles streaking forward in a screaming salvo.

Impact. Fire and metal bloomed outward as the ACU was torn apart. One down.

"Enemy destroyed," Cestia confirmed.

But the others weren’t slowing down.

Arrow gritted her teeth, pulse hammering in her skull. This isn’t a fight. This is survival.

And she was outnumbered.

------

Arrow moved fast, firing as she dashed between cover. The first machine had fallen, but eleven remained. They moved in precise, calculated patterns, shifting formation to adapt to her positioning.

'They’re predicting me.'

The ground near her feet exploded in a shower of debris as incoming rounds punched through the ruins she used as cover. She twisted away, but even as she moved, she could see how their fire adjusted—cutting off escape routes, funneling her toward open ground.

“They prioritize efficiency,” Cestia said, her voice level. “Minimal wasted fire. No redundant targeting. If you were stationary, you’d already be dead.”

“Encouraging.”

“But they lack improvisation. Exploit that.”

Arrow’s eyes flicked across the battlefield. The terrain was ruined, uneven—littered with collapsed structures and unstable footing. Places a human would instinctively avoid. Places a machine would process as a no-go zone.

She made her decision.

Pushing off from cover, she sprinted toward a fractured overpass, dust kicking up around her. The enemy adjusted, weapons tracking. But instead of taking the expected route—ducking into a crater or weaving between debris—she leapt onto a precarious ledge of shattered concrete.

The moment her weight hit, the surface collapsed beneath her. As expected.

She launched another tether mid-fall, the line snapping taut against a distant beam. The sudden jolt wrenched her sideways, sending her into an unpredictable swing just as the next wave of fire tore through the crumbling ledge where she’d been a moment before.

The AI hesitated. Only for a second. But that was all she needed.

Arrow twisted mid-swing, leveling her weapon. The shots slammed into their exposed sections, burning through thin plating where cooling vents had cycled open. The first machine staggered, systems failing. Another shot put it down for good.

A second unit moved to compensate—too slow. A fresh spread of missiles shrieked through the air and detonated against its side, rupturing its core.

Nine left.

She hit the ground hard, rolling to absorb the impact. Keep moving. Keep fighting.

------

In the boardroom, one of the commanders leaned forward. "She's adapting."

Vance’s expression remained impassive, but his fingers tapped once against the table. The machines should have overpowered her by now.

“The ACUs are not designed for reckless engagements,” he said smoothly. “They assess, adjust, and correct.”

Onscreen, the remaining units shifted formation. Less aggression. More calculation.

A bad sign.

Vance’s jaw tightened. He had spent years building this program, promising superiority without human frailty. If this test failed, so did his entire vision.

------

Arrow's breathing was sharp, controlled. Her armor’s cooling vents cycled hard, dispersing heat from the last exchange. Nine hostiles remained—still too many.

She flicked her optics across the terrain. The battlefield was a graveyard of past conflicts, rusting steel skeletons of vehicles and shattered structures dotting the landscape. A machine would see an obstacle course. A pilot saw opportunities.

They were repositioning, adjusting to her tactics. Their advance was slower now, measured. They wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice.

“Cestia, any openings?”

“They’re prioritizing encirclement. No single weak point.” A pause. Then: “But they’re maintaining even spacing. If you disrupt one, the formation falters.”

Arrow’s mind raced. Break the formation. Make them panic.

She surged forward, closing the gap on the nearest unit. The machine reacted, weapon tracking her approach. But she wasn’t aiming for it—she was aiming for the wreckage behind it.

As soon as she was close enough, she fired her tether, the line latching onto a rusted-out tank husk. She yanked herself forward at breakneck speed, momentum carrying her straight past the enemy unit.

It adjusted, recalculating—too late.

Arrow twisted in midair, weapon flaring. Close-range, full burst. The concentrated fire tore through its exposed flank, internal systems sparking before it crumpled forward.

The formation hesitated.

She wasn’t done.

Bracing against her landing, she swung her sights toward the next unit, already launching her next salvo. The micro-missiles streaked toward their target, detonating in a concussive chain reaction that sent two more collapsing in heaps of metal and fire.

Seven left.

But the others weren’t idle. They were learning.

The next wave of fire came even before she could recover. Precise. Unrelenting.

Her plating adjusted, reinforcing under the onslaught, but she still felt the impact shake through the frame. Warning indicators flared across her HUD. "Hull integrity compromised."

Cestia’s voice cut through the chaos. “Structural damage reaching critical thresholds. Prolonged engagement at this rate will result in system failure.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Arrow gritted out, throwing herself behind cover.

She needed an edge. A way to tip the fight before they wore her down.

Speed.

Her fingers hovered over the trigger. The Overclock system was a last resort. It would push Cestia past normal limits—faster reactions, enhanced targeting, boosted fire rate. But it would also burn through coolant reserves. If she miscalculated, she’d overheat.

She exhaled. No choice.

Her thumb flipped the safety.

“Cestia,” she murmured, “give me everything.”

------

In the boardroom, a technician’s voice broke through the tense silence.

“Sir, the pilot just activated Overclock.”

Vance’s gaze snapped to the screen. His stomach twisted.

“She’s overheating already,” the technician continued. “She’ll last maybe thirty seconds before she cooks her own systems.”

Vance clenched his jaw. She should be running. She should be breaking.

But instead, the screen showed something else entirely.

------

The world sharpened.

Time stretched, then snapped forward.

The moment the Overclock engaged, Arrow felt the surge—the mech responding like it was part of her own body. Faster. Sharper. Deadlier.

She was already moving before the enemy could react.

She closed the distance in a blur, her first volley ripping straight through a unit’s core before it could even register the threat. Six.

Another turned, attempting to adjust, but she was already behind it. Two shots to the servos, one to the head. Five.

The remaining machines scrambled, shifting to counter—but they were too slow.

Arrow wasn’t thinking anymore. She was acting, pure instinct.

The third target went down with a brutal strike to its chassis, molten metal pouring from the rupture. Four.

She twisted, barely avoiding the counterfire. Her systems screamed warnings. Overheat imminent.

But there were only three left.

She could finish this.

------

Vance watched as the ACUs collapsed, one after another, their superior processing meaning nothing against pure human instinct.

His stomach twisted.

The last unit tried to retreat—retreat—but the pilot wasn’t letting it go.

The screen flickered as the final kill was confirmed.

Then, silence.

------

Arrow stood in the wreckage, her mech battered, overheating warnings flashing across her HUD. Her limbs shook inside the cockpit. Her breath was ragged.

But she was alive.

Cestia’s voice came through, soft this time. “All hostiles eliminated.”

Arrow let her head fall back against the seat, exhaling.

She won.

She didn’t know what would happen next. Didn’t know what the executives would say, or if they would send more.

But in this moment, she knew one thing:

A mech is only as mighty as the pilot inside it.

And she had proven that.

------

In the boardroom, the silence stretched. The commanders exchanged glances—calculating, decisive. Finally, one of them leaned forward, voice firm.

“This program is a failure.”

Another nodded. “If a single pilot can dismantle an entire squadron, we can’t trust these machines to hold the line in real combat.”

Vance’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

The highest-ranking officer stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his uniform. “We’ll be sticking with human pilots. Meeting adjourned.”

One by one, the commanders filed out, leaving Vance alone in the dim glow of the monitors.

On the screen, the battlefield was still—nothing left but burning wreckage and a single battered mech standing in the midst of it.

His creation had failed.

And worst of all—they had lost to a human.

------

A/N: Phew, this was one of my longer posts, but I bring more news! Firstly, Mechaposting, a discord server for mech (and armored cavalry) enjoyers of all kinds! Still rather young, it aims to be a place that's accepting and meant for discussion.

Secondly, I intend to create a long form story on Royal Road and/or AO3, more details to come.

And lastly, due financial issues in real life, I have now made a Ko-Fi page! Nothing is required, of course, but any help is much appreciated!!

That's all for now pilots, till next sortie.

[hp-hcs]

wanna get a coffee? — post-war! theodore nott x male! reader

technically gender neutral, but goddamnit i never get any mlm theo nott shit and i n e e d

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

after the war, everyone tried to go back to some sense of normalcy

obviously that doesn’t work perfectly

the former junior death eaters are ostracized by the wizarding world

like, getting hexed in the middle of diagon alley and sent howler death threats kind of ostracized

they all have their trials

the jury is decidedly not impartial

harry and crew™ manage to talk down all of their sentences

neither pansy nor blaise took the mark, so their sentences are six weeks in azkaban, loss of their wands for five years, and exile from the wizarding world for the same amount of time

draco and theo both took the mark, but it was deemed that it was taken under coercion with threats against their loved ones

theodore nott received two years in azkaban, and a loss of both his wand and access to the wizarding world for five years

draco malfoy received five years in azkaban, but was released on parole after just a year and a half. his wand was confiscated indefinitely, and he was barred from the wizarding world for…..you guessed it, five years

for you as well, the war sent your life into upheaval

you had wanted to be an auror for most of your childhood, but that dream died with the war

now you work at florean fortescue’s ice cream parlor

you actually really enjoy it, although florean jr.—the owner and son of the original florean—is quite the jumpy and skittish man

nobody knows the details of what happened to him nor his father during the war, and nobody wants to ask

you love talking to the kids that come in, and they absolutely adore you

you patiently answer all their questions. everything from how you got a certain scar to why witches and wizards no longer use quills

you help some of the older kids who’ve come down from hogwarts for a weekend trip with their homework

your old classmates sometimes stop in, and whenever you make eye contact, you both always nod your head towards each other in acknowledgment. it’s a simple gesture, but it speaks volumes

you’d been serving up ice cream to fleur weasley’s three (!!! when had that happened??) children when a familiar group walked in

you can confidently say that you’d never seen that group of slytherins ever look like that

draco malfoy was tanner now, with a sunburnt nose and washed-out blue hair. he wore a muggle wife-beater and patterned swim trunks, and looked like he nowadays spent more time outside than not. he still walked with his shoulders hunched forward, like he was trying to make himself shorter, but his eyes were bright and he no longer had that pinched, anxious look that he’d always had at hogwarts

blaise zabini now has his (their?) ears pierced with large, shiny diamond studs. he (they?) wore sparkly eyeshadow, which seemed to lessen the ever-present severely stern look that seemed permanently etched into his (their?) face

pansy parkinson! pansy looked like a goddamn model now (as if she didn’t already), with that eye for designer wear that she’s always had. she actually smiled now, and looked more relaxed than you’d ever seen her before

but theodore nott must’ve been the biggest change

the first thing you noticed was that he’d grown out his hair, long enough now that he kept it up in a messy bun

then you noticed that his fingers and nails were no longer stained black with tobacco the way they always had been when you’d gone to school together

fleur’s voice brought you back from your reverie, and you hurriedly gave her back her change, apologizing profusely

your cheeks burned when florean jr. chastised you for not paying attention while on the clock

you kept your gaze down, reorganizing an already perfectly fine display, just so you wouldn’t have to look up and embarrass yourself further

“oh, hey y/n. i didn’t know you worked here”

well so much for that plan

“yeah. how’s it going, theo?”

“eh, y’know. perpetually tormented with nightmares and memories”

you laugh. acerbic humor is always objectively funny

“do you wanna like, go get a coffee or something, y/n? catch up, and all that? when your shift’s over, of course”

“sure! my shift actually just ended like ten minutes ago. have you been to the new coffeehouse right next to honeydukes?”

“nah, i was a little too busy, being in prison and all”

“you’ll love it. bertie bott expanded his company to make it. the shop’s called ‘bertie bott’s every flavor coffee bean’”

“that feels a little on the nose”

“it does, doesn’t it? c’mon though, let’s go get coffee”