#a woman in this world! but why is this the route you are going? i will never fucking forget that ask i got when someone was like

[robotpussy]

ppl who use pretty privilege unironically, i cannot take seriously

[probablyasocialecologist]

In this book you focus on the idea of gender as a global ‘phantasm’ – this charged, overdetermined, anxiety- and fear-inducing cluster of fantasies that is being weaponised by the right. How did you go about starting to investigate that? Judith Butler: When I was burned in effigy in Brazil in 2017, I could see people screaming about gender, and they understood ‘gender’ to mean ‘paedophilia.’ And then I heard people in France describing gender as a Jewish intellectual movement imported from the US. This book started because I had to figure out what gender had become. I was naïve. I was stupid. I had no idea that it had become this flash point for right-wing movements throughout the world. So I started doing the work to reconstruct why I was being called a paedophile, and why that woman in the airport wanted to kill me with the trolley. I’m not offering a new theory of gender here; I’m tracking this phantasm’s formation and circulation and how it’s linked to emerging authoritarianism, how it stokes fear to expand state powers. Luckily, I was able to contact a lot of people who translated Gender Trouble in different parts of the world, who were often gender activists and scholars in their own right. They told me about what’s happening in Serbia, what’s happening in Brazil, Chile, Argentina, Russia. So I became a student of gender again. I’ve been out of the field for a while. I stay relatively literate, of course, but I’ve written on war, on ethics, on violence, on nonviolence, on the pandemic… I’m not in gender studies all the time. I had to do a lot of reading.  There’s a lot of focus in the book on how the anti-gender movement has moved across the world in the past few decades, and how it’s inextricable from Catholic doctrine. It was clarifying for me; domestic anti-trans movements in the UK mostly self-identify as secular.  Judith Butler: In the UK, and even in the US, people don’t realise that this anti-gender ideology movement has been going on for some time in the Americas, in central Europe, to a certain degree in Africa, and that it’s arrived in the US by different routes, but it’s arrived without announcing its history. It became clear to me that a lot of the trans-exclusionary feminists didn’t realise where their discourse was coming from. Some of them do; some people who call themselves feminists are aligned with right-wing positions, and it’s confusing, but there it is. There’s an uncomfortable history of fascist feminism in movements like British suffragism, for instance. Judith Butler: Yes, and of racism. But when Putin made clear that he agreed with JK Rowling, she was probably surprised, and she rightly said, ‘no, I don’t want your alliance’, but it was an occasion for her to think about who she’s allying herself with, unwittingly or not. The anti-gender movement was first and foremost a defence of Biblical scripture, and of the idea that God created man and woman, and that the human form exists only in this duality and that without it, the human is destroyed – God’s creation is destroyed. So that morphed, as the Vatican’s doctrine moved into Latin America, into the idea that people who advocate ‘gender’ are forces of destruction who seek to destroy man, woman, the human, civilisation and culture. 

[matan4il]

The other day, I went with my rl bff to the Jerusalem branch of the Museum of Tolerance for an exhibition on the Hamas massacre.

This is the sight that greeted us. "Esthers of the world, rise up!"

It's a poster celebrating two women whose families had lived in Iran, one is Jewish, the other is Muslim, and both women ended up being murdered due to the Islamic regime of that country, even though the Jewish woman's family had escaped Iran and fled to Israel after the Islamic revolution. The face of each girl is actually a composite, made from many smaller pictures of her people who have lost their lives because of the Islamist regime of Iran.

I knew this right away, because I have shared a piece that was done about the poster and how it came to be almost 2 months ago. 

"You don't understand!" my bff (who works as a teacher) said, all emotional, "She," my friend points to the Jewish girl on the left side of the poster, Shirel Haim Pour, "is the cousin of one of my students."

There is zero distance in Israel between us and the Oct 7 atrocities. 

We go in and join the tour of the exhibition. The guide tells us it was built jointly with Malki Shem Tov, who is a well known name in Israel, if you work at a museum. Malki founded a "creative visual solutions" company with his brother Assaf, through which among other things, they helped build many Israeli exhibitions over the years. "His son..." the tour guide starts to say and I don't need more than that for something to click in my head. I know so many of the names, faces and stories of the hostages, and so Omer Shem Tov pops right away into my mind. I didn't make the connection before, but now I can only imagine what it meant for this father to work on an exhibition that recounts, among other stories, how his son was victimized and robbed of his freedom during this massacre.

There is zero distance in Israel between us and the Oct 7 atrocities. 

The opening wall has a huge time stamp, 6:29 in the morning. 

The tour guide doesn't have to explain this number to Israelis, or why it's designed to look like an alarm clock display. We were all woken up on that fateful Saturday morning by the alarm clock of Hamas' rockets. And it doesn't matter what we thought or believed the day before, as the full scale and horror of the attack were starting to become known along Oct 7, we were all woken up.

There is zero distance in Israel between us and those atrocities. I know this, and still it strikes me, again and again.

There's an area dedicated to the pictures of one photographer who went to the south soon after the massacre. I knew some of them already, like the pic showing the bodies of 13 elderly Israelis, who were on their way to a tour of the Israeli south on that Saturday.

Some are new, like the pic of the door handle in one bomb shelter. I stop for a second, because now that I've moved into my new place, it hits me that the bomb shelter door was made by the same company. Suddenly, I feel like I'm inside the picture in a reality where the terrorists took a slightly different route on Oct 7. The door was photographed from inside the bomb shelter, and the bullets that pierced it, they had to have hit the personal holding it shut. The handle has blood stains on it, and it's broken off. I can only imagine how many hours this person held, and how much force they had to use, for that to happen. I know one thing, even without knowing exactly who this bomb shelter belonged to... If this person was on their own, they would have probably ended up surrendering rather than keep fighting to hold on to the handle this desperately. This was likely someone trying to keep their family safe. 

One note retrieved from the body of a terrorist is on display. It says everything about the motivation of the monsters who committed these atrocities, and every word is purely motivated by antisemitism and religious zeal. The note is actually not in Arabic, as it may first appear, it's in Farsi, the language spoken in Iran, hinting at the source, the Islamist regime there, which doesn't care about the liberation of anyone, it aspires to create a global network of fanatic terrorism.

The translation: "You must sharpen the blades of your swords and be pure in your intentions before Allah. Know that the enemy is a disease that has no cure, except beheading and uprooting the hearts and livers. Attack them!"

There is a section dedicated to women's stories. The exhibition visitors spread out to watch the testimonies, each on a separate screen. It's a not like a forest, you can't really see it for the trees, and it's another moment of feeling overwhelmed because we can't truly get it. It's just not comprehensible, facing so many stories about intentional, face to face cruelty, brutality, sadism and joy in it. Mali Shoshana tells the story of how she tried to play dead while lying shot in a pool of her own blood, but her body wouldn't stop shaking, so she somehow turned on her side to the wall and knocked her injured knee against it, causing herself to pass out from the pain. It saved her life. Ricarda Louk tells the story of the last message they got from her daughter Shani, trusting she was right and there was nothing for them to worry about. Then Ricarda's son started screaming and crying, because he saw the same vid many of came across on that day, of his sister being dragged into Gaza stripped down, mutilated, abused, molested and humiliated, while Gazan civilians were celebrating the public degradation of her body. And there's more and more and more. "You can come back and continue to listen," the guide promises as he moves us to the next segment, but the truth is no matter how many stories I've listened to and absorbed, it still doesn't feel like enough.

There is a wall with the head shots of the victims in Israel who lost their lives due to this war, whether they were murdered on Oct 7 or since, but it's only been updated up until Mar 27 of this year. Even so, no matter what angle I tried, I couldn't fit in all of the pictures.

Interactive screens allow a geographic telling of the massacre's story. They show maps of Israel's south, with dots on them, red for the murdered, dark blue for hostages, bright blue for hostages who have been returned, grey for the injured. You can tap a dot and read a story. Or you can zoom out and try to comprehend how is it possible for there to be that many dots on the maps.

"From darkness to light," reads the exhibition title. That's the perception of time in Judaism. We always move from darkness to light. And there's a section for the light, for stories of resilience, of bravery, of rehabilitation, of mutual support and caring. Filmed interviews that do their best to summarize an incomprehensible amount of good we've seen in response to an incomprehensible amount of evil. It features people from every demographic in Israel, and in that way also serves as a reminder of just how diverse we are as a society.

This part, I think to myself, was included for visitors from abroad. We Israelis, we know.

There's one story I know already. Tomer Greenberg, an Israeli officer, rescued on Oct 7 baby twins from the carnage. He was later killed fighting in Gaza. Like a puzzle, I've heard this story from several angles, including from Tomer before he died. This movie features an interview I hadn't heard yet, with the volunteer paramedic that Tomer handed the twins to. Shalom, this medic, talks about how they clung to him desperately as they got to be fed and feel safe and cared for again for the first time in what's estimated to have been 14 hours. I'm sitting there, thinking of those babies crying, not understanding why their parents aren't coming to feed them, and I don't know how to deal with this.

Shalom shares that the experiences of Oct 7 have inspired him to try and become a combative soldier, something that wasn't on the cards for him before that. I wonder again at people who can act like subjecting an entire (already traumatized) society to a sadistic massacre can liberate anyone.

And I understand Shalom fully. When your family is in the pits of hell, there's nowhere you want to be other than there, with them, doing what you can, rather than sit and watch helpless from afar. Most people would say he did a lot on that day. Shalom must have felt like that still wasn't enough.

At the very end, visitors are invited to add their own little piece of light, through neon notes and pens on which they'd share their thoughts. Nothing feels like it can sum everything I'm thinking and feeling up, but not writing anything feels worse, so my bff and I add a few of our words to the notes.

I don't have any profound conclusions for this post anymore than I did for my note. I just know that this still hurts, that we're still losing people daily, that we can't begin to heal, because we're still in the middle of the wound being inflicted. But I also know that we WILL heal, that even if the wound can't be closed yet, our collective immune system kicked into action on Oct 7 already, that we will continue to share the pain and the comfort and the care, and this massacre and war will probably never stop hurting, that we'll never be the same, but eventually we will be alright. Where people choose to care, there's just no other option.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[jamminvroomvroom]

in the middle of nowhere.

ln x fem!reader

in which you get the wrong idea in the middle of nowhere, so lando finally pops the question.

hello again! two fics in three days, unhinged jas is back 🤭 right so anyways, here you go! i love this concept so much and i hope you do too, lemme know what you think!

this can absolutely count as part two to everything if you want it to!

songs to set the mood: green eyes::siena by nothing but thieves, fearless by taylor swift, white ferrari by frank ocean, to love by suki waterhouse

warnings: 18+ minors dni! smut, angst for a sec, fluff, bit of choking, reader being stupid, lando also being stupid, then being so sickeningly in love, car sex hehe

2.1k words

the proposal

lando could see it now, the picture clear in his mind. the lines of your dress, clean and white. a veil that flowed, lacy and intricate. your eyes meeting his as you ascended towards him, ready to be bound together in life and love by two silver bands.

all you had to do was say yes. all he had to do was ask.

it was simple enough, getting down on one knee, bowing down before the woman he cherished with everything he had. the planning, however, that went into asking the question was eating him alive.

lando thought that he’d nailed it, finally landing on that one big idea that you’d remember for the rest of your lives. the perfect moment where he’d pledge to be yours forever.

little did he know that while the preparation was killing him slowly, it was also killing you.

-

the car ride was quiet.

lando tried to remain neutral, hiding his nerves and excitement. today was the day, you were en route to a small vineyard in the south of france. the drive from your monaco apartment wasn’t too far, but it was long enough for the pair of you to slip into silence. lando perceived it to be comfortable, glancing at you every now and then, noticing how you were taking in the countryside.

he tried not to concern himself over the way you were fiddling with your hair, chewing at your fingernails. you didn’t seem to notice the way he was watching you, eyes flirting between where you sat and the road ahead. he was more concerned by the dark cloud gathering ahead, but found some hope in the way the sunlight broke through, casting beams of light every which way.

the road was dead, not another car for miles. lando felt like you were the only two people in the world, manoeuvring the vintage lamborghini through the winding lanes, the overhanging trees casting curious shadows. it felt like a fairytale, until, of course, it didn’t.

“do you still love me, lando?” you choked out, finally turning to look at him.

lando slammed the brakes, hard. the way they screeched in protest told him that he’d be dropping a large sum into his mechanics bank account, but he couldn’t find an ounce of care, not when the woman he adored was asking such gut wrenching questions.

“what?” lando spat, delirious with confusion. his eyes were wide, wild with fear. “i- what?” he repeated himself, heart beating dangerously fast, and not in the usual way it did when you spoke.

“you just… are you breaking up with me?” your eyes were brimming with tears, lip quivering ever so slightly, but you stayed strong.

“are you serious?” lando was bewildered. “why would you think that?” he was wracking his brain for anything he’d done wrong.

“you’ve been so distant, at first i thought- well i don’t know what i thought, i just feel like you’re slipping away from me.” you sounded like the shell of your usual self, distraught in the face of it all ending. lando was too.

“baby, i’m so sorry. you’ve got it all wrong, i promise.” lando turned in his seat towards you, quickly checking his mirror as he did, safety first. he grabbed your hands, eyes meeting yours as he tried to convey reassurance.

“why have you been like this, then? have i done something wrong?” and so the troubleshooting began.

lando clenched his teeth, wondering how on earth he could explain his way out of this one without completely letting the cat out of the bag. it seemed that while he was planning perfection, he’d been neglecting you and he felt painfully stupid.

“i can’t… well, i can’t say.” lando replied, voice laced with hesitation. you frowned at his lack of explanation, head tilted in confusion.

“you can’t say? well that’s reassuring.” you bit back sarcastically. “if you don’t want me anymore, i’d rather you just tell me now.”

lando couldn’t believe what he was hearing. three years. three years you’d been together, and he was sure he’d loved you even longer. he was shocked that you thought that low of him, that he’d treat you so poorly, stringing you along. he could admit to himself that he’d made a bit of a mess of this, but he couldn’t accept that you thought he didn’t love you.

lando lived and breathed you.

“are you serious? you think i don’t want you?” his mind was moving a million miles an hour, and it spurred him on to make his next move. “get out the car.”

lando swung his door open, bounding round the door to open your door. there was a little velvet box burning a hole in his pocket, and he could feel it getting hotter with every stride he took. you stared at him dumbfounded when he took your hand, pulling you out of the car and into the road. you glanced around nervously, making sure you weren’t about to cause a car crash, but the coast was clear.

he pulled you into his chest, holding you close, eyes fixed on yours, his own a little teary now.

“you think i don’t want you? god.” lando sighed, shaking his head. one of his hands snaked down to his pocket. “you are the only person i will ever want. i didn’t want to do this here, had a whole plan and everything, but that means nothing to me if the woman i love thinks i don’t want her.”

his little speech had knocked the air out of you, and as he sunk down onto one knee, the colours of the sun hitting him so beautifully, you realised just how wrong you had been.

“baby, from the moment i met you, i knew. i knew you were gonna be my person, i just didn’t even imagine that you’d feel the same way. these years with you have been the best fucking years of my life, and i knew from the beginning that i wanted you by my side through it all.”

he was grinning up at you, a ball of nerves and curls, a few tears falling. you were a river, weeping over him, one hand clutching over your heart, the other fallen to your side.

“maybe i got it wrong, and i’m sorry. i’m so, so sorry. but i’m asking what i’ve wanted to ask for a ridiculously long time.” lando breathed. “will you marry me?”

you blinked, once, twice, choking out breaths between sobs. you dragged him up from the ground, kissing him with everything you had left. it was passionate, heavy with pent up emotion, and you never wanted to let him go. you cupped his face, keeping you together when you broke apart.

“yes, lando.” you whispered. “of course.” he slipped the ring onto your finger, a perfect, effortless fit, and then you were kissing him again, as close as could be, his hands all over you.

that’s when you felt the first drops of rain, the clouds finally breaking, just as they’d been threatening to all day.

“oh, fuck.” lando muttered, ready to pull you back to the car, but you wanted this moment to last.

“it doesn’t matter.” you said, letting the droplets coat your flushed skin. lando just smiled, relief washing over him like the rain.

you were engaged. fuck the rain.

and so, there you were, getting your very own movie moment, kissing in the rain with the love of your life, your fiancé, the man you would spend the rest of your life with. the sun still broke through the clouds, bathing you in light as the rain splattered against the damp ground. the leaves of the trees seemed to glisten, water droplets casting twinkles like fairy lights all around you. somehow, after everything, it was perfect. more perfect that anything you could have asked for, and, as bittersweet as it was to admit it, better than anything lando could have planned.

you threw your head back, staring up at the sky. lando leant forward, kissing over your exposed neck, and you hummed in delight. his lips worked their way up until they were ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“i love you. i will always love you.” lando whispered, and you melted into his hands that had a firm grip on your waist.

you shared a look, every worry dissipated, and you saw your life together, right there in his eyes. a flower littered aisle, him in a sleek black suit, his eyes meeting yours from the other side of the room. and then he was kissing you again and you felt the cool, damp metal of his car against your skin. your mind was full of houses in the country, white bedsheets, children playing in a garden. dinners by a fireplace and maybe a dog. but everything you saw slipped away until the only thing that remained was lando, right here, right now.

he was all over you, wet curls trickling cold water over you, sending a shiver down your spine. you grabbed at his shoulders, pulling at his soaked shirt, the white material translucent from the weather. it clung to him deliciously as you ran your hands over the linen.

“get in the car.” he groaned, sliding the material of your skirt up your legs. you complied instantly, turning to climb into your seat, when he stopped you. “no, honey. on my lap.” he smiled mischievously as he slid into the passenger seat and you quickly followed clambering onto his lap.

lando pulled your left hand up, so that it was resting over his heart. you finally had a chance to properly take in the ring, breathtaking as it was. it was an emerald cut diamond, simple yet elegant, exactly what you’d always envisioned.

“you see that? every time you look at this ring i want you to remember that i will always be yours. okay?” his voice had dropped, making the moment you were in even more intimate.

“okay.” you whispered, and his hand trailed lower, slipping under the hem of your ridden up dress. the other went to your neck, fingers gripping softly at the base of your throat.

“you thought i didn’t want you?” his grip tightened, your eyes wide in awe, fixed on his, murky blue green waters turned dark. “silly girl.” and then his other hand found your underwear, tugging it to the side.

lando moaned when he felt how wet you were, dripping all over his fingers, nice and ready for him. he worked through your folds, applying a firm, slow pressure to your clit. your mouth hung open, eyes fluttering shut from the pleasure, but the way his hand closed around your neck had you staring back at him again.

“i need you.” you whimpered, your own smaller hands gripping at his wrist, pushing him further into your delicate neck, rolling your hips against where his hand worked against your soft flesh.

“don’t doubt me anymore, do you? not when i’m the only one who can make you feel like this?” lando teased, and your stomach tightened, clamping down on the two fingers he’d slipped inside you.

“no,” you whined. “only you, lando.” and that was enough convincing for him.

he held you up, just enough to free himself from his jeans and boxers, and you gripped his shoulders, clawing at him as you sunk down on his length. the rain fell harder, condensation gathering on the windows as you ground down on him, meeting his thrusts. tears pricked your eyes; he felt so good, fit you like a missing puzzle piece, and you’d doubted him. you knew, in that moment, that you’d never do such a thing again.

moans were shared between you in unison, your foreheads pressed together as you both got closer and closer, the tight space intensifying the desperation to meet your end. his hands were firm on your hips, his body tight underneath your hands. you couldn’t keep the pace, thighs aching where you were straddling him, and he quickly took charge. your head fell to his shoulder, panting into his ear as he gave you everything, putting everything he had into the final few thrusts.

you laid against his chest in silence after, the sunset casting pinks and purples over the car. you grinned lazily, exhausted, your heart fuller than ever before.

“i’m sorry i doubted you.” you mumbled into his neck, nosing at his stubbled jaw.

“i’m sorry i made you doubt me.” he responded, stroking your hair, squeezing you tighter for a second.

“i can’t wait to marry you, lando.” you kissed his jaw, sitting up to smile at him. your hands looped around his neck, twisting his curls around your fingers.

“my wife.” lando chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “let’s get you home, hm?”

“please.” you crooned. “i’m sure you need to tell max that you finally asked me, huh?”

“you know me too well.”

-

taglist

removed tags that weren’t working! lemme know if you wanna be added or removed

@boysthatgovroomvroom @thegirlinthefandoms @welld0nebaku @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys @rachstash @infinitebells @multilovebot @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @nokiaholland @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit

[jazeswhbhaven]

He Can Match Your Freak | Asmodeus Selfie Spoilers

OKAY sooo FINALLY I'm posting this lol it's probably going to be like two parts maybe??? Let's see how this goes because I'm learning to not post thousands of screenshots unless it's relevant.

First. I'm skipping the prologue because most have seen it, and I'm doing a different thing with that anyway.

SOOO it's gonna be a crash course ya'll with jumping right in when MC is in his room about to get them cheeks clapped.

He wants to know more about MC because of what he's heard and well he wouldn't be wrong here. MC apparently is quite the deviant. And you can tell the writers tried to describe him as majestic and breathtaking as possible because the way MC sees him is similar to how they see Leviathan.

Until they said this mess.

G I R L WH A T

Even Asmo was like ???? But he has a sense of humor so he just laughed it off which I mean okay yes as if he would care about that phrase being weird.

But MC out here actin' up once a g a i n. lol

But also they mention his body odor keeps wafting over in MC's nose clearly yeah because not only them pheromones' but uh anyways we'll get to that part later

And MC was just like covering their nose and is like "this is dangerous" and for me ya'll?

I'd be afraid to offend him by saying he smells ripe which I'm sure he wouldn't be offended because I'm not sure what would offend him at this point in time.

So big boi puts a sigil on MC's body similar to a womb tattoo which is why he said "be surprised you aren't pregnant" but this symbol makes you into his "female" no matter the gender. He goes to say it nicely that you're his "virgin" though.

And with that, most of what's happening is that MC is feeling the effects of Asmo without him even doing much of anything just yet. The feelings of having climaxed multiple times over, hazy, losing your goddamn mind.

That sort of thing.

Baby I would have cried on the spot. What do you mean be your companion?

Yup he asked MC to not only be his one night stand but to basically be his and that he thinks he could fall in love with them.

He says that he can fall in love at first sight despite his reputation. And also he mentions MC is his third love. First was Solomon (rejected him and wouldn't tell him who it is he was in love with) and two his late wife who was a witch and it's their children/descendants who are the Unholyc that inhabit Earth.

I'mma be honest with ya'll I didn't finish Lovely Unholyc because I was mostly interested in William, there was no route for him at that time so I just kinda dipped, tried again and then dipped lol

oh btw he apparently just straight up wanted to yap about him clapping Solomon's cheeks and getting his cheeks clapped back and how many damn positions they did and I'm trying to wrap my head around what the fuck they did because at one point surely they were on the ceiling or floating mid-air, like I don't even know

But his wife who chose to live on Earth and grow old and die normally put a curse on his soul. He can love and fuck whoever he wants and should never be lonely but he can't have any more children. If he does, they die, and he dies along with the partner he made them with. (the fall of the house of usher vibes)

AND let me just say? That woman did the world a favor because he has a breeding kink. We'd have a whole universe full of little Asmo halflings running around. So either it was her being possessive or just her sparing the world of that burden then yeah thank you for that because phew.

i don't need no babies anyways

And he says the same thing like "Oh we can leave other things other than babies, like photos of us in a mess" meaning he really meant when he said he wanted to participate in the contest.

I mean he would have won so I think it's fair to give the others a chance. Lol

So things are getting hot and heavy now and he's wondering why MC is holding back. Honestly I'm like huh he did say that he turns you into a virgin and not everyone is confident when being presented with the chance of a lifetime to fuck the embodiment of lust.

But at the same time I mean...MC this is your element and you are pretty much striking out. (not to him but to me you are)

SO I complied all of these because this is important. Asmodeus is literally combining all of their philias and using them on MC and he's quite good at it. And well, why wouldn't he be?

And he even goes to strangle and lick up MCs tears?

Yeah we know what he's about.

His tongue did what now?

his tongue did what now

his tongooooooooooooo

Anyways I short circuited there because everything about him is just driving me nuts.

MC even said they were coming by him just kissing them and I'm like hold up??????

I fucking bet.

Okay ya'll picked the nastiest ass stuff for him to mention but I get it. Congrats if ya'll have things you're self conscious about during sex Asmo's your demon because he literally won't care and will still be turned on.

Ayo.

Moving on....LMAO

And uh...Asmo was licking MC's snot and spit off their face and they came again.

I'm drowning in a sensory nightmare why is he so h o t but this is nastttyyyyyy

"I can always go hard whenever I feel like fucking the opponent"

Sir what? He just be sayin' anything

But he does ask MC what do they want...and they just smack the fuck out of him so there's that. Lol

I would tell him I'd very much like that mouth on the kewchie. I don't even need anything else just his mouth. His jaw probably can go for days.

Now MC is making deduction here that Asmo is the king of lust and seduction and can pass this feeling on to others. He's dangerous this way.

Now Asmo how do you know that.

Tell me sir HOW (I think I know the answer....but I'd be hella surprised that Belphie would let him hit unless he was watching him...)

But mostly what's happening is that MC is feeling what Asmo feels basically the same spiel as the other kings except with him it's intense to the point where they are quite literally about to pass the fuck out. And Asmo ain't about to stop momentum so you better stay awake MC.

NOW YA'LL.

Bullet point times:

MC has climaxed pretty much several times and they haven't even fucked properly yet

But wait, their clothes are off and....

Bam they notice that Asmo's cock is pretty much halfway in their hole and they haven't even noticed

All he did was push himself to the hilt and MC squirted ya'll

So there's that.

But the womb tattoo is doing it's job because now the climaxes are back to back, and I'm just wondering how the hell MC is still mentally there because I'd be a babbling mess.

Yes daddy.

he makes me SICK (lovingly)

But also they mention the liquid he was feeding MC had a horrible smell and I'm just like oh fucking gawd please get rid of my sense of smell before sleeping with him because I would not make it. Why is everything having to do with him smell so much? LOL

LMAO

MC was begging for his dick and Asmo is like, baby it's already in are you okay?

I'm crying

Yeah remember those memes about people getting high and saying they were vacuuming the dishes?

I imagine that's what it's like having sex with him. One minute you're on the bed next you're in another dimension, floating, transcending, melting, legs bent in impossible shapes. Indeed I am mopping the lawn.

He even mentioned they've done it like six times already and he's just getting started.

with a face like that? phew.

Oh so he does have a good pull out game.

btw the visual for that???? GAWDDDDDDD -> look here

So let me back up a bit and mention that MC was feeling insecure that since they have been doing it for quite some time (2 days I think?) they thought he wasn't satisfied. Nah he was just savoring the moment. He could come at any time. ANd when he does? It's alot and from his horn and everything. Cum fountain.

And best part? No refractory period. He's already hard and slamming that thang back in.

Also he mentions here that there's a smell, and he's getting really worked up.

Yeah he's tearing that up. Like it's overtime ya'll.

There's purple smoke and a erotic aura in the air, he's grabbing and biting down on the back of MC's neck to claim them? Oh he's going in.

Alright here we go.

And just so ya'll know...sorry male MC players....the same line is used in ya'lls version too. No change.

This is the point where I would of preferred perhaps something else be said entirely instead. I know the majority of players are women/non-men but...I can see someone playing and getting side swept like?????

But anyways let's move on past this point

Until the room stank is an understatement.

But anyways, while MC is trying to somewhat calm down, Asmo is still trying to keep the momentum. And MC starts trying to have a normal conversation and figuring out why devil's fear him the most.

But also mentioned they wanted to shove his nasty, greasy, bodily fluid covered hair up their hole. E x c u s e the fuck outta me?

AN Y W AY S

Mc figures that the reason the devils fear him is because of this. Imagine falling for someone like this? Who is nothing but the sole reason existence of lust and temptation where you could fuck for hours and reach pleasure centers unknown and yet have that all be taken away when he leaves? There's no love? No sweet nothings? Just being used up and tossed without any direction and you're just in the dark?

welp.

But Asmo does offer MC some comfort

He tells them that he's back in Hell so he will be around more often. It won't be painful, that it's okay to start slow and that MC would wait for him when he's ready to fully accept his feelings. He could fall in love with them not that he was already in love with them. But with how he's considering him as a companion, how he's biting and claiming them, the amount of time he's spending with MC.

mind you he left Phenomenon on the floor the moment he entered the meeting room so I imagine they weren't fucking for very long at all. I imagine all of his sessions with others are "quick" and for those he really likes they last longggg like days.

Not mention he on that yandere vibes....telling MC he'd lock them up in a cage but he'll deal with it for now.

And apparently when he gives a sincere command, it must be followed. So MC basically ends up getting dressed, not whining about leaving, and all that good stuff. A true dom in that sense.

Also he mentions that when he's nearby MC will just get turned on automatically. "Your body will scream that your man is here"

why is that so hot?

So MC is back in Gehenna and this is when Asmo starts reminiscing about Solomon who predicted that he'd see MC in the future and that he would know that he feels at the moment for Solomon is not 'love'.

I wonder if Asmodeus was just helplessly losing himself for Solomon, and pepaw clocked that and was just telling him to chill on it for a bit. Although it is fucking WI L D to me that he is going to try this again with his friend's descendant..."hey I'm a friend of your grandpa...soooo yeah let's fuck and fall in love"

Sounds weird when I put that way huh? lol

Also since we're at the end I'd like to highlight some personality things about him!

He plays too much: Taking a photo of himself and MC sleeping and sending it to Satan knowing he'd storm immediately to the room

He doesn't have self doubt, he is very much full of himself but is considerate of his partner given the circumstances

He is not into aftercare, he claims that part is included during the sex, if sex is over then it's over

He doesn't shower ya'll. Like at all. But he oddly keeps his nails clean and that's about it? He seems to be obsessed with sex funk

He really likes Mammon. Like a lot. But he does that thing where he's like "Nah I want him to want me so I won't give him what he wants" lol okay

He fucks pillows, pretty much inanimate objects if he feels like it

He has a sense of humor

Romance is not absent, it's just tricky for him since all that's all his brain is "breed breed breed breed sex sex sex breed breed breed oh lets pause for a break sex sex sex kissing sex sex breeding biting"

He loves his children though. He really is a fatherly devil. He beams about his kids and this is a moment where you can catch him not being sexual

It comes to no surprise that he doesn't like the idea of sharing his favorite person but it has me think that his style of relationship is that he's monogamous but if you want to occasionally bring someone to "play" with he won't mind as long as it's discussed and he gets to fuck them too

He's got a one track mind, but it's not like he can't carry on a conversation

Now for my

T H E O R I E S

Asmo is older than all of the kings, but younger than Lucifer

I am reaching in the dark but it seems the only King he's had sex with or has watched have sex is Belphie

He's only in love with MC because he's taking a opportunity that wasn't given to him with Solomon

There's most likely a loophole to his curse that his late wife left on him but he simply chooses not to break it

If the Kings fight together along with Asmodeus, the war would be over, and if we ever get a final battle chapter it's going to be MC who is the missing "key" and the one who figures that out is Asmo because he spent so much time with Solomon

We may get a cameo from one of his children in the story

Asmodeus is possibly capable of lying and just hasn't revealed that to anyone. I say this because if he was one of the very early devils created he is the exception to the rule. So there could be some secret he knows.

BUT wow it seems that I have compiled ALL of this into one post. YAY FOR ME. Now there may be more little blurbs popping up as I remember them but for nowwwwww~ Thank you for reading, hopefully you grabbed some snacks, and ya'll are amazing. Feel free to let me know ya'lls thoughts if you haven't said already on our stinky hot devil man <3 lol

[thewosoway]

The ale way // alexia putellas x reader

Alexia putellas was a simple woman. Of course she had won a lot and she had always put up this front of how she was to the rest of the world. To you she was just ale. The same woman who constantly swept you off your feet and made you feel like the only girl in the world.

Alexia had her ways to do things whether that be different routes she took when driving or making changes to recipes to make them her own. Whenever anyone outside of the close friends and family spoke about alexia it was always how great she is and how people thought the family might work around her. In reality alexia hated being waited on and had to do everything her way otherwise it was wrong and messed up her whole day.

Today was exactly the same, she woke up early and left you in bed getting on with her routine but still making sure that whenever she woke you up there was going to be no room for arguments or anything to go wrong… until it did.

You woke up too early for her to be ready, normally you would have stayed in bed until she came to get dressed but nala kept barking and bouncing on the bed so you just had to get up. You went downstairs and let nala out before coming back up to find alexia in your bedroom looking for you. “Where did you go? You are meant to be in bed love. I was about to come and get you why did you get up without me? Now the whole day is ruined”

You just looked at her and walked back out of the room to go and get nala without saying anything. Sure you loved alexia but sometimes her way of doing things definitely wasn’t the best. You sat on the couch and waited for her to get ready before she came back out and looked at you “I’m sorry amor, it’s just you know how I like to do things and it just hasn’t gone my way this morning”

“I know ale I know, your mamas waiting love so we best get going to see her and alba” she nodded at you and kissed your cheek before helping you up and taking you upstairs so you could get ready before going out. Seeing alexia’s Mami meant the world to you, there was nothing better than seeing how much love they shared for each other. When you joined the family alexia immediately took you to her Mamis house and introduced you to her.

Eli knew how much of a control freak alexia was before she moved out but it was nothing compared to now. It was a game day so like always alexia had a tight schedule and needed everything to go a specific way.

In the morning you met with her Mami and alba for breakfast, then you go to prematch training, you have a little bit of time with the girls before going to the stadium and playing. Alexia has very specific prematch routines with what she does and what she eats. Every time you meet her Mami for breakfast she gets the same thing. When you have the prematch meal with the girls she has the same thing. She takes herself away from everyone to have a little personal time which you know means she’s thinking of her Papi and praying that he is on her side watching her play and hoping to play the best she can for him.

When she goes off to have what you and mapi like to call ale time, you normally sit on your phone or read a book to take the focus off of the match ahead. Once she’s finished she will come and find you and greet you with a smile and a kiss to the cheek before she gives you a proper kiss and a hug.

She times everything down to the last second. She’s very particular about what happens at what time. She’s definitely something but she’s your something and you wouldn’t change her for anything. She has her perks but that’s what makes her ale and you love her for that. Alexia is definitely not afraid to admit that she has specific preferences for everything but she knows that whatever happens you will always back her up and support her through whatever.

Through the game alexia would make different decisions and see things others wouldn’t, making runs down a line that the opposition didn’t see was open, moving slightly forward in a corner to open herself.

Sure she had ups and downs but that’s what made her perfect. She’s a great player and she knows it, everyone does. But she’s a completely different person away from the cameras and the crowds. She’s quiet, she’s cuddly, she’s sweet but she still has ways of doing things even if that was when she would put the dishes away differently because she thought her way worked better.

You loved her and her ways. She loved you even if you sometimes didn’t follow her plan and how she wanted everything to go. You made it work together, she just does it slightly differently to you.

**

I’m not to sure about it, I was having a massive problem thinking about what to write but definitely wanted to get it out before the match tonight. I’ve got 2 requests and I’d like to get the first one out by tomorrow but it’s currently half way done with no name so we will see. Hope you enjoyed reading, please send me some feedback if you wish for what you think I can improve on or anything you want to see written. Love you all, stay safe xx

[writteninlunarlight-years]

Can I request headcanons for Astarion, Gale, and Halsin being jealous of some guy is flirting with their female s/o although she's oblivious that he's flirting with her? He's so possessive that he even took her back home to have a heated make-out while holding her close!

Astarion

ThE pLaN wAs SiMpLe. All jokes about Astarions' cut scene aside, he simply tried not to like you.

He tried not to notice your smile, laugh, or radiant personality that felt like the sun.

He fell, though, and you were everything to him, but he was afraid to lose you. To push you too far, you to abandon him like all others.

He tried oh so hard not to think about how that tieflings stupid tail was getting dangerously close to you.

You were so naive and unique, so headstrong but so so clueless. How could you spot an ambush a yard away but couldn't tell this creature was hitting on you.

Astarion chose the safe route of just sitting there and watching like always.

A burning fire lit within him, the usual cold tempered vampire became lit with something. Jealousy? No, it couldn't be.

Then that damn tail wrapped around your leg; why, just why couldn't you be simple? Why couldn't he just not care who you sleep with?

Before he knew it, he stood before you, the tiefling behind him. Why?

He turned on his charm, and before he knew it, he was wooing the Tiefling, convincing him to go on his married way in hopes of bedding another.

Astarion looked at you as the tiefling left, and the fear of losing something so good ate at him. Gripping your arm, he took off as quickly as a fox through the forest you close behind.

Once safely away from prying eyes where he could be vulnerable, show you how much he cared and how scared he was of losing you, and he kissed you deeply.

You two had bedded in the forest many times before, but today, your connection was so passionately different.

Gale

Gale liked to imagine he was a simple man who didn't need much, especially after all that happened with Mystra.

That was until you came along, with your well everything; Gale couldn't find anything to hate about you.

The fear of messing up again and entering a new world of troubles ate him alive—almost as bad as the orb resting in his heart.

That's why anyone getting close to you, even a fraction of romance hinted or thrown your way, killed him.

He knew his place, though. Trying to woo a woman got him into the mess he is in now, so he just stood by and watched as people flirted with you.

Every instance though filled him up like a bottle, soon the pressure was going to explode but he didn't know how to inform you of this.

That night at Sharess Caress, though, when the twins propositioned you, the bottle overflowed.

Gale couldn't handle the pressure building or how you just laughed at the twins even though he could tell you were uncomfortable by their touch.

Before he knew it, he pulled you into him and used his ability to travel the astral plane to escape.

You were his and his alone to look at, adore, and love. No outside force or group could take you. Here, he ravaged you all night and early in the morning.

From that day on, Gale never hesitated to steal you away to his private hiding place to show you his more jealous side.

Halsin

Halsin was one with nature, so sharing with you wasn't horrible.

He knew that people would come and go, but he would be your one rock, always present and always there.

That made this evening at camp so much more confusing for him.

Halsin knew the wizard, vampire, and legend were all seeking your companionship, especially since they all brought it up to him before this month.

However, watching them flirt with you repeatedly, you just accepting the advances and taunts ate at him a little.

Halsin tried to go on nature walks, work with the land, and even speak to the great oak father about this; however, he turned up blank.

Tonight at camp was exceptionally hard. Though you had turned down Wyll and Gale, you never quite turned down Astarion. Halsin didn't know why this tore him up.

As the vampire asked you to take your life force once again, Halsin grew irate. You were simply too oblivious to realize this was an addictive habit, so you always stayed by the cold man's side.

Anger consumed him, and Halsin went to your side. Grabbing your hand and dragging you along, Halsin allowed nature to take its course.

Once you two stopped in the middle of a clearing, Halsin sighed. "Oak father's blessing, I know I always said nature can take its course, but Petal, I do not think I can stand this any longer. Let's just stay us, me, you, and no one else."

Once his profession came to light and you agreed, no questions asked, Halsin couldn't wait to enjoy the combination of you two as one. Oak Father's blessing on you both.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sum of All 6

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Steve Rogers

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you are given an unexpected assignment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The woman doesn’t say a word as she gets in the car. You don’t either. The tension in the car is like the sound of glass about to break. Each breath is another crack. 

The fourth passenger in the car is your confusion. You’re not quite sure why you’re still there. The job is done, right? And this is business. Not your business. You don’t ask. Questions are a bad idea with these kind of people. 

Rogers drives out of town. The old warehouse is ominous and you’re happy you’re not the one he tells to get out. The woman doesn’t hesitate even as you can sense her uncertainty. You only get a brief glimpse of her as she goes as the car pulls away swiftly. 

He retraces the same route. He clears his throat as he passes the city marker. “We needa talk,” he says. 

“We do?” You eke out. 

He sighs and adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, “look, I’m taking you home. You did your job.” 

“Oh, okay,” you fold your hands in your lap. 

“So, let’s discuss the elephant in the room. Discretion,” he intones. 

You thoughtfully mull the world. As far as you’re concerned, the moment you’re out of the car, it’s all behind you. Just a weird fever dream you can forget about. 

“Not that anyone should ask but if they do, you know nothing.” 

He stares at you intently. His blue eyes are bright despite the shadows, as his beard and hair swallow up the dark. He really is a frightening man. You’re fortunate to be walking away. You know that at least. 

“Sure,” you agree. 

“Open the glove box. Your take is in there,” he says. 

You lean forward and do as he says. You take out the envelope. It’s stuffed with bills. That won’t be suspicious at all. You’ll deposit it a little at a time. Wait, should you accept this? It’s blood money, isn’t it? 

“All yours. I’m sure you can figure out something to do with it,” he says. 

You recognize the streets around you. Your neighbourhood isn’t the nicest but it’s home. For now. You watch through the window as you ponder your deal with the devil. You won’t argue with him but you could always give the money to a good cause. 

He pulls up to your building and you tuck the envelope in your purse. That’s it. It’s over. It’ll just be a funny story to tell in twenty years when the heat’s off of you. People won’t believe someone like you had a brush with danger. You can hardly believe it yourself. 

“I’ll stay here til you’re inside. Make sure you don’t have anyone tryna snatch your purse,” he says. 

You look at him, “what are you walking about?” 

He squints and his lashes flick. He shakes his head, “what?” 

“Who are you?” You ask. 

His lips part and he pauses before he speaks, “you hit your head?” 

“Discretion,” you say. “Remember? I don’t.” You tap your head and pull the door handle, “have a good night. Or, er, life.” 

You shut the door gently and turn away. You let out a breath and march staunchly up to the front door. You sense him watching you but you’re not bothered. It’s over. You’re free. 

You go inside, certain to pull the grate door closed heavily before you continue up to your unit. As you get inside, you let your shoulders drop and hang your head back. No more scary men and hopefully, no more fainting. 

You take out your phone and find it just as lifeless as ever. You have a few notices to keep up your game streak but nothing important. Just an email. 

Wait. Before you can swipe it away, your brain catches the name. You applied to the firm months ago. Please, don’t be another rejection. 

You open it, one hand on your phone, the other stirring around for the envelope in your bag. You carry both through the front room of your apartment and into the bedroom. You tap the email to open and put the phone down to look for a hiding spot. 

You tuck the money under your mattress and reclaim your cell. You sit on the bed and read. It’s an offer for an interview. Great timing too. The sooner you can get out of this city, the better. You’ve seen its dark underbelly. No thank you. 

You reply, drafting your acceptance several times before sending. Content, you stretch out the last of the tension. You feel bad for all those people; the man that Rogers beat in the middle of the road, Warren, and whoever that woman was in the backseat. Still, all you have is your empathy. You can’t do much for any of them. 

The night passes so dully that you can almost believe you dreamt the last three days. In the morning, you’re back to the usual, though it doesn’t feel quite so. You get dressed, pack your lunch, and set off for the firm. 

You greet Geraldine as she unlocks the front door of the office. She’s happy to see you. You’re less than happy to see your desk. There’s a dozen post-its stuck to your keyboard. Each with a name and file number. That’s everything you have to catch up on, all scribbled in Brenner’s tight lettering. 

You sit and stack them up neatly. Brenner shows up an hour later. He’s hung over. You can tell by how he keeps his sunglasses on and goes through coffee like a siphon. 

Neither of them acknowledge your absence. They don’t ask and you don’t mention it. If all things go to plan, soon enough, your desk will be filled by someone else. 

You get through a couple post-its before lunch then check your phone. You have a time and date for the interview. Things are moving along. You’re already fantasizing about giving your two-week notice. 

You’re going to be out of here, onto greater things. Just like you set out for. Well, it’s just an interview. You need to be practical about this. One step at a time. For now, you need to shovel through the pile of shit before you. Fresh air is just around the corner. 

[sebscore]

Can I request a Gen-Z driver fic where she straight-up DROPKICKS Christian Horner in public after he makes some really sexist comments abt her?

Cuz if this man isn’t gonna get humbled IRL, might as well do it in a fic😂

A MAN’S WORLD

pairings: (indirect) christian horner x driver!reader / lewis hamilton x driver!reader

warnings: sexist comments. mentions of christian horner. mention of an orgasm.

author's note: this one's not really a funny one, cause I went the more realistic route with it, i fear. I still hope you like it, though. I might do a 'comedic' version in the future, because i agree as well that horner should get humbled by someone (although toto is doing quite a good job)

masterlist

• • • • • • •

''What's your opinion on Christian Horner stating that more girls are getting into F1, because of the good looking drivers?'' The reporter's question echoed through the room, cameras ready to capture her reaction as the words left his mouth.

Being asked about misogynistic comments that people in the sport made had become a regular thing in the press conferences ever since the young woman entered the Formula 1 world.

On one hand, it had become tiresome. Some men just wouldn't stray away from their sexist thoughts, no matter how many successful women would climb their way through the ranks. On the other hand, Y/N felt like she owed it to every single woman and young girl out there to defend them against these conservative men. Many women before her had proven that this wasn't a men's world and for as long as she'll live she will repeat that message.

''Young girls and women have always struggled to be taken seriously in the motorsport world, and for a team principal of a highly-regarded racing team to say that the only reason they watch this sport is for the handsome drivers? I find that quite insulting. There are many reasons why women are interested in the sport. Sure, there are people who got pulled into this world, because they found some of the drivers good looking, but why should they be shamed for that? They're the ones showing up to races and the ones who buy the merch. I know he has apologized for his comments, but I think we all know how much of that he meant.''

The lack of emotion on the woman's face and in her voice was a rare sight for the drivers and reporters. Perhaps it showed how fed up she was and how tired she had become of having to answer these questions. It hadn't been the first time the Red Bull Racing team principal had expressed some serious sexist comments.

Her welcome into Formula 1 had been a polarized one. The drivers had been supportive and many people were delighted that after such a long time there was finally a woman in the beloved sport, one that had talent that matched the ones of her competitors.

But where there is support, there is hatred. In her first ever press conference, Y/N was asked to comment on an interview that Christian Horner had done where he was asked about the woman and her arrival to Formula 1. ''The first time I saw the girl I thought that she was one of grid girls,'' he laughed, ''it's definitely going to be tough for her, entering a man's sport.''

The rookie knew the question was going to be brought up and she answered with the response her team had drilled into her. ''No comment.''

It was sad how after several years things hadn't changed, the comments were still the same and the people who made them still hadn't learned their lesson, simply being patted on the back for their mistakes.

''Do you find the handsome drivers distracting during your race week?'' Another journalist asked her, his pen ready in his hand to note her response.

Y/N looked to her side, finding Mick and Lewis already frowning at the man. ''Oh, yeah! It's super distracting when I look to my side and find a helmet there. It just riles me up, you know?'' The sarcastic comment earned her laughs and chuckles from several people in the room, happy she could show everyone how ridiculous the question actually was.

Not too long after the press conference was over, to all the drivers' amusement. Lewis caught up with the young woman as they walked out of the room. ''You handled that well, I really loved what you said.'' He squeezed her shoulder, a soft smile on his face.

''Thanks, it's just so- ugh, tiring.'' Y/N sighed, rolling her eyes.

''I know, darling. I was there was something I could do, but I'm afraid that the two of us are in the same boat.'' Lewis could relate to the discrimination she experienced because of who she is.

''Like, yeah, you all are handsome individuals, but it's not that I get an orgasm every time I see any of you.'' Her comment made Lewis giggle, her bluntness never failed to make him laugh.

''And out of all people, Horner should be the last one worried about his good looks bringing interest in the sport.''

[faesdreaming]

Yandere Miguel O’Hara Headcanons

a/n: there are two routes platonic and romantic, which will be bolded and colour-coded like this, please forgive my spanish i am breaking out my high school spanish classes.

tw: yandere themes, possessive, obsessive, and controlling behaviour, potential spoilers, suggestive themes (romantic route), captivity, canonical inaccuracies, implied neglect (platonic route)

•Becoming the hero Arachnid wasn’t something you ever planned on happening. You were just going about your regular, every day life when a radioactive spider bit you. The spider that bit you gave you amazing powers that you utilized to become the amazing, the one and only friendly neighbourhood Arachnid! Then, you were suddenly pulled into another dimension that was almost exactly like yours and discovered that you weren’t the only one of well you after all.

•You, alongside other spider-themed heroes, joined forces against Kingpin in order to return to your home dimensions. However, that wasn’t your last adventure with the multiverse. Your next encounter would occur a few months after your first misadventure. Having finished fighting the Green Goblin, you were ready to end the night there. Then, a portal similar to the one that brought you to Miles’ dimension opened up. Out came a tall, well-muscled Spider-Man and a Spider-Woman

•They introduced themselves as Miguel O’Hara and Jessica Drew and informed of the Spider society they’d formed. You were offered membership by them. Well, by Jessica. Miguel was staying silent. You don’t know why, but you felt as though he was watching you. He was, of course, he was right in front of you, but this felt eerie. Your senses were telling you something was wrong but Jessica was so nice and you really were excited and honoured to be given such an opportunity. So, you take it.

Romantic Route:

•Miguel stared at you intently. He’d been watching you for a while now, observing. You resemblance was uncanny— you looked exactly like his spouse. Not his spouse exactly, but the one the other had. You looked like the partner that Miguel had grown to love alongside his daughter. A variant of them. Although he was initially against you joining, it would be easier to watch you— look out for you if you joined the lobby.

•After your acceptance, Miguel tasked Jessica with guiding you around the lobby. He didn’t trust anyone else and he couldn’t bare to do it himself. He couldn’t handle himself around you. It wasn’t just your appearance that was uncanny, it was everything. You mannerisms, habits, likes, interests, everything. How Miguel yearned for you. Yearned to feel your touch, your kiss. Yearned for the happiness he once knew.

•But that would break the canon, wouldn’t it? The memories of his world, his family fading from existence because he broke the canon. He couldn’t let that happen again. So, he behaved coldly towards you. But as Miguel continued to watch you and interact with you, he started to doubt. You were a variant of his partner, but your dimension didn’t have a variant of Miguel O’Hara. Perhaps, he rationalized, this was canon. Your fates were meant to be intertwined. He needed you and you needed him. That was canon.

•Miguel strikes when you least expect. Spends weeks carefully planning. He stalks you, memorizes your routine to a point. He assigns you a mission, not overly-difficult but not easy. Something to tire you out. With your senses dulled and the weariness from the fight left you susceptible to his attack. Quickly, stealthily and by surprise, he subdued you. His sharp fangs biting into the tender skin of your neck, paralyzing you.

•When you come to, you find yourself in an unfamiliar room. Yet there are familiar objects lying around; trinkets and photos that had disappeared. Your spidey-senses were going off the rails and that’s when he came.

“Miguel?”

•He tells you you’re here for your safety and for the safety of your dimension. Swears you’re meant to be with him, that it’s canon. Warns you of the consequences if you break the canon. You stare at him, intaking his audacity. Then, you shriek at him. Call him out on his absolute bull. Miguel sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He ignores your screeching and leaves. Obviously, you’re still in shock. You’ll come around.

•Almost a month later, lo and behold, you still haven’t come around to being pliant with your captor. Miguel is a man of many things, but patience is not one. He is so very tired, having to deal with Lyla’s teasing and the other Spider’s bullshit. Is it too much to ask to come home to his loving spouse? Just like he used to.

•Apparently, it is. Seeing as you aren’t his spouse, but someone he locked up, you scream at him. Unholy screeches whenever you see him. Today, Miguel’s had enough. Large hands wrap around you and slam you against the headboard of the bed you’re chained too.

“Enough.” He hisses. “¡Mierda! I won’t hear it. ¿Me entienden? You stay here. If the safety of the multiverse won’t convince then maybe the safety of your aunt will.”

•The moment the vague threat passes over you freeze entirely. You’ve lost almost everyone, everyone but her. Carefully, you suck in air. Large tears brim at the edges of your eyes. as you look Miguel directly in the eyes. His eyes, dark and dangerous, bore back into yours.

“Please Miguel,” you whisper. “I’ll stay. I’m sorry. Don’t hurt her.”

•Miguel softens at your submission. However, he still doesn’t trust you. He pulls himself off you and stalks out, leaving you laying on the bed, dazed. From that day forewords, you become more compliant. You listen to Miguel and don’t fight him. Miguel knows that he can’t keep you locked away forever. People were asking questions. With your ‘good’ behaviour, you’ll be granted more privileges. More freedom, if that’s what you can call it. You’ll never truly be free, trapped under Miguel’s watchful eyes. But you’re able to go into the lobby again. To talk with people, even if you do so bearing Miguel’s marks. You know you can’t escape him, not when he could take away the little you had left, not when he would hunt you down through every universe. For now, you know you can’t escape Miguel’s grip.

Platonic Route:

•When Miguel saw you for the first time, he felt the world stop around him. It was as though there was nobody else but you and him. You, who was the only variant of his dead child that wasn’t truly his. He watched as you swung around, mocking villains and making clever quips. Miguel’s heart ached for you, for himself, for his dead daughter and child. As he watched you, memories of holding his child as they died because of him resurface. Once more, does Miguel feel the bitter sting of grief and loss.

•Oh, how Miguel desires to hold you, to cradle you close and never let go. But he can’t, he won’t. You’re not his child. You’re not the child he failed to protect. No, you’re a child he can protect. Thus, his decision to allow you to join the spider-society, if only to watch over you and protect you. Your family clearly isn’t doing a good job at it. Miguel spends more time than necessary looking after you. Not that he meant to, of course. You were just so vulnerable. You needed guidance. You may have been s superhero but you were also a child.

•Under Miguel’s guidance you thrive. He teaches you proper fighting techniques, improves your web-shooters and other tech you have and acts as the father figure you need. His teaching method is firm yet gentle. Miguel remains stern, however, everyone notices how soft he is with you. Life is good in the lobby. To be honest, sometimes you consider staying forever. Or more accurately, Miguel implies you should.

•Yes, he was originally not going to interfere. But it was you who made the decision to stay, so obviously that meant something. And Miguel wouldn’t lie, whenever you returned to your Earth to fulfill your duties as Arachnid, he could barely think he was so worried. Every villain encounter, every scrape and bruise is another chance to fail to protect his child. Miguel gets more desperate over time. Your time in the lobby is almost exclusively spent with him. Every mission is with him, every meal is with him, almost every moment is spent by Miguel’s side. And honestly? You’re starting to get s little sick of it.

•Not that you were complaining. You’re so grateful for the opportunities Miguel gave you, but he’s so overbearing. Maybe it’s normal, you rationalize, you’re family isn’t very close. Besides, you’ve seen Peter B. Parker with Mayday. Even Miguel isn’t that clingy. Your senses are blaring danger and to get away, but your yearning for love and affection suppress them. You continue to push down your instincts until you can’t. Until you decide to listen to your doubts— only to prove them wrong, of course. However, just your luck, your instincts are proven correct. You discover a goddamn tracker implanted in your arm.

•Finally, everything clicks. Everything Miguel does? Not normal! Just creepy, especially this. Thus, you decide to leave. You dig out your tracker and stitch the wound back up. You leave the tracker where you know Miguel will find it and leave, discarding your portal bracelet. You return to your Earth for the final time, intent on never leaving again.

•When Miguel returns to find your tracker and no trace of you, he goes ballistic. You left, he can’t protect you. You’ll get hurt, you’ll die. Miguel can’t risk losing you. He travels to your Earth in search of you. There, he tracks you down to find you losing badly against the Green Goblin. You’re clutch your ribs, bruised and bloody. The moment he sees you like this, Miguel enters a blazing fury. He attacks the Goblin viciously, pounding him until a sickening crunch is heard and the Goblin’s neck snaps. You collapse, from your injuries and the shock of witnessing Miguel kill the Goblin.

•Your chest seizes, hyperventilating. You can hear your heart beat racing as Miguel turns to you. He watches you panic and slowly paces towards you. You attempt to scoot away, but you can barely move. Miguel’s mask is off. You can see his eyes being filled with the same eerie softness as the day you met. Carefully, he leans down and large hands grasp onto you. You struggle as best you can, squirming despite the pain.

“¡Ay! Cariño.” He admonishes gently. “Be still, you’ll hurt yourself.”

•Regardless of his orders, you continue to squirm. Sighing, Miguel extended his fangs and bit down on your neck. Paralyzed, you fall limp in his arms. Carefully, he maneuvers you so to not hurt you. He cradles you to his chest as he inspects you over.

“We’ll get you checked out when we go to your new room. ¿Estàts bien?”

•Unable to do anything, you lay helpless in Miguel’s arms as he takes you to your new fancy prison cell— or room as he calls it. From there, you’ll be safe. Somewhere only Miguel knows, a place he can be certain he can protect you. Yes, you’ll stay locked away in your gilded cage, guarded by Miguel. Safe from the world, from every threat but him.

[gilbirda]

Personal coach Red Hood

Idea by @impyssadobsessions where Jazz needs a personal trainer from a gotham hero and chooses red hood. Eventual ship content. This is more of a setting so far but i have ideas. I accept ideas too, im just balling

I'm going to try a more chill and lax posting with this bad boy. I feel like my rigid way of organizing is making me feel restricted so this will be 1000% vibes and let's see where it goes.

Part 2

---

Jazz knew this was a stupid idea. Dangerous. Suicidal, maybe, depending on who would answer her call. But she still had to try.

You may be wondering how a twenty something young woman ends up following Gotham heroes around with a notepad. She wasn’t looking for an autograph, or for the latest scoop on the heroes, trying to uncover their secrets.

She was actually writing down their patterns and observations in behavior, trying to map their patrol routes and create a decent enough file and expectations of the heroes.

What did she need the information for?

She needed a personal trainer.

No, not the kind you hire at the gym. She already tried that and it didn’t work. She also tried MMA, and kickboxing and just to see if she could do it, Judo. All were interesting and gave her a pretty good picture of what her body was capable of, and a guesstimate of her physical limitations.

But no. She needed something else, something more… tailored for what she actually needed the training for.

She needed to intern with a hero. The term “sidekick” felt wrong for what she had in mind, since she didn’t want to be that hero’s trainee forever. Or was interested in the current superhero scene at all. They were doing just fine without her.

She just… she felt left out. Danny was amazing but he didn’t need her, not as much as she would have liked. He was a hero, and a pretty good one, but he wasn’t in any place to train her. Not that he wanted to, since he usually avoided her every time she brought it up.

Her baby brother was all grown up and he didn’t need his older sister anymore. 

Jazz shook her head. She was being ridiculous. Danny would always need her — she just needed to do her homework and keep up with him on her own. If she just trained enough and could hold her own in ghost fights, she was sure Danny would be grateful and appreciate her support. Who knows, maybe he would be happy that he didn’t need to be wary of ghosts day and night, and actually rest and focus on his neglected studies.

She yawned, lamenting another night that looked to be a bust. Maybe the heroes were busy tonight? Maybe they were on a big mission away? Unlikely that all of them were away, there were usually at least a few of the Bats flying around the city.

Why Gotham, you may ask? Of all the funny-dressed crime fighters on Earth, why these people? 

Easy.

They were human.

That piqued Jazz’s interest. She had been between the Arrows and the Bats, but finally chose the Bats because Gotham had one perk over Star City: unlimited supply of ectoplasm. The place was almost as coated in the thing as Amity, which she was grateful for. It saved her from going back and forth to places rich with ghost activity and fishing blobs to eat.

Don’t ask too many questions about the consuming blob ghosts part. It was a necessary evil.

However, it’s been a few months and all she got to show for her efforts was a notepad filled with scribbles she painstakingly copied to her computer and a lot of frustration.

Until one night she caught Red Hood alone as he checked his phone. She waited until he was done texting — she had manners thank you very much — and jumped in front of him before he had the chance to grapple away.

“Hi— oof.” 

Thanks the ancients for her reflexes and Judo training, she blocked Hood's punch and following kick. It would probably bruise but it wasn't the end of the world.

“What the fuck?” 

“Hi,” she tried again, “I'm Jazz.”

He didn't punch her again, which she took as a good sign. Instead, he took a step back and squared up like he was expecting a fight.

“I’m not looking for a fight,” he scoffed but let her continue speaking, “I’m looking for… I guess you’d call it a mentor? That sounds weird… A personal trainer? No, that’s wrong too. Hm, I wonder if there’s a word for ‘person who is the only one that can teach you very specific information in a field of interest that legally, or otherwise—’.”

Red Hood cleared his throat, making her jump.

“Are you for real?”

“Yeah? I am real.”

Hood looked at her in silence for a few moments. Then, he sighed and rubbed one gloved hand against his helmet. 

“Listen, girl.”

“Jazz!”

“Jazz,” somehow she got the impression he grumbled, but the voice modulator did its job really well, “I have things to do, ok? Crimes to stop and stuff. So… yeah. Goodnight.”

He turned around and picked the grapple gun from inside his jacket.

“Wait!” 

He jumped and misfired the gun, hitting the wall of the building instead of the roof, like he was supposed to. As the gun recalled the rope, he looked over his shoulder at her. Jazz understood he was glaring at her, she could feel the daggers on her skin.

“Hear me out, ok?” He didn’t move or said anything. “I need— I have tried hiring a trainer, at… back at the gym. You know? But that wasn’t enough. I think I need to train with an actual hero—”

“Listen,” the word was accompanied by the hook of the grapple clicking into place, “whatever it is you are looking for, you definitely are not going to find it with me. So. Scramble.” 

He made a shooing gesture with one hand and aimed the gun without looking, shooting it and amazingly enough, hitting the edge of the rooftop. He made a salute as he was launched to the air at high speed.

Jazz didn’t follow, mesmerized by the skill. Hood landed with a flip and without breaking momentum, started running to the next rooftop, jumping impossible lengths. The way he moved was confident, powerful and measured.

She wanted to do that. She needed Red Hood to train her.

---

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[arc-misadventures]

An Arc’s Revenge

Juniper: So… Let me get this straight… There’s a kid at school named, Cardin Winchester?

Jaune: Yes.

Juniper: And, this kid tends to bully you at school.

Jaune: Among others, but it’s mostly him.

Juniper: And, he’s been bullying you by knocking your stuff over, shoving you around, and general blackmail you into doing his school work.

Jaune: He also shoved me into a rocket launcher, and sent me flying.

Juniper: H-He did what?! Okay, no… let’s, let’s just put that on the back burner for now.

Jaune: Okay.

Juniper: So, you decided to come up with a plan to get revenge on, Cardin for all the things he has done to you. Now, instead of coming up with some elaborate prank that would totally humiliate him. You decided to go the opposite route… and, fuck his mother?!

Jaune: Yeah, pretty much.

Juniper: Why the hell would you do that?!

Jaune: Well, at first at went to, Carla…?!

Juniper: Mrs. Winchester! You are not getting on any friendly ground with her bucko!

Jaune: Okay… I went to, Ms. Winchester, and asked her if she could give me any information on, Cardin. What are his biggest fears, secrets he doesn’t want exposed, things like that. She understood I wanted to get revenge for all of his bullying. But, then, Ms. Winchester purposed a plan that would really upset, Cardin.

Jaune: That I fuck her.

Juniper: Wait! This was her plan?!

Jaune: Yep. Apparently she wanted to teach, Cardin a lesson too, and she thought, ‘What better revenge can a guy get, than fucking his bully’s mom.’

Juniper: Are you kidding me?! That seriously can’t be the reason behind why she slept with you?!

Jaune: Well, she also mentioned some things about… a dry spell, sexy blonds. And, something else afterwards about being sexually satisfied? I wasn’t sure what she meant by that.

Juniper: Good gods! Okay, I’m going to have a word with, Ms. Winchester. Acheius, you go talk to your son I… oh gods…

Acheius: Jaune, I can’t believe you would do something so childish!

Acheius: Nice job out there son! That’s a pretty dame you bagged out there!

Jaune: Ehhh… What?

Acheius: And, with a woman twice your age too!

Acheius: Juniper actually wanted me to bang her to get back at the husband for what she said to, Juni. He died before I could.

Jaune: Mom wanted you to do what now…?

Acheius: I can’t believe that my son would stoop to something so low, and depraved! Didn’t I teach you better?!

Acheius: Your mom would have done it herself, but she was pregnant at the time.

Jaune: You didn’t teach me any…?! Wait, Mom would have done it?!

Acheius: I can’t believe my son would do such a thing… I am so disappointed in you…

Acheius: I’m so proud of you! Here’s 200 Lien, treat the lady to a nice dinner!

Jaune: Okay…?

Acheius: You are ground for a week… No! A…?!

Juniper: Jauney~!

Acheius: Uh oh…

Jaune: Y-Yes?

Juniper: After much consideration, and discussion with, Carla. I approve of your relationship with her.

Jaune: You do?

Acheius: Beg pardon?

Juniper: Yes, Carla is a kind, and caring widow who is searching for a lover to share her life with, and we both agree that you are that man!

Jaune: Okay…?

Juniper: So you two go on, and have a wonderful time together, okay dear?

Jaune: What the hell is going on…?

Juniper: Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to have a world with my new BFF~!

Jaune: ‘BFF?’

Jaune: Dad… What the fuck just happened?

Acheius: I have no idea… One moment she’s screaming at you for bedding a woman twice your age, now she getting all buddy, buddy with her; I haven’t the faintest clue what just happened.

Juniper: Oh, Jaune?

Jaune: Yeah?

Juniper: Remember: If you use a condom your pee-pee will fall off! Okay? Bye~!

JA: …?

JA: Ohhhhhhhh…

Jaune: That certainly explains the 180 she just performed.

Acheius: Yeah. Your mother has always had a thing for babies…

Jaune: I know…

Jaune: She’ll kill me if I don’t knock, Carla up within the month won’t she?

Acheius: Maine you at worst.

Jaune: Shit…

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Obsessed with Homelander

Y/N wanted to fuck Homelander so bad, it was pathetic. The others were very confused on why anyone would wanna fuck him, given the things he’s done and how he acts. Did Y/N even know the things he’s done? They wouldn’t put it past her given how dumb she was at times. 

There was a meeting that the seven were having that was kind of important. It was about the Supe Terrorists and how they needed to stop em’. Homelander was ranting on about it and Y/N just stared at him like he was the whole world to her. He was to her and himself. “You’re so beautiful.” She accidentally blurted out. She looked around and the others stared at her with a weird look. “When I’m talking, no one else is to be.” He said with anger. “Sorry, Daddy.” She said and looked down at her lap. The others’ weird looks didn’t go away. Homelander looked at the girl with wide eyes. 

Y/N would constantly bring him gifts. (Food, Milk) She knew that he had a milk obsession but it wasn’t because she stalked him…or anything. She handed him the gallon of Milk with a smile. He took it from her, very confused on how she knew that he loved Milk. She leaned down and whispered in his ear. “You know..If you make me a mommy you could have milk anytime you wanted.” His face got so red after that. He hated that she would say stuff like that to him before meetings. 

On Halloween Y/N would dress up like him, just to impress him. Though she went the more skankier route. She had a very sexy two piece with a cape, boots and gloves. It was his exact outfit, just a slutty version. His jaw dropped as he saw her walking around Vought like that. She wasn’t in her costume but was in one that resembled his. She walked up to him. “You know..If you fuck me right now, you’d basically be fucking yourself just as a woman.” She winked. 

Starlight and Maeve tried telling her that Homelander was dangerous and that she did in fact not want to fuck him. It wasn’t a good idea. She didn’t listen and ended up sending him pictures of herself nude just to see if that would get his attention. He did but it also made everything a lot worse. “Y/N i’m flattered that you have an obsession with me, really I am. But you can’t send me nude pictures of yourself and whisper dirty things in my ear.” He would tell her. He lied to her and told her he doesn’t fuck other members of the seven. She said she would leave but he told her No.

Stormfront came along and Y/N realized that he was lying to her. She felt hurt and sad that he couldn’t just tell her No but lie to her instead. What did Stormfront have that she didn’t? Stormfront knew that Y/N had an obsession with him, thanks to Homelander and always had to tease her or show off the fact that Homelander wanted her more. Y/N watched as Stormfront would kiss him and basically fuck him right infront of her. She would just storm away, mad. Stormfront would smirk.

Homelander noticed that Y/N was quiet during meetings and didn’t hit on him. He was confused and definitely missed it. She barely even looked at him which annoyed him. He realized that he liked having her all over him and hated that she wasn’t. He would roll his eyes anytime StormFront tried to rub whatever they had in her face. “Stop doing that.” He would tell her. “The poor girl gets it.” StormFront was offended. “What, Do you like her or something?” StormFront asked him. He didn’t answer her, causing her to go away. 

When all the nazi shit about StormFront came out and the girls teamed up on her, Y/N really kicked her ass. She didn’t like the bitch from the start. Homelander saw that Y/N was using all her powers and abilities on StormFront. She really didn’t hold back. “You got some nerve.” He growled at her. She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Oh my god Homelander, I’m right here waiting for you, always have been. You don’t need that Nazi loving skank. I’ve been here the whole time.” She would yell back at him. 

His hips pounded into hers, not caring who walked in. She was so loud, her moans and whines were so loud but he loved it. His name fell off her lips over and over again. “I’ve waited so long for this moment.” She whined. “Just to have you inside of me.” He could cum at what she was saying to him. Having someone actually obsessed with him and want him in every way shape or form was great. He was moaning himself at her tight pussy squeezing him. “I love the way you treat me like i’m your world. It’s so hot.” He whined. “You are my world, John. Always have been, always will be.” She moaned. Her calling him by his real name was so hot and making him twitch. “I want you to cum for me John. I want you to fill me up and make me carry your baby.” She managed to say to him. He whined and groaned as he came. She came right after, moaning his name. “Just so you know, you’re mine now.” He whispered in her ear. “I’ve always been yours, John.”

[jolalibrary]

iii. when pounding dough isn't just baking

joel miller x f!reader | chapter three of honey stained hands

chapter summary: and he can already hear what Jackson will say if they find out, the looks he’ll get—because how dare he poison the sweet woman who tends to bees and bakes cakes. but he dares. fuck he’d dare over and over again.

warnings: patrol times, allusion to grief, minor mentions of loss of loved ones (rip tess/sarah), reader is unwarrantedly slapped on the ass by an unknown male (she handles it, cause she's a baddie), soft, slow-smut, p in v, typical canon-angst, no physical descriptions, minor use of the nickname 'bee' but no use of y/n. wordcount: 5.1k an: fuck me, she's uploaded hahaha. for this chapter, there's far too many people to thanks, I've rambled about this to anyone who listens, but as always thank you to @thetriumphantpanda for propping me up when this felt like it would never happen and thank you also to @goodwithcheese who loves this, probably as much as me, but has also reminded me i have to love it first.

It’s hard to pinpoint when the snow first began to truly settle.

When it began to simply dust itself over things, and then when it shifted into blanketing.

One day, normal. The next there’s a sheet of white hanging expertly over roofs and porches. It's placed there by the hands of nature, blanketing everything in innocence, unveiling deception by the way of footprints, while hiding away the horrors that have deteriorated and spoiled into the ground.

It twinkles when stared at and crunches under the soles of boots. It goes hand in hand with the weather which makes mist appear from lips as people converse, going on with their new normal. It forces laughter from individuals as it falls in flutters, collecting on noses, hands and the ground, just before snow people begin to appear, all crafted expertly by hands and joy. But, the snow also makes bones in those who are older ache and makes excited giggles flow from those who are younger.

For Joel, it drives him to yank his gloves further up his hands, causes him to grumble and makes him narrow his eyes as Ellie rolls another snowball and threatens to throw it.

She eventually settles with heading off to find Tommy, leaving him to stuff the gloves under the cuff of his jacket—trying to busy himself, and not stare. Alternating between flexing his fingers and peering around as he waits to hear your door open.

When it does sound, it’s like music to his ear. A soft whistle flows with it, a smile catching his eyes when he allows himself to glance over and look.

Joel swears the light of the world lives in your smile. It must do to penetrate the layers he wears, the walls he’s thrown up and the roughness he carries. Not that he’s ever about to admit it. Not that or that whatever had been churned up inside of him, smooths out. A semblance of calm slid itself over him, gently weaving its fingers under knots and taut muscles, relaxing him, inch by inch.

Although, a part of him is tempted to spill all his secrets to you when you skip down the steps, looking as over the moon to see him, as he is to see you.

“You ready for Patrol 101, Miller?”

He isn’t sure he is. His knees had groaned in protest this morning, then there had been an ache in his ribs when he stretched too far, and he was sure if he attempted to run his hip would give out.

Joel swallows all of it and doesn't share it. Doesn't want to highlight any more than the lines on his face and the callouses on his fingers what the years have done to him.

Because getting out was something he’d been craving.

A hunger in him that hasn't been stemmed with tasks and fix-me-ups. It’s why he had almost choked on his drink when Tommy told him the news. Practically watched his brother smirk in the same way he had when he was younger—like he’d gotten something on his older brother. Bee'll take you around a few times; show you the routes. Then you'll be paired with someone else.

While he hadn’t wanted to push, dismay swirled within him. It sloshed against the sides of the happiness he’d been handed, diluting it, and making it murky.

How come I can’t stay partnered wit’ her?

Can’t have the best two together—we’ll lose others quicker than we already are.

He said nothing. People had been getting braver for weeks, growing more desperate.

A thing which Joel had seen firsthand when he’d been outside of the walls of Jackson, long before he could ever say he was a resident. But, something had shifted more so since then. A deviousness not etched into those with more energy, more poison in their teeth and more gut in their stomachs.

“Don’t worry, I’ll look after you,” you tease.

Snorting, he holds your gaze. Allows himself to see his reflections in the way they glimmer, staring at him with a mixture of things—ones he wishes he could translate and understand. Your tongue tracing your bottom lip, something trying to write across your face, but never being spelt out.

That is until you clear your throat. Erasing it all, wiping the markings from your face—the begins of sketched-out confessions he would have tried to ascertain.

“Come on, need to get ourselves equipped.”

He follows, as he does for the next hour.

On the second time out, he’d grown used to your mannerisms.

How you went from nothing but sunshine to a thing someone would fear meeting in the dark.

That you begin by his side, but eventually fluctuate between being a little in front or just behind. Your voice ranges in pitch, sometimes whispering, sometimes at normal volume. All little quirks he supposed you’d picked up from surviving.

The main thing Joel learns is that he doesn’t hate listening to you—not like he does many others. Even when you elbow him, pulling a slight smirk from him.

What he hadn’t banked on was the way he felt when your eyes dropped to his lips temporarily, almost fleetingly.

Good job I’m a talker, isn’t it Miller?

While you are, he’s also now able to spot that shift in you on the third run—the one he saw before when you were littered with ruby droplets. He can predict when it descends, when it shifts in your eyes, something sharper, more razor when you’re on this side of the fence.

The playful light that adorns your face is gone, traded for something harsher, more weathered. He thinks it would be rude to say your age, but you appear hardened, like the things you’ve faced begin writing themselves across your face all over again.

Joel notes it’s worse when you pause at an abandoned cabin, your voice tight, almost forced as it leaves your mouth. Your eyes burn into the door and the chipped windows. He doesn’t interrupt, makes no sudden movements, just allows you to list the things there, the amenities, the hidden knife in the floorboard and half a box of bullets behind a brick in the fireplace.

He's not paying attention to that though, but rather you.

You who looks like you could shatter if he knocked into you, crumble into something that would willingly slip between snowflakes and bury yourself into the soil.

He's learned grief can be worn in a number of ways. Ellie's there, carried around her neck like a necklace, it lingering in unsaid words.

The most painful parts of his own are buried in a chamber, wrapped in iron, only released in the moments where he's alone, where there's nothing but darkness and quiet, allowing him to replay all he can recall like a home movie, paying attention to the way those three letters sound and the childish laughter rings out.

Another part comes back to him at the sound of running water, of circular rocks. He thinks of that sly smirk and that cunning brain when he rolls over mid-sleep to remember he still leaves a space.

Then, there's the way you carry it. A mystery, slices of it living in the things you surround yourself and you come into contact with, like a bunch of ghosts which haunt and linger.

"I know it’s not a lot, but it’s better than leading them back."

"Yeah," he adds.

Because other words don't come to him with ease.

You don’t fill the silence for a while after the cabin is barely in sight, just the world absently humming along, as though it doesn’t notice the tension and the way your shoulders are by your ears.

“So, why baking?”

It’s the first question he asks—the only one since the two of you left the safety of Jackson. If you’re surprised at his shift to engage, you do not comment, instead pointing in the direction the two of you are taking.

“Well, I did do candles for a while too, but…”

Moving a branch out of the way, you nod as you move under it, likely following a path you only know in your head.

And it lingers, the bit after the but. Waiting, hearing the breeze blow gently through bare trees and the snow wince under your boots.

“So, how’d you like patrol, Miller?”

Smiling, he grips the gun a little tighter at his waist. “S’alright. Y’a good tour guide.”

Laughing, you stop, waiting for him, jutting your head in the direction of the path, but he doesn’t move, and neither do you.

And it happens, brief and quick. Gone far too soon before he can point it out—that brief look you give him, dropping from his eyes to his mouth. Curiosity there, brewing, bubbling before you vanish it when you return to hold his gaze.

“If Tommy tells me you rated me less than five stars, I’ll be coming for you.”

“Will y’now?”

Narrowing your eyes, the world silent of snow crunching under boots. “Yeah. I know where you live, too.”

He doesn’t see you for several days after the third patrol—and in that time, he's paired with someone younger, a man who appeared more nervous about holding a gun than he did being outside the walls.

“The two of you will be going out in a week,” Maria had said, no room for complaint or argument.

A stern expression that hardens as though freezing in the cold temperatures.

So, Joel said nothing.

But he did think of you.

He dreamt of you, too. Them having shifted when he slept. Swirling, hearing the distinct whispers of Miller, flashes of your gaze just as he wakes up—leaving him gasping, hand on his stomach, desperate to alleviate pressure, but not the kind which had been in his chest.

By the fifth day, he still hadn't asked about you, but fuck did he want to. Almost went round, and hammered his fist into your door. Getting as far as his own porch before he talked himself out of it.

But, now Ellie had begun to mumble. Her sharing her worries, her concerns, fingers playing with the other as she sat at the table, breakfast untouched, sadness beginning to embed itself in the cheer that Jackson had slowly brought her.

"She might be already down at the pen."

Moving the spoon, Ellie shrugs. "She isn't. Her light is on."

By the time he’s decided to check in himself, Joel finds Ellie at the foot of your porch, hands on her hips—beckoning you to come out. Doing so at the top of her voice, all sing-song, making a dance and churning the snow into ice as you stand and watch.

Whatever your reply is, is buried under your breath, doing so begrudgingly, practically dragging your feet like you were the same age as her.

“You have anything to do with this, Miller?”

“Nope. I’d have dragged y’out if it were up to me.”

You’d poked his chest, smirking—a glint that flickered and then vanished inside the dark-sadness that swirled in your eyes. “You can drag me anywhere, Miller, just so you know.”

Somehow, the simple act of getting you out led you to teaching Ellie more about the animals, showing her how to brush one of the horses, and how to feed the chickens. Before he knew it, he was lingering behind, watching the two of you talk to other townsfolk, before somehow ending up in the Tipsy Bison.

It was then Ellie decided to leave you both—a look on her face that screamed menace and don’t fuck this up old man, all at once.

And he had tried. Kept things light, breezy. Ordered you a drink, listened, and even overthought questions before he asked them.

Your eyes flicked to a table across the room when you motioned to answer, it all loud, full of laughter. The pitch of them has been growing louder for the last half an hour, likely doing so as more time goes on and as more alcohol fills their stomachs and sloshes with the morals.

It seemed to make your spine tense, your jaw tighten. All newbies, from what Tommy had said when he’d served you—seem good, honest.

Joel didn’t get that vibe, and from the look on your face, neither did you.

Clearing his throat, he nudges your glass with his. “Y'been good?”

Chewing your reply, you lean on the bar—eyes staring at him. That same look.

The one which he sees in his dreams. The one he saw embers of on those walks.

Before it drops, finds a place near where his fingers rest, watching a smile crack into your stern expression, fluttering something else out in its place.

“Better now.”

“Yeah?”

Rolling your lips, you lean closer, the scent of your soap and shampoo flooding his nostrils. “Yeah, Miller. You make me—“

But your words are stolen, robbed.

Taken.

The action does so before the sound of a crack echoes, all heavy, loud—it punches itself into the calming air, turning it violent and angry.

It ricochetes.

And Joel is embarrassed it takes him far too long to piece together when he sees you jolt beside him. Only realising when Tommy yells and he sees the evidence of it cut across your face, the shock that bled into a deep frown—words dying mid-conversation before your head whipped around and you stare at someone passing.

Pushing up from the bar, slamming your glass down—it splashing itself against the wooden counter. “Did you just spank my ass?” you spit, cutting over the man’s laughter—directing it at him as he walked back to his table.

“Just thought you were good enough to eat, sweetheart.”

Even if the smile on your face is nothing but sweet, Joel sees the shift. The forced nature of it. The way it doesn’t glaze across your skin. But is planted there. Not quite reaching your eyes, not quite blazing over the simmering that’s there.

Because they’re aflame. Murderous. Slightly pinched at the edges as you slowly tilt your head, placing your bottle down.

The music continues to play, mindless chatter layers on top of it, but he can just hear your boots walking away from him. One step, two steps, three.

Your body inching closer to the man, the one with his thumb in his belt, leaning—like his comment had substance.

“That what you want, handsome? You want me?”

Joel’s throat dries, fucking tightens. And he just watches on, even as his fist grips tighter around the glass. Hating the drawl from your lips, despising it, in fact—even if he knows it's a pretence. Fake.

It’s a thing he knows from those patrols, has learnt all the inflictions of your voice—can read when you’re holding back and when you’re giving him nothing but honesty. He can tell when your words are silky, smooth—the same way he knows you’re acting now.

The man snorts. The scar on his cheek all pink, clearly healing, sliding up with his snarl. But, it's the way his eyes bore into you like a man starved, that makes him almost rise up from the stool.

The way the man licks his lips and looks you up and down. “I’d show you a good time, that’s all I’ll say.”

He can feel his blood boiling, hand so clenched he’s sure the bones will snap under flexed muscle and taught skin. But, he doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—even if all he wants to do is go over.

Because you don't need him. Reminding him very much of circular stones and stubbornness. Reminding him of someone who handled themselves just as well, someone not worth crossing either—him there, only ever in case. That case rarely ever fucking needed.

He snorts to himself because it's only now he considers the fact that if the world had been different, he suspects the two of you would be friends.

Especially from the way you had moved closer to the table. Your hips doing their thing, fingers stroking at your palm as he motions to stand.

“Better than most around here, including your present company.”

You stop. Halt.

Head tilting ever so slightly—even from his position behind, Joel knows your face has switched again. Morphed. The air growing tenser, colder—practically bone-chilling.

And he swears the music quiets.

It happens quickly. A screech of a chair leg, the shattering of a glass, and the thud of a man twice your size landing on his back. Your body slowly crouches over him as the others at the table stand up. But, he's just focused on you.

How your jeans bend in a low V at the back as you hover over the man—shirt rising, skin showing.

All the other noises have stopped, and Joel can feel his brother’s eyes on him. Feel his pulse in his throat, in his ears, hammering and fucking hammering—

“This what you want? To have someone warm, sweet and gentle on top of your bones?”

You ask it in a way where there’s room for a response. The man’s eyes are wide, staring up at you like you’re the devil rather than an angel. Your tone carrying, fluttering to his ears—but your shoulders are squared.

“Lemme let you in on a secret. I’m not warm, m’not sweet—and touch my ass again, and you’ll find out that I’m not that fucking gentle either.”

Your words ring in the second after. Just the same as the thud of you throwing the man back to the floor. The words crawl across the walls, unwilling to be smothered by music. His drink suddenly tainted, ruined, no longer tasting of anything but annoyance, anger and sadness, watching you grab your jacket and leave.

Joel just rolls his jaw, over and over again. Glare burning a hole in the floor, opening it up, feeling red mist rise out of it as he tried to calm the pulse in his neck, the one hammering in his skull.

Y’going after her, or should I?

Tommy asked it in a way where he knew the answer, likely having bid his time to speak it. Let minutes rack up, and become a bigger number than they should have reached. He wore that same cocky expression Joel recognised from a world that didn’t feel like this one. It reminded him of kitchen mornings and car rides and mornings arguing with others about the prices of supplies.

It’s why he doesn’t answer, just grabs his coat, throwing a glare before he goes after you.

Joel pauses to visit the horses and lingers there to calm the anger in his bones and the fury in his muscles.

When he begins to trudge to your house alone, he pays attention to the way his boots crunch in the many prints left behind by others. His eyes trying to spot yours, discern them from the many others.

It only gets easier when the path forks off to where you both live. The prints grow fewer, able to spot the different pairs—the ones he knows to be Ellie’s, the ones he can recognise are his own, and then yours.

You with your little markings to your steps, the fresh snow leaving a breadcrumb trail he doesn’t need, but appreciates all the same. Because your house is flooded in darkness, bathed in the night—but the footprints told him you’d made it home.

Even in your anger.

He knocks once before he tries the door. Internally shaking his head at you leaving it unlocked, twisting it into place when he’s on the other side. Boots joining yours, bits of the outside crumbling from leather to meet the melting pools you’ve left yourself.

“Kitchen, Miller.”

Smirking, he shoves his coat from his shoulders, a little golden pool of light on your wooden flooring from the kitchen that lights his way. Leads him. Pulls him along with a transparent finger which hooks into the collar of his shirt and practically drags him, until he finds you where he suspected—behind a counter, flour dust everywhere, and staring waiting for him.

“Hey there pretty thing.”

Snorting, he bites back that you’re prettier. Swallows it. Until it rears its head up his throat, and sprouts in his brain, making him think back to your comment. Then, all he wants to do is make a comment about cashing in on it.

Truthfully, he hasn’t been able to stop himself from wondering if you sound as pretty as his perfectly tuned guitar.

As he turns it over, he realises—even if he was suave—it won’t sound as good. It all balling and rolling in a lump on his tongue.

“I’m sorry about tonight.”

“You have nothing to apologise for, y’hear me?”

Rolling your eyes, you tilt your chin to your chest. “Still. Should control my… annoyance better.”

Shaking his head, he folds his arms. "Think you controlled it just fine. Though, y'could've punched him."

Grinning, you look down at the bowl pointedly. "And how am I meant to buy my way into your heart if I can't bake you things?"

And it's there again, that thrum, that little twinge in him that you have awoken. A thing that made him think, not just feel. His thumb and finger play with the fabric of his sleeve, feeling his eye narrow as he watches you—considering, ticking.

“Can hear you thinking over here? Need some oil for the cogs up there?”

“Enough.”

Smiling, you lick your lips, tapping your fingers against the side of the bowl. “I’m used to it, Miller. The comments—the looks. Had it… well, far too long.”

Biting the inside of his jaw, he does so a bit too hard. Almost making himself wince, thumb digging into his arm, feeling it, halting him from exclaiming. “Shouldn’t have t’be used to it.”

“Yeah, well...”

You let the words fall out, before sighing. Resting your palms on the side of your bowl, you give him that look again. The one he thinks he understands and can read—even if it looks different. It doesn’t whisper in the same way as it did on Tess, on others.

On you, it looks like a challenge, a difficult thing he wants to overcome, solve.

Clearing your throat, you smile. Softer, kinder. "Least I'm your honey, right?"

Moving from his place, he moves closer to the counter. Something familiar coming back to him—something covered in cobwebs and dust. Once hidden under moth-eaten sheets, not thrown to the side as he comes to stop a considerable gap away—enough for you to blink, to tell him you’re tired and say goodnight to him in that playful tone.

None of it comes.

Lifting his chin, he finds you slowly smirking, eyes fixed on him, watching, waiting.

Clearing his throat, he rolls his jaw from side to side. “What’d y’like me to call you?”

Your hands flex, flour still clinging to your palms, your hands. “Tonight?”

Nodding, he watches you swallow.

Lets your eyes trace a pattern over his face, for a moment forgetting—allowing himself a moment of pretence. That this is normal, all of it.

“Yours. I want you to call me yours for tonight.”

Suddenly, his fingers are on you, palms grasping. It’s less a kiss, and more a need for your mouth—an act of dominance, a purposeful kiss to keep your tongue busy so it doesn’t take it back. More teeth than anything else.

Because it’s bold—yet so simple.

A thing which frightens him and makes him want to devour you whole, just as he’s inhaling, smelling sugar, sweet and all things fucking nice as you moan into his mouth—and fuck do you make him want. You, this thing that is all good on the outside and marred on the inside.

It's why he softens his mouth on yours, breathes you in a little gentler, hovering his mouth over yours, waiting, permission needing to be given, signed, delivered—

“Keep kissin’ me, Miller.”

Groaning, he does. Tasting something that is all things good, yet as he slides his hand around your apron and into your shorts, you’re nothing but bad.

He just feels skin, no fabric—your slick greeting his touch, how wet you are, all desperate to be known.

“Barely even touched you,” he groans, finger-coating himself in it. In you.

“Maybe you’re not the first visitor I’ve had in the last hour.”

Your hands are caked in flour still as he spins you, pressing you down. Cheek on the cool counter as the bowl tumbles and descends to the floor. Your hands, clutch, leverage themselves, hips all hinged.

“Y’mean it?”

“What?”

“Y’wanna be mine.”

“I mean whatever you want me to mean, Miller.”

Your tight as he slides another finger in, tightening around him, slick to the place his fingers meet his hand, your whimpers blowing flour dust around.

The more he touches you, the more he decides he has to have you. Something carnal, primal. Each whimper and moan grasped for like he was collecting them, storing them in his dark depths, hoping they’d glow and spark light.

Then, it cuts through it all, and your hand—smothering his jeans in uncooked batter—grasping at his thigh, squeezing.

Want you, Miller. Please.

Even as he retracts his hand, he wants to apologise. Turning you to face him, watching your eyes—all lust blown and pretty—drink him in, likely seeing his hesitance, his apologies.

Swallowing as you hook a finger in your shorts, letting them pool at your ankles, “It’s been a while for me, too.”

His mouth slants over yours, tongue diving past the back of your teeth. Clothes sliding free, skin exposed to the air of your kitchen—the evidence of your earlier baking leaving evidence in places he’ll find hard to explain.

Not that he cares. He wants to be costed in flour prints he’ll admire when he has to return home. Wants them to linger, be hard to rid—just like you.

“I’m no one else’s,” you whisper, teeth grazing his cheek.

But it’s the words that are left hanging he hears louder: not anymore.

A feeling he understands—relates to. His hands move, positioning you up onto the counter where you bake and make, and now fuck. He hears the bowl fall, the earlier mixture spreading out in a mess as he lines himself up, looking in your eyes one last time as you nod.

Then, he slides in, all enveloped by you. Walls wrapping around him, inviting him in—desperate, needy, as little moans kiss against his ear as he stills, thumbs drawing soft circles on your hips to make you relax.

It's slow, and cautious. Rocking into you. Letting your mouth find his, attempting to drown out all other things as your legs wrap around his waist.

"Your back."

"Don't care," he grunts, buries it in your mouth, layers it onto your tongue.

And he doesn't; he just needs.

All hungry, more than he thought he could be for a person he knows no history of. But as he loses himself in you, he feels his hand metaphorically let go of the dread he wakes with each day. Each moan of his name from your pretty fucking lips makes him feel like he belongs, not for someone, but for himself.

Feeling your pulse beat against his wrist as his hand slides around to hold the back of your neck, tongue tasting the sweetness collected on your neck, as you moan his name.

And he can already hear what Jackson will say if they find out, the looks he’ll get—because how dare he poison the sweet woman who tends to bees and bakes cakes. But he dares. Fuck he’d dare over and over again if this is what heaven feels like—if this is sinning, he’ll forever confess his wrongdoings.

Because you fit, perfectly taking him, your fluttering hole taking him deeper and deeper, welcoming him, nails cutting into him, marking him, maiming him in a way that makes so much sense for the people they are.

Grunting your name, your eyes open—fire there, present in swirling ruin, ready to pull him, unaware of how willing he is as he spears himself inside of you. Unforgiving, sharp—aiming to bruise and leave you wanting all at once. You’re panting, whining his name. Your head tilted back, chin in his fingers as he fucks into you.

Where he asks, and you smile—wicked and true—inside, inside me, Joel. And he can feel it, how close you are—all tight, desperate and unwilling to beg. But it’s there in the way you’re struggling to swallow and how his name keeps threatening to spill like the hook of a song.

“It’s okay, let go—fuck—let go for me.”

He sees the cogs turn, feels your body react, contort and wash over with pleasure, as he is sure he hears it, the distinct whisper of for you as you cry out, soaking him, coating his cock, fluttering and fluttering until you pull his mouth to yours. Tongue swiping across his bottom lip, tasting the sound of your name as his rhythm stutters, and stutters until his own release costs your insides, stains you, writes that he is yours all over you.

For minutes, it's just breaths, and the scent of you. Face sowed in your neck, your pulse knocking on his cheek, alive, living, all his.

"Miller..."

Swallowing, he steps back, boots standing in the contents spreading around him, deepening itself into the grout of your tiles as he pulls himself out, your hiss minimal, smothered and buried. His hand is outstretched, and he feels your palm slide against his as he helps you down to the mess the two of you made on the floor.

If you mind, you say nothing.

When he zips his fly up, you scramble back to redress. Silence, prickling tension building until he clears his throat, and you look at him with that same innocent look he first saw on your porch.

And he smiles. More so when you drag him by his cheek to your lips, having another second, another moment before reality rains down.

"I should... clean up," you laugh.

Nodding, he takes the cue. “You’ll… you’ll have to let me know when you’re next baking.”

You grin, then smirk, too—not saying anything. Staring at the ruin on the floor. “I’m sure I’ll need to borrow some ingredients.”

He wonders if that’s your twos thing.

And, he learns in four days that it is.

You step up onto his porch, Ellie having long gone out with friends—his fingers pausing in their strumming of the guitar.

“Ran out of hot water.”

“If y’want me to fix it, neighbour, I’m no plumber.”

“No. Just thought I could use yours—but, if you’re worried about consumption, we could do it together. Shower, I mean.”

He’s sure your eyes are sparkling; practically stars in a dark sky, twinkling, inviting.

His hand places the guitar down, leaning it, knees aching as he stands, your smile growing, turning more wicked as he nods at you to the door.

CHAPTER FOUR ->

[dark-frosted-heart]

Roger Barel Main Route - Chapter 0

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this. I’m doing this for archiving purposes and you can probably find a better translation out there. Some dialogue's taken directly from the English version's prologue.

This world, it’s full of despair.

It comes in different forms, both big and small.

Even so, it wears down on the mind all the same, and can even take lives.

(I’ve been searching for a way to fight against it)

--

Ellis: Thanks for queueing with me, Roger.

This morning, Ellis had asked me out of the blue to go with with him to a cafe that looked like something out of a picture book as a “favor”.

In a space that was full of women, Ellis and I drew curious glances.

Roger: So, what the hell is that “thing” making people queue up so early in the morning?

The cafe recently went through some renovations and the first 30 customers would get some kind of gift.

Ellis: A tin of biscuits. It’s something Harry wanted but since he’s on a mission, I came in his place.

Roger: Haha, so that’s it. Then I’ll give him my share too ‘cause having two will make him “happier” than having one.

The man sitting in front of me’s been busy making people happy today.

Ellis: By the way, I had some business at the pub yesterday and a woman asked me where Roger was. I gave her some excuse because I know you don’t like dealing with that kind of trouble.

I’m someone that doesn’t believe in romantic love.

It’s something that’s not scientifically proven. If “romantic love” does exist in this world, then…

(It’s a dysfunction of the brain or a misunderstanding caused by sexual desire)

Seems like Ellis knew me well.

Roger: You’re too good for Jude, you know. I’ll buy you drinks as thanks.

Ellis: Yippee. Ah, I think I’ll get something for Jude. I’m going to take a look around, okay?

Roger: Do what you want. Pick what would make Jude “happy”. 

As I watched Ellis make his way into the store with nimble steps—

(...Hm?)

I heard a voice cutting into this peaceful morning coming from the flower shop across the street

Flower shop owner: The delivery was delayed due to construction? Ha, how typical for a female postal workers.

I couldn’t see the face of the postwoman that was getting yelled at from here.

However, with my ears that let me pick up sounds 100 yards away, I could hear her heartbeat.

It was unsteady, probably because she was scared.

(“How typical for a female.” …What a bastard)

(If it escalates, I’ll step in—)

In the moment, her dignified voice rang out.

Kate: My sincerest apologies! I will be more careful in the future. For now, will you please accept this?

The man who was yelling is taken aback, likely feeling guilty after her apology.

Flower shop owner: Y-yeah… As long as you understand. Just be careful from now on.

I heard her let out a deep breath.

(So that postwoman’s someone that tries to be strong… Not bad)

Ellis: I’m back, Roger….Is something wrong?

Roger: No? Wow, you bought a lot?

Ellis: I wanted to get something for everyone. I’ll ask Victor to make tea and we can all have them together. Oh yeah, speaking of Victor…He said he has a mission for all of Crown.

Roger: Oh? Having us all together’s pretty rare. Could be an annoying one so let’s try not to get hurt.

--

Having said that, it ended without a single injury or incident.

—At least it was supposed to until an uninvited guest wandered in.

The woman standing there covered in blood, looking pale, was neither cursed nor a target. Just unlucky.

Jude: Tch…That’s why I toldja to lock the damn door!

Roger: Haha, well I didn’t think we’d have a trespasser! She’s a naughty lil’ thing, isn’t she?

My ears picked up an irregular heartbeat.

(...This sound. …No way)

—But that hunch soon came true.

The lil’ lady called Kate who stumbled upon Crown was presented to the palace’s grim reaper like a main dish.

(Now that she knows some classified info, she can’t leave without consequences)

(Worst case scenario, what waits for her is—)

Then, the lil’ lady in her hopeless situation spoke up with a dignified voice.

Kate: I swear I’ll never tell anyone about anything I just heard!

Victor: Hmm…Hm? What’s this?

Kate: I swear to protect your secret. I-I’m a letter carrier, and we’ve been trained to…maintain strict confidentiality!

Victor and William: …

Kate: If you think you can’t trust me, then go ahead and keep me under watch until you believe you can! I promise I’ll prove it.

A brave and logical proposal.

However, despite her demeanor, her heartbeat continued pounding in my ears.

The sound that didn’t match the attitude—it had me convinced.

(Ah…so she’s the postwoman from that time)

Her loud heartbeat gave away her true feelings.

(“Please don’t kill me”)

Among the anxiety was the strong desire to live and fight against despair.

(...Nice. This lil’ lady could be interesting)

I didn’t feel any sort of love or affection, but I felt this strange exhilaration in my heart.

So I thought—It'd be a shame to kill her.

(Come to think of it, at that time…)

I did “hear” her footsteps and heartbeat when she wandered in.

I could’ve made her avoid Crown.

(But I didn’t)

(Deep down, I was waiting for “something”...which is probably why I invited this heartbeat in)

I could imagine how angry this lil’ lady would be if she knew…

Victor: Well, well, what a good idea! I think we can actually make use of you. Accepted!

Kate: …Really?

Victor: Let’s see…All right, from today forward, you shall be Crown’s own personal…Fairytale Keeper!

Under the command of Victor, the Queen’s aide who controls Crown, enigmatic position of “Fairytale Keeper” was filled by Kate, saving her life.

Roger: Let’s try to get along this month, yeah?

Kate: Of course, Roger.

--

Ellis: Hey, Roger. Earlier, why did you look like you were having fun?

Roger: Earlier?

Ellis: When we were discussing whether or not to kill Kate.

(...This guy can really read people)

Roger: Well…I guess it’s ‘cause it’s been a while since I saw something interesting.

Ellis: Hehe, I see. Then… Would Kate being here overthrow your theory…and make you happier?

Basically he was asking if I’d fall in love with Kate and be happy.

Roger: Ellis, you’re aware of my curse…right?

Ellis: The double-crossing hunter from Snow White.

Roger: Right…The queen had ordered the hunter to bring her the heart of the detestable Snow White. But the hunter betrayed the queen by letting the girl go in the forest and instead, brought the queen a heart of an animal. After that, Snow White met a prince after her life was saved…And now here’s a question. Why do you think Snow White chose the prince instead of the hunter who saved her life?

Ellis: Huh?...I don’t know.

Roger: Because that’s just how it’s supposed to be. Because there’s supposed to be a happy ending.

Not to mention the fact that this is reality, not a fairy tale.

A man who doesn’t believe in love and a little robin who’ll leave after the month’s up—the relationship won’t develop into love or affection.

(...That’s what I think)

(But then why does my heart beat weirdly when I look at the lil’ lady?)

[mxtxfanatic]

Wei Wuxian, Morality, and the False Justice/Revenge Dichotomy

A key feature that drew me into Wei Wuxian's character is that while he is moral, he is not an unconditional pacifist. He will always do the right thing first and foremost without a care for how others will view him, because his morality is not dictated by vanity or reputation:

[Wei Wuxian said] "...But, let the self judge the right and the wrong, let others decide to praise or to blame, let gains and losses remain uncommented on. I, too, know what I should and shouldn’t do...."

—Chapt. 75: Distance, exr

However, that doesn't mean that he will accept just any treatment towards him. Wei Wuxian is the absolute last person to just lay down to be trampled underfoot by his adversaries:

If he were Chang Ping, he wouldn’t have cared how prominent or powerful the LanlingJin Sect was, or how much glory the road ahead offered him, and he wouldn’t have let the matter go. Instead, he would’ve went to the dungeons on his own, cut Xue Yang up so that he was nothing more than a puddle of flesh on the ground, and summoned his soul back to repeat the process to the point that he regretted ever being born in this world. But, not everyone was like him, preferring to perish together with his enemy.

—Chapt. 30: Dew, exr

The scene inside of the supervision office was more than horrifying. Within the courtyard, corpses lay everywhere. Not only there, the bushes, hallways, fences, and even roofs were piled up with corpses. All of the corpses wore sun robes. They were disciples of the Wen Sect.

—Chapt. 61: Evil, exr

He returns the suffering dealt to him by his enemies back 100 fold, but after he has gotten his revenge, he is able to move on peacefully, which is why he holds no grudges towards the Wen remnants once the Sunshot Campaign against the QishanWen concludes and even encourages Wen Ning's corpse to seek revenge against his murderers. Mianmian actually explains it best:

The woman seemed as if she was scared. She was even more careful, “No... I don’t mean anything more. There’s no need to be so agitated, everyone. I just feel that the words ‘killing indiscriminately’ isn’t really suitable.” Someone else spat, “How is it unsuitable? Wei WuXian has been killing indiscriminately ever since the Sunshot Campaign. Can you disprove this?” The woman tried hard to protest, “The Sunshot Campaign is a battlefield. In the battlefield, would it mean that everyone is killing indiscriminately? Let’s consider this as it stands. I really don’t think it’s right to say that he killed indiscriminately. After all, there is a reason. If the inspectors really abused the prisoners and killed Wen Ning, it wouldn’t be called killing indiscriminately anymore, but rather revenge...”

—Chapt. 73: Recklessness, exr

Seeing a protagonist that believes in "an eye for an eye" without being labeled as bad or "morally gray" by the narrative for refusing to turn the other cheek, who also knows how not to take it too far and stray out of my personal morals, has been such a breath of fresh air. It is also very validating to see a work of fiction so concerned with the subject of oppression and marginalization that doesn't frame violence and vengeance as antithetical to moral righteousness and justice. Because what is "justice" without restitution? And is it truly restitution if the option to avenge oneself of an unconscionable wrong is denied based on the false equivalency of being "just as bad as" your own oppressors' actions? Because the truth is that in most cases, violence is the only route to liberation, and sometimes, revenge is the only way to make possible the release of your resentments, lest the unaddressed wrong keep you stagnant in your malcontent. I am glad that Wei Wuxian serves as a model for this particular lesson.