#and my chair now squeaks at most pressure so now my wobbly legs get their own orchestra

[hashketchum2]

feeling super high energy today. on one hand, that means the ideas are flowing and i'm feeling pretty good.

on the OTHER hand my brain is also moving way too fast help i can't focus on anything and it's 9pm and i haven't eaten all day i have so many tabs open and ash's tumblr stuff and carrd and photoshop and sai and soulseek and winamp and discord and oh god please help

[thebountyfucker]

The Royal Affair - A Choose Your Own Prince Fic

18+ ONLY - NSFW

I wanted to try an experiment where I wrote a story with two parallel branches so readers could choose which character they wanted to read without me writing two separate fics! Let me know what you think! (Subject to more parts!)

Embo x AFAB!Reader or Cad Bane x AFAB!Reader

Tags/CW: Threats of violence/assault, embarrassment

Here's the link to my masterpost!

Want to be tagged in upcoming fics like this? Here's my taglist application!!

You eased up to the table, smiling despite yourself, and bowed your head. You didn’t say anything to them, as per the instructions from your boss, and carefully handed out the flutes of champagne. The royals prattled on in Durese, hardly paying you any mind, though the Prince did cast a glance up at you from the periphery of his vision. You bowed your head once more, and turned to leave.

-

You had never been more nervous in your life than you were now; with a tray of champagne flutes balanced in your hand, and the heel on your left shoe coming loose, you had to put the entirety of your focus onto your task at hand. It was a simple one, really - deliver the drinks to the Duros royal family, bow, and return back to the kitchen to fetch hors d'oeuvres. Simple. Easy. Yet the wobbling in your ankle frightened you. The last thing you needed was to drop the crystal flutes in front of everyone - or worse, on someone.

As you turned, you heard a loud snap, and your ankle buckled and rolled; you went down, your tray clattering to the floor. Conversations around you stopped, and the gazes of three royal families found you collapsed on the floor. A horrified blush crept up on your cheeks as you crawled toward your tray and gathered it up in your arms; you pulled off your shoes and slowly stood, pain blossoming from your ankle. You limped to the back room, and tossed your shoes straight into the garbage.

“What happened to you?” One of your coworkers, a pretty Rutian Twi’lek, asked, glancing down at your now bare feet and rapidly-swelling ankle.

“My fucking heel broke!”

“Oof, tough luck.” She shook her head as she kneeled down and prodded at your ankle. The pain was horrendous, but she didn’t look concerned. “It ain’t broken… I’ll see if I can get a wrap and some new shoes for you.”

“Thank you, Salicia.” You muttered as you sat down, propping your leg up on the seat beside you. Your other coworkers came and went, taking out drinks and snacks, and coming back with dishes and trash. They hardly spared you a glance. There was work to be done and attending to the weak link would only slow it down. You sighed softly as Salicia returned with a bandage and a pair of silken flats.

She sat beside you, gingerly lifting your leg to wrap your ankle. She was gentle, and the pressure of the bandage made it feel instantaneously better. When she had secured it in place, she handed you the pair of flats; colored a vibrant blue, the flats sported a winged lizard embroidered on each of the sides. The slippers clashed with your uniform, but it was better than nothing; you eased them on, and cast Salicia a glance.

“Queen Esmera gave these to me when she saw me asking the other girls. She saw you fall, said these would probably be more comfortable than anything we could offer.” She explained, her lekku tips curling up as she shrugged. “I think she may be fishing for a thank you… so… you might want to go out and tell her.”

“Alright.” You sighed as you stood and brought your tray back to the bar; the bartender noted you with a frown, but knew better than to say anything. “Can you get me seven glasses of your most expensive Phatrongi red? You can… add it to the party’s tab.”

“Did Queen Esmera give you those?” He asked, suspicion heavy in his voice. You glanced down at your shoes and nodded.

“Yep.”

“I suppose the wine is a ‘thank you’ to her.” He muttered, waiting for your nod, before continuing. “And you’re stroking her ego because…?”

“Because it’s the polite thing to do, I guess.” You shrugged, and he shook his head as he poured the thick, purple wine into the glasses.

“Yeah. Polite. And then they turn around and treat you like trash.”

“They’ve been nice to me so far.” You muttered as he helped stack the seven glasses of red wine onto your tray. Your departure toward Queen Esmera’s table was slow-going, as you didn’t want to risk tripping or putting undue stress on your ankle. Your coworkers were careful about not bumping into you, but there were a few close calls.

You made your way toward the Kyuzan Queen, careful to stand a distance away in case she turned her head to regard you; her ostentatious crown, constructed of metals and jewels and silken cloths, was large enough that it could sweep the wine right off your tray. That was the last thing you wanted.

She did, in fact, turn when she noticed you, and you breathed a small sigh of relief as her crown cleared your tray. She offered you a kind, mask-less smile, and you bowed your head respectfully in response.

“Thank you for your kindne-.”

And then it happened. You took a few step closer and the slippers caught on something - likely the queen’s dress. You tripped, and the tray of wine went flying; the wine splashed upon the Queen’s lap and onto the table. The princes and the King jumped back from the table as the wine spread out toward them. Your heart plummeted to the bottom of your chest, and you dropped to your knees at her side.

“I am so sorry.” Tears welled in your eyes. Salicia rushed over with towels, much sooner than you expected, and thrust one at you; she mopped up the table, apologizing to the princes, while you gingerly dabbed at the Queen’s dress. The red wine marred her white and gold gown, and you knew that the stain would never come out. “Please forgive me. Please. I’ll do whatever you want to make it up to you.”

The Queen gingerly patted your head as you dabbed at her gown; the weight of her ring-covered hand was rather comforting, and it did make you feel quite a bit better.

“There, there, Little One.” Her voice was honeyed and velvet-smooth, yet there was an imposing timbre deep beneath it, as if she knew and reveled in the power she had in this situation. “It was an accident, and these things happen. It is okay.”

“It is not okay!” The King’s booming voice startled you from the calmed stupor the Queen had put you in. Your gaze focused on the Queen’s dress as the party hall went quiet. “This insolent worm ruined your dress!”

“There is no reason to be upset. What is done is done.” Queen Esmera continued to pat your head reassuringly.

“There must be recompense!”

“Enough. You are causing a scene.” Her voice was even and steely, and her husband eased back down into his chair. The waves of rage radiating off the king made your skin crawl - he was one of those kings where the rumors of his temper far outshined any good he had done. There were numerous stories about girls being used and thrown in ditches after minor misdeeds. You hoped your employer would protect you from the likes of him… but that was no certainty. “The dress is ruined. I will call for a maid to bring me another.”

“I’m so sorry.” You repeated, and she tilted your chin up.

“That is enough, Little One. Now run along, okay?” She smiled sweetly, and you got up with your metaphorical tail between your legs. You limped back to the staging room, where you found a bench and collapsed onto it. Tears threatened to spill over, but you rubbed them away with the heels of your hands. You felt so foolish, so demeaned. The worst part of this, though, was that it was all your fault. No royal had made you spill the wine. No royal purposefully tripped you, nor did they break the heel from your shoe. It was your own insolence. You buried your head in your hands, a strangled sob leaving your lips.

Someone sat down on the bench beside you. You figured it was Salicia, until you noticed their scent - it was woodsy and entirely manish. You couldn’t think of anyone you knew who smelled like that. Curious, you spread your fingers open and peeked through them; sitting beside you was one of the Kyuzan Princes - the youngest of the four, whose name, you believed, was Embo. He cast you a glance, his browridge cocked.

“Oh! Uh…” You wiped your eyes on your hands, and then wiped your hands on your skirt. “Hello there, Prince.”

“You are in trouble.” He spoke, his voice unwavering and deeply serious. Your heart skipped a beat, and your stomach dropped.

“W-what?”

“My father is like a jungle cat chasing a rat. In his eyes, you wronged him, and he will not rest until you pay the price.” He explained, his voice low and conspiratory.

“But I didn’t do anything to him!” You squeaked.

“You embarrassed him, and my mother. He believes you made fools of them both before our allies.” Embo explained, his hands laced together and resting on his lap. “I came to offer my help. The last thing I want is for someone undeserving to be left in a ditch to die.”

“But you’re his son. How can I trust you?”

“Just know that I would rather see him dead than let any harm come to you.” He replied, his gold eyes narrowed and a small growl rumbling in his chest. You blinked at him, and then looked down at your hands. “And he knows better than to touch anything I lay claim to. If I tell him you are under my protection, he will not dare bother you.”

“I… wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“Nonsense. My family keeps a large staff already. We would hardly notice one more.”

Your gaze remained on your hands, your mind running a million miles a minute. If you didn’t take the Prince’s protection, what would happen to you? Would the king stoop to harming you? It seemed that if his own son was worried, the answer was likely yes. So it would be best to go with the prince then. What if he was lying? What if this was all some elaborate ruse to get you into bed with him, or worse?

“I’ll… need time to think.” You replied, your voice shaking.

“Of course. You have until the end of the night.” He got up, dusting off his expensive suit, and disappeared through the door which led back out to the main hall.

You sat there, still trying to process what was going on; the staff around you stared at you, either concerned or shocked that you had gotten so close to the Prince without mention of sexual activities. You glanced at them, before standing.

“I… I need to take a walk.”

No one stopped you as you slipped out the door into the main hall. The royals were all happily conversing, and you noted that Queen Esmera had, indeed, changed her dress. You ducked down the hallway to the front door, desperately needing some fresh air to help clear your head. Ugh, you had a headache.

The guards allowed you outside, and you sat down on the top step to gather your wits. The warm, humid Coruscant air caressed your bare skin, grounding you to reality. The ambience of the thousands of speeders and marching of armor-clad guards drowned out any sounds from the gala itself. You buried your head in your hands once more, just trying to think.

“You’ve got some shit luck tonight.”

You turned toward the intruder, noting that the Duros Prince was approaching; he had a lit cig between his fingers, and he took a long drag.

“First de heel, den sullying Queen Esmera’s dress…” He shook his head as he eased down onto the step beside you. He offered you the cig, but you declined. “What gods did ya anger?”

“I don’t know.” You sighed, shaking your head. Cad leaned back, perching the cig between his lips.

“I assume de big guy already warned ya?”

“About his dad? Yeah.” You answered, your worry rising again; it was one thing to hear about the danger from the King’s son… now you were hearing it from an unrelated royal? Great….

“Den ya know you’ll need t’ low ‘til he comes t’ his sense, right?”

You nodded at this. “Prince Embo offered to let me stay with him.”

“Did he now? Doesn’t seem quite safe t’ be going back to de same home as yer threat.” He mused as he took a drag of his cig. “I came t’ offer de same thing.”

“Why?” You asked, wary of Cad’s intentions.

“Well, King Triakt has no domain over me and my family. And messing wit’ us could end badly fer him.” Cad drawled as he plucked the cig from his lips and flicked the ashes off of the end.

“Seems like a lot of trouble for someone you don’t know.”

“I don’t know ya but dat doesn’t mean I can’t extend some kindness.” He took a long drag of his cig.

“What’s the price?” You asked, watching his lips twitch into a small smirk.

“I don’ know yet. We’ll figure dat out as we go.” Cad smothered the cig beneath his boot. “Whaddya say?”

“I… need to think about it.”

“Sure, sure. When you make up yer mind, come find me.” He winked at you and stood, straightening out his outfit. He sauntered back inside, leaving you alone in your thoughts. Now, you just had to decide who to go with...

-

Who do you choose? Embo or Cad Bane

Tags List: @justanotherstarwarswhore, @doctor-ren, @that-clone-wars-girl, @some-serendipity-snail

[justmaybee]

To Stop a Fight (Before It Starts)

Summary: Jiro and Saburo have been acting strange recently. Ichiro is about to find out why.

A/N: Y’know when you get an idea that just won’t leave you alone till you do something about it? Yeah, that’s this. Buster Bros too, who would’ve thought?

———

Ichiro is confused — very, very confused.

Like, he can’t pretend he understands his brothers all the time, twenty four-seven. Sometimes Saburo gets all technical, talking jargon Ichiro’s never heard of. Sometimes Jiro gets overexcited, speaking so fast that his stories get jumbled up and hard to follow. It doesn’t matter, Ichiro will always lend an ear and hear them out.

But he can’t do that if they’re...hiding something from him.

The thought inches its way into Ichiro’s head, and it makes his stomach turn. He presses his lips together against the small wave of nausea.

It just doesn’t sound right. Jiro? Saburo? Hiding something from him?

He may not understand his brothers all the time, but they’re everything to him. He knows them better than anyone, and vice versa. It’s them against the world.

So the idea that they’re keeping something from him is...off-putting.

He links his fingers, pushing them up over his head. The crack in his spine alleviates a load of pressure on his back and the relief is audible in his groan. He’s not cut out for all this computer work. Saburo really is a talented kid.

He stands up, wobbling for a second, before stepping out from behind the desk. Research can wait, he needs a snack.

He steps over to a cabinet, stuffed full of junk foods. Not the healthiest thing, but you grab what you can when you’re working on a job. He stares blankly at the bags and boxes, slipping back into thought.

He’s definitely being a little dramatic. They still get together and throw around some lines for practice every night. His brothers still come to him whenever something’s happened at school or during a mission. They live together, of course, and if it were a really big deal they’d have a hard time hiding something even if they wanted to.

Sometimes Ichiro can get a little tired of their bickering and back and forth, but he likes to think he’s become someone reliable, especially to his little brothers.

So no, he’s not that worried.

But then what has been up with them recently?

He only started noticing this last week, but a part of him thinks it could be stretching back further than that. A bunch of separate events, but he knows they have to be connected. Call it a hunch. It just all revolves around those two fighting and then going silent.

Like a week ago, Ichiro remembers them kicking around a soccer ball on the street. The way Jiro’s eyes lit up when they saw it, a little deflated and worse for wear off to the side, made Ichiro laugh. And neither him nor Saburo could even dream about outplaying Jiro, but that wouldn’t stop them from trying.

It was a lot of fun, more fun than Ichiro could’ve thought really. And by the time the sun was getting low, and Ichiro was calling out that they’d have to head home, both him and Saburo were feeling a little worn out. Jiro was still dribbling the ball like he could do it all night.

And of course, Jiro decided to shoot a cocky comment to Saburo, who lashed back immediately, always ready for a fight. Ichiro’s lived through a million of these squabbles and he’s sure to see a million more, so he didn’t give it much attention, heading down the street back to their place.

He had no doubt that they’d follow behind, but he did turn to peek when he heard a shout from Jiro. He was afraid Saburo had started pinching him again, but that wasn’t the case. At least, he didn’t think so.

Because what he saw was Jiro doing a fast jog to catch up to him, while Saburo stepped at a leisurely place behind. Not weird, but the wide-eyed expression on Jiro’s face and the satisfied smirk on Saburo’s made Ichiro a little suspicious.

Fast forward to the weekend. Two? Maybe three days ago? Jiro and Saburo were giving Ichiro the run down of a job they had finished up. Nothing too crazy, but enough that Ichiro felt more comfortable sending them out as a pair.

The job itself went off without a hitch, as expected, but the debrief was chaotic in its own right. Jiro gave most of the points, but Saburo was very generous with his corrections and notes. Sometimes they were helpful, more often than not they were nitpicks that had Ichiro wanting to laugh and sigh at the same time.

Jiro was starting to get a little flustered, eyes narrowing in annoyance by the end. When Saburo gave another quip, it looked like Jiro was really ready to grab a pillow off the couch and slug him with it.

Instead...

“Nii-chan, I think my phone’s about to die. Could you hand me the charger?”

Ah, yeah. Jiro’s phone did have a battery issue. They should really think about upgrading it.

Ichiro spun around in his chair, looking over the back desk for a charger and jumping in his seat at a pitchy yell from Saburo. He rolled his eyes and grabbed the cord, ready to lecture Jiro on why smothering Saburo with a pillow is not a good comeback but—

Jiro...wasn’t smothering Saburo with a pillow. Surprisingly. No, he was sitting back against the couch, arms crossed with a smile on his face that made Ichiro immediately check up on their youngest brother.

He was...fine.

A little pouty, hair maybe a little mussed up. Also leaning back against the couch, but his posture—

He was almost—how to put it—curled up?

Ichiro can’t remember if he had his feet up on the couch before, but between his knees being pulled to his chest and his arms wrapped tight around them...

Jiro chose that moment to keep explaining, so Ichiro gave him his full attention. But he started picking up on their pattern.

The three of them are together. Either Jiro or Saburo starts picking on the other (nothing new there). Then one of them shouts, like they’re about to start yelling at each other, but—

Nothing. Silence.

They break up the fight before it’s even happened. And Ichiro doesn’t have to say a word.

This should be a good thing. It is a good thing.

Right?

It means they’re maturing. Growing up. Taking Ichiro’s words to heart and moving past their constant bickering and fights...

Ichiro shuts the cupboard. With a little more...force than necessary, if the avalanche of snacks he can hear means anything.

Okay, so he’s not exactly sure what any of it means, but he is sure of one thing.

He spins around to shut the computer off. Everything is saved, and Saburo can get back anything that isn’t anyways. He kicks the chair in place and grabs his keys, spinning them around one finger as he steps towards the door.

He needs to see his brothers.

———

Ichiro loves their city, loves Ikebukuro with all he’s got, but there’s nothing quite like their own home. It took a lot of time and money. It took doing things he hopes his brothers will never have to stoop to. But it’s theirs, and Ichiro can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief whenever he steps through the door.

Tonight though he’s cut off by a scream that has his blood running cold.

He doesn’t kick off his shoes. Doesn’t shrug off his jacket. He sprints towards the noise, grabbing at his pockets until his fingers stop fumbling enough to hold his mic.

The rubber of his shoes catch him from sliding on the floor when he stops dead in front of their living room.

“Ji-Jirohohoho! Would you—ack—quihihiHIHIHIHIT!”

It’s, um—

They’re—um—

Ichiro’s sigh of relief is a lot louder this time, slipping his mic back into his pocket.

It’s loud enough that it’s somehow heard over Saburo’s squealing, and Jiro turns to see his older brother leaning against the entrance.

It’s kind of funny, now that Ichiro’s adrenaline has calmed down.

Jiro looks like he’s been caught red-handed, even though Saburo is the one with a tomato for a face right now. He pulls his hands out from under Saburo’s sweater, fiddling with his fingers in his lap.

Saburo takes the chance to roll onto his side, hands clutching at his stomach. The shrieking Ichiro heard when he came in dulls to tired giggles.

“Oh, uh, hi.” Jiro waves. He tries to act nonchalant, but he looks more embarrassed than Saburo whose hoodie is still bunched up at the waist.

Ichiro smiles back, “Hey.”

Jiro is yanked from the one-sided, awkward conversation, but Ichiro can’t say it’s the better choice for Jiro.

Jiro yelps as he’s full-body tackled, falling backward over the other side of the couch. Saburo’s panting for breath, and he probably can’t see much past the mess of his bangs, but he doesn’t seem to have any trouble latching a hand onto Jiro’s knees and squeezing.

“Ah, wha-! Sabu—no! Saburohohohoho!”

Suburo’s response is the same treatment on the other leg, and Jiro makes a squeaking sound before he’s cackling. He twists against the cushion but he can’t seem to get himself up enough to push Saburo away from where he’s straddling his shins.

Like Ichiro isn’t even there, they treat it like a war zone, going back and forth with a familiarity that has their oldest brother shocked.

“No—no! Jiro, dohon’t! You’re gonna stretch out my—my shihihihihihirt!”

“Ouch! Not fair, Saburo! No pinch—ah! No PINCHIHIHIHIHING!”

“JIRO! No, I-I swear, I’m gonnahaha — I’m gonna kihihiHIHIHIHICK YOHOHOHOU!”

“Nah! No! I’m—I’m sorry! You win! Just—No! Not thehehehehere!”

At some point Saburo’s head is hanging off the arm of the couch while Jiro drills his thumbs into his ribs. Through watery eyes, he finally sees Ichiro, watching them like they’re the entertainment for tonight. He’s can’t possibly be in the right state of mind, and that’s probably why he makes the biggest mistake possible.

“I-Ichi-niihihihihihihi! H-help!”

Ichiro coughs to cover his own laugh, though Saburo’s scream when Jiro’s hands find their way under his arms does the job pretty well.

Guess it’s his turn to join.

Jiro’s confused noise gets cut off when his back hits the couch, bouncing once off the cushions. Saburo is still giggling weakly beside him, so that means—

He gasps so suddenly he almost chokes on it, and only a garbled version of Ichiro’s name comes out before he’s squealing louder than even Saburo could.

His hands push, pull, grab weakly at Ichiro’s hand latched onto his hip. He didn’t even know he was ticklish there, but the bright laughter that bursts from his mouth and has his eyes watering makes that so clear so quickly.

Ichiro chuckles, watching Jiro shake his head back and forth, red cheeks hidden by his wild mane of hair. Ichiro’s only using one hand, but Jiro might be the loudest he’s been all night. Even as he sinks against the couch—slipping down because of weakness, gravity, maybe both—Ichiro is able to keep him in stitches.

Speaking of one hand.

With Saburo laying back over the arm of the couch, it’s pretty easy for Ichiro to slip a hand under the gap in his shirt and start vibrating his fingertips into the taut skin of his stomach.

Saburo again proves how good he is at everything he does when he shrieks, loudly. His lung capacity is really something. His head flies up for a moment, but the weight of gravity and his own exhaustion keep him from getting all the way. He has to settle for wrapping both hands around Ichiro’s wrist and kicking his heels against the couch, as if that’ll help calm the ticklish buzzing of Ichiro’s fingers against his skin.

It’s something like fate when they both call for mercy at the same time, cries of “Nii-chan!” and “Ichi-nii!” just legible through the hysterical laughter.

Ichiro pulls his hands back with a little pat against the prickling skin. The pair droop so quickly, Ichiro has to be quick to catch them before either slip to the floor. He drags Jiro upright, and moves Saburo to sit against the couch properly.

He ends up leaning against Jiro while they catch their breath. Ichiro tries not to smile, like they’d even notice if he did.

“Okay. Two questions,” Ichiro starts once his brothers look a little less ragged. He knows they’re good when Jiro nudges Saburo off him, Saburo shooting a stink face his direction.

“How did this happen, and why wasn’t I invited?” The way his brothers avoid eye contact at his second question is too funny.

“...Well,” Saburo starts, fixing his bangs to look at Ichiro properly. “You were upset the last time we got ‘too violent’ with each other, so next time Jiro said something stupid I just—“

“—decided to be a smartass and do something that ‘wouldn’t hurt,’” Jiro scoffs, finishing for them.

Ichiro laughs aloud at that one, and—even after everything—it isn’t long before the other two join in.

“And we—um—didn’t ‘invite you’ because we didn’t think you’d want to,” Saburo mumbles.

“—or that you’d be so good at it,” Jiro mutters, hand rubbing subconsciously at his hip.

Ichiro claps a hand on both of their legs, only smirking a little when it makes them jump in their seats.

“It’s been a while, but I do have some experience in tickling you both to tears,” Ichiro smiles.

“That makes sense,” Saburo mumbles. Jiro nods, looking at the carpet.

“But Ichi-nii,” Saburo asks, always thinking one step ahead. “Are...you ticklish?”

Hm, all the times Ichiro had tickled his brothers when they were younger, he never had to worry about taking what he dished out.

But now, it looks like Jiro and Saburo have found something they’re willing to work out together.

Um, g-good for them.

[frywen-bumbles]

The Way to a Man’s Heart Goes Through His... Cat? Ch4

AO3

"Why do you seem so gloomy, I thought your thesis was going well?" Essi asks him.

"It's about cat daddy, isn't it?" Pricilla asks and drowns her second glass of wine.

"No! No, of course not. Roach got the zoomies at four am and I couldn't fall asleep afterwards." Jaskier lies. Well, technically it isn't a lie. Roach did, in fact, get zoomies in the middle of the night but his gloominess has nothing to do with being tired.

"Trouble in paradise then?" Pricilla winks at him.

"There is no paradise!" Jaskier cries out and throws his hands in the air in frustration. Friends, he laments. Can't live with them and can't live without them.

"So it is about cat daddy," Essi concludes and pats his hand. "I'm sorry for teasing you. Please tell us what is it?"

"I... I don't know?" It's definitely the alcohol talking, Jaskier decides as he sinks further into the couch he has spent countless of nights sleeping in. No way he would talk about his stupid crush sober. "I keep thinking about him and dreaming about him and I haven't even talked to him in person!"

"I'm sure you're not the only person who has managed to develop a massive crush on someone over texts." Pricilla tries to comfort him but the huge grin on her face diminishes the effect.

"I do not have a crush," Jaskier says, like the liar he is.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire!" Essi sings and laughs.

"What are you, five?" Jaskier scoffs.

"Yes, that's exactly how old I am."

"You're impossible. Both of you!" Jaskier points at his best friends in mock offence, trying not to laugh.

"And yet, you still love us!" Pricilla winks at him. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"I will love you if you pour me another glass of that wine and stop talking." Jaskier waves his empty glass at Pricilla, who fills it with all the possible flourish of an experienced bartender.

"You know she won't shut up," Essi says and waves her glass at Pricilla as well. "Although, I might shut up if you play me something?" she gives him a sweet smile and he groans, throwing his head back.

"Please, Essi... You know I haven't had time to practice in forever..."

"So this is an as good time as any to pick up your guitar again," Pricilla says and hops up from her chair, only slightly wobbly on her feet. "Oh, shit, I think all of the bubbles went straight into my head as soon as I stood up!" she giggles and disappears into a walk-in closet.

"Are you sure that closet doesn't lead straight into Narnia?" Jaskier grumbles without any heat as he hears Pricilla dig around. He's well aware the closet is as full as it is because it's mostly filled with his stuff.

"Oh, imagine all of the storage we had if it did..." Essi sighs wistfully and drains the rest of her glass. "Oh!" she exclaims and sits up straight, "Do you think sorcerers have portals in their closets? Can you imagine how neat that would be?!"

"Oooh, that's why the bastards can afford to live in such fancy places, they can have an apartment the size of a broom closet and store all of their stuff elsewhere!" Priscilla says as she emerges from the closet carrying a slightly battered guitar case.

Jaskier takes the guitar out and tunes it carefully, taking a sip of wine every now and then.

Pricilla and Essi make themselves busy getting more snacks and wine out of their kitchen while waiting for him but he hardly notices their hushed whispers and giggles. The guitar feels so familiar in his hands as he runs his fingers along the varnished wood.

 "When you get older, plainer, saner Will you remember all the danger We came from? Burning like embers, falling, tender Longing for the days of no surrender Years ago And will you know

 So smoke 'em if you got 'em Cause it's going down All I ever wanted was you I'll never get to heaven Cause I don't know how

 Let's raise a glass Or two To all the things I've lost on you Ho, ooh Tell me are they lost on you? Ooh, oh..."

It's only 8 PM, Jaskier laments as he heads back home, definitely too much cheap bubbly wine in his system.

But it was good, spending some time with his friends. To have a chance to talk about everything and just relax without any pressure to write or be productive.

Jaskier opens the door only to find Roach right behind it, screaming at him as soon as she gets a sight of him. Jaskier barely manages to step inside before Roach is running to the kitchen, screaming all the while expecting him to follow.

"I'm not that fast, Roach!" Jaskier shouts after the cat, struggling to get his shoes off when everything in his vision seems to wave quite a bit, his steps still unsteady despite the walk back.

Roach runs back to him and screams, vibrating her tail impatiently and runs back towards the kitchen, stopping to wait for him in the doorway.  

"I'm coming, Roach, you'll get your dinner, fuck..." Jaskier stumbles on his shoes and gets an unimpressed look from Roach, "it's not even that late, I never give you dinner this ea- fuck!" He steps on a cat toy and has to take support from the wall.

Roach screams at him again and runs to the kitchen.

"You're going to kill me, you know? Leaving your toys lying around like that..." Jaskier grumbles but follows the cat to the kitchen and digs food for her.

Roach meows and thrills and vibrates her tail stretches against his leg, digging her nails through his jeans into his thigh.

"Ow, ow, ow! Roach! I promise you will not starve to death in thirty seconds, ow!"

Roach doesn't spare him another glance as soon as the food is in front of her.

Nor does she after she has eaten despite her normal insistence of following him everywhere.

One additional drink (one he's sure to regret come morning) Roach is still ignoring him, sitting on the kitchen window with her back on him when usually she sits at the backrest of the sofa or on the cat tree staring at him. Or she sits looking at the door, still visible from the living room, occasionally meowing pitifully.

But today she bristles and runs away from him as soon as he tries to approach, making offended mews.

Jaskier endures being ignored. For an hour (and a few more drinks).

"Roach is angry with me!" Jaskier wails at the phone, "She doesn't even acknowl... ackl... pay attention to me! Whatever shall I do? She's been ignoring me since I got home, I can't take this, I have failed! I'm a hor- horbible... horrible cat sitter. She will never forgive me... it wasn't even her dinner time yet, you know? And still, I'm slighted so terribly! This is a tragedy!"

"Hmm," a deep rumble from the other end of the line makes Jaskier's thoughts come to a screeching halt and he's quite certain he squeaks in shock. "Roach will forgive you in a couple of days."

"Okay, yeah, that's... that's good?" Jaskier says feeling suddenly much more sober than the moment before.

"Just don't do it again tomorrow and you'll be fine," the deep voice rumbles again.

Jaskier is sure he will die.

Of embarrassment or something else, he's not sure. But he. will. die.

"I won't, I promise," Jaskier agrees, probably too fast but he doesn't care. Anything to make the gorgeous man on the other end of the phone to keep talking to him.

"Hmm... she'll sulk in somewhere for tonight. Don't worry about it, she'll be back to pester you first thing in the morning."

Jaskier laughs despite himself. Or maybe it's the alcohol.

"She's not pestering me, she's just very enthusiastic about getting her food on time."

"That she is." The man falls silent for a moment too long for Jaskier to itch to start to babble some nonsense before he continues, "I hope she hasn't caused too much trouble for you. Or tried to bring dead birds inside to eat."

"What? No! Also eww thank the gods not." Jaskier cringes at the mental image of dead birds inside the house.

"That's good. She eats most of them in the yard."

"Okay, I did not need to know that, the cat sleeps in the same bed with me and now you're telling me she eats birds outside? Double eww."

The man has the audacity to laugh. Laugh!

But Jaskier isn't going to complain, he has never heard something as delightful as the deep laugh from the other end of the line.

He wants to hear it again.

And again.

"Um... any other useful tips to please the great beast?"

"Hmm... she likes to be scratched under the chin and behind the ears. But don't touch the base of her tail or she will bite you."

"Duly noted."

"Hmm... Don't feed her too many treats, you'll make her fuzzy."

"I would never- Fiona rattled on me, didn't she?" Jaskier sighs.

The line turns quiet.

"H-hello?" Jaskier looks at his phone but the line hasn't disconnected.

"...You talked with Fiona?"

"She, uh, she texted me first? I've been helping her with her homework?" Jaskier babbles before his brain supplies him with the most important information, "Wait! She told me you gave her permission! Melitele's sake I would have never talked to her if I knew she was doing it behind your back I promise I have no ill intentions I've just helped her with school stuff I swear!"

"Hmm..." a grunt is the only sound Jaskier hears from the other end of the line. He holds his breath. If all comes to worst, he'll be out of work and out of the house tomorrow.

"I'll talk to her. Thank you for helping her with her school, I'm... none of us is very good with that stuff. I guess she needed more help than I realised."

"Oh!" Jaskier tries to contain his surprise but he's not very successful, "No, you shouldn't thank me! Fiona has been nothing but the best student, she's very bright!"

"She is." There is another break at the end of the line and Jaskier is ready to lose his shit. "I'll talk to her about lying. You should sleep the alcohol off."

"I'm not drunk!" Jaskier exclaims offended and earns a laugh from cat dad.

"You're wasted, I can hear it even on phone. Go to sleep, Julian."

"Um... right. I'll... I'll go to sleep, and and try not to get smothered to death by an angry cat," he stammers embarrassed. Hearing his name in that low gravel shouldn't make his heart feel like it'll burst out of his chest. "G-good night, Geralt."

"Good night, Julian."

He will die. He will surely die, of embarrassment or happiness or Roach deciding it's finally time to sleep on his face the whole night, he doesn't know. But he will surely die.

[thewritingamateur]

Playing the Game

Just an introduction to a story I have planned out. Hopefully this would suffice as a prologue to what I have in store! 

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

It was at this time she realized her naivety of the situation.

All her life, she sought to tear the blank smile off his red lips. She sought for his beautiful eyes to show terror than delight. All that was taken from her was from the soft command of his voice. Nothing would please her more than seeing his perfect white teeth smashed into his throat.

But alas, she was the one tied up to the wooden chair in the dark, damp room. The only noise heard was the wall clock ticking above her head, a quarter to noon. In roughly fifteen minutes, the assembly would begin. All her hopes flushed down the drain.

The rope tied to her legs began to cut her skin, the numbness moved up into her nerves. Despite her knowledge in knots, her abilities were rendered useless with her hands tied close to the heater, radiating mere inches from her fingertips.

Eyes became blurry, but nothing fell. Determination was still set squarely in her heart. There will be a way out of this. She will stop him at any cost.

Sorely, she turned her head to look at the small window a couple of feet to her right. It was snowing, with the howling winds intensifying the pressure of the fall onto the glass. Sweat fell from her brow as she looked at the clock once more. Only ten minutes left before it all begins.

The creaking of wood interrupted her mindless wondering. The pounding of her heart became loud in her ears as anticipation grew for a fond face to reveal itself and set her free.

Rather, it was the heinous sight of a familiar henchman with his receding hairline and gold front tooth shining from his sneer. In his hands were a newspaper and a wooden chair. His heaving body plopped onto the wobbling chair directly across from her. Cold eyes looked straight at her dark ones as his hand pushed the newspaper in her direction.

"Read it and weep."

Not wanting to heed to his command, she held onto his gaze a few moments longer. As her eyes moved down, the hardness in them soon melted into anxiousness seeing the front news headline:

Italian Prime Minister Arturo Gasparini Acquitted From ALL Charges With the Head of Prosecution and Ex-Co-Star Nisha Enys Missing

Tremors spread throughout her body as the tension released. Despite the heat being so close to her body, she felt cold as ice. The hairs of her skin stood straight.

Ho-How could this be? All the time and effort she put into the trial. The evidence she built up from the last decade. Even the sacrifices for her family. Her long waited revenge against him, it was all gone with the snap of his fingers.

The creaking of wood pricked her ears, looking up once more to see the brass doorknob turning slowly.

Her body felt chills as the door opened wide, the frame filled with shoulders hitting from side to side.

"Ahh, ciccino! I hope your stay has not been too terrible. I would hate for anything bad to happen to you both." Her eyes fled away from his, looking down at her forming bump. The leather loafers came to view as she felt the presence of his warmth covering her.

"Fredrico, leave us." A grunt was heard as the chair squeaked in relief.

Alone together, the fear from before came back. Here she was with her mortal enemy, the man who was the root to all her demise, at his mercy in the attic of his lavish Florence mansion. Here he was, pulling the silk scarf away from her dry lips. As she saw his fingers reaching to her face it was out of instinct that she pulled back. Memories from years before came to the surface to remind her of past interactions with his soft gaze.

"I see you still have some spark left in you. Not to worry, though, as with everything else, your energy will be wasted."

Her throat was dry from the lack of liquid to soothe her, the pitch of her voice was lower and guttural. "You got what you wanted, Gasparini. Now let me go. People are looking for me."

A hearty laugh escaped his million-dollar smile as it was his turn to take a seat in the weak chair.

"Call me Arturo, please. We've known one another for years, Nisha. Let's not pretend otherwise." Even with his perfect English, his accent was still thick, huskiness emitting from his soft voice.

Her left temple began to tick, ignoring his friendly words. "I'm serious. You're free from all the charges. I won't be a problem for you anymore."

"That's not how this works. You wasted a lot of my time and effort with this farce you had going for yourself these past couple of years. Not only my time but the taxpayers' money. Imagine how they must feel that you've disappeared a mere two days before the end of the trial."

The mirth in his eyes brought bile up her throat.

"Just let me go."She tried to twist her body, but it brought more discomfort feeling the ropes tighten around her goose-bumped skin.

"No."

The simple word brought her over the edge. It was his finality in knowing he was getting his way that irked her. With what little strength she had, her chair tipped forward, and she shoved herself forward.

It was a short-lived attack. He quickly got up and allowed her to be pulled back by the rope connected to the heater, tightening its hold onto her wrist with a burning sensation.

"Gahh!" Her parched voice cried out at her inevitable defeat.

Her body was on the floor in an uncomfortable position with the weight of the chair now on top of her.

Heaving in exhaustion, she knew he was standing above her. She could see it now, his hands limply in his pockets, a snide smirk at her loss.

After a few moments of silence, the chair's weight lifted a bit as Gasparini pulled her back up.

"You're lucky I'm enough of a gentleman to not want to see a lady on the floor." He pulled her chair back, a bit too close to the furnace for her liking.

"While I can't see a lady on the floor, it doesn't mean I could stand for any deed against me to go unpunished. You compromised my position and many of my men. You compromised the people of my land with this game you decided to play. For that, you'll have to pay the price."

Her cognac eyes widened by the various possibilities he could mean.

"Please, not my family! It wasn't their fault. It's all mine."

He paced in the small room, slowly padding heel to toe on the creaking wood. She knew he was only doing this to irritate her, going around the bush until he would feel the joy of revealing the truth.

"Although it would be great to retaliate against that paraplegic husband of yours, I think he'll be spared for now. He only helped you out because he's scared you'll leave him...I wouldn't blame him."

She knew he wanted her to fight, but her mouth clamped tight. Nisha refused to give him the power of irritating her more than he already had.

"I see I hit a nerve." Her arched eyebrow rose as the sweat on her face rolled down her neck, plunging into the neckline of her blouse to hide. She watched his gaze following the path, no doubt undressing her with the momentary stillness of his form. Seeming to remember the situation, he cleared his throat, turning to the window with a satisfied look.

"It's alright. I think, for now, I'll take my fun and see how long this newfound silence will last. Oh, but I will miss the sound of your voice."

His loafers threaded back to her minuscule figure. Her neck craned up to see his Adam's apple move ever so slightly. He stood there for what seemed to be a long time but could've been mere minutes. His eyes stared directly into her's. All her walls were firmly in place, knowing his plan. Gasparini always thought he could get to her with his soft words and expressive eyes. For some time, he was capable of having that effect on her. Now she was older, and circumstances changed with intent.

Those eyes she used to admire, the ones that brought cornflowers to her mind and days of happier times, now they looked towards her in cruel amusement.

"We could've had something, you and me. I meant my words to you, even now. All you have to do is say the magic word, and all this will vanish. Your troubles and pain will be put behind us."

A blank blink came from her as a response. Nothing that he could do to her would make her mind change. Her dark eyes watched the scoff form on his full lips, eyes quickly averting, knowing her silent response to his request.

"So you want it the hard way then. You never were one to take the easy route, Nisha. I must admit I admire that about you the most."

Her guards were down. She had to admit it. In mere moments of her just staring at his eyes, lost in a time before for just a moment. It didn't register how fast he was moving until she felt the pull of her wrist. The movement was too fast for her to react.

The sizzling of skin was heard in the darkroom. Lips were bitten until blood seeped out. Another tug and her hands were molded right around the heater, pushed into grasping it as the heat burnt her skin.

It didn't take long before a wail escaped her lips.

She knew he wanted her to grovel and apologize for what she did, but Nisha couldn't. If anything, she would bawl in pain, but he could drag her through a bed of nails, and she still wouldn't apologize for doing what was right.

Her fingers were taken off the heater for a few moments. She could feel the pulsing of her fingers and smell the skin that was once hers.

"It's sad, after all the time we spent together, one would think you would heed and admit your wrong to me. It's alright. I have the rest of the night to take it out of you."

Her hand was forced on the heater once more, and the scream could be heard beyond the small room. Instead of focusing on the immediate pain, her mind wandered off to her husband and child back home, their safety, and worrying about her. She thought about her loss that started the chain reaction of her bring in this position.

Gasparini's eyes were almost dead as he watched her pain erupt on her face. She knew he was capable of worse. She saw it first hand as a young girl. Despite his warped display of mercy, Nisha's fury was still at bay. He was able to get away this time, but he has yet to face the real damage she had in store for him.

He may have won this battle, but she still had the war.

Sounds of screaming echoed beyond the small room and throughout the Romanesque mansion.

By the end of round one of torture, her hands were swollen behind the chair, the burning sensation emitting as tears rolled down her tired face. He untied her hands for the time being. They were rendered useless, so she couldn't attack him even if she tried.

A cigar was lit before puffs were taken. "Would you like to have one?" Unable to speak, she simply shook her head. Hair was sticking to her face, oily and flat against her scalp.

"I think you want a puff." Without warning, he lifted her head and shoved the fat cigar into her mouth. Surprised, she coughed and sputtered out smoke. "I can't do d-do that. I am pregnant."

Gasparini gave a thoughtful look to the empty ceiling while taking another puff from the same cigar. "Ahh yes, I seem to have forgotten. Don't worry though. A few puffs wouldn't harm the child." He then repeated the process of forcing her to take a puff and then one himself. A sick form of intimacy to satisfy his cravings.

For hours this continued until the snow stopped and the wind ceased. For some time, Gasparini just sat across from Nisha and watched her haggard body trembling in shock as her hands doubled in size from the burn. He was on his fourth cigar now but wanted to have this one to himself.

"Don't worry. It isn't over yet. I have so much in store for our reunion, Nisha darling." His large hand went to touch her face. In weakness, she couldn't stop him from pulling her face mere inches from his.

His placid face became a sneer, his face turning monstrous. "By the end of this, I'll burn the heart out of you." The butt of his cigar was still hot, very hot by the scream given as it made contact with her collarbone.

It was going to be a long night.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Showtime (baon)

Summary:  It's movie night but that's not the show that Stretch is interested in.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Established Relationship, Lemony Goodness, Not Work Appropriate

Notes: Mondays suck and I’m in such a mood. I needed some SPICY spicyhoney, thanks.  Naughty boys...

part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

"Be quiet or else the others will hear," Edge whispered against the side of his skull.

Stretch let out another broken moan, a stuttering, lost sound as Edge crowded in behind him, pressing him closer to the wall. Sass was a little beyond him at the moment. He might have been able to come up with a word or two, not clever ones, no, but something past the garbled little sounds escaping him if it weren’t for Edge’s hand between his legs. The firm pressure of his thumb as it stroked him through his pants was too much, hot friction against his cock and Stretch could only whimper pleadingly, wordlessly begging.

"Or maybe that's what you want," Edge murmured, tauntingly. His thumb moved with aching slowness, tracing up the hard line pushing against Stretch’s fly. "Is it? Do you want the others to hear you? You certainly seemed to want to give them a show earlier."

Okay, so maybe this was a little bit Stretch’s fault. Movie night was usually fun but meh, working their way through the Best Picture nominees of the year was fucking boring. Blue and Papyrus’s debate over it even more so. Even popcorn mixed with m & m’s wasn’t enough to hold his attention for long.

Teasing Edge, now, that was way more entertaining. Starting at dinner with a little touch here, the brush of a kiss there. Fingertips skirting under the hem of his shirt to barely trace the line of his iliac crest before pulling teasingly away. An hour into the movie and Stretch had managed to sprawl out in Edge’s lap on the love seat, wriggling just a little, in just the right place, until he could hear Edge’s teeth grinding. Easy enough to resist the way Edge tried to discreetly get a hand on Stretch’s hip to hold him still, easy enough to pass it off and none of the others had given them more than a glance and an eyeroll.

Yeah, that was entertainment, that was worth the price of admission, and if he had half a working brain factory, Stretch never would have gone to the kitchen on his own for more popcorn.

He may as well have put out an advertisement for some timely revenge. But most of his magic had started pooling below the belt a long time ago, it wasn’t like Stretch was immune to his own teasing, thanks, so actual thinking wasn’t top priority. Besides, even in his worst suspicions he wouldn’t have thought Edge would do this, fuck, this wasn’t even their kitchen, Sans was going to kill them, they might as well make a suicide pact if Papyrus walked in on this and—”

“I didn’t catch that.” Edge’s tongue was a line of hot slickness, licking a delicate path along his jawline. “Did you want them to hear you?”

"no!" Stretch gasped. He didn’t, not a fucking chance, not at all, he had no interest in giving anyone a free show, but it was so hard to fucking think. The thin line of Edge’s thumb became the rough pressure of the heel of his hand, dragging against his cock through denim.

"Hmm, no? Not that they need to hear you,” Edge told him, darkly amused. “Red wouldn’t need to even take a look at you to know. My brother always knows more than he should. Think you can sit out there while he looks at you and knows? Sans would know, too, of course he would, and your brother—"

"edge," Stretch's voice was a spider web of sound, desperate and thin, "edge, i can’t…i…don't…"

Immediately, Edge pulled away, raising his hands and letting him go entirely. Stretch wobbled on his feet, turning to lean against the wall as he looked back at Edge in dismay

"Go back, then," Edge said calmly. He tucked his hands in his pockets and Stretch wished for one brief nanosecond that he could possibly hate him. Edge looked as cool and calm as ever, not a button undone or a wrinkle in his trousers. There was hardly the barest flush of pink to his cheekbones to give him away, while Stretch probably looked like someone had bent him over a dining room chair. He could feel his t-shirt clinging to him sweatily and he didn’t have to look down to see that no one was going to believe he was smuggling a roll of quarters in his pants.

Damn it all to hell…

Edge only stood, waiting, as Stretch shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to get the hamster wheel in his skull turning enough to come up with actual sentences.

“but—” Stretch started, broke off. He felt his face heat even further at the desperate little squeak in his voice, yeah, probably hadn’t greased up his thoughts enough yet.

"Well? Go on, then," Edge urged, jerking a thumb casually at the door. His mouth twist into a smirk as Stretch scowled at him. "I would never do anything you didn’t want, love.”

"i didn’t say stop," Stretch muttered, crossly. He shoved his hands into his own pockets, only to wince and yank them back out, his pants were too fucking tight, damn it. He dug in his hoodie pocket for his cigarettes instead. Sans was already going to kill him and he could only die once; may as well rack up the sins. “just because i'd rather our brothers not get a front row seat doesn’t mean—"

"But it does," Edge interrupted. The pack of cigarettes fell to the ground as he caught Stretch's fluttering hands, pinned his slim wrists against the wall as he leaned up and stole a kiss, whispering into Stretch's startled mouth, "It does and they’ll know. They’ll take one look at the pretty flush on your cheeks and know exactly what we were doing in here."

He squeezed Stretch’s wrists warningly, then let go of one, allowed his free hand to slide the down the smooth line of Stretch's side, stroking through the thinness of his t-shirt. "I promise you, they will know."

Stretch was already squirming, arching up, his body already begging. With a careful nudge, Edge worked a leg between Stretch's thighs, gliding upward until he could press his knee against the aching firmness of his cock. It gave Stretch something to writhe against, something to draw a strained little cry from between his teeth.

"They’ll know," Edge crooned to him, pressing his free hand over Stretch’s sternum where his soul fluttered with rabbity swiftness. "What they won’t know is if I fucked you or if I had you on your knees. Is that what you want?”

"oh, fuck!" Stretch whimpered, a reedy little cry that was nearly bitten back. He clicked his teeth shut, damming whatever other words that tried to stampede free behind them.

It didn’t work, not with Edge suddenly coaxing them apart with his own tongue to whisper into his mouth, “Yes."

His kiss caught the choking cry that broke loose as he pushed his hand into the front of Stretch’s jeans, his fingers curling around the shaft almost too hard, gripping, stroking as Stretch moaned and writhed and came, it one hard, wracking convulsion.

Edge caught the worst of the mess in his gloved hand before pulling it free. Blearily, Stretch watched as he raised it to his mouth, his eye lights brilliant, heated crimson as he licked a stripe of wet orange magic from his fingers.

“babe,” Stretch said weakly. He only just caught his balance as Edge abruptly stepped back, wobbling on his unsteady feet with little aftershocks still trembling through him.

Coolly, Edge stripped off his gloves, folding them together, and tucking them into his pocket before smoothing out his shirt briskly. “You might want to take a shortcut to the bathroom,” Edge told him, that little smirk still in place. “If they take one look at you…well…”

Yeah, Edge didn’t have to spell that one out. Like a walking advertisement for well fucked.

“Don’t forget the popcorn,” Edge called and walked back out to the living room, leaving Stretch with sweat stinging in his sockets and his pants a mess, still embarrassingly turned on and trying to decide if he was relieved or disappointed that Edge hadn’t gotten him on his knees.

Well. Not yet, anyway.

Probably better that Edge had left and didn’t get the advanced warning that Stretch’s fiendishly delighted grin would have given him. The night was still young and the movie wasn’t over.

And Sans could only kill them once.

-finis-

[dememarquette]

Season Finale

Jo killed the set.

The show fizzled, leaving the blank screen mirroring the town. It’s face reflected everyone. Friends, neighbors, family- all of their faces turning to Adria in empathetic horror-

Except Demetrius.

Silence fell like a guillotine. Energy warped as the deputy siphoned all power from the room, cultivating it into an oppressive force that hung over the diner at large. Her ire was a tsunami, and the subject of it kicked the leg of the stool, twisting his body her direction with a squeak.

Stone-faced, he was ready for the breach. His plastic, coiffed, red-carpet face stared down his nose at his co-star:

A stricken, destroyed Adria who’s life, all at once, was blasted before America as prime-time entertainment.

"You unbelievable bastard," Her voice trembled, severe. "You son of a bitch."

"Adria-” 

"Deputy," She snarled. "And I don’t want to hear it."

He rolled his eyes. “Deputy,” He indulged. “I can explain.”

"You're going to explain?” She jolted to her feet. Her hand jerked from her mother’s grip, and her sister ducked out of the way. A chair clattered between them. “You’re going to explain what? How you lied to my face? How you humiliated me in front of…of the whole fucking country? How you tricked me into thinking you gave a damn about anyone other than yourself? How you sat here, watching me watch you make a fool of me so you could get one more laugh at how stupid I am?"

“C’mon-”

"You swore to me!”

“I swore to you?” He blinked, awestruck. "I swore to you? ’Thanks for putting me through Hell’? That was my promise?”

"How could you do this?!" She seethed, bulldozing past his nonchalance. Her face was breaking. As her vision blurred, its pain chipped into a much deeper chasm. 

Predictably, Demetrius thought. Such audacity. She was serious. She was honestly serious and that was somehow more nauseating than her stage persona.

He shook his head, huffing a derisively impressed breath. In his eyes, this episode was a long time coming. With it, their cutesy charade would die and, for once, they would be on the same page. 

But alas, here she was. Continuing her role. Feigning hurt, faking a deep sort of betrayal so sickeningly trite that it should be saved for the cameras.

All of this was coming after everything she had been doing to tear down his career. After she destroyed his arm, after she blasted his integrity in front of the whole town, HE was the bad guy? Like the episode didn’t just prove she was the cause of the town’s misery? And that she wasn’t even capable of cleaning up her own mess without devolving into an emotional heap, a helpless bleeding wound oozing all over America’s heartstrings? 

This was a job for him, sure. But it was getting exhausting.

"I trusted you!” She wailed. “And I cared about- and I thought that you- that we were-" 

“NO.” Her cut her off. “You do not get to pull that shit. You lied. God, Adria. You can’t deny it, you were loving it!”

“What-?” Her furor doused under a wash of confusion. Everything she’d been planning to say came to a still.

Demetrius was a sociopath. He was a traitor, a bastard who put her on blast before all of America, yet knowing all this did not disarm the awful power he had to cast doubt.

‘You were loving it’  he said. 

She was. Honest to God she was, but the malicious look in his eyes said their contexts existed onto two different planes.

“What are you talking about?”

Demetri slid off the stool. Serpentine, he moved with purpose, stopping toe to toe in front of her face. At the same height he took in every detail. Every blood vessel about to break. Every tear that formed at the corners on the edge of her lashes, ambling to spill over.

“You live in the past. Always have. That’s been your schtick since the beginning. ‘Oh no, woe is me. I can’t handle the bare mention Cyrus.’ Like it was a keyword, a self-destruct button, but get real. He was your middle school crush.”

He moved into a slow prowl around her. Adria stood as a frozen totem in the center. 

“And all of that would make sense except you just happen to wear that cross around your neck? That the compound hurt too much to discuss yet you didn’t mind the cameras pouring over it? That it wasn’t your goddamn idea to investigate in the first place? Tell me, Adria.” He moved into the crook of her neck. His words, another secret to Ashwater. Wouldn’t that drive her wild? “Were you thrilled when I asked?” He whispered acidically. “Were you waiting for that moment? The chance to finally get it out? That this fabricated mystique you’ve been building for eleven. fucking. years was now free for the presses?”

Her head swam. Effortless, he hit every button. Every teeny insecurity, he ripped them to the surface. They were wounds overed but never healed. All that frantic, hysterical energy hardened. The betrayal locked her inside herself. Excruciating, his rant coursed through her body like a current, holding her prisoner.

But an underlying impulse was there. Her hands shook. One by one fingers curled into her palms.

“I mean, what do you guys think?” He spun on the crowd, determined to turn this into a real spectacle. It’s what they were vying for, wasn’t it?  “You were all there! Was it chance that the first person she happened to,” He pinched his fingers into airquotes, “‘TRUST‘ was a television celebrity? That I was more reliable than anyone else in her life? Even her own family-? It sounds like a big ‘fuck all of you guys,’  right? C’mon, let’s hear it-”

He clapped. His hands pounded into one another like the rest of the world was supposed to join in. 

Adria stood at the center. Humiliated.

She wasn’t even hearing him anymore. Or anything- not over her heart hammering in her ears. Her tears dried. The blood in her veins, once icy was now boiling. Under the intense pressure of her personal hell mutating, it metastasized. It became something far worse than what went on HBO, and that’s when it dawned on her: 

He was not completely wrong. He was right, if only about one thing: this was her fault. It was her mistake. Demetrius would not have had the power to destroy her if she hadn’t given it to him.

She always had one rule for herself: keep people away for a reason- to avoid this. And she'd broken it. She didn't get to cry about being hurt when she'd done it to herself. She had been too pathetically starved for companionship to remember that at his core, Demetrius was a liar. All the good she'd thought she'd seen was a front so that he could get what he wanted out of her. And she’d fallen for it- again.

“Congratulations Adria” He continued, ever oblivious to his limits. “You got what you wanted! Now everyone in the United States of America can see how miserable, and maudlin, and heartbroken their sweetheart deputy is. Now, if I can stop babysitting-”

She slugged him.

The priest crashed against into bar. Stools dropped as he barely caught himself. His good hand snagged the counter, palm screeching across its face like sneakers on linoleum before it got its purchase. As it did, his head jerked and lulled. His vision broke between images of a red-eyed Adria and a diner full of people alienated by his presence. 

No one said anything. No one raced to help, but wasn’t that his point? 

This hokey town, this community built on deceit, this fake brand compassion he was constantly subjected to- it was all over. None of their lives would have been in danger if she hadn’t ever loved that prick. If she hadn’t let him escape, there would be no monsters. No cult, no fake prime-time show romanticizing a fucking psychopath, and most importantly no can-do-no-wrong cop that was nonsensically still a bleeding heart.

It didn’t matter if they didn’t see it immediately. They would, eventually. He was sure of it.

“‘is doesn’ change an’ing.” He sucked blood off his lip. “Nothing.”

She took a step closer. Towering over him, Adria’s fist was a powerhouse ready for more but motivation behind it died. Her eyes were dull. The fire was put out. Forced to come to terms with the fact no one was left in her corner- and no one ever would be- soberly left her with a grim, apathetic resolve. Yes, trust was a mistake. And no, it would not happen again.

He wobbled- timid of the looming figure, but determined. He couldn’t defend himself. Not a chance, but when he looked up, he saw the glimmering moment she crashed to Earth. This wasn’t about trading barbs or blows anymore. They were past all that emotional nonsense. 

“Remember, Dep,” He yanked himself level with the counter, wild-eyed and teeth smeared red. “You and me have a date. Are we saving this town or not?”

[keaalu]

Remember Me, chapter four

Title (chapter): Remember Me (04)

Series: Transformers, G1-based “Blue” AU

Rating: PG-13

Notes: In which Slipstream realises just how big this thing might be that he and Dash are caught up in, and Starscream finally gets back from New Vos to a hostile welcome.

-------------------------

The command centre on Nemesis was every bit as sickly purple and ostentatiously oversized as Slipstream remembered it.

He didn’t remember ever seeing it from this angle, though.

“Show proper respect to your new master, scum!”

The shove to one shoulder made him stumble and fall to his knees. Before he could recover, scramble clumsily back to his feet, something heavy – and hot; someone’s thruster? – pressed down on the back of his neck, forced him to bow his helm.

Slipstream snarled in pain and bucked, trying to squirm his way out, but the bigger mech just kept increasing the pressure on the back of his neck until he was almost crushed flat to the floor. Ultimately it hurt too much to keep struggling, and he went limp. The scorching weight on the back of his neck disappeared.

“Good boy,” a condescending voice cooed, close to his helm. Felt like Dirge. “Keep this up, and maybe we won’t feel forced to use you as target practice… quite so much.”

The ripple of unkind laughter which simmered through the crowd was quickly replaced by a weirdly expectant lull, broken only by the sound of mechs jockeying for position, and the sound of approaching footsteps.

A new voice spoke up, somewhere just above and in front. “I should admit to being impressed, Ramjet. Your trine have actually done well, for a change.”

Well, there was no mistaking those gravelly tones. Suddenly, Slipstream didn’t really want to get up, any more.

“Thank you, mighty Megatron. It is an honour to serve!”

There were jeers from the rest of the assembly. An honour to serve! Get up off your belly, Ramjet; who’d you think you are; Screamer? Yeah, well done for kidnapping a sparkling.

Someone caught a hand under Slipstream’s shoulder and hauled him upright. He had to work hard to restrain a flinch.

Barely an arm’s length away, Megatron sat scrutinising him – elbows propped on his knees, leaning down towards him. The warlord looked good; not the scruffy, half-starved bundle of desperation the youngster had expected, from the disparaging way his family had taken to describing him. Poor Megatron, stuck on the wrong side of the spacebridge, squabbling with Autobots.

No, the mech sitting staring down on him looked clean and capable, well-oiled and powerful. Every inch the nightmare that could flatten everything on Cybertron, if he wanted.

“Slipstream,” he said, at last. “Considerably larger than last time we met.”

Slipstream didn’t recognise his own voice – thin and fracturing. “Yes, sir.”

Didn’t hurt to be polite, even if you did feel like purging a tank, right?

“I did expect more from you,” the old warlord finally said, at last, relaxing back in his chair. “As a sparkling, I could see the potential in you. A small mirror of your sire, who had been loyal to me for a very long time. With a little…” He wafted a hand. “…coaching, in the right direction? A little reminder of why this was the only faction that would ever truly understand you? The two of you could have been valuable assets in my campaign.” He elaborated a sigh. “Instead, I see just another unimaginative, whining Autobot, with the lack of ambition that comes as standard.”

Slipstream bristled. The words might have still been faint, but they were out before he got the chance to evaluate whether they were actually sensible to say; “I don’t think I asked for your approval.”

The blow came out of nowhere – an almighty, needlessly violent kick to the head, it sent him skidding across the deck. He fetched up against someone’s legs, puffing softly in alarm.

The bellow chased him across the floor; “Watch your manners, dirtcrawler!” Only just able to pick up the words through a haze of distortions, he wasn’t even sure who was yelling. The owner of the legs used their feet to hustle him back to the centre of the room.

He could feel a trickle of… something… begin to ooze down from his temple. His diagnostics couldn’t make up their mind on what they thought it was. He hoped it was only energon.

Megatron watched with a smirk. “Please don’t kill our guest before we’ve had the chance to make use of him.”

Dirge chose his moment perfectly. “Don’t worry, sir. If that one gets broken, we just use the spare.”

When the blue jet didn’t immediately elaborate, Megatron lifted his head briefly off his hand, and waved his fingers, impatiently. “Go on.”

Dirge waited until he was sure every optic was on him before opening his cockpit and extracting something small. He strode through the centre of the mass and with a flourish, placed it into Megatron’s hands. “First-instar sparkling,” he said, for the benefit of anyone without optics.

“Well this is very interesting,” Megatron purred, holding the small body up in front of his face; Skydash curled up, facing away from him, hugging her knees. “Dirge, I am very impressed.”

Dirge preened at the praise, thumbing his nose at the jeers from his comrades. “Thank you, sir.”

“Now. Where did you come from, I wonder.”

“Well, the little superstar here…” Dirge gave Slipstream a little shove and knocked him sideways, “was meant to be looking after it. Wasn’t counting on us coming along to spoil his orn, I guess.” He snorted and waited for Slipstream to wobble back to his knees before pushing him back over. “I figure they were so disappointed with their first effort – I’d be disappointed; I mean, not only a dirtcrawler, but an Autobot, too? – they decided to try again? That or Skywarp just never understood the concept of protection.”

“Always disappoints me when I realise you might be right. There’s grounder in it, again,” the warlord said, disappointedly. “Just can’t keep from polluting his code, can he? I can’t tell if it’s desperation leading to this lack of standards, or he’s just that easily swayed by a pretty face.”

Thrust leaned closer to his wingmate. “Does this mean you’re gonna lay off with the Primusawful Pit-screech, now?”

Dirge flattened his hand over his wingmate’s face and gave him a shove. “That’s one noisy little scrap of tin. Next time, you can try flying with it caterwauling in your cockpit.”

“She’s not caterwauling. She’s scared,” Slipstream spoke up, quietly. “I’m surprised a bunch of cowards like you don’t understand that. She’s had no part in your squabble, leave her out of it.”

“Did you forget the part we’re at war, you worthless nonentity?” Dirge closed a fist on the antennae spreading from the right of Slipstream’s helm, and dragged him halfway up off the floor.  Slipstream squeaked in pain and scrambled to get his feet underneath himself. “That makes everybody fair game.”

Thrust folded his arms and glared. “Good going there, scrappy. He was almost in a good mood, there. Now I’m gonna have to put up with him sulking all night.”

Megatron set the sparkling down on the arm of his chair; Skydash stayed huddled in the smallest ball she could manage, but looked too scared to try and escape. “Oh, I have a very specific reason for wanting you, Slipstream. I’m not going to make either of you fight.” He propped his chin back on his hand. “No, there’s one thing I know I can always get from your kind of pathetic, snivelling coward. You make excellent bait.”

Slipstream stiffened. A very large penny had apparently dropped.

“I know your, ah… family… will feel obliged to rescue you. Starscream won’t be able to resist the urge to try and show me up. Skywarp won’t be slow to follow, since he doesn’t have the brainpower for anything else. As for Thundercracker, well, when has that ditherer ever made a decision on his own, hmm?” Megatron sighed and shook his head, as though in regret. “But when I have finally destroyed all three traitors, in full view of the watching planet, no power in this universe will be able to stop me taking back what is mine.” His lips curved into a smirk. “It was so kind of that fool Starscream to do all the work for me, even if ultimately all he has created is another bloated, stagnating Autocracy. Waiting for me to step in and develop it to its true capacity.”

“They won’t come here. They’ll know it’s a trap. They’re not stupid!”

Megatron actually snorted. “If thousands of vorns of war has taught me one thing I can rely on with absolute certainty? It’s that your sire is most definitely stupid.” He gave the smaller mech a flat look. “Disappointing that it appears to run in the family.”

* * *

Starscream made remarkably good time back from New Vos, but didn’t appear to have the most appropriate target for his frustration in mind, as evidenced by the raging scarlet ball of temper that appeared in the empty infirmary doorway, wings hiked high on its back. “Remind me why I seem to be the last person to find anything out, around here?!”

“Excuse me?” Skywarp rounded on him so fast, Starscream actually flinched a step or two backwards. “I told you within a handful of breems of finding out for myself. You shut me down, saying I didn’t understand how important what you’re doing out in Vos is. Now you’ve apparently decided I wasn’t being a total moron for interrupting you, I should have told you faster?!”

Starscream puffed himself up, trying to avoid the need to admit Skywarp’s unexpected pushback had made him jump. “You know that wasn’t what I meant.”

“No? Educate me.” Skywarp leaned in. Their faces were almost touching. “What did you mean.”

A soft, fracturing voice broke through in the brief silence. “Guys… please?”

With one final glare at each other, they turned to find Thundercracker perched on the edge of the empty berth, looking surprisingly small and sick, helm propped in both hands, wings drooping.

“You’re both being kinda loud right now. I think this is gonna turn into a migraine and I really don’t want to be laid up for five orns, again.” He drew in a long stabilising sigh of cold air and shuddered, wingtips trembling. “I haven’t even started to think what I’m gonna tell Lara.”

“Primus, dude.” Skywarp leaned down and bumped cheeks, briefly. “I’m sorry. Lemme find you a cold pack or something.”

“That’d be good. Thank you…”

The medical supplies in the adjoining office weren’t strictly for machines to help themselves to, but most staff had learned that Skywarp wasn’t the sort to be put off by rules and regulations, and making things hard to obtain just increased the likelihood that he’d make an unholy mess while searching. Thundercracker’s personal supply of icepacks were in a small easily-accessible chiller just inside the doorway; his ‘migraines’ were thankfully infrequent, but fairly infamous as well, and having an icepack on hand sometimes made the difference between it lasting one orn, or six. And him being able to still see.

Skywarp helped himself to two, and waved a threatening finger under the nose of the mech that had followed him into the office. “Don’t. Even start.”

Starscream put his hands up in defeat. “I wasn’t going to. I’m sorry, all right?”

Skywarp grumbled wordlessly through his vents, but appeared somewhat mollified. “What then?”

“I was going to say, once we’ve got TC comfortable, maybe we should go home.” Something dark passed through the smouldering scarlet optics. “Someone wants our attention. I don’t feel inclined to keep him waiting.”