#and we know nothing at all about her prior to that.

[bunabi]

Whoever sent me that ask saying the devs contributed nothing but 'abysmal dogshit':

As someone who didn't enjoy her time with DAV for the most part I'm just gonna drop all these here and leave you to ask yourself who was responsible for Veilguard being a major departure from past games and where Bioware would be without people who genuinely care:

It helped that the Dragon Age team was full of veterans, and that over the years they’d developed a fair amount of chemistry as a team. “Muscle memory is incredibly influential at this point,” said Cameron Lee. “Through the hellfire which is game development, [we’re] forged into a unit, in that we know what [everyone’s] thinking and we understand everyone’s expectations and we know what needs to get done and just do it.”

From around the time of Trespasser’s release in 2015 to late 2017, the fourth Dragon Age was developed within an atmosphere that was apparently one of the most positive that some at BioWare had experienced.

“(...) some of the big changes included: 1) laying down a clear vision as early as possible, 2) maintaining regular on-boarding documents and procedures so new team members could get up to speed fast; and 3) a decision-making mentality where “we acknowledged that making the second-best choice was far, far better than not deciding and letting ambiguity stick around while people waited for a decision.

While BioWare’s publisher and parent company, Electronic Arts, tends to give its studios a fair amount of autonomy, there are still mandates to follow. By 2017, EA had not been secret about its desire to make all of its major products into “games as a service,” best defined as games that can be played—and monetized—for months and years after their release. Traditional Dragon Age games did not fit into that category.

By the latter half of 2017, Anthem was in real trouble, and there was concern that it might never be finished unless the studio did something drastic. In October of 2017, not long after veteran Mass Effect director Casey Hudson returned to the studio to take over as general manager, EA and BioWare took that drastic action, canceling Joplin and moving the bulk of its staff, including executive producer Mark Darrah, onto Anthem.

“I actually cannot count the amount of ‘stress casualties’ we had on Mass Effect: Andromeda or Anthem."

How did they manage to ship it in 15 months? The dev mentions working about 90 hours a week for 15 months. Many other devs on the team were also doing so and they think that others were doing 90 hours a week prior to the 15 month mark.

[great-septimus]

Hey, so I don't want to be that guy, but when are we going to acknowledge that Akechi was right?

No, I obviously don't mean about the things he was very clearly wrong about. I'm referring to the things he says in interviews about the Phantom Thieves. I hate how many people switch up after playing through his betrayal who previously agreed with his views, because nothing he said is wrong and nothing he did changes that fact. He speaks in the TV Station on the objective facts that he should know about, and with or without the context of his form of justice those facts stay true. It's a fallacy to claim that his form of justice being universally less approved of makes the Phantom Thieves better by comparison, or discredits anything he said. I don't think the Phantom Thieves are evil, or that they should necessarily be imprisoned, but I do think that they are not morally sound. They're kids. Prior to his betrayal I think he served his purpose well, but it's easy to disregard the validity of his words when you find out that he's a murderer. With the knowledge he SHOULD have had (and that many DID have), everything he says is true. And honestly? It still can be true for basically the entire plot of the game. Mishima's confidant tests the thieves in that way. They could have changed the hearts of anyone who's not a persona user, for any personal reason. It's a slippery slope.

I'll use these three options as an example for why he's right:

"They're justice itself" is just subjective and incorrect, because justice as a concept is individualized and given how each Phantom Thief has different reasons for being one it's ridiculous for even them to say. Their first target was before they even formed a group, and Ann was ready to kill Kamoshida. The others were not even going to step in, and they were going to respect her choice either way. All the members are so different, so this is an insane claim to make.

"They're necessary" is wrong because to say they are necessary is pretty disingenuous to all "justice" that has ever happened BEFORE they existed. I don't believe that the Thieves were a necessity per say, and personally I think their actions can only be judged on a case by case basis. Some Mementos targets for example have issues that stem beyond what they have done. Now they have their desires stolen but still have the issue that pushed them to immortality in the first place, plus a shitton of guilty baggage. The Thieves only help with the atonement, but not the push. How many of those people didn't just go right back to their past behaviors? How many of them got worse in other ways? Think about Futaba, she felt so guilty for something she thought she did, she formed a palace to condemn herself to die alone. To claim the Thieves are necessary to reform society implies that their method is the most effective, and I think that's a lot to claim for something they don't understand.

"They do more than the cops" I almost agree with. Legally the police in Japan in this game anyway (yes I'm aware it extends to reality in many ways, but I'm referring to just the game right now) are corrupt and flawed for the most part, but the thing I don't agree with is that this makes the Thieves a better alternative. They're not. For the same reason Yoshizawa says later, the Thieves can only do so much as vigilantes, and to imply that society should rely on these faceless nameless flawed people to fix society is not any better than what they have now. Especially with the method being unknown, potentially unsafe, and easily exploitable. I cannot be the only one who if the Phantom Thieves were real, would be extremely alarmed by the prospect of a group of vigilantes "changing hearts" right? It's so vague, and the pattern is dystopian. At least police methods are familiar

What I'm saying is that they're kids, and it's kind of insane that this game places Akechi as the narrative foil for the Thieves in their message and then makes it so easy to disregard because "he's an assassin so how could he know anything about justice". The Thieves don't either, and Ann was nearly a murderer. If the bar is "don't commit murder when you're infiltrating someone's mind" then it's far too low. I wouldn't trust a group of adults with this power to reform society, even less a group of teenage vigilantes. I'm 19, and I find this odd. And Strikers frames them as even more righteous, and it bugs me even more in that game. At least Royal has the third semester to give a bit more nuance to how big of a responsibility Ren was given, but that's also very frequently misinterpreted.

I love this game, and I love this fandom, and I have thoughts that get weird and ranty. I apologize, but I hope you all found this as interesting as I did.

[rippleclan]

RippleClan: Moon 90, Part 3

[Image ID: Lightningrunner yowls at Estherfern, "You took her from me! I barely got to know her! Why do you get to be a mother when she didn’t get to be mine?" Shrewflame and Whitepaw run toward the pair.]

ONE MOON PRIOR…

It seemed like a waste of a skilled cleric's time to accompany an apprentice to his training, but Estherfern supposed she would want someone close by if one of her kits were to injure themselves carelessly. She strolled beside Lightningrunner as Shrewflame and Whitepaw pranced ahead of them, making their way to Battle Beach. It seemed like far too gray and bright a day to spar, but the youth of RippleClan didn't care much for her opinion.

"Mr. Billowhaze said to be careful by the water," Whitepaw chirped, gazing up at his older brother like a Clan oogles a new leader. "Do you think Mom's stories about fish-cats are real?"

"Mom's an artisan, not a historian," Shrewflame laughed. "Her stories are all fake. Don't worry, the only creatures you should worry about in the ocean are poisonous fish."

"I don't think that makes me feel better," Whitepaw chuckled awkwardly. The two brothers left dainty pawprints in the sand.

"If you want to know more about the ocean," Lightningrunner said, "ask me anything."

"I will, Ms. Lightningrunner," Whitepaw promised, turning an ear back to her. Estherfern hummed softly at the young apprentice's strange phrasing. There was something humble about the titles, even though Estherfern had no idea what they meant.

"Battle Beach!" Shrewflame chirped as the patrol crossed into that special portion of the shoreline. To Estherfern, there was nothing particularly special about this portion of the beach as opposed to any other stretch of snow-dusted land. She wouldn't have known of their arrival had Shrewflame not pointed it out. Still, her Clanmates raved about fond memories sparring along the sand, so it was yet another thing she learned to keep her mouth shut about.

"Is sparring at all like that big fight Mr. Tallowheart and Ms. Cobaltchaser had?" Whitepaw asked, kneading the sand.

"That was just a fight, Whitepaw," Shrewflame laughed, running his tail over Whitepaw's head as he walked past. "When we spar with our Clanmates, we're practicing our skills and challenging ourselves. We aren't hurting one another, though. That's why you don't unseathe your claws. You aren't supposed to draw blood when you're training."

"I won't," Whitepaw promised. He ran to catch up with Shrewflame. He glanced back at Estherfern and Lightningrunner and called, "Ms. Lightningrunner, are you going to spar too?"

"I'll let you start with your brother!" Lightningrunner called. Estherfern found a partially dry spot closer to the trees. She sat her bandage down and tucked her paws under herself. Lightningrunner sat beside her, tail stirring the dusting of snow behind her. Shrewflame steadied himself, paws dug into the sand. Whitepaw copied him as best he could. His legs stretched out a bit too far to look comfortable.

"I'll start simple," Shrewflame said. "A lot of the basics of fighting involve the sort of moves cats instinctually use when they're in danger. Paw swipes, grabbing onto your enemy, things like that. Let's start with swipes. Swipe at my face, as best you—" Whitepaw's fluffy paw whipped out from his awkward stance. He smacked Shrewflame across the face. Shrewflame stumbled to the side, blinking wildly.

"Ah!" Whitepaw yelped. "Sorry, sorry! Are you okay?" Whitepaw hovered around Shrewflame, now scared to get too close. But Shrewflame just laughed. He shook out his pelt, letting his laughter ripple through his ginger fur.

"Now that was a swipe!" Shrewflame roared, rubbing his face on his leg. "StarClan, Whitepaw! Who knew you were so strong?" Whitepaw chuckled awkwardly, but his ears perked high and his tail unwound itself from his side.

Shrewflame went on about angling your paw and steadying yourself after a strike, but Estherfern's attention drifted. The forest had grown grayer by the day, and the snow meant approaching death and hibernation to the plants her fellow clerics so valued. She never imagined caring so much about medical stocks, but she never imagined any of this when she first set off west under the orders of her God.

"These two will be fine," Estherfern huffed to Lightningrunner, stretching as she stood. "I'm going to forage. Will you help?"

"Alright," Lightningrunner said, getting to her paws. Estherfern left her bandage behind and led Lightningrunner into the trees as Shrewflame and Whitepaw laughed and batted at each other.

RippleClan would soon turn to bark-based medicine as winter rolled in and vibrant herbs vanished, but it wasn't winter yet. It was the sort of weather where everything looked a bit like Estherfern; brown and tan and earthy. She could see how the world fought to ignore the approaching chill, even though the first frost had settled over the land. Green grass mixed with yellow, insisting on life. The earliest of winter blooms still dared not to show themselves. The land was waiting, preparing, hoping for a peaceful winter, just like all the Clans.

Estherfern brushed aside snow to get a better look at every plant. Not too far from Battle Beach, she uncovered chicory, its leaves almost identical to a dandelion. Artisans and caretakers could roast the root for their meals and strengthen everyone's stomaches. Estherfern carefully dug around the leaves and plucked the root from the frosty dirt.

"Is this something we should collect?" Lightningrunner called. Her paw danced around a large fallen branch, sprinkled with golden-brown mushrooms. Estherfern joined Lightningrunner and looped around the branch. She studied the mushrooms and their round caps, with a name quickly coming to mind.

"Deadly skullcaps," Estherfern warned, shaking her head. "I knew these mushrooms in my kithood. They are some of the most toxic mushrooms any cat has ever seen. They're as deadly as deathberries. Don't touch them."

Estherfern trotted back to her chicory root and picked it up. She glanced back at Lightningrunner, ready for the young historian to follow her to better, safer herbs. Yet Lightningrunner just stood there. She stared at the deadly skullcaps. Her dark blue eyes were slit and sharp. Her unnerving, unblinking glare drifted onto Estherfern.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Estherfern huffed, dropping the chicory root. Lightningrunner looked back to the deadly skullcaps.

"You should eat them," Lightningrunner said. Estherfern's claws instinctually slipped out. Her ears perked high, turning sideways, alert and ready.

"Say that again," Estherfern said. Lightningrunner's whiskers pushed back against her face. Her ears slowly turned backward, fighting not to go back. She looked at Estherfern once more. Her jaw quivered, searching for the path forward.

"You…" Lightningrunner gulped. She steadied herself, just as Shrewflame readied for Whitepaw's initial strike. "You should eat them. You, you should eat them, and you should die."

"By God, Lightningrunner, you're talking nonsense," Estherfern snapped. "What's gotten into you?"

"I," Lightningrunner stammered, "You… Ugh! What sort of justice is it when a killer goes free?" Lightningrunner curled her lips.

"Again, Lightningrunner," Estherfern growled, "you're talking nonsense. Justice? What justice?"

"You know what justice!" Lightningrunner cried. Her voice rose so fast and violent that Estherfern jumped. Estherfern never jumped. "You know what you did! You summoned the spirits. You got my mom killed!" Ah. That justice.

"I was wondering if you would ask me about that someday," Estherfern sighed, smoothing her pelt. "I don't have good answers for you, Lightningrunner. I meddled with forces I thought I could control, and RippleClan suffered for it. I've done what I can to atone."

"No you haven't," Lightningrunner whined. "You got away with it because Foampaw died, but what about Silverpaw? What about my mom? Do you think there's anything you can do to make up for that? I never saw her body, Estherfern! She was my mom! You took her from me! I barely got to know her! Why do you get to be a mother when she didn’t get to be mine?" Estherfern had no clever retort to that. She dipped her head, but her eyes caught a flash of red in the trees. Shrewflame and Whitepaw slowly approached the arguing pair, ears cocked in confusion.

"I'm sorry, Lightningrunner," Estherfern sighed, straightening, "but I'm not killing myself for you."

"Yes, yes you are," Lightningrunner growled, tail curling, voice cracking. "Eat the mushrooms, or… or I'll just kill you myself!" Shrewflame and Whitepaw ran. Lightningrunner's eyes bounced, blind to all but her own vengeance. "Eat them! Eat them, you foxheart!"

Lightningrunner ran at Estherfern. Whitepaw, small Whitepaw, too-strong-for-his-age Whitepaw, launched past his brother and landed on Lightningrunner's neck, a tail-length from Estherfern. Whitepaw's fangs dug into her scruff, but no, it wasn't her scruff, his jaw wasn't in the right spot, it was her neck, her spine, Whitepaw let go right now—

Light sparked in Lightningrunner's eyes as a violent spasm took over her body. Blood splashed in Whitepaw's mouth. Lightningrunner's strength ebbed away. Her claws, tense and ready to strike, relaxed. She grew limp as leather underneath Whitepaw. Lightningrunner didn't even have time to whine before her life left her.

Whitepaw let go. Shrewflame stumbled upon the scene, his body begging to retreat. Estherfern stood over Lightningrunner's body. She no longer looked like a killer. She looked like a kit.

Whitepaw whined, a wordless, painful cry. He fell off Lightningrunner's body. He ran to Shrewflame, burying his bloody face in his brother's red fur.

"How…" Shrewflame gulped. "What… I don't…"

"I was trying to pull her off!" Whitepaw wailed, voice muffled in Shrewflame's pelt. "I didn't want her to hurt Ms. Estherfern! I didn't want to hurt her!"

"White, White, I know," Shrewflame cooed. He slowly wrapped himself around his weeping brother, hiding all traces of blood-stained white fur from the world. Whitepaw shook so hard that Shrewflame struggled to stay upright. "I know, I know. It was an accident. I know, White. You didn't mean it."

But would the Clan see it that way? Another dead Clanmate, killed, murdered. It had nothing to do with Potterypool, but would anyone believe them? Estherfern barely believed her own senses. An apprentice, barely a quarter moon into training, somehow landing a killing bite on a well-trained historian? Not just any historian, the little sister to one of RippleClan's most unified and beloved families, the daughter of Weedfoot, the Celestial of RippleClan Deputies. The three cats who stood before Lightningrunner's body were outsiders, welcomed into the safety of the shipwreck. Would any of them be allowed to remain after this? Who would believe Lightningrunner, of all cats, would suddenly try to kill Estherfern? Who would see Whitepaw's actions as justified?

No. Whitepaw and Shrewflame were barely out of kithood. They wouldn't suffer for a mess Estherfern caused. This was justice.

"Both of you, listen to me," Estherfern snapped. Shrewflame and Whitepaw snapped out of their shock for just a moment, looking up. Whitepaw looked pink with the blood on his lips. "I'm going to fix this. Nothing will happen to you, Whitepaw. Shrewflame, here, now." Shrewflame slipped himself out from around Whitepaw and crept closer to Lightningrunner's body. Estherfern studied the deadly wound. Even though Whitepaw was close to full-grown, it was clear that no adult cat bit into Lightningrunner. "Shrewflame, I need you to bite into Lightningrunner. You have to cover up Whitepaw's teethmarks."

"But—" Shrewflame stammered, gagging on the thought.

"Shrewflame, we are doing this to protect your brother," Estherfern growled. "Bite her neck, now."

Shrewflame's lips curled, almost prancing in his indecision. But then he looked back at Whitepaw, with wide eyes and his awful, bloody face. Shrewflame hardened. He squeezed his eyes tight and snapped his fangs around the back of Lightningrunner's neck. Estherfern tuned out the squish of flesh and bone.

"Now, both of you, to the ocean," Estherfern ordered as Shrewflame let go and hurried back to Whitepaw. "You're going to wash the blood out of your fur. Don't get out until it's all gone. Then you're going to run to camp and tell the codekeepers that Lightningrunner is dead." Whitepaw pressed against Shrewflame. "This is what happened. While you were swimming, Lightningrunner went to investigate a sound in the forest. When she didn't come back, we went to find her. We found her body. We don't know who did this. We were on the beach. We heard nothing."

"I killed her," Whitepaw whined.

"No you didn't," Estherfern growled, trying to soften her voice. "Not anymore. No one will know. You're not in trouble. You're my hero, Whitepaw, you did nothing wrong. Now go." Whitepaw moved toward Estherfern, but Shrewflame nudged him back. He shook his head, wide eyes glancing at Lightningrunner. He shoved Whitepaw back toward the beach. The two young toms scrambled out of sight.

Estherfern paced around Lightningrunner's body. She brushed the snow with her tail, removing nearby pawprints. No one would be able to tell which way the attacker came from, even if they questioned the patrol's story. With her tail coated in frost and the scene firmly scuffled, Estherfern sat at Lightningrunner's side, like a cleric mourning her charge.

"You stupid child," Estherfern moaned, lowering her head into Lightningrunner's pelt.

No one would know.

(Estherfern: 123, female, cleric, adventurous, great mediator, prophecy seeker)

(Whitepaw: 6, male, historian apprentice, nervous, active imagination)

(Shrewflame: 13, male, teacher, loyal, fast as the wind)

(Lightningrunner: 19, female, historian, nervous, explorer, helpful insight)

[Image ID: Estherfern says to Lemmy, "I don't want to ruin her legacy over a moment of weakness. Do you want the Clan to look at Whitepaw like a killer?" Halibutdusk, Scaleripple, and Oilstripe approach from the distance.]

---

At the end of the story, Lemmy could only sit and think it through. Honeybuzz and Estherfern stared at her, silent, squirming. The quarantine den seemed even colder now.

"No one would know," Lemmy muttered, staring at Estherfern. "Yet you told Honeybuzz."

"I have…" Honeybuzz groaned, "let's say experience with issues like these. Do you understand why we can't let the Clan know now?"

"Call me a hypocrite for this," Lemmy huffed, "but if Lightningrunner tried to kill you, Estherfern, wouldn't you want the Clan to know?" Estherfern bristled.

"None of it would have happened if I had not communed with Spirits of Shadow," the old cleric sighed. "Lightningrunner had the right to be mad at me. I don't want to ruin her legacy over a moment of weakness. Do you want the Clan to look at Whitepaw like a killer?"

Pawsteps broke the snow outside. It had gotten brighter in the time Estherfern spent telling her story. Now morning light burned against the trees beyond. Scaleripple, Halibutdusk, and Oilstripe stood outside, stone still. Time for the trial. Lemmy sighed and stood, squaring herself in front of her Clanmates' painful gaze.

"We need a little more time, please," Honeybuzz stammered, getting up and close to Lemmy's escorts. "We want this to be easy on the Clan. We're not done talking with Lemmy."

"I want her out of this camp," Scaleripple growled. Oilstripe cleared her throat, diverting Scaleripple's boiling blue hate away from Lemmy for a moment.

"The spirits in here are agitated," Oilstripe whispered, ears tilting back, ruffling the thick maple leaves stuck to her fur. "We don't want a long trial. If they can make her tell the truth now, the whole Clan won't have to hurt for long."

"Everyone's waiting, Oilstripe," Halibutdusk huffed.

"I know," Oilstripe groaned, "but do you think they'd rather sit there all day or wait a bit longer and be done with all this before sunhigh?" Halibutdusk and Scaleripple both squirmed, but neither confronted their deputy. Oilstripe turned to Honeybuzz and said, "Lead her out into the clearing when you're finished here." Honeybuzz nodded as Oilstripe led Scaleripple and Halibutdusk back around the shipwreck.

"We don't have long, Lemmy," Estherfern sighed. "I know you don't see your actions as strictly right and wrong, so why see this differently? There's no crazed killer living in our Clan. Don't make them suffer more than they already are." Lemmy's neck itched under her collar. Her head ached. Was there any good decision here? Was this any different than Lemmy's own coverup? Did the truth deserve to come to light? Or would the truth hurt worse than the lie?

"If I say I killed both Potterypool and Lightningrunner," Lemmy said softly, "what then?"

"Unless something strange happens at the trial," Honeybuzz explained, "Downstar has promised to exile you. Just play along with Waspdawn's version of events." Exile… not much different from the life Lemmy knew before RippleClan, before the Witch Hunters. And it wasn't as though she would lack purpose. There were still threats to the cats she cared for, threats to her kits and mate. She would do more good alive than dead. Even if it meant never seeing her daughters again. Maybe they would understand, one day.

"Do one thing for me, in return," Lemmy said. "Take care of my family."

"You deserve that, at least," Honeybuzz sighed. "Thank you. Are you ready, then?" Lemmy slowly approached the edge of the quarantine den. She could smell the grief and rage wafting off her Clan, just around the corner. The sun burned the land in brilliant purple and red, yet no warmth pierced the snow that muffled all birdsong. The walls of the shipwreck burned with illusionary fire. A good final view of her home.

"Take me to my exile," Lemmy sighed.

(Lemmy: 66, female, exiled, cold, deep StarClan bond, good mediator)

(Honeybuzz: 38, male, cleric, daring, skilled toolsmith, good teacher)

(Estherfern: 124, female, cleric, adventurous, great mediator, prophecy seeker)

(Scaleripple: 43, male, warrior, lonesome, formidable fighter)

(Oilstripe: 94, female, deputy, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(Halibutdusk: 82, nonbinary (they/them), warrior, gloomy, masterful storyteller, clever)

[scwicks]

FROM THE ARCHIVES

First, I must apologize. Unfortunately, tumblr has not provided dates to posting. Good thing?? Bad thing?? Personally, I would have appreciated dates. Despite MY preferences, I copied this from a posting "years ago" and I thought perhaps it would be an interesting rerun. Enjoy:

Reveals from the Outlander Emmy Panel: How Caitriona Really Got the Job, Who Knows What About Ghost Jamie, Stolen Souvenirs and the Murtagh Dilemma – Check Your Local Listings

The story Toni Graphia told in the 2nd panel

Excerpt:

Balfe may have been teasing about the ghost scene pages, but there was one true revelation for her during this night…the truth about how the producers found her.  When she is asked where she was in her career four years ago when she first auditioned for Outlander, Balfe laughs ruefully: “Well, I didn’t have a career. I was a struggling, jobbing actor in Los Angeles. I had bits and pieces of jobs every now and then, but I was going through a particular dry spell. You get sent to these auditions through your manager, and a lot of the time you put yourself on tape and you send it off and generally, you never hear anything back.” That was true of the first Outlander tape she sent in. For that audition, she had been given a two-line description of the character. “I didn’t even know it was a series of books,” Balfe admits. “It was… a nurse from the 40s, she’s confident and she does something …so really you have nothing to go on.” When no word came, Balfe says, “I was just like, well, that’s just another one.” But a resourceful UK agent thought she should give it another go, and got his hands on a more extensive breakdown of the part and an extra scene. “I re-taped [my audition] and that got sent off and I think Toni Graphia…[was] trolling through tapes and came across [mine] at the last minute.”

But Executive Producer Toni Graphia interrupts Balfe with a completely different story of how it happened. “Actually, we didn’t come across [the tapes],” Graphia says, and shared for the first time how the actress, who had never done television prior to Outlander, came to her attention. “Maybe it’s the first time anyone’s heard [this story],” Graphia says. “I’d been up all night Googling things like ‘undiscovered acting gems in the UK.’ Yeah, I put that out there….You were being interviewed about a web series you’d done, or something. It was a personal interview… And I…was just watching you naturally, who you are as Caitriona. I went, ‘Oh my God, I think that’s Claire.’ I knew it was risky…but I sent it to Maril and said we should look at this girl. And [they told me], ‘She’s sent in a couple of tapes.” You know, you didn’t have a lot of credits at that time. But we went back and looked at them and thought, “Wow, she’s pretty good.” Adds Graphia: “We got really lucky because you were the perfect Claire. I can’t imagine anyone else doing it.”

[trippinsorrows]

lord Jesus, be a fence.

not quite sure where to start with this one, to be honest with you. i know we only saw hayes a few times prior to this point, but it was obvious what gemini mean to him and vice versa. he's going to be crushed to find out she's dead, and God forbid if he's the one to find her body. my goodness. 🥺🥺🥺

it was obvious before, but i really hope it's painfully obvious now, how sick and demented roman/mateo is. he's now repeatedly raped her and acts like shit is fucking normal. that's beyond disgusting. i was so appalled reading him talking to ivy about all the women he's killed. like, it's nothing. like their lives were nothing.

and then, then, this nigga has the everlasting audacity to propose to ivy with the ring that belonged to his wife who he brutally murdered? and get mad when she says no???? yeah, he's psycho psycho.

the scene of ivy "losing her mind" was so well done that i couldn't tell if she was acting to throw roman off or if she was truly on the brink of insanity, which would be so valid and understandable give everything she's been through.

listen, i hate to be that person, but i was so relieved when duchess was safely released to baby girl. 😭😭 i mean, i need ivy to get out too, but at least the baby doggy is alright. 😭

The Boy Next Door: Chapter Eight

MASTERLIST ✨ harmshake’s masterlist ✨ msbigredmachine’s masterlist

Word Count: 8.4k

💥TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains DARK THEMES. Please proceed with caution💥

A/N: Sorry in advance for any errors, I'm not feeling well rn

Sitting stiffly in the cramped office at the Hartford Police Precinct, Raquel’s hands gripped the edge of the chair so tightly that her knuckles were turning an ugly shade of white. Across from her, Officer Gable leaned forward, his elbows resting on the scratched desk between them. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows over the stacks of paperwork and cluttered files. Raquel’s nerves were frayed, but she kept her composure—for now.

Beside her, her colleague, Kelani, was anything but composed. The young paralegal trembled, her hands clutching a crumpled tissue that she twisted mercilessly between her fingers. Her tear-streaked face was pale, and her wide eyes darted nervously around the room as though searching for answers on the scuffed walls.

“It’s been days, Officer,” Kelani said, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear. “Gemini hasn’t been at the office. She hasn’t answered her phone. This isn’t like her.”

Raquel cut in, her tone sharper but no less panicked. “She’s one of the most disciplined people I know. If she was going to be out, she would’ve let someone know. She’s not the type to just… disappear.”

Gable sat across from them, his notepad resting on the desk between them. His brow furrowed as he tapped the pen against the pad. “You’re sure you’ve checked everywhere? Friends, family? Places she frequents?”

Raquel let out a small, frustrated laugh. “Come on, Gable. She goes out like everyone else, but she doesn’t disappear like this. Everyone knows her—she’s reliable. This is different.”

Kelani, her voice trembling, added, “We’ve tried everything. Her phone’s been off since Friday. I…I can’t shake the feeling that something’s really wrong.” She pressed the tissue to her mouth as if stifling a sob.

Raquel reached over to squeeze her colleague’s hand, she herself barely keeping her emotions under control. “It’s not just us, Officer. I’m in the Neighborhood Watch, too. I know there’s been women going missing around here. We’re just scared that Gem could become another statistic.”

Officer Gable leaned back in his chair, exhaling heavily. He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, his features softening slightly as he tried to reassure them. “Look, we all love Gemini, alright? We’ll do everything we can to find her. This precinct takes care of its own, and she’s part of this community.”

Raquel narrowed her eyes slightly, her sharp mind already making connections. “What about Carmelo?” she asked. “He’s her man. Does he know anything?”

Officer Gable shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the weight of her question evident in his expression. He glanced down at his notepad, then back at Raquel. “He’s aware of the situation,” he said carefully, choosing his words. “And, yeah, he and Gemini were seeing each other, but…he’s just as in the dark as the rest of us right now.”

Kelani let out a shaky breath, her voice thick with tears. “But if they're dating, shouldn’t he have some idea of where she might have gone? Or if something was wrong?”

Gable’s jaw tightened, a flicker of empathy softening his tone. “He’s been looking for her on his own, calling her, checking her place. Trust me, he’s worried too. This isn’t easy for him either.”

Raquel leaned forward, her gaze sharp. “Then why isn’t he here? Why isn’t he the one leading this investigation if it’s personal for him?”

Gable hesitated before replying, his voice low. “Because sometimes when it’s personal, it’s harder to see things clearly. Hayes is doing everything he can, but he knows this can’t just be about him. We’re all working to bring Gemini back safely, and that’s what matters.”

Kelani sniffled again, wiping at her eyes. “Please, just find her. We’re terrified something’s happened.”

Gable nodded solemnly. “I promise, we’ll do everything we can.”

Meanwhile, Officer Hayes sat alone in his office, the walls seemingly closing in around him as dread knotted his stomach. His desk phone and iPhone sat side by side, both useless. He’d called Gemini’s number so many times that her voicemail greeting was burned into his brain.

“Where the fuck are you, Gem?” he muttered under his breath, his fingers tapping anxiously on the desk.

He’d driven by her house three times over the past few days, each visit more nerve-wracking than the last. The curtains were drawn, the lights off. Her car sat in the driveway, but there was no sign of life. He’d even called Ivy, hoping she might have some answers, but her phone went straight to voicemail too.

“Damn it,” he hissed, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t believe in coincidences. Gemini and Ivy hadn’t been on speaking terms for weeks, but now both women were unreachable at the same time. Something was wrong. And he had no idea where next to look.

A knock at his door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Carmelo sat up as the door opened to reveal a red-haired woman with a concerned expression. She hesitated for a moment before stepping inside.

“Officer Hayes?” she asked.

“That’s me,” he said, studying her. He didn’t recognize her, but her anxious energy put him on edge.

“I’m Becky,” she introduced herself. “I need to file a report about my friend, Ivy Jones.”

Carmelo’s heart sank. “Take a seat,” he prodded, drawing out the chair opposite his desk for her.

Becky sat down, clasping her hands together tightly. “Ivy’s little girl, Zaia, came to my house for a slumber party with my daughter, Lyra, over the weekend. Ivy was supposed to pick her up on Sunday, but she never showed.”

“Never showed?” Carmelo repeated, as he grabbed a pen and a notepad.

Becky shook her head. “I tried taking Zaia back to her house, but the doors were locked, and it didn’t seem like anyone was home. I called Ivy’s phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I’ve tried every day since. Nothing.” Her voice cracked slightly as she added, “Zaia is still at my house. She keeps asking for her mom, and I don’t know what to tell her.”

“Jesus,” Carmelo muttered, running a hand over his face. Poor girl. “When did you say you last saw her?”

“Friday,” Becky answered. “That’s when she dropped Zaia off. She seemed fine—completely normal. But now…I’m not so sure.” She let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders slumping. “My husband, Seth, pushed me to come here. He thinks that if Ivy still isn’t answering, something’s seriously wrong.” Becky leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper, eyes wide with worry. “He’s even starting to say it might be…kidnapping.”

Carmelo shook his head grimly, his gut churning with worry. “We don’t know that yet, but you did the right thing coming in,” he told her. “I’ll make sure this gets priority. In the meantime, keep Zaia safe. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Becky nodded, though her worry was evident. “Please find Ivy. Zaia needs her.”

“I will,” Carmelo promised, though the words felt hollow.

As Becky left, he sat back heavily in his chair, his mind racing. His chest felt tight, his breathing uneven. The crime rate in this town was starting to climb. Three women in total were now missing, two of them connected to him in some way. And then there was Rhea, the pregnant girl who’d turned up dead weeks, her body dumped in the woods, the case still unresolved. Surely this had to be some kind of coincidence.

Right?

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, slamming his fist against the desk.

The door opened again, and Officer Gable stepped inside. “You good, bro?” he asked, noticing his partner’s agitation.

Carmelo glanced up, his jaw clenched. “How can I be good? Gemini’s missing. Ivy’s missing. The Belair lady, too. Something’s happening in Hartford, and we’re not catching it fast enough.”

Gable frowned, sitting down across from him. “You think this is connected to that girl, Rhea?”

“I don’t know,” Carmelo admitted. “But it’s not random. Too many women are disappearing or turning up dead, and now it’s hitting close to home.”

Gable nodded slowly, his expression serious. “This is personal for you, isn’t it?”

“Damn fucking right it’s personal,” Carmelo snapped. “Gemini’s my girl. I’m not losing her.”

Gable hesitated before replying, “We’ll figure this out, Hayes. But you need to keep a clear head. If you get too close—”

“I don’t give a fuck how close I get,” Carmelo interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. “I’m gon’ find her, and I’m gonna figure out who’s behind this. Whoever they are, they’re not walking away from this.”

Gable didn’t argue, though his concern was evident. As the two officers sat in tense silence, the weight of the situation pressed down on them both. 

Hartford wasn’t safe anymore.

Her body throbbed with pain, every muscle screaming, every bone she owned weighed down by exhaustion. 

Ivy had no idea how long she’d been trapped in this nightmare. Days? Weeks? Time blurred into an endless abyss of suffering. There were no windows, no clocks—nothing to anchor her to reality. Only the suffocating darkness, the damp concrete walls, and the slow, agonizing creak of the heavy door whenever he came.

Roman.

No. Mateo Hobbs.

The air mattress he had given her to be sleeping on was a mockery of comfort. She was too drained to move, too hollowed out to cry, but sleep was impossible. Every time her eyes drifted shut, she saw him. Felt him.

Instead, she tried to think of Zaia.

Was she still at Becky’s house? Had Becky noticed something was wrong? Or had Roman dispatched Becky too before she could get the chance? 

The thought made Ivy sick.

Because she knew what he was capable of now.

She had learned the truth in the most horrifying way possible—his real name, his real face beneath the mask of charm and seduction. Mateo Hobbs. 

He wasn’t just a liar. He was a monster. He had slithered into her life, invaded her bed, whispered sweet words in her ear while his hands were already stained with the blood of the people she loved.

Angelo. The father of her child. Murdered. By him.

Gemini. Her best friend. Murdered. By him.

He had pretended to comfort Ivy when Angelo died, holding her close as she wept, whispering lies while the blood on his hands had barely dried. He had stroked her hair, murmured reassurances, all while knowing he was the reason Angelo was gone. And when she had sobbed in his kitchen over Gemini’s disappearance, wracked with guilt and fear, he had watched in silence—because he already knew Gemini wasn’t missing. She was dead, buried just feet below, her screams long since silenced by the same hands that caressed Ivy with twisted affection.

How many more had there been? How many innocent lives had he taken before he turned his sights on Ivy?

Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms so hard it hurt. Every nerve in her body screamed for release—for something, anything, to make this torment stop. She wanted to tear him apart, to claw at her own skin until every trace of him was gone. But it wouldn’t matter. No matter how much she raged, no matter how deep she bled, she would still be here. Trapped, with escape slipping further and further out of reach.

Twice a day, he came.

Bringing food.

Bathing her like she was his doll.

And then violating her.

He treated her as if they were lovers, whispering sweet nothings against her skin, kissing her tenderly while he took what he wanted. Each time, he made sure she climaxed, as if that made it okay. As if that erased the horror, the utter disgust of every moment he touched her.

He fed her himself now, having stripped away any semblance of autonomy after her failed attempt to stab him with a spoon. There were no utensils anymore—just his hands, his dominance. He pressed the food against her lips, his grip unyielding. When she resisted, his patience thinned, fingers tightening at her jaw until she had no choice but to open her mouth. Chew. Swallow. Submit. His to control.

“You need to eat,” he said, voice low, as if he were speaking to a frightened animal.

And today, when she stirred from a restless, hollow sleep, she knew before she even opened her eyes that something was wrong.

She wasn’t alone.

A breath ghosted over her skin. The weight of a presence beside her, unmoving, watching.

Her eyes snapped open, her body jerking in terror.

Roman was lying next to her, propped on one elbow, studying her with quiet fascination.

“Morning, my love,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction.

Ivy’s stomach clenched with revulsion. She scrambled back, breath hitching, but there was nowhere to go. The wall pressed against her spine, cold and taunting.

He didn’t react to her fear. If anything, he looked amused.

Then he reached for her, his grip unrelenting as he pulled her up and guided her toward the small bathroom. She tried to push him away, her hands weak against his chest, but he barely noticed. He was so strong. Unshakable. No matter how much she resisted, he always won.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

She was breaking.

He was breaking her.

The water ran warm, and he bathed her with careful, practiced hands. He touched her, dragging his fingers over her skin, washing her hair, his touch sickeningly tender. He acted as if she belonged to him, as if this was routine, as if she wanted this.

Ivy stared blankly at the tiled wall, emotionless, frozen beneath his hands.

When he was finished, he dried her off and dressed her. A neat pile of fresh clothes and underwear sat in a corner.

Her fresh clothes and underwear.

Meaning he had been inside her house. Again. 

Obviously he’d been there before. More than once. So he knew how to get in. Where to go.

But now, he was an uninvited guest, walking through her rooms. Opening her drawers. Touching her belongings. Breathing her in.

She felt violated all over again.

He hummed under his breath, brushing her hair with slow, gentle strokes. His fingers grazed her scalp, gentle, affectionate. A mockery of care.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered, tilting her chin so their eyes met. “Just like you always do.”

Ivy wanted to shatter into a million pieces.

Then, he reached for a paper bag, pulling out a wrapped breakfast burrito.

Her stomach twisted violently.

“Bacon and scrambled eggs,” he said, his smile almost warm. “Just how you like it. Because you’ve been such a good girl.”

It made her sick how stupid she’d been. Allowing this man to learn these details about her through their time together—casually, effortlessly, during the months he had spent pretending to be the perfect man.

And now, he was using it against her.

Her throat burned with bile.

She couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t fight.

So she sat in silence.

Trapped.

Hopeless.

Drowning in this unimaginable nightmare.

Officer Hayes stepped out of the squad car, his dark eyes scanning the modest suburban neighborhood through his Aviators as he adjusted his holster. It was a crisp, gray morning, the kind where clouds seemed heavy with the promise of rain. He glanced at Officer Gable, who shut his car door and motioned toward the house a few feet ahead. The house was pristine—sharp lines, expansive glass windows, and a driveway that looked like it had been freshly hosed down that morning.

“Finance guy, no priors,” Gable muttered, looking through his notes as they approached the door. “Don’t see how he’s involved in any of this.”

Hayes nodded, his face unreadable. “Maybe. We met him at Gem’s Halloween party, remember?”

“Yeah,” Gable said, frowning as he adjusted his badge. “Big Aquaman dude, long hair, quiet type. Nothing that raises any alarm bells.”

Hayes hesitated, the memory of that party resurfacing in his mind. Roman had been polite, almost overly so, but there had been a moment—just a flicker—when Hayes had noticed tension between him and Gemini. He’d dismissed it at the time, chalking it up to a personal disagreement, but now? With Gemini missing, that moment gnawed at him.

“Something felt… off,” Hayes admitted. “I didn’t think much of it then, but now I’m not so sure.”

Gable shrugged. “Let’s see what he has to say.”

Hayes rang the doorbell, the chime barely audible from the outside. A few moments later, the door opened to reveal Roman. He was as imposing as Hayes remembered—tall, muscular and broad-shouldered. His dark hair was tied back neatly, and he wore a black sweater that clung to his huge frame and dark jeans that seemed effortlessly stylish.

Roman’s expression oozed with polite curiosity as he took in the two cops. “Officers,” he greeted, his deep voice smooth but carrying a hint of confusion. “What’s going on? Everything okay?”

Carmelo offered a small nod, his tone calm but professional. “How’s it going, Roman? Sorry to drop by unannounced, but we need to ask you a few questions. Hope this isn’t a bad time.”

Roman tilted his head, his brows furrowing with what appeared to be genuine confusion. “Questions? What’s this about?”

“We’ll cut to the chase to avoid wasting time. When’s the last time you heard from Ivy?” Gable asked.

Roman’s face softened into concern as he exhaled deeply. Tiredly. “Ivy? The last time we spoke was a couple of days ago. She seemed…distant, distracted even. She told me she needed some space, so I didn’t push.”

His answer rolled off his tongue with practiced ease, his tone smooth and sincere.

“Well,” Gable said, his gaze sharp, “no one can seem to find her or reach her. She and Gemini are both missing.”

Roman’s brows shot up, his expression shifting seamlessly to shock. “Missing?” he repeated, his voice low and steady. “Hold up…That…that doesn’t make any sense. I mean, Ivy’s been under a lot of pressure, but Gemini too? I—this is the first I’m hearing of it.” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as if he were processing the news. He shook his head, his voice filled with what sounded like genuine worry.

“When was the last time you saw them both?” Hayes asked, watching Roman closely.

Roman exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. “Ivy was a few days ago. She’s been under a lot of stress. She hasn’t really been the same since Angelo’s death, it’s been so hard for her. And Gemini…I haven’t seen her since last week.” He paused, his gaze lowering. “God, this is awful. I care about both of them. What can I do to help?”

Hayes exchanged a glance with Gable before pressing further. “Speaking of Angelo, we heard you and he had some disagreements before his death.”

Roman looked up sharply, his expression briefly guarded before softening into something more regretful. “Angelo and I… yes, we had a disagreement. Just one. It was stupid, really, a misunderstanding. We hashed it out the next day, and that was that.” He sighed deeply, his tone lowering. “He was a good man, and what happened to him was tragic. A car accident…it still doesn’t feel real.”

Hayes studied Roman’s face, his smooth answers and calm demeanor making it difficult to gauge anything beyond what the man wanted them to see.

“Angelo was a great dad,” Roman continued, his voice thick with emotion. “Zaia adored him. This must be so hard on her. Where is she?”

The question came out casually enough, but something in the way Roman asked it made Carmelo pause.

“She’s safe,” he informed, his instincts urging him to keep it vague.

Roman nodded slowly, though his jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. “That’s good. She’s a sweet kid. I’d hate for her to be caught up in all of this. If it helps, I’d be happy to take her in while you figure things out. She knows me; I can keep her comfortable.”

His voice was calm, measured, but Hayes detected the faintest hint of desperation beneath the surface. Roman’s mask was flawless, but something about the offer didn’t sit right.

“That won’t be necessary,” Hayes said evenly. “We’ll make sure Zaia’s taken care of.”

Roman gave a tight-lipped smile, his eyes lingering on Hayes for a moment longer than was comfortable. “Of course. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Gable nodded, stepping back slightly. “We’ll keep you in the loop.”

Roman watched them retreat, his expression unreadable. “Thank you, officers. Be safe out there.”

As the door closed, Hayes felt a wave of unease settle over him. Gable glanced at him as they walked back to the car.

“Well, he’s convincing,” Gable said.

Hayes didn’t respond immediately. He glanced back at the house, his instincts buzzing. Roman’s answers had been smooth—too smooth.

“Yeah,” Hayes muttered, sliding into the car. “Maybe a little too convincing.”

As they pulled away, Hayes couldn’t shake the feeling that Roman knew far more than he was letting on. But he had no proof.

Over the days, Roman spoke to Ivy with a chilling casualness, recounting his killing sprees as if reliving fond memories. Antonia. Elesha. The two murders in Hartford’s  neighboring counties. Rhea. Bianca. Each name was another knot in Ivy’s stomach, another weight pressing against her lungs.

He pointed at the second barrel beside the one he had stuffed Gemini into. “That’s where Bianca is,” he said, his voice devoid of remorse. “I killed her because I could.”

A silent sob wracked Ivy’s body, hot tears streaking down her face. He had no reason. No twisted justification. Just power—the pleasure of taking a life simply because it was his to take.

But she was starting to see the pattern. The obsession. Roman needed control over the women in his life. He demanded devotion, compliance. When he felt disrespected, when they defied him, he ended them. And then, he moved on to the next.

“Those bitches got what was coming to them,” he muttered, referring to Antonia and Elesha, his voice as steady as if he were discussing the weather. “I moved heaven and earth for them, and still, they decided it wasn’t enough.” He smiled. “But it’s all good. I got you now.”

Ivy swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

It always came back to betrayal for him. He had been cheated on. Lied to. Abandoned. From his mother, who picked the lifestyle of a mob boss’ wife over nurturing her son, to Antonia, who left him for her college professor. And Elesha…his wife, the woman he had vowed to cherish, had been carrying another man’s child. His own cousin’s child.

Everything she heard made her physically ill.

He spoke of the future as if it were inevitable, as if she had a choice. “Once everything settles down, once them cops get off my back, I’m taking you out of this town,” he murmured one night, his fingers brushing damp strands of hair from her face with eerie tenderness. “We’ll go somewhere far away, somewhere quiet. Where no one can find us.”

Oh god.

“But what about Zaia?” Her voice cracked. “I need my baby, Roman. Please.”

Roman didn’t hesitate. “She’ll come with us, of course,” he said smoothly, “Once I convince those two idiot cops that I can take her.”

Desperation clawed at her chest, her mind a whirl of frantic thoughts. She couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t let Roman get his hands on her baby. Couldn’t let Roman take both of them away. But what could she do now that she was stuck here?

One evening, he entered the room, the scent of warm food trailing behind him like a ghost of normalcy. But there was something off—something in the way he moved, the unsettling lightness in his step. Ivy tensed, her unease sharpening as he set the food in front of her, his gaze locked onto hers, unblinking. Then, gently, deliberately, his hand dipped into his pocket. 

The air seemed to thin as he withdrew a small velvet box. Ivy’s breath caught and not in the romantic way, her stomach twisting into a tight, suffocating knot. Roman flipped open the box, the diamond ring catching the dim light like a cruel joke.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment since I first met you,” he murmured, his deep voice rich with certainty. “We belong together, Ivy. I want you to marry me.”

The walls seemed to close in, pressing in on her. Her pulse hammered in her ears as her gaze locked onto the ring. 

“Where did you get this?” she whispered.

Roman tilted his head, studying her reaction. Then, with a slow, sly smirk, he said, “It was Elesha’s.”

The words hit her like a blow.

He let the silence stretch before adding, almost casually, “I pried it off her fingers after she died.”

He had kept it. All this time. After he killed her.

Revulsion burned through her like acid. Her vision blurred, a red haze creeping in at the edges.

“What—” Her voice broke, strangled with horror. “What is wrong with you?”

Roman watched her, calm as ever. Like this was nothing. Like he hadn’t just confessed to something monstrous.

Her entire body trembled. The walls felt like they were closing in. The ring—the proof of his cruelty—gleamed in its velvet jail, a sickening symbol of everything she wanted to escape.

“I can’t marry you,” she choked out, shaking her head. “I won’t.”

Roman stilled. Blinked, as if processing an impossible concept. The warmth in his eyes flickered out like a candle snuffed by the wind.

“You don’t mean that,” he said, stepping toward her.

She lurched back, chest heaving. Her voice cracked, raw and ragged. “Yes, I do! You—you killed her! You kept her ring like some kind of trophy, and you expect me to wear it?” 

Roman exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around the box before he snapped it shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the suffocating silence.

“Ivy,” he said, voice low, warning. “You need to calm down.”

She let out a hysterical laugh, hands shaking as she raked them through her hair. “Calm down? You’re insane!”

His jaw clenched. “I love you.”

She shook her head, chest burning with fear, anger—despair. “No! You don’t know what love is! I’m sorry, but I’m not marrying you. Period.”

Something flashed in his eyes—something dangerous. Then, his jaw tensed, his fingers tightening around the box. His eyes turned cold, lethal.

The transformation was terrifying.

His voice dropped into a low, guttural snarl.

“If I can’t have you…then no one else will.”

Before she could comprehend what was happening, Roman grabbed her, dragging her to the far corner of the room. Her heart sank as she realized he was taking her to the trapdoor, the heavy metal latch gleaming ominously.

“Roman, no!” she cried, her voice raw with terror. She clawed at his arms, kicked her legs, anything to break free, but he was too strong.

He yanked the door open with a deafening creak, revealing the gaping black pit beneath, where Gemini had laid dead. Ivy’s blood turned to ice.

“No! Please!” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “Don’t put me in there! I’ll do whatever you want! Just don’t—”

Her words were cut off as Roman shoved her forward. She screamed, her nails scraping against the edge of the trapdoor as she tried to stop herself, but it was no use. She fell, hard, her scream piercing the air as she tumbled into the darkness.

Roman slammed the trapdoor shut, her cries muffled but still audible through the thick metal. He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving as he stared at the closed door.

Then, without a second glance, he turned and walked out of the basement, Ivy’s screams fading behind him.

The search for Ivy and Gemini had consumed the town. Days had passed since they were declared missing, and the air had become thick with desperation. Everywhere you turned, there were posters of their faces—on lampposts, in store windows, on every corner of the neighborhood. The words MISSING screamed in bold red ink, and beneath them, the faces of two women who had been loved by the entire community. It was all hands on deck now: the local Neighborhood Watch, volunteers, and the police were combing through every lead, no matter how small. Still, no trace. No sign. Nothing.

Officer Gable walked into Carmelo’s office with a grim expression, holding a manila folder in one hand, his other hand pressed against his forehead as if trying to hold back the weight of the investigation.

“Anything?” Carmelo asked, glancing up from the pile of papers on his desk. His eyes were bloodshot from sleepless nights.

Gable dropped the folder onto the desk with a heavy sigh. “We’re running out of places to look, but we’ve got more volunteers. The whole town’s on it. People are offering tips, though some are…fucking useless.”

Carmelo rubbed his eyes, the exhaustion evident in his every movement. He leaned back in his chair. “Any solid leads?”

Before Gable could respond, the door to his office opened, and in walked Becky and her husband Seth. Both of them looked like they hadn’t slept in days, their faces drawn with worry. Holding Becky’s hand was Zaia, whose tear-streaked face registered the chaos that had plagued her young life.

Zaia’s sniffle shattered the heavy silence, her small voice trembling. “Where’s Mama?” Her wide, confused eyes darted around the office, searching, desperate, as if expecting Ivy to walk through the door at any second. “Is Mama here?”

Becky knelt beside her, tucking a stray curl behind Zaia’s ear, though her hands were shaking. “Sweetheart, we’re looking for her, okay? We’re gonna find her.” She forced a smile, but her voice wavered, betraying the fear she was trying so hard to hide. “She’s gonna be alright.”

Zaia swallowed hard, blinking up at Becky. “And Duchess?” she whispered. “Mama said she’d pick her up from the groomer.”

Becky’s breath caught. She glanced at Seth, whose jaw clenched as he looked away.

Carmelo stepped forward, his expression carefully measured. He had seen this before—too many times. A child clinging to hope that might not exist. “Thank you for bringing her,” he murmured to the couple before crouching down to Zaia’s level, his voice turning soft. “Hey, sweetie. You wanna take a seat? I just wanna ask you a few questions, okay?”

Zaia hesitated before climbing onto the chair, swinging her legs slightly. Carmelo exhaled, steadying himself. “Zaia, do you remember the last time you saw your mama?”

A slow nod. Her bottom lip quivered, and she clutched the hem of her t-shirt. “She took me to Lyra’s house for our slumber party.”

Carmelo nodded. “Okay…Do you remember anything else about that day? Did you see anyone you didn’t know that could have been following you?”

Zaia sniffled again, her voice growing even smaller. “I remember…Roman was with us.” 

“Roman? Your neighbor?” Gable prodded gently.

Zaia nodded. “He’s Mama’s boyfriend. He drove us to Lyra’s house.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I like Roman. He’s nice. He buys me toys. But…” Her fingers curled into the fabric of her t-shirt, gripping tight. “He yelled at me.”

Carmelo exchanged a glance with Gable, something unspoken passing between them. A shift. A new crack in the picture. And this one? It felt important.

“He yelled at you? Why did he yell? What happened?” asked Carmelo.

Zaia hesitated, looking down at her shoes. “I was playing my music, but I kept playing the same song over and over. He didn’t like it. He got real mad. Told me to shut it off.” Her eyes filled with tears again, her voice small and unsure. “I didn’t like it. It made me upset.”

Carmelo exchanged a quick glance with Gable. There was something cold about Roman’s behavior. That wasn’t just yelling. That was control.

Hayes knelt in front of Zaia, his voice gentle but stern. “Zaia, I want you to listen to me. No one’s gonna yell at you again, okay?”

Zaia nodded, though the sadness in her eyes was still there. Then, in a voice so small it nearly broke all their hearts, she murmured, “I just want my Mama…and Duchess.” Her lip quivered. “I wanna go home. Can we go home? Maybe they’re back.”

Carmelo stepped forward, placing a hand gently on her small shoulder. “You might be right. Ya know what? I will take you home. Hopefully she’s returned, just like you said. Is that okay?”

Zaia nodded eagerly, hope brimming in her eyes.

Becky looked to Carmelo, uncertainty swimming in hers. “Are you sure? Can you…can you make sure she’s safe?”

Carmelo nodded, his expression hardening. “I’ll make sure. I won’t let anything happen to her. I’ll take Gable with me. If we get there and she hasn’t returned, we’ll bring her right back to yours.” He gave a small, reassuring smile as he crouched beside Zaia. “We’ll bring her back. I promise.”

When Becky and Seth left, Carmelo pulled Gable aside, his jaw set with determination. “We’re checking Ivy’s house again. Top to bottom. Then, Reigns’ place.” His eyes darkened, his voice edged with certainty. “That guy is bullshittin’ us. I can feel it.”

The dark had weight. It pressed against her skin, thick and cloying, seeping into her lungs like smoke. There was no beginning, no end—just the pit, just the silence, just the endless, gnawing void.

She’d stopped counting the hours. Time wasn’t real down here. Only hunger, only cold, only the bruises blooming along her limbs from when he threw her down and locked the world away. She had lost count of the minutes, the silence pressing in on her like a living thing. Roman had thrown her down here like she was nothing, like she was his to punish. And for what? Because she wouldn’t marry him? Because she wouldn’t legitimize his sexual violence?

The whispers began.

At first, they were soft, curling around the edges of her consciousness like a song half-remembered. They spoke in fragments—slippery syllables, broken thoughts.

Then they grew bolder.

They spoke Zaia’s name.

Whispers in the dark, so faint she almost missed it.

She pressed a trembling hand to her ears. No, no, this wasn’t real. Just exhaustion. Fear and loneliness stretching itself thin.

But then—

Zaia…

Her daughter’s name, floating up from the depths, whispered with the same gentle cadence Ivy used when tucking her in at night.

She swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut. This was the trap. This was how the dark got inside you—by making you believe.

But the dark was patient. It slithered into her bones, weaving its way into the fabric of her mind. She felt it shifting in the walls, crawling beneath her skin, threading itself through the marrow of her ribs.

She started muttering to herself, rocking slightly, her voice hoarse and uneven. Zaia. Zaia. Her baby, her anchor. If she said it enough, maybe she wouldn’t lose herself to madness.

Maybe.

The walls whispered—no, breathed—around her. Shapes slithered in the black, shifting in the corners of her vision. Shadows with no bodies. Voices with no mouths.

Then, suddenly—light.

Ivy gasped, her eyes flying open as the trapdoor groaned above, spilling a blinding light into her prison. The sharp contrast burned, sending white-hot pain lancing through her skull. She flinched, but her body barely moved, too weak, too stiff.

And then he was there. A figure in the light, his shadow swallowing her whole. Roman. She blinked, but he didn’t change. He loomed above like an eclipse, food in tow.

Her gaze drifted up to him, unfocused. Wide, hollow eyes stared at something only she could see. The ghosts that had kept her company in the pitch darkness.

She flinched when he reached for her, but didn’t resist as he dragged her out of the pit, her limbs limp and useless. The world tilted, and suddenly she was back on the mattress. A flash of panic engulfed her, praying he wouldn’t touch her this time.

Roman remained silent, choosing to stand there quietly and observe her, jaw clenched as he set the tray of food between them. “You should eat.”

Ivy said nothing, merely drew her knees to her chest and slowly rocked herself back and forth.

Roman dipped a piece of bread into the thick bowl of soup, swirling it around. “So…have you had time to think about my proposal?” he said.

She tilted her head at him. Slow. Mechanical. Then—

A sharp, breathless laugh.

Roman’s expression hardened. “Ivy?”

She didn’t answer. Just lifted a hand, her index finger tracing something unseen in the air.

“The walls are breathing,” she murmured. “Did you notice?”

A pause. Then, softly,

“They don’t like you.”

His eyes narrowed. Suspicion. “What are you doing?”

“Listening to the voices, silly.” Ivy shifted, her body folding in on itself, arms wrapped tight like she was holding herself together. “They don’t like me either, but you? Ooh, they hate your guts, homie.”

Silence.

She let it stretch. Let it coil between them like a living thing. Then, she shivered, rubbing her arms, fingers twitching like she could feel something crawling beneath her skin.

“They move in the dark,” she whispered. “I hear them when I’m sleep. You shouldn’t have put me in there, Roman. Now I’ll never be free of them.”

Roman exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. Frustration. But underneath it—hesitation. 

He chose not to feed her this time, leaving her and walking out of the basement to fend for herself.

By evening time, she was singing.

Soft melodies, eerie and wordless, weaving through the dark, cold basement like something ancient, something wrong. Sometimes she hummed lullabies, sometimes she whispered nonsense, with Zaia’s name woven between.

Roman ignored her, continued his routine with her, seemingly unfazed.

The next day, she was clawing at the walls, nails dragging slow, deliberate lines through the concrete ground.

Roman watched her, the concern starting to emerge, lining his sharp features.

She gasped—sharp, wild—and her eyes locked onto his with something close to delight.

“They’re in the walls,” she whispered, pointing. “I feel them.”

His breath hitched. Just for a second.

Her grin was wide and content.

Later that night, when he showed up to violate her, Ivy was laid in the fetal position, her back to him.

Roman sighed heavily and stood over her. “Ivy! What the fuck is wrong with you?���

Rolling into a seated position, she blinked up at him. 

Then, out of nowhere, she sobbed.

Guttural. Anguished.

Loud. 

She collapsed against him.

Fingers clutching his shirt, burying her face against his chest, body trembling like something fragile, something broken.

“I can’t,” she whispered, her soft voice fractured, splintered at the edges. “I can’t…they won’t let me sleep…I can’t—I can’t—”

She looked up at him, tear-streaked eyes wide, pleading. “Please stay with me. Please, baby. Just for one night. Stay with me. Don’t leave me alone again.”

Visibly taken aback, his hands hovered. Then, slowly—hesitantly—he gripped her shoulders. Just for a moment.

“Try to get some sleep,” he muttered. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Another morning, another sign that Ivy was having a breakdown.

This time, when Roman appeared in the basement, there was utter silence from her. Not a word, not a sound. Just her, lying on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Roman set the tray of food down carefully, the way someone might lay an offering before an altar. A steaming bowl of chicken soup. 

Ivy didn’t move. She just stared.

Roman sighed, raking a hand through his long hair. There was something else in his eyes today; something softer, vulnerable.

“You must be hungry.”

Again. Silence. Then, her breath caught, her lips parting. 

“You threw me in that pit like I was nothing.”

Roman didn’t respond.

Ivy let out another shuddering exhale. Her fingers curled inward, like she was afraid to touch the bowl, like she thought it would vanish.

Her voice broke. “You hate me, don’t you?”

A flicker in his eyes. Guilt? “You know that’s not true,” he murmured.

Ivy let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Liar.”

Her fingers skimmed the edge of the tray, staring at it as though deep in thought.

“Roman…” Her voice was smaller now, softer. Frightened. “I…” Her throat tightened, and then she laughed again. Quiet. Fractured. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

She watched the way his shoulders tensed, the way his eyes searched hers.

“You need to eat,” he said.

Ivy looked away, as if she couldn’t bear the sight of him. 

Settling down quietly beside her, Roman’s hands rested on his thighs as he studied her for a long moment. “I’m sorry I put you in there,” he murmured, reaching out to tuck a strand of disheveled hair behind her ear. “I did it because I love you, Ivy. I just needed you to understand, to see sense.”

She exhaled shakily, allowing herself to tremble under his touch. “I was scared…at first,” she whispered, eyes welling with tears as she leaned closer to him. “But now that I’ve had time to think, I—maybe I understand now.”

His gaze darkened, but the doubt still lingered in his eyes. He felt her breath against his lips before she kissed him—slowly, hungrily. He felt her melt into him, felt her surrender, her fingers cupping his jaw to hold him close as their mouths moved together. And for a moment, just a moment, all felt right with the world again.

Then, she pulled away. Just a fraction. Just enough to whisper, “I think I’m hungry now.”

Roman nodded, placing the tray in her lap. The steam curled up between them as she wrapped her fingers around the warm ceramic bowl. She lifted it toward her lips, breathing in the rich scent.

Then, in one swift motion, she hurled the scalding soup into his face.

Roman roared, staggering back, hands flying to his burning skin. She didn’t hesitate—she smashed the bowl against his head, the ceramic shattering on impact. It knocked him off the mattress with a groan, dazed. He was still moving, still too strong, so she grabbed the tray and swung it with all the strength she had left.

The metal cracked against his skull.

He went down. Collapsed like a rag doll. His huge body going stock-still.

For a horrifying second, Ivy just stared at his unmoving body, chest heaving. Then survival instincts kicked in. She dropped to her knees, hands shaking as she frantically searched his pockets. He always kept the keys on him—she had watched him, studied him, memorized the little habits that he thought went unnoticed.

Her fingers found the cool metal. Heard the faint jangle.

Yes!

She limped towards the basement door as fast as her bare feet could carry her, forcing the key into the lock with clumsy, trembling hands. The mechanism clicked, and she wrenched it open, stumbling up the stairs. Her bare feet barely registered the pain as she reached the second door, fumbling with the lock.

“Come on,” she breathed, turning the key desperately.

The lock gave.

She shoved the door open and sprinted out of the basement, breathing in the air of his home. She knew she wasn’t safe yet. Not until she had Duchess.

Duchess.

Panic seized her chest. Where could she be?

Almost on cue, a faint whimper reached her ears, and she turned toward the sound, dread curling in her stomach.

The laundry room.

She ran, bursting into the small space and nearly sobbing when she saw the kennel tucked in the corner. Duchess was inside, her tiny body unnaturally still, a muzzle strapped around her snout to silence her cries. But the second she laid eyes on Ivy, the whimpering turned frantic.

“I’m here,” Ivy gasped, falling to her knees and wrestling with the latch. “I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you.”

The moment the latch opened, Duchess tumbled into her arms, barely able to stand on her own. Quickly relieving the puppy of the muzzle, Ivy cradled her close, pressing kisses to the soft fur on her head.

“I’m getting us out of here,” she swore, holding Duchess protectively as she staggered toward the front door, her heart hammering.

The police cruiser sped down the quiet street, its tires humming against the asphalt. In the back seat, Zaia pressed her small hands against the window, wide eyes scanning the darkness, hoping—praying—to see her mother. Every shadow, every movement made her heart lurch.

In the front, Carmelo’s phone vibrated against the dashboard. Without missing a beat, Gable snatched it up, glancing at the screen.

"FaceTime," Gable muttered. "The number’s from Florida."

Carmelo frowned. "Answer it."

Gable swiped the screen, and the call connected. A sharp-jawed man with piercing blue eyes appeared on the display. 

"Officers Hayes?" His tone was clipped, urgent, with an edge to it. "I’m Detective Cody Rhodes, Orlando PD. You don’t know me, but I know what’s been happening in your town."

Carmelo tightened his grip on the wheel. "The hell is this about?"

Cody exhaled sharply. "I’ve been tracking a man—Mateo Hobbs—for over a year now. He’s responsible for multiple murders and disappearances down south. And I just found out he's in your neck of the woods, Hartford."

Gable shot a glance at Carmelo. "Never heard of him."

"You have," Cody corrected. He angled his phone, showing a grainy photo of a man with long, dark hair, piercing eyes, and a sharp, calculating expression. "You know him as Roman Reigns."

The car went dead silent.

From the back seat, Zaia let out a small gasp. "Officer, that’s Roman!"

A chill slithered down Carmelo’s spine. He felt his pulse hammer in his throat as he exchanged a look with Gable.

"Son of a bitch," Gable gaped. “It is Reigns!”

Cody continued, his voice edged with urgency. "Me and my partner, Lieutenant Cargill, just landed in Hartford. You’re gonna need backup before you move in on him. He’s dangerous as hell, and if the woman you’re looking for was taken by him, she’s in immediate danger."

Carmelo’s jaw locked. There was no doubt in his mind now—Roman had everything to do with Ivy’s disappearance. Maybe Gemini’s, too.

"We’re headed there already," he said firmly. "There’s no time to waste. We’ll send you the location. Meet us there."

“Wait! Hayes, don’t—”

Gable hung up abruptly, and Carmelo slammed his foot on the gas. The cruiser lurched forward, sirens off, the tires screeching as the cop’s mind raced. It was more and more evident that they were about to step into the heart of something far darker than they’d imagined.

As they reached Roman’s house, Carmelo slowed the car, his mind sharpening into focus. He looked over his shoulder at Zaia, who was still staring out the window. 

“Zaia, stay in the car, okay? Don’t move unless I tell you to,” Carmelo said gently, his voice full of a calm he didn’t feel.

Zaia nodded, though the fear in her eyes was unmistakable.

Gable was already out of the car, his gun drawn, his movements sharp and precise. Carmelo followed suit, every muscle in his body taut with readiness. The air simmered with tension as they moved toward the house. They weren’t just confronting some local thug. For all intents and purposes, they were dealing with a predator.

As they neared his front yard, the door swung open.

Ivy staggered out, clutching Duchess tightly to her chest. She looked ragged, her hair disheveled, her face drawn and bruised, eyes wild with desperation. Her breath expelled in short, frantic gasps as her eyes darted wildly around the street. 

Then she saw the two cops.

But even more importantly, across the street.

The police cruiser.

And inside��her baby.

Her little face, pressed against the window, wide-eyed and terrified, her tiny hands splayed against the glass.

"Zaia?!" Ivy screamed, her voice ripping from her throat like it was torn from her very soul. "Baby!"

Zaia’s eyes snapped to her, her face lighting up with unbridled excitement. Without thinking, she fumbled with the door handle, trying to push it open.

“Mama!”

Carmelo’s heart slammed in his chest. “Zaia! Wait!”

Zaia bolted out of the back seat, running toward her mother. "Mama!"

Desperation surged through Ivy like a tidal wave. Her feet stumbled forward, every instinct in her body commanding her to run. To reach her baby. To wrap her arms around her and never let go.

"Zaia, no!" Carmelo lunged forward, grabbing her just in time.

At the same time, Gable rushed toward Ivy and Duchess. "Come on, we got you—"

A gunshot split the air.

A sickening crack rang out as the bullet ripped through Gable’s skull. Blood and brain matter splattered the green grass below. His body went limp, crumpling on Roman’s front lawn.

Ivy let out a piercing scream.

Behind her, Roman stood, gun raised, eyes wild. The side of his head was dripping with blood from where Ivy had struck him, but he didn’t seem to care. His breath was ragged, unhinged. He looked deranged.

Carmelo’s stomach dropped.

"Fuck," he hissed, yanking Zaia against him, shielding her small frame with his body.

Roman didn’t hesitate. He fired again, bullet after bullet.

Carmelo ducked, his arms tightening around Zaia as he carried her behind the police car. "Shots fired, officer down!" he roared into his radio. "We need backup now!"

"Zaia!" Ivy barely had time to take a step forward before Roman’s huge bicep wrapped around her throat, constricting her airflow. She fought against his grip, kicking, gasping for air. "Let me go, you fucking psycho!"

But Roman didn’t let go. He yanked her back across his yard, ignoring the pain of her fingers desperately clawing at his grip.

"Mama!" a despondent Zaia wailed, struggling in Carmelo’s arms. "Let me go, she needs me! Mamaaaa!"

In all of the chaos, Ivy managed one final act of defiance—she released Duchess. The injured puppy stumbled to the ground, whimpering as she limped down the yard, across the street, moving toward Zaia before collapsing into the little girl’s lap.

“Get your ass inside! Now!” Roman’s voice was wild, manic. He dragged Ivy through the door, slamming it behind him with a force that rattled the house. Inside, he shoved her to the floor of the foyer. She hit the ground hard, her body trembling with shock.

"You fucking monster," she spat, gasping for air.

Roman wiped the blood from his face, breathing heavily, his countenance even more unstable. He spun around and trudged through his house, bolting every possible entryway, locking it all down and sealing them inside, as if preparing for a siege. 

"I knew I shouldn't have trusted you," he muttered when he was finished, shaking his head. "Well played, baby girl. Well played."

Ivy stared up at him in horror as he stepped back, chest rising and falling erratically. Then he gave a slow, twisted smile.

The next words he uttered sent Ivy’s heart plummeting into the abyss.

"Fine," he said, his voice was a deranged whisper. "Ya know what? Fuck it. I’ll push the ‘wedding’ forward. We’re getting married right now."

2 chapters to go.

Your comments and reblogs are so much appreciated! Please keep your Asks coming, we’re loving all the theories!

Please remember that this is FICTION and nothing more. Thank you so much for understanding!

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[edwardseymour]

“She was a lady-in-waiting to Catherine of Aragon for several years alongside Anne Boleyn, so she would've witnessed the way Anne held Henry off for so long by pleading her virginity. She watched, and she learned. There is a famous tale of how Jane was picking out items for her wedding to the king, while Anne awaited her execution in the Tower. If true, it would show sprinklings of a cold heart. [...] I wonder if Jane was reminiscing over these events, as she was dying of child-bed fever, and if so, what her thoughts on them were. Did she pray for forgiveness for the part she played? I like to believe that she did, given how spiritual she was known to be.”

abfiles comments writing fanfic fantasising about jane seymour in moments of terrible duress!

[stardustfrin]

i think it's really funny how people just go on the internet and tell lies

[the-physicality]

what i need is a link to admin at the mercury and admin at the wnba. set me up a special account so i can see all the old videos from the old website. and get me a computer with all 19000+ minutes of dt games and a strong video editor. really i'd like all the old footage too.

[malachitezmeyka]

If my school administrator has a million haters, I’m one of them. If my school administrator has a thousand haters, I’m still one of them. If my school administrator has one hater, it’s me. If my school administrator has no haters, then I have left this world. If the world is with my school administrator, then I am against the world

[great-septimus]

Hey, so I don't want to be that guy, but when are we going to acknowledge that Akechi was right?

No, I obviously don't mean about the things he was very clearly wrong about. I'm referring to the things he says in interviews about the Phantom Thieves. I hate how many people switch up after playing through his betrayal who previously agreed with his views, because nothing he said is wrong and nothing he did changes that fact. He speaks in the TV Station on the objective facts that he should know about, and with or without the context of his form of justice those facts stay true. It's a fallacy to claim that his form of justice being universally less approved of makes the Phantom Thieves better by comparison, or discredits anything he said. I don't think the Phantom Thieves are evil, or that they should necessarily be imprisoned, but I do think that they are not morally sound. They're kids. Prior to his betrayal I think he served his purpose well, but it's easy to disregard the validity of his words when you find out that he's a murderer. With the knowledge he SHOULD have had (and that many DID have), everything he says is true. And honestly? It still can be true for basically the entire plot of the game. Mishima's confidant tests the thieves in that way. They could have changed the hearts of anyone who's not a persona user, for any personal reason. It's a slippery slope.

I'll use these three options as an example for why he's right:

"They're justice itself" is just subjective and incorrect, because justice as a concept is individualized and given how each Phantom Thief has different reasons for being one it's ridiculous for even them to say. Their first target was before they even formed a group, and Ann was ready to kill Kamoshida. The others were not even going to step in, and they were going to respect her choice either way. All the members are so different, so this is an insane claim to make.

"They're necessary" is wrong because to say they are necessary is pretty disingenuous to all "justice" that has ever happened BEFORE they existed. I don't believe that the Thieves were a necessity per say, and personally I think their actions can only be judged on a case by case basis. Some Mementos targets for example have issues that stem beyond what they have done. Now they have their desires stolen but still have the issue that pushed them to immortality in the first place, plus a shitton of guilty baggage. The Thieves only help with the atonement, but not the push. How many of those people didn't just go right back to their past behaviors? How many of them got worse in other ways? Think about Futaba, she felt so guilty for something she thought she did, she formed a palace to condemn herself to die alone. To claim the Thieves are necessary to reform society implies that their method is the most effective, and I think that's a lot to claim for something they don't understand.

"They do more than the cops" I almost agree with. Legally the police in Japan in this game anyway (yes I'm aware it extends to reality in many ways, but I'm referring to just the game right now) are corrupt and flawed for the most part, but the thing I don't agree with is that this makes the Thieves a better alternative. They're not. For the same reason Yoshizawa says later, the Thieves can only do so much as vigilantes, and to imply that society should rely on these faceless nameless flawed people to fix society is not any better than what they have now. Especially with the method being unknown, potentially unsafe, and easily exploitable. I cannot be the only one who if the Phantom Thieves were real, would be extremely alarmed by the prospect of a group of vigilantes "changing hearts" right? It's so vague, and the pattern is dystopian. At least police methods are familiar

What I'm saying is that they're kids, and it's kind of insane that this game places Akechi as the narrative foil for the Thieves in their message and then makes it so easy to disregard because "he's an assassin so how could he know anything about justice". The Thieves don't either, and Ann was nearly a murderer. If the bar is "don't commit murder when you're infiltrating someone's mind" then it's far too low. I wouldn't trust a group of adults with this power to reform society, even less a group of teenage vigilantes. I'm 19, and I find this odd. And Strikers frames them as even more righteous, and it bugs me even more in that game. At least Royal has the third semester to give a bit more nuance to how big of a responsibility Ren was given, but that's also very frequently misinterpreted.

I love this game, and I love this fandom, and I have thoughts that get weird and ranty. I apologize, but I hope you all found this as interesting as I did.

[ckret2]

So a while ago some friends were talking about fans who claim the Same Coin theory is canon. And I made the mistake of saying:

Do you know who also has tons in common with Bill? Mabel. Yet nobody claims Bill reincarnated as Mabel. …wait now I want a "same coin but it's Mabel" AU. Funniest Bill reincarnation option. The all-seeing arsonist is making macaroni glitter art. The omnipotent tyrant is crying because a unicorn called her a bad person.

And then I overthought it for two months.

So—AU where after death, Bill's soul shoots 13 years into the past and reincarnates as Mabel. I'll call it ✨ Sparkly Coin AU ✨

Don't leave yet. Lemme show you why it works. Behold the eerie amount of parallels in their personalities, dialogue, behavior, mannerisms, tastes...

I could have kept going but my attention span ran out. All right, we all on board now? Convinced we could segue from one personality into the other? Great. Now here's why you should be interested: the juicy post-Weirdmageddon angst potential.

As long as a small fringe of the fandom still thinks Weirdmageddon is Mabel's fault, why not amp that up x100 and have some fun with it?

Is everyone sold now? Great. Let's get into the details. I've got 8 more pieces of art under the read more.

So the AU starts the instant Bill dies. Thanks to invoking his deal with the Axolotl—one way to absolve his crime, a different form, a different time—the Axolotl gives him a new shape and shoots him thirteen years into the past. Apparently, the Axolotl thought it would be very funny to stick Bill in the family that defeated him.

Which probably made for a jarring transition.

(It's fine, she's like 10 minutes old, she probably can't even tell who she's looking at. Not being able to tell who she was looking at is what got her into this situation ayyyy)

When Dipper & Mabel come back from Gravity Falls complaining about this triangular jerk Bill, their parents mention that Dipper's name was nearly Bill. See, after they knew they were going to have a boy, one night their mom dreamed about a visitor—some kind of magic pink salamander??—calling her child "BILL." Then at the next sonogram they found out they were having twins, the girl must've been hidden at a weird angle the first time, and they wanted matching names, so they thought, Bill and Bell. But they didn't really like Bell; but eventually they stumbled on Mabel, so to keep the names matching they switched from Bill to Mason. Isn't that the darnedest thing?

(Of course, Mabel and Dipper assume Bill harassed their parents to try to trick them into naming a kid after him. To be a jerk.)

When Bill meets Mabel, he's unaware that she's his future self—Bill's notably bad at doing things like, say, double-checking to see whether he's going to die anytime soon—but like... he can tell something's up.

Naturally, before visiting Gravity Falls, there were echoes of who Mabel used to be—but nothing anyone would be able to identify without context. All her Bill-ish quirks either smoothed out with time (see: how between second grade and fourth grade Mabel went from being the "freak" to the popular girl in class), or else they were accepted by her family as Mabel-ish quirks.

After they meet (and kill) Bill, they have the context to understand some of Mabel's behaviors... and unfortunately, some of Mabel's latent Bill-ness starts surfacing after she's been directly exposed to her prior incarnation.

The part of the Pines family familiar with Bill thinks the worst case scenario is that maybe Bill's survived and is slowly possessing Mabel; but far more likely, they think this is just some weird way of trying to subconsciously process last summer. Mabel doesn't think she's being weird, you guys are being weird, stop giving her weird looks. They get attacked by one triangle and now she can't wear yellow or pick up macrame as a hobby??

(It's not all red flags and uncomfortable triangle imagery, though. When Stan asks her what she'd like as a gift for some important event, she shyly admits that she thinks she's starting to outgrow her plastic gem jewelry and maybe she's old enough to get her first piece of real gold jewelry, if that's not too expensive? And Stan's never been so proud of her. Thirteen years old and already thinking about buying gold!)

But of course, the real fun starts when Mabel finds out.

That's the face of a girl who's just discovered that she tortured her great uncle. Now imagine running into the brother she possessed.

But I've already spent a million words and thirteen images on this post. If enough folks are interested in the AU maybe I'll expand on it later. Let me know what y'all think.

[yameoto]

SUPERNOVA CAITLYN KIRAMMAN

kpop idol caitlyn X her insatiably horny junior

"Noona is so cool!"  You mimic, voice pitching either higher or lower, depending on which of the plethora of comments you pick, at your leisure. "Caitlyn’s a CF goddess. Her talents are seriously wasted. Wah, her visuals are really otherworldly. Unnie looks so good I’m creaming my pants—" Caitlyn fixes you with a flat, unimpressed look, at that last one. “It doesn't say that.” You grin, like the effervescent angel you are. “Yeah. That was just me.”

tw; dom/sub!caitlyn, brat!reader, idolverse, girlcock, semi-public sex, sex in dance practice rooms, mirror sex, handjobs, handjobs during vlives, voyeurism, mild age-gap, age hierarchy dynamics, use of korean honorifics. idol!caitlyn x idol!reader wc; 5.1k. ao3

notes: set in modern day runeterra. ionia encompasses the entire region of asia in league which i personally find stupid but i dont make the rules. fluff/smut/humour. derivative of korean culture (kpop idol au) + pokes a lil fun at stan culture. no prior kpop knowledge is needed (though it would likely help) the sex is filthy regardless. wrote this after finding caitlyn is only a 1/4 white like hallelujah jesus

CAITLYN looks stupidly good. Like stupid, stupidly good. Her grey sweatpants are slung low on her hips, waistband of her briefs peeking out. Sweat-slickened abs glare back at you, from the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The outline of her bulge is visible. These are all observations that you latch into like an IV-drip hooked-up to your wrist, in order to stay alive—lest you die from the fatigue. And boredom.

“Please,” You grumble, head slumped on your knee as your arm drops to the floor, phone abandoned Candy Crush side, up. “Please, please, please, can we go home?” 

“No,” Caitlyn huffs, hands on her hips, looking entirely too good as she takes a momentary (and you mean, momentary) break to swig a sip of water, before she hurls herself right back into it, sweaty and stunning.

The two of you have been trapped in the practice rooms for what feels like eternity. Or, more accurately, Caitlyn has trapped you in the practice rooms for what feels like eternity. You would rather be snuggled up and content in the comfort of your dorms; rather than slogging away in the basement, like you’re still trainees clawing your way up the company ladder inch by inch—rather than the four-time daesang winners, face of Ionia’s girl-groups’, and other innumerable accolades under your belts that seemingly mean nothing to your fearless group leader. At least, at the moment.

You’ve long slunk to the floor, sleepy eyes tracing the way sweat rolls down Caitlyn’s nape as she re-runs the movements for about the zillionth time. Her shoulder-blades flex through the thin fabric of her shirt, sweat dampening into a darkened pool in a way that should be gross, but on her, it just looks sexy. The ache in your muscles has simmered to a low burn, by now. Jeez, your eyelids are slipping. Thank God you have your sweet leader to ogle. The sight of Caitlyn’s bulge peeking through those sweatpants is practically your sole motivator in keeping your eyes open.

“You know,” After what feels like a decade, you pipe up again, because time has begun to melds together. “You’ve got it. Seriously.” The swig of water that sluices down your throat is lukewarm and unsatisfactory. Fuck, you’re thirsty. “The stage is a week away. You’ll be fine.”

Caitlyn’s eyes narrow at you through the mirror, incredulous.

“When in the world has fine ever been good enough?” 

Okay, sure. Caitlyn’s right. But she’s more than fine. Almost-perfect, actually—and come seven days—her dance moves will indubitably be heaven-sent and her ending fairy will probably trend #1 on three different social media platforms, and you will most definitely tug her ear endlessly about it, like the benevolent, supportive junior you are.

Seven days prior, however—and all you are is tired, grouchy, and maybe just a little bit horny. 

“I crave the sanctity of my blankets.” You lament, hand falling over your forehead as you languish on the floor, because the sun has probably set by now and you are seriously contemplating the possibility of dying of old age in this godforsaken practice room. (Not that that would be so bad, if Caitlyn were with you).

“You can go home, you know,” Caitlyn sighs, twisting around to face you, sneakers squeaking on the glossy wooden floors. 

“How am I supposed to sleep without my favourite member as a bolster?”  You pout, snatching on the chance to act a brat, immediately. Caitlyn just rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch upwards, so negligible that if you weren't so tuned in to all-things-Caitlyn, you might’ve missed it.

“Clingy.” She mutters, like she doesn't love it. Loves being your favourite. Not that it matters, because the glimmer of hope that flickers in your chest when Caitlyn crouches down in the direction of her bag—is immediately quashed when she only taps her screen, and the speaker rewinds all the way to the start. 

You’re really starting to hate this song.

“Are you serious? That’s not enough to rouse your cold, dead, heart?” You whine, because usually Caitlyn would've caved to your grabby-hands and doe-eyes by now (especially with the way you look; lips parted and shining with spit, water trickling down your chin down the column of your throat, from the leftover rivulets of your water-bottle.) Not that Caitlyn doesn't notice. She’s just really, really determined to get this right.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“You work yourself too hard.”

You stretch to a stand, elongated and cat-like before you slink over and sling yourself dramatically along Caitlyn’s back. Her expression contorts into exasperation. She attempts to turn her head, to face you—to no avail. Not when you’re pushing her up against the mirror and the pinning her down against glass with the power of aggressive spooning on your side. Her hand shoots out to brace against the mirror, as your fingers hook the hem of her sweats, and Caitlyn stiffens under your thumb, lips falling open against her will.

“Darling,” She inhales, in that addictive, throaty accent of hers. Caitlyn sounds almost pained, as she catches your wrists—though she neither takes them in or wrests them away. The both of you have full view of the rising tent in her groin.

“What?” You smirk, teeth grazing the shell of her ear, like the sneaky little bastard you are. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to practice with a boner, unnie. That must hurt.”

Caitlyn’s breath hitches, and her knees almost buckle, if it weren’t for the way your arms tighten around your waist and squeeze the growing problem at her crotch. Your fingers twine with the string of her trackpants, loosening them under slim, deft fingers.

“Honorifics? Really?” Her voice is tight. She’s screwed. You only ever whip those out when you want something, seeing as how you've been speaking informally to your technical senior  since your very first meeting, in trainee days, (an accident she so loves to recount on variety shows. “It’s not my fault you just looked so young and pretty, unnie.” You’d fumble in defense, eyes wide and doling out the extra sparkle for the cameras as they zoomed-in on your frantic apologies, laugh track sure to be edited in. “What was I supposed to think?”

“You’re lucky I was too kind to scold you,” Caitlyn sighs, and—in a dramatic show of theatricality—flips the inky-blue curtains of her hair behind her shoulder, much to the hosts delight. “I can be really mean, baby.” 

That had been a hit. Probably because of the way her drawl had lilted playfully and she’d cupped your jaw in the most egregious display of fan service you’d ever seen. Caitlyn’s always known how to wrap the media around her pretty fingers; and your stammer and ensuing blush had mercilessly crowded your feed for at least two weeks, afterwards.)

That’s in public, though. In private? 

Caitlyn is a puddle to the graze of your fingers along her hipbone, and the glide of your breath up her neck. Dark eyes meet hers, hooded and intent, reflected in the pane of metal in front of you. It’s certainly a sight to behold. The two of you are both dripping in sweat, Caitlyn’s cheeks flushed, bare-faced and glowing—hair tangled up in that loose ponytail that you've always found so much hotter on her, than any amount of hours in the styling chair could ever produce.

“I really need to..” Caitlyn’s protests sound weak even to her own ears. Especially when heat pools in hot, throbbing waves that rush straight to her dick, and she's cut off by her own gasp when you nuzzle in the nook between her shoulder-blades and your hands—beautiful, cunning hands—ghost over her crotch and squeeze. Her entire world lurches into a haze, body spasming upwards.

“Unnie,” You breathe, sweet and soft, like the devil in her ear, “please fuck me.”

Just like that, Caitlyn can’t take it any longer. A low, strangled noise rips from her throat, eyes fogging over and black eclipsing blue. Lithe hands coil around your wrists, and flips your positions entirely—thrusting you right up against the glass.

Her muscles are throbbing, hours of dance practice flaming up her bones; but she pins you down with the strength of a woman possessed, all the same. As far as Caitlyn’s concerned, she’s like a sleeper agent to your bedroom voice, and the fact could never shine with more clarity, than now (other than the time you’d done a Lola Shark impression in an interview and she’d gotten, to her horror, embarrassingly hard underneath the blanket thrown over her lap. She’d had to call in a bathroom break, to take care of it—much to your smug, haunting amusement).

In the mirror, you watch as Caitlyn’s breathing shallows into pants, tongue licking hot up the stretch of your neck to under your jaw. Neither of you miss the brief, smugly satisfied spark to your eyes and glowing hot between your thighs, even as both squeeze shut when you arch up against Caitlyn’s bulge. She grinds down against your ass, and you moan, so brazen she almost can’t believe it.

“Shit. You're so shameless,” Caitlyn mutters, breaths rushing harsh against your shoulder as she fumbles with the knot at your sweats, rutting hopelessly into the coil of your figure. The moment thread slips free, pants pooling to your ankles as you bend over, head thrown back—Caitlyn’s brand-name briefs soak with a splurge of pre so intense she almost thinks she’s come early.

“You want my fingers?” Caitlyn asks, just to be a bitch. Your eyes squint open to glare at her through blurry vision and through an even blurrier visage.

“Don’t joke,” You spit, voice hoarse with want. It's meant to sound demanding, but all it comes out is whiney, and Caitlyn’s laugh sends shivers down your nape.

There’s a millisecond in which your mind empties completely, and it's almost cruel how you can only see the reflection of Caitlyn’s cock curving upwards from her underwear rather than the real deal. 

Caitlyn’s grasp is like steel around your neck. She thrusts you forwards, your flushed cheeks smushing against the cool surface of the mirror as your stuttered breaths puff in grey clouds of condensation. A groan wrangles itself out of your throat from being manhandled like that, knees wobbling the moment you feel something hot, thick and so, so wet press insistently against the backs of your thighs. Arousal has already begun to drip down your legs, running down in rivulets and moistening the floor under your feet. Yours or Caitlyn’s—you don’t have the eyes to know.

“Unnie,” You breathe, shakily, voice raw. Your fingers are slippery against glass, and you whimper when the familiar stretch of two fingers sinks into your cunt. You slide open, just like that, and Caitlyn temporarily wrenches you back so that you can see your fogged-up reflection in all its full, filthy glory. 

“S’not enough,” You pant, back arching and ramming urgently against her digits she’s spreading you wide, with—so eye-wateringly slow. Maybe it’s the fact that you've been working yourself up, blatantly eyeing her down, for hours since your head checked out of training and your brain devolved into its most primitive urges in coping with your mind-numbing boredom. 

“Not enough?” She grins, sharp-toothed and devastating, adoring the upper-hand. “What? You need a third finger, baby?” The noise that tears out of you is almost like a wounded animal, and you'd be embarrassed if you weren't so overcome with need and prolonging this teasing sounds like torture.

So, you answer with the obvious, “Your cock.” You hiss through gritted teeth, because Caitlyn loves it when you beg for her dick and you’re too hare-brained and empty to do anything more than push back, impossibly deeper into her fingers. They sink to her knuckles of entirely your own volition, without her having to do so much as twitch. 

Caitlyn’s laugh is practically a goad in itself. The lush curtain of her lashes are lowered, irises swallowed up by the deep dilation of her pupils. Still, though, she takes her time in playing with you, just a little longer. Revels in the way you thrash around her fingers, fucking yourself back, desperate.

Herself is one thing. Her dick can only take so much, however. The ache becomes too much, too soon, and the second she runs her glossy head against the drenched, hot pulse of your hole—she can’t not shudder, knot in her throat, before her fingers slip out of your pussy and your consequent whimper is interrupted by the plunge of her cock.

“Hah, baby..” Caitlyn whimpers, eyes fluttering back as she fucks you against the mirror, nails dragging up your hips and digging into supple flesh. Never has Caitlyn felt so at home, submerged in the deep, velvet ocean of your cunt.

“Unnie—” You gasp. It’s the one word, echoing over and over, like an all-consuming siren song throughout your head—with each gasp that comes with every thrust of Caitlyn’s hips, motions growing sloppier as the exhaustion of hours of tireless exertion catches up to the both of you. She nips at your ear, then down the curve of your nape, to the unblemished skin of your upper back. Teeth grazing, pads of her fingers leaving scorching trails as she gropes up your body—your mind a jumbled, fuzzy mess. Her cock plunges in and out, still guided, though she never slips out more than mid-way; bodies sticking together like gum. Like she can’t bear to be apart from you for even a moment—even if it is to pummel your cunt until you can hardly take it anymore.

It’s only when the pumps and rolls begin to slow into simple, gentle rocks, to absolutely nothing but a twitch—that your mind clumsily clasps onto a semblance of clarity, hasty and brief, like you know it’ll slip away and out of reach, soon. “Wha..?” You rasp, half-slurred, even if what you really want to whinge is; What’s goin’ on? Why’d you stop? And, please, please, please. Don’t stop. Keep goin’. Fill me up. Please, don’t ever stop— and other half-baked nonsense that you’ll be glad your tongue was too thick and heavy in your mouth to spill.

“I can’t mark you,” Caitlyn grunts, and your eyes sharpen, just a little. Her tongue peeks out from her lips as her expression looks disproportionately distraught, like it’ll be the end of the world if she doesn’t stake some sort of physical claim on you, eyes darting downwards to your unblemished shoulders with a low growl of frustration.

Distantly, that part of you is still clinging onto reality, knows she’s right. That your comeback is in a week’s time and risking a hickey or a bite-mark or worse (because Caitlyn is stronger and sharper and rougher than her delicate figure should ever have been allowed to be), is a bad, bad idea.

But the larger part of you—the part of you that is currently being railed by her unnie’s cock and trying desperately not to squirt cum all over the practice room mirror—rasps out a reckless, ragged, “Who cares?”, and that’s all the permission Caitlyn needs.

Caitlyn pulls out, and slams herself in again, grip on your waist, bruising. Your hands go sliding, uselessly against the steamy surface of the mirror, long fogged-up under the slick tangle of your bodies. She’s mouthing slurred nonsense into your ear, the music speaker knocked over by one of your ankles and emitting distant sounds from where it's rolled, to the other side of the room. Neither of you could give a single fuck. 

Not the least, when Caitlyn’s hand is sliding up your throat and thumbing over your gaping lips. It feels as if a pink-hued fuzziness has descended the room and become a thick veil over everything, and when her fingers slip into the hot, wet gasp of your mouth—it's only right for you to take the digits in your tongue and suck. 

“Ahnngh—Cait—”  

“When did I say you could speak informally to me?” Caitlyn husks, fingers pressing deeper into the roof of your mouth. In your reflection, you can see the razor angle of Caitlyn’s jaw as she nuzzles into your ear. The obscene glisten of your spit, coating her fingers and coasting down your chin as her digits languish between your parted lips. You look every bit like her precious fuckdoll, right now.

“Unnie—”

“Ah-ah.”

“Sunbae.” 

“Mm. That’s better.”

Her free hand skims up your shirt, slipping up the taut lines of your body and flicking idly at one nipple. You whine, garbled around the gag of her hand, and Caitlyn lets out a moan of content when your pussy tightens around her shaft.

“Fuck,” She pants, teeth sinking down into your shoulder and you buck, even though the pain barely registers with how Caitlyn barrels her cock in you, deeper, and your eyes roll back into your skull. Your thighs are shaking. “M’gonna—hfgh—” 

Her hips draw upwards, and Caitlyn cums like a faucet. All of it, inside you. Outside of you. Dripping from your still-leaking cunt and droplets getting fucked out with each, desperate thrust as she moans, guttural. “Take it—fuck—” Caitlyn groans, harsh and insistent as she pounds, your pussy squelching—so wonderfully wet—as your fingers scramble against the glass, her fingers cramming deep inside your mouth.

“Ah-ah—fuck!”

The two of you go crashing down, sliding down against the mirror and onto the floor with a twinning, indecipherable slew of obscenities, a boneless, panting heap, still moving in tandem. 

You both slump, slippery and sticky. The song on the speakers re-starts, yet again, from the other side of the room, though it's the first time it's even pierced your ears in the past forty minutes. Caitlyn groans, pushing her nose into the crook of your neck, arms tightening around your waist. The mirror is splattered in both your cum.

“We’re gonna have to clean this up, aren’t we?”

“..Probably.” You sigh, still leaking around her cock as you angle your head, the two of you slotting together like missing puzzle pieces.

Twenty-four hours and countless Kleenex wipes later (and really, cleaning your own cum from floor-to-ceiling mirrors—with two half-guilty reflections staring right back at you—is an uniquely humbling experience); it was totally worth it to see Caitlyn appropriately red, after the crash of post-nut clarity.

It’s your one, blissfully empty day before comeback promotions launch you all into full-throttle. You intend to enjoy it while it lasts. 

“Your latest Lotte CF went viral,” You pop behind her, totally innocously if weren’t for that familiar, impish glint in your eyes. Caitlyn sighs, not even glancing up from the stove, completely nonplussed. Probably because Caitlyn could record herself taking a piss and it would chart #1 on Melon.

“The seonjiguk is simmering.” She ignores you. You ignore her right back.

“Look at those dimples,” You beam like a little shit as you wave the video in her face. “Maybe you should go into acting. The GP would go crazy.”

“No thanks,” Caitlyn snorts, hand lifting upwards to stifle a brief yawn, sleeves coming up all the way to her knuckles. “been there, done that.” 

“Oh, right. All your Piltovian film connections.” You hum, idly tracing the underneath of Caitlyn’s elbow as you lean over her shoulder to watch her cook. She’s markably improved from her humble beginnings of blackened, bubbling slag (what was once instant Buldak), or the scotchmarks that still hail the kitchen tiles, to this day.

“Mhm. I was almost poached. My mother wanted me to—what was that? Follow in her footsteps.”

“Well, I’m grateful that you didn't,” You hum, into her shoulder. You poke her side, grinning. “Then you wouldn't have met me, and wouldn't that be tragic?”

Caitlyn scoffs, but you feel her sink a little deeper into your embrace, eyes flitting to settle onto the top of your head, as you nudge into her. You both, really are grateful.

You’re pretty sure Ionia is grateful, too. 

Whatever the day, it always feels like Caitlyn’s name has taken up a permanent residence in the nation’s newsites. ICE PRINCESS. AI VISUALS. ATTITUDE PROBLEM. Her quarter Piltovian and subsequent accent injects an ‘attractive exoticism’ (or whatever management had stapled to your files, at the dawn of debut), that had made Caitlyn internationally explosive, too. 

The Kiramman surname certainly helped. Caitlyn’s debut was like, the biggest plot-twist in nepotism, ever. It was like if Nicole Kidman’s kid suddenly became Hatsune Miku. Not to mention the fact the Kirammans are the largest benefactor of Hextech, whose global rollout of leading-edge tech has gone unmatched. Of all careers for the Kiramman’s mysterious, devastatingly attractive daughter to take—this is the one that took the entire globe off-guard. Including the great and glamorous, Cassandra Kiramman.

Of course, the initial shock long lapsed underwater, with the constant roil of the media waves. Caitlyn’s fame, however, has not.

“Noona is so cool!”  You mimic, voice pitching either higher or lower, depending on which of the plethora of comments you pick, at your leisure. “Caitlyn’s a CF goddess. Ah, her talents are seriously wasted. Is she an angel? Her visuals are really otherworldly—”

“Get that away from me.” Caitlyn swats your phone away with a scowl, pretty pink flush glowing on her features.

“Don’t act all coy,” You prod her so-highly-lauded cheekbones as Caitlyn huffs in annoyance, though begrudgingly leans against the touch anyways. You squish. “We all know you’re preening inside.”

“I am not!”

“Ooh, sexy. I love it when your accent comes out like that.”

Caitlyn groans, because you’re impossible, and just twists so that she’s facing you, back against the kitchen counter. You reach behind her to switch off the stove.

She hooks her fingers into the hem of your pyjama shorts, thumbing over familiar cotton. She sighs outwardly, propping her head up on your shoulder and slumping forwards to rest the cold press of her nose into the crook of your shoulder. Her fingers skim up your shirt, absently rubbing circles into the plane of your stomach.

“You know I hate it when you read those.”

“About how you look like an eepy bunny when you’re sleepy? Or that you have moles in the shape of a giraffe on your nape.” You arch a brow, looking past her as you flick through the blurs of text in various degrees of capitalisation, on your phone. A subtle smirk lifts your lips. “Hey. Is that true? Let me check.”

She scowls, and then almost looks offended that you don’t know that already (You do. Caitlyn also has a darkened, heart-shaped birthmark indented in the crook of her inner thigh—but that’s just for you to know, thank you very much).

Your voice raises a pitch. “Unnie looks so good I’m creaming my pants!”

Caitlyn fixes you with a flat, unimpressed look. “It doesn't say that.”

You grin, like the effervescent angel you are. “Yeah. That was just me.”

Oh, now Caitlyn’s cheeks go red. You push valiantly past the triumphant flutter in your heart, in favour of continuing your teasing. Hey—there’s no schedule today, the dorms are all to yourselves—and you’re on a roll. 

“Look. They wanna steal your eyes and put them in a boba drink.”

Thoroughly fed-up with your antics, Caitlyn snatches the phone out of your hand, and you immediately squirm, to lunging for it. Caitlyn’s ridiculous height advantage has the one-up on you, though, and you puff out an aggrieved yelp of protest when she dangles it above your head, like a dickhead.

“Hey, what the fuck?” You complain, like your comeuppance wasn't exactly what you were hoping for. Except you were more aiming for a pin-you-against-the-fridge, fuck-the-insides-out-of-you type of comeuppance. Not a sordid reminder that you need a stool to reach the top of Caitlyn’s head. “Don’t lord your freakish Frankenstein genetics over me!”

Caitlyn laughs, eyes flickering down. “Are you on your tip-toes right now?” 

Your eyes narrow, because you do not appreciate having the tables turned on you. Your hand shoots up to cup her jaw, tilting it upwards. Caitlyn softens, putty in your hands, adorable furrow in her brow melting away along with her pride as she sinks into your palm with a soft sigh, arm falling to her side.

There we go.

“It’s not my fault you avoid socials like the plague. I’m just doing my duty to take care of my leader’s PR. Your fans are starving.”

Caitlyn grumbles, “Well, let them starve.” though it comes out pinched between smushed lips, cheeks squishing like a dumpling. So heartless, like she’s not the industry’s princess and probably makes up a total of 50% of the company’s annual income. You know exactly why, as you cradle her face in her palms and watch as she leans upwards because no matter how disgruntled Caitlyn acts, or how shockingly humble she is under that front of aloof, arrogance–she definitely preens under attention.

Just. Only yours. 

“Hey, you know what? We should go live right now.”

“What—?” Caitlyn stammers, flabbergasted by the sudden change in direction, “Don’t—“

Too late. Within seconds, you’ve swiped your phone back from her limp hands and flipped the vlive on. Recording. Like, now. Damn, you're speedy. 

“Ah..” Caitlyn’s expression smooths over to that charming, impeccably gorgeous grin of hers that shows off the sharp curves of her cheekbones and has won her the hearts of a nation. 

You pull her to the couch, and under the scrutiny of the camera—Caitlyn acquises with little more than a subtle elbow to your ribs, when the both of you go thudding into the cushions with a low oomph.

Then, you flop against her chest, and the stream of hearts that ensue are absolutely incredible, comments rolling in faster than you can read them. There’s a reason why the two of you are the most popular pairing in the group.

“Hm. Is it on?” You muse, faux confusion tugging on your pretty features. Knitted brows and a plush little pout always do the job, especially when you add a sneak of tongue. No doubt to be screenshotted and re-uploaded countless times, within the next hour. “Hello? Can you guys hear us?”

Which is, you know, the perfect time to grab Caitlyn’s dick through her pants.

A choked noise resounds beside you, and you don’t glance over, for you’re too busy fiddling with the phone and the settings and all other kinds of bullshit that is really just an excuse for you to focus your attention on snaking a hand down Caitlyn’s waistband, just out of view of the camera. “Oh! It’s working. Did you miss us?” You beam, as Caitlyn struggles not to either sock you in the stomach or throw her head back and moan.

If anybody notices Caitlyn’s pupils are suspiciously blown, it doesn’t come up. What does come up, is her ever traitorous cock that lilts immediately into your touch. Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

“Aw, little Caity’s missed me, too,” You croon, as your sneaky fucking fingers stroke idly along her girth, underneath the veil of her sweatpants and just over the thin fabric of her underwear. Caitlyn visibly bristles, because, 1. You’re jacking her off. 2. She hates that your coo instigates a flood of love-bombing so intense, that the hearts on the screen almost completely obscure the both of you. 3, and the most important one; you just gave her dick a nickname! 

“Cait.” You tease out, eyes glittering, not even bothering to conceal your amusement as Caitlyn’s hips buck upwards, her fingers pinching against your sides, lips completely shut mum, for fear she’ll let slip a moan on camera. “C’mon. Say something. You missed them too, right?”

Gods. Caitlyn hates you. She really, really hates you. Just—not enough to not shove your hand away when it starts to peel away the waistband of her underwear. If only because the feeling of precum soaking its seat, sticking to her skin, and not because she’s itching for the sweet relief of your hand around her cock.

“..Hi,” Caitlyn forces her winning, boxy grin, and the years of practice make it an admirably unstrained effort. Maybe she really should go into acting. “Mm. Long time no see, hm?” 

“Unnie’s being awkward, today.” You snark, all sly, and Caitlyn shoots you a glare. She’s rewarded by the sudden, fervent warmth of your hand wrapping around her dick, and then the harsh tug of your fist that has her knees jerking upwards and her dastard slit spurting out a shiny, hot glob of precum. She swallows back a low, strangled whine, like a dry pill. Oh, Gods. She’s supposed to say something.

“Ah, just..—we’ve—ah—”

In a rare show of mercy (because apparently, you’re not out to throw both your careers to the dogs), you swipe the phone back with the most cherubic, triumphant grin to adorn your face, literally ever. Catilyn lets slip a barely-audible hiss as your fingers coil, just a little tighter, stroking up and down—thumb running back over the swollen, gloatingly shiny cockhead.

“We just had a long time in the practice rooms for our comeback, yeah? So we’re pretty tired. Right, unnie?” 

Oh, you're really pushing it, now. 

“Mm. We’ve been—working. Really hard.” She has to lean out of the screen to release a silent, desperate gasp, nails digging into the back of the couch as she tries to rut up into your hand in a way that doesn't obviously send the sofa, trembling. You idly thumb over her slit, smearing the thick, embarrassingly copious amounts of pre down her length. It twitches in your palm, as you ramble on about schedules and the comeback and spoilers and other things that have long become white noise in Caitlyn’s ears. Her hips chase your touch, brazenly, now. She barely even realises when you’re calling it quits; early, too. Because obviously, this was all just to fuck with her.

“Caitlyn,” You sing-song—smirking (supremely unsubtly), at the camera. “Say bye-bye.”

She only just registers the comment. Barely. “Bye.” Caitlyn’s voice is a low croak, hips arching upwards off the couch just as you end the live. Just in time, too, because—

“Oh, fuck.” Caitlyn releases the longest moan of her life, cum spilling over your fist, and she collapses back into the couch. Your phone falls from your hand, and you’re practically shaking with laughter. 

(“Little Caitey,” Caitlyn grumbles, after the fact, with your head nestled between her thighs in apology, “That’s preposterous. What’s so little about her?” Nothing. But there’s no fun in that, is there? At the slow, sly smile spreading on your face, Caitlyn groans. “What?”

“You referred to her in third-person.”

“..Please just suck me off already.”)

[cosmictheo]

𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒 | feyd-rautha

(gif credits to @pascow)

— summary: an arranged marriage with feyd-rautha in the name of reconciling your houses was something you were not expecting, neither was the soft and light way he seemed to behave towards you and only you. —pairing: feyd-rautha harkonnen x female!atreides!reader —word count: 3k —warnings: arranged marriage, feyd being gentle and calm because the reader is the love of his life (as it was written), probably ooc!feyd (sorry but i just love to see the most savage and feral men fall on their knees for their s/o)

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

ᯓ★ part one ── part two ── part three (coming soon)

Your arranged marriage to Feyd-Rautha had been the reason for House Atreides and Harkonnen to strengthen their alliance, ensuring that neither would stab each other in the back, which was most expected from the Baron. Your Houses had been wavering on a faint thread that separated you from a war and this marriage arrangement had pacted a reconciliation. It had been your parents' idea and obeying your parents was the most important thing for you, right after protecting your family and indeed that was what you were doing, guarding your family.

Your twin brother did not like the idea, he was not very fond of Feyd-Rautha and his House, moreover, he found him rather... repulsive. For Feyd was a savage, a ruthless and bloodthirsty man.

However, he had to admit that, next to him, you would be basically untouchable, after all, it was like having a guard dog, the most possessive and protective dog, a dog that was ready to kill and ravage for you if necessary.

“He's scary.” Paul's voice echoed inside your head as together you walked along the vast hallways of the Harkonnen palace, at the end of it, Feyd-Rautha stood, engaged in a conversation with your parents, forever as stiff and somber as he had been since you had first met him.

“Just look at him, you'll have to wake up next to him for the rest of your life.” Your brother insisted, throwing you a knowing and concerned look. “We can fix this without you having to marry that man, sister. There must be something—”

“Enough.” you interrupted him, finally dragging your eyes from your betrothed to your anxious brother pacing beside you, you made an effort to offer him a reassuring, soft smile, grateful that he was always so caring and concerned about you and your well-being. “There's nothing else we can do. You know about my visions and what they foresee. Our House will not endure if I do not accept this offer.”

“We will do whatever it takes to survive for now.” You added, holding Paul's gaze, noting the sadness and pity behind his dark eyes, and like the good sister you were, you sighed softly, leaning closer to him to bring him some kind of reassurance. “Our turn will come to make our move and win, brother.”

“Whatever it takes.” He echoed, nodding his head, fingers brushing your clasped hand around his forearm, as you were accustomed to do when you walked side by side.

“The marriage will take place two weeks from now.” The Duke's voice gave out the news once you were all inside the assembly room, with the Baron at the head of the table, of course, looking uncharacteristically approving and pleased to hear the announcement.

The massive man showed his approval with a hint of a phantom, twisted smile, plump fingers taping the edge of the black table in front of him. “We will have the princess as a guest in our home for a week and then the na-Baron will visit her home for the last week, prior to her coming to live here.”

He planned the whole thing and there was absolutely no one in the room who had the idiotic courage to be against his command, so, it was settled.

Once you said goodbye to your family and gave a tight and emotional hug to your brother, you were left alone in the dark and gigantic planet of the Harkonnen family, feeling like an outsider, like a small prey surrounded by bloodthirsty predators. Although, the place possessed an indescribable and incomparable beauty, the sun was black, and the light that irradiated was whitish, giving it a beautiful contrast with all the black buildings rising majestically. But the place was rather... depressing, quiet and somewhat eerie, it was nothing like your home.

You soon felt out of place, and everyone who looked at you could see it too. It was as if you had some kind of golden aura, glowing among all the darkness and gloom of the place.

Feyd-Rautha watched you attentively, analyzing every expression and emotion you let be shown across your face, catching the look your eyes possessed, that special little gleam that flashed in your orbs as you admired Giedi Prime as if it were one of the most beautiful things you had ever seen in your life, his home.

“Do you like it here, my lady?” His husky, raspy voice managed to snap you out of your trance, and your heart skipped a beat once you trailed your gaze from the horizon beneath the balcony to him, meeting his deep, dark gaze. He always seemed to look at you with those eyes, captivated, as if you were some form of strange spectacle.

And indeed you were, you stood in perfect contrast to the planet, your eyes were bright, lively, your aura was vivacious and hopeful. And because of that, he liked to look at you, study your face, your body language, every little reaction you had in response to something. You were fascinating.

Whenever you entered any room, his deep blue eyes were pulled to you like a magnet, drawn to orbit around you like his planet circling the dark sun.

Feyd noticed out of the corner of his eye how your hands clasped lightly around the balcony fence in front of you, skin contrasting against the blackness of the material. 

You nodded your head very slowly, twisting your body just enough to be able to look him directly in the face, big eyes looking up at him, not with fear, but with expectation. “I do.”

Even your voice was the opposite of his, keeping that soft and delicate tone, as elegant as you.

He seemed satisfied with your positive response, and so, he dared to lean against the balcony fence right next to you, but careful not to cause you to feel too uncomfortable or intruded upon. His eyes never left you for a second and he was quite pleased that you were bold enough to hold his powerful and intimidating gaze.

“Good, it will soon become your home too.” Feyd answered you, in a tone that oscillated between amusement and fascination, you didn't quite know how to decipher the expression on his face either, naturally.

He was very complicated to read, even if you tried extra hard, the many tutoring and lessons with Lady Jessica didn't seem to do much use, with him. Perhaps because he made you feel unnerved, he made your soul tremble like no one could, stepping beyond your walls and standing where none of your senses seemed to work. Where the eye could not see.

“Are you mocking me?” Still, you had the courage to ask him that bold question, one eyebrow rising on your forehead and your head twisting slightly, defiant face and all.

Your bravery made him laugh slightly this time, a noise that was heard almost unnaturally, with a small crooked smile on his lips that looked all too unusual and strange on him. For not even his strongest and most powerful enemies had had the courage to stand in front of him and challenge him like you were doing right now. You were a fierce girl. And he liked that.

“I wouldn't be likely to mock you, my lady.” Feyd-Rautha replied calmly, his tone of voice the exact same, as if you were a spectacle. Your eyes lowered to his hand, which snaked slowly to the edge of the balcony fence, fingers stroking the smooth surface. “I'm just stating the obvious. You'll be living here with me soon. It will be our home and you will reign with me when it's my turn.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly at his response, not yet quite convinced that he would behave so calm and composed with you, when not more than two days ago you had seen him slicing men to pieces in the arena. “You are not bothered by me invading your space?”

You asked that question because you knew how... eccentric men usually behaved, you could see it in basically every man with any power you had ever met, in the so many meetings with the Duke back home. You could see how they treated their wives, how they looked at them and how they talked to them, as if they were dealing with a servant. You feared this marriage was like that too.

Even your parents' marriage was broken, since Duke Leto kept close to his heart another woman who was not Lady Jessica, he did not love her as he loved that unknown woman. You had grown up seeing an empty and cold marriage, merely to fulfill a duty.

You understood that your marriage would also have that basis, and therefore, you knew that duty was the death of love. But for some silly, innocent reason, you wanted to think there might be love here. As the naive, young girl that you were.

Feyd-Rautha shrugged, not taking much interest in the matter of the question, “You'll be my wife, my space is your space.”

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips when he saw that his answer pleased you. You could begin to understand that to him the whole arranged marriage thing wasn't as important as it was to you, or maybe it was, but it didn't seem to bother him or disagree.

“Does this marriage bother you?” It was his turn to ask, staring down at you, noticing how beautifully your skin reflected the pale natural light of the black sun. He could see how frustrated you were now, to be there, with him. “Does it bother you to be my wife?”

You sighed heavily, peeling your eyes from Feyd-Rautha and returning them to the beauty of the landscape below, pondering the questions. His dark eyes followed your every movement as your body turned forward again, hands gripping the balcony fence as if your life depended on it.

“Do you care much for my opinion of you?” You decided to answer him with another question and that seemed to annoy him for his frown deepened and his fingers halted on the fence, devoting himself to glaring at you with his azure eyes, mirroring the pallid light of the gloomy sun.

“Woman, I will marry you and live by your side for the rest of my life, of course your opinion is important.” He took a couple of steps closer to you as he spoke, hand closer and closer to yours, managing to make you even more nervous. “Don't speak nonsense, it doesn't suit you. You're a smart girl.”

Seeing the expression on your face, he leaned even closer and out of the corner of your eye you watched as his hand rose to your face, resting on your chin and turning it ever so gently for you to look at him, but your eyes lowered, fleeing from his.

It seemed astonishing to him that you didn't even flinch away when you sensed the approach of his hand to your face, as if it wasn't the same hand that had slaughtered so many and slit so many necks by the same motion.

“Don't take your eyes off me.” He demanded in a low, raspy tone of voice, you could feel his breath brush against your face. “Look at me.”

When he whispered your name in that delicate, nearly pleading tone, you finally summoned the courage to look at him, allowing him to cradle your chin between his fingers and allowing him to be so close to you that you felt suffocated by the warmth of his body against yours.

“You fear me?”

He asked in that tone of voice, whispering, silently asking you to have mercy on him, not to fear him as everyone usually feared him, not to see him as the monster everyone saw, but as your husband, your protector and your lover.

He saw how your eyes watered slightly as fear peered into your usual stoic, cold face, and Feyd-Rautha was used to beholding that face, was used to fear, because it was always the last look of his enemies.

“I'm afraid. Of leaving home, of living on an unknown planet, of marrying someone I don't know.” Then you shook your head softly, looking up at him through your long eyelashes. “But I am not afraid of you, Feyd-Rautha.”

“You're very bold... and emotional.” He whispered in a disapproving but gentle voice, fingers tracing barely a caress along your lower lip before he reached up and dried the couple of tears that had managed to escape from your pretty eyes. At the closeness, you could begin to see through the mask he always carried, hiding his emotions. “You can't let yourself look like this in front of your enemies, it will make you appear weak.”

“I can't let myself look like this in front of my future husband?” his dark eyes lowered to your lips as you modulated the question, pupils dilating slightly. You swallowed as you saw desire and lust darken his orbs even more when you referred to him as your husband. You sniffed, feeling suddenly embarrassed by your outburst of emotions. “I'm s—sorry. You shouldn't see me like this, my lord.”

“Don't apologize.” He again reprimanded you in that passive-aggressive tone of his, like a hiss of a snake, shaking his head a little. Even after he wiped away your little tears, his hands remained in the same place, cupping your face, each of his thumbs resting on your flushed cheekbones.His fingertips were surprisingly gentle against your skin, sending shivers all over your body beneath their path. “You can be like this only with me, you understand? You can trust me, I want you to trust me.” His fingers took a lock of your hair and pulled it away from your face, running it carefully behind your ear. “But I really don't like to see you cry, my wife-to-be.”

After barely a second of silence with his azure eyes again flicking down to your parted lips, he spoke again, muttering, his raspy voice indicating that perhaps it hurt his throat to talk like that. “Pretty girls like you should cry out of pleasure only.”

He studied your face once more, not missing the way you blushed at his open flirtation and suggestive words, how you bit your lower lip, pupils expanding in thick blackness. You weren't used to so much attention, let alone men saying those kinds of words to you, it was evident. You were so innocent that it provoked a rare feeling of tenderness in Feyd-Rautha.

Perhaps it would be the closest thing to an act of consolation you would get from him and it was likely the only time in his life he had ever done that.

Promptly, you managed to make him smile again. “You Atreides are so strange and delicate... but then again, you will soon be Harkonnen, the prettiest na-Baroness, my pretty little wife.”

From his voice, his careful choice of words and the way he was looking at you, you expected him to kiss you right there —perhaps that was what you wanted, amidst all the tumult of emotions that shook your little heart, beating in rumbling noises inside your chest, pumping fiery blood through your veins.

But after a few seconds, he pulled his hands away from your face and backed away from you, taking a few steps back and offering you a look that you managed to perceive as soft rather than harsh. You knew that he was controlling himself well in maintaining a good demeanor, perhaps because his uncle had ordered him to do so; to do his best to make a good impression and not bring shame to the family. And also because he wanted you to have a good image of him, he was a prideful man, he was used to boast of his virtues and his power, and he was above all, protective of his own person and his glory.

He made a short gesture with his head pointing to the open balcony door, his hands clasping together behind his back pragmatically, as if he were presenting himself in front of a superior. “Now come, pretty girl, I'll show you the palace myself. You're future home.”

You walked towards him, a little smile curving your lips, the first smile on your face during the entire conversation, and he admired it in all it's glory.

“You don't have to be all stiff when you're with me, Feyd.” You eyed his posture with light eyes as you passed him and made your way inside the guest room with graceful steps, him following close behind.

He wasn't very fond of being addressed by name directly, of having his name used so freely, but the way you pronounced his name made him so utterly proud to be called that, he suddenly was wishing you would just call him that, in that tone of voice, tongue savoring his name as if it were the most delightful thing to say.

You turned to look at him for a few seconds, your tone of voice becoming reassuring, something he wasn't quite used to, yet he heard and savored it as if it were the sweetest thing in the world.

“If you can see me cry, then I can see you relaxed. It is only fair, no?”

Feyd-Rautha received your words positively, causing him to deepen his breathing into a snorting chuckle, eyes sparkling with amusement now behind your back.

“I'll try for you.” His response made you smile once more.

[ssahotchnerr]

public displays of affection - aaron hotchner x reader

the aaron take on the derek/penelope workplace seminar (episode of reference: 9x12)

cw; bau!reader, established relationship, suggestiveness, small allusions to sex, fluff <3, bau family banter, aaron being mortified😭, references to the episode wc; 1.4k

"penny," you shut one of your files, placing it in your desktop organizer. "you're creating a draft."

"this is bad. oh so very very bad." she stammered, continuing to pace back and forth, "i'm just mentally preparing myself to be humiliated in front of the entire unit. for the second time, may i add. god, who blabbed this time?

"what did you even do?" spencer chimed in, his head lifting from his current read.

"i don't know." she exclaimed, an exasperated breath leaving her. "nothing out of the ordinary, so that means anything is possible. you," she pointed at morgan, who casually was making his way over to the rest of you. "we're in big trouble."

"this could be totally unrelated." jj reassured her. you agreed, giving penelope a nod and a hopeful smile. "there was no footnote on what this meeting consisted of."

"well, there was no footnote last time. and to this day, i still get asked what flarpy blunderguff means." she huffed, crossing her arms and turning towards derek. "i love you my hunk of a man, but this. this is a nightmare."

as two began rolling around, the bullpen filled in anticipation for the seminar, a light hum in the room as conversations were exchanged back and forth in waiting.

in addition, a presence soon stilled beside you. one always familiar, but surprising under the current circumstances.

"what are you doing here?" you looked up to find aaron's gentle eyes. he took a seat on the edge of your desk, just behind your chair.

meetings like these - usually below aaron's pay grade. he hadn't needed to attend the last, infamous meeting for instance, HR meetings were normally things he had prior knowledge of, or simply not worth his valuable time as unit chief.

"i got the email as well." aaron's hand found the back of your neck, his fingers comfortably kneading into your always-tense muscles. every so often, his hand would brush to your shoulder, and then back again.

"oh no," penelope slapped onto derek's arm, the smack covered up by slim buzz within the vicinity. "what did we do?"

"looks like we're about to find out." dave stated, his eyes following the woman who had just entered the bullpen, moving to the front.

the notorious HR lady of the bureau, nancy, sauntered over to the large presentation screen set before the clusters of desks. not wasting a second to get down to business, she turned toward the crowd of eager agents.

"thank you all for your attendance and time, this shouldn't take too long." she started, poised and head held high.

penelope took a deep breath.

"this afternoon's presentation," nancy clicked a button on her remote, displaying the title page. "public displays of affection."

oh no.

aaron's hand, which had continued to smooth out the stiffness in your neck, halted immediately.

"as you all- most are well and should be aware, keeping conduct professional in the workplace is a must to prevent disruptions within the environment. displays of affection - examples upcoming - can cause extreme feelings of uncomfortableness amongst your colleagues, and can be distracting nonetheless. all of which, creates a...."

just as last time, she clicked her remote. and adjacent to penelope and derek's presentation, in big letters across the top:

"hostile work environment."

derek immediately snorted under his breath, inviting others to openly laugh as well. despite the urge to shoot daggers at him, you were utterly incapable of pulling your attention away from the front.

it wasn't a top secret ordeal - everyone could infer the pair this presentation was centered around, and be correct.

"and so," nancy exhaled a breath, her eyes darting in your and aaron's shared direction for a smidge second, causing the heat to grow in your face and body. "i urge everyone to refrain from the following,"

similar to yours, aaron's face burned, comparable in color to his tie. he let out a nearly inaudible, nervous cough from above you.

"sitting on one's lap, while working on caseloads - not appropriate."

more laughter rippled through the division.

"oh god." you mumbled under your breath, uncomfortably crossing a leg over the other as your palm covered the bottom half of your face.

contrary to the present belief, aaron was a stickler on pda.

for the first few months of your relationship, he hadn't dared to touch your arm, back, anything in order to maintain such affection within the field; it was reserved for closed doors at home only. he loved you, but he wanted to uphold his reputable professional nature.

but as time moved forward and your relationship progressed, he hadn't gotten sloppy, per se, but more relaxed or lenient was a better way to put it.

some displays were accidental by habit. if he wanted to give you a quick peck, depending on the situation and setting, he would. seated beside each other, he would lovingly squeeze your thigh under the table, if you needed the encouragement or if you made him proud in some regard. if he were feeling frisky one day - sure he would do something, just to rile you up for later, to each of your benefit. so on and so forth.

and if he was initiating affection, you took that as the all-clear to do the same. in variation, of course.

so more often than not, it was in private. just not... always. and the lock on aaron's office door often came in handy for that.

"prolonged kisses in the bullpen, elevator, not appropriate."

once. you were caught once in a (very) heated kiss in the elevator.

as you and aaron cowered in embarrassment, both dave and morgan looked far too amused for their own good. the rest of the team - raised, entertained eyebrows, tossing glances to one another while trying to constrain their laughter.

nancy swallowed, as if she needed strength to deliver the next point, "grabbing one's behind when going up the stairs, not appropriate."

another mortified cough exited aaron.

she went on, giving more examples of affection aaron and you were completely guilty of. and if just one singular time wasn't enough, she went-forth on the explanation that such displays can cause a barrier within the workplace.

when you thought it would never cease, nancy finally delivered her ending statement, "save it for home people, thank you."

and with that, as well as the screen darkening, everyone disbanded, low murmurs and chuckles filling the room as each went about their usual routine.

you looked up at aaron in absolute horror, whose face was currently in his hand. but even that didn't hide the blush brewing within his face, his ears flushed wildly as well.

you reached up, grabbing his wrist to pry his hand away.

"nuh uh uh," derek grinned as he wiggled his index finger at the two of you, imitating nancy to a tee. "not appropriate."

"you hush." you got to your feet, allowing you to remove his hand more easily. you cautiously prolonged your hold, brushing your thumb across his knuckles before letting it drop. "aaron?"

his brown eyes found yours, full of embarrassment. "that was..."

"humiliating?"

he nodded, his head accelerating in speed with each nod, "yeah. that's the term i would use."

"oh you poor dears." penelope breathed out, the one compassionate member of the team.

"damn." emily chuckled.

derek cackled again, clearly not ready to let this go. honestly, he probably never would. "thought we didn't notice when you pulled the blinds in the office, did ya?"

aaron gave him a pointed glare, putting a very quick end to the conversation. just as the rest, the team carried on with their remaining work for the day - you and aaron remaining frozen in place.

but surprisingly enough, a laugh did escape him, shaking through his chest. "guess i have to tone it down a little, huh?"

"oh thank god," you blurted out and exhaled in relief, a small smile forming on your lips. "i thought this would cause an avoidance arrangement or something." you teased - partially.

"of course not. some reservation, maybe, but not avoidance." aaron laughed quietly again, a sigh escaping him.

"that was bad, wasn't it?" a slightly pinched expression took form on your face, your cheeks tinting once more.

"it wasn't... good." aaron admitted with some hesitation, but his brown eyes still glowed despite the lines of troublesome. his hand found yours - after scanning that no one was paying attention to the two of you - giving it a squeeze. "but hey, out of problems to have, i'd take showing my love for you any day."

[ohsc]

₊˚⊹♡ assistance | sam winchester x reader

a/n - not for kinktober just a fic i wanted to get out!! i’m unsure whether i like the dialogue on this im sorry if it sucks i feel i can never write dirty talk right *sobs* but i really hope you enjoy!!! <3

cws - fem!reader, 2k, nsfw 18+, phone sex, mutual masturbation, kind of softdom!sam, long distance, fluff, comfort, kinda unedited

other fics can be found on my masterlist

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

It was later than he’d liked by the time he finally got back to the motel. With muscles that ached from the day’s strain, brain fogged from how tired he was, Sam honestly just wanted to call his girlfriend and talk to her until he fell asleep.

He’d meant to text her a couple of hours prior to let her know the hunt was dragging on longer than expected, but his phone had fucking died when he and Dean were two hours into their trek into the woods to find the pack of werewolves they were hunting, and he’d been pretty miserable ever since.

Dean had disappeared off to the nearest bar after dropping Sam off at their room so he thankfully had the place to himself to mope around as he plugged his phone into the charger and showered whilst he waited for it to get some power. The shitty water pressure and barely lukewarm water did nothing for his aching back, so he was even more agitated by the time he got himself settled onto the uncomfortable mattress twenty minutes later, hair wet and skin still damp beneath his clothes with his eagerness to call her.

As much as he hated being away from her for so long, and too often, it was the safest thing to do. Sam wouldn't be able to forgive himself if something happened to her because she was too close to his shit. He still had dreams about Jess, about how that was all his fault. He couldn’t let it happen again.

His phone hadn’t even reached twenty percent but he was impatient and shuffled over to the edge of the bed so the phone cord would reach and held the phone to his ear as he called her, propped himself up against the headboard.

The phone didn’t even ring twice before she answered.

“Sam?”

“Hey, baby.” The words came out in an exhale, most of the tension left him just at the sound of her voice, the ache seeping out of his bones like a relief. It was what kept him sane whenever he was away. Her picture in his wallet, her hair tie on his wrist, her voice in his ear.

“Hi, Sammy. Got worried when you didn’t call on time.”

He winced at the thought. She worried for him, of course she did. Sam understood how horrible it must have felt for her, knowing what he was going off to do. He could only imagine the dread that must’ve curled inside of her whenever he was late calling. Too many things had happened in the past, too many things could still go wrong.

“Sorry, my phone died when we were still out, didn’t get back until way later than I thought,” he groaned, sank down the headboard a little to stretch out on the bed. The agitation still hadn’t quite left him, the stiffness in his muscles prominent. He wanted nothing more than to curl up with her in his arms and he couldn’t have it. “Miss you, honey.”

He could hear the smile in her voice as she responded, “Missed you more. Wish you were here, it’s cold at night without you in bed too.”

He snorted a quiet laugh. “That’s why you miss me?”

“Mhm,” she giggled, though her voice turned a little coy as she murmured, “among other reasons.”

“Yeah?” An automatic smile was curling at his mouth.

Another little giggle through the receiver. He didn’t even need to see her to know that she had that little bashful smile on her face. He also knew exactly what was on her mind, it was on his too.

It wasn’t the first time they’d have done this. He was on the road so often that their sex life wasn’t as amazing as it could have been, and it wasn’t like he didn’t pleasure himself when he was away on hunts anyways.

There had been many many evenings he’d spent in the shower, hot water rolling down his back as he had one hand pressed to the tiled wall whilst the other pumped his cock until his cum was washed down the drain along with his shampoo bubbles. It wasn’t ideal — bottom lip tucked between his teeth to stifle the heaving breaths and quiet groans, trying to get off as fast as he could before the hot water could run out or Dean could get back to the room. It was even worse when it became a result of having her on the phone. There had been many occasions where her soft voice and giggles in his ear had been enough to get him hard, on nights when he was really missing her and it had just been too long since he’d kissed her.

It turned out she did the same as him. Though when Sam pictured it, it was a lot more graceful than his time in the shower. Laid out all pretty on their bed, legs spread, fingers wet with her own arousal as her head tipped back against the pillows. Sometimes if he got a little selfish he pictured her voice all whimpery saying his name as she came, but he couldn’t get lost in that daydream often, or he’d get hard over that, too.

“Miss you,” she breathed again, and the shift in her tone was palpable. “I… I tried touching myself earlier but I couldn’t cum without you on the phone.”

The groan that left him was automatic and his cock throbbed, hardening beneath the material of his boxers. The idea that she couldn’t even get off without his voice in her ear did wonders for him, it was a wonder his ego wasn’t too big already.

“You need my help, honey?” He crooned into the phone, settled into the tone of voice he knew she liked to hear, the voice he used more often than not when he was whispering in her ear, hips slotted between her thighs, rolling in a rhythm that left her whiney and panting.

Her soft little “mhm” was enough for him to move his other hand down and palm himself, hissing in a breath through his teeth.

“Go ahead and lay down for me, pretty girl. Wanna tell me what you’re wearing?”

There was the rustling of sheets over the phone before her voice spoke up again, “Just one of your shirts.”

Another groan. “You trying to kill me, baby?”

She giggled and his cock twitched beneath his palm. Jesus Christ he needed to get back to her, he needed her in person, to sate the need that wouldn’t be doused thoroughly enough over the phone.

“Go ahead and spread your legs for me, sweetheart,” he breathed, palming his cock again as he spoke, eyes squeezing shut as his head knocked back against the headboard. “Did you get yourself all worked up earlier, hm? Are you all soaked already?”

There was another hum, though he could hear the way her breathing had deepened, deep and heavy in his ear. He could picture the tickle of her breath on his face, the shape of her lips, the taste of her mouth after she’d just brushed her teeth. He needed her.

“Why don’t you start touching yourself for me?” He murmured, voice low with his arousal. Her resounding moan was enough for his cock to throb again and his hand finally dipped beneath his waistband, freeing himself with a quiet groan.

“Are you touching yourself too?” She whimpered, and it was a miracle he didn’t just cum there and then.

“Yeah,” his hand lifted and he tipped his head down to spit into his palm, groaning softly the next time he pumped his cock. “Yeah I am, dolly. Your pretty voice got me all worked up— fuck.” He breathed out the word between his teeth. He was already leaking pre-cum, thumbing over the head of his cock in a move that made him shudder, though it felt nice when she did it. Stroked his cock with her pretty hands, her pretty lips that wrapped around his head when she was on her knees for him, licking along the length of his dick in a way that always made him weak in the knees.

She moaned again and his hips jerked, rutting into his hand with a filthy groan. “How’re you feeling, honey?”

She whimpered, and Sam felt another dribble of pre-cum slide down the length of his cock. “Good— mm, good, j’st—” she took in a shaky breath, “feels better when it’s you, baby.”

“Oh yeah?” He grunted, pumping his cock just a little faster. “Why’s that, dolly?”

“Bigger hands,” she breathed. “longer fingers.”

Sam moaned, the idea of his fingers nestled deep in her wet heat enough for his cock to throb in his hand, and he knew he wouldn’t last long. But from the sounds of her pretty little whimpers, neither would she. “Can’t fill that pretty pussy up as nice as I can, hm?” He took in a shuddering breath. “Play with your clit for me, sweetheart.”

He could hear the moment she did, the sharp inhale, the whimpery moan, the rustling of the sheets as she, undoubtedly, spread her legs wider. “Oh god, Sammy—”

“Are you close, sweetheart?”

All he got in response was a high-pitched “uh-huh.”

“That’s it— shit, that’s it, baby,” he panted, pumping his cock faster, moaning softly as his head arched back. “Go on, dolly, make some pretty sounds for me as you cum, won’t you? M’gonna cum just thinking about you making such a mess of yourself, c’mon, baby—” he was practically begging between sharp breaths.

It only took a moment before he heard her sharp inhale and the whine that followed, and all it took was a few more quick ruts into his hand and the sounds of her before he groaned her name, toes curled and eyelids scrunched as he came. He could feel the evidence of his orgasm dribbling down his cock and his fingers as he shucked a few more times, hissing through his teeth as he finally stopped.

“Oh sweetheart,” he breathed, panting, not unlike her heavy breaths into the phone. “You sounded so fucking pretty, honey. That feel good for you?”

She took a shuddery breath and hummed again. “Yeah, thanks baby.”

Sam couldn’t help the breathy chuckle. “Don’t need to thank me,” he murmured. “M’always gonna take care of my girl, even if I’m not there. You made quite a mess of me, too.”

She breathed a laugh, and a moment passed of just their shared breathing as they both calmed down. Sam’s cock had softened completely against his abdomen, and he’d have to change his clothes and have another shower, but fuck was it worth it.

“I’ll be on my way back to you tomorrow,” he promised once his breathing had mostly evened out. “Should be with you before dinner, then you get me all to yourself.”

She yawned into the phone before mumbling, “Good, want you back to me as soon as possible.”

The sound of her so sleepy just left him so soft. “I promise I will be,” he breathed. “Why don’t you get some sleep, okay honey? I’ll call you in the morning when we’re on the road.”

“Okay,” her voice had completely softened, coated in a sickly-sweet fondness that left him putty in her hands. “I love you. Get back to me safe, okay?”

“I always do,” Sam smiled. “I love you too. Night, gorgeous.”

She yawned her own goodbye before the line went dead, and he let the phone drop back down onto the mattress with a heavy breath.

Just one more day, then he could have her in person, help her in all the ways he wanted to on the phone.

[eternal-evergreens]

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧JJK Men as Yanderes ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧

Post Format: Headcanons

Featuring: Gender-Neutral Reader, Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Kento Nanami, Toji Fushiguro, Ryomen Sukuna, Mahito, Choso Kamo

Word count: Each piece is roughly 750 words

Warnings: implied sabotage (Gojo, Toji, Choso), invasion of privacy (Gojo), kidnapping (Gojo, Sukuna), murder (Geto), kidnapping mention (Nanami, Toji), suicidal ideation (Nanami), light gore (Gojo, Sukuna, Mahito), reader injury (Sukuna), threats of bodily harm/mutilation (Mahito), sexual assault (Mahito), implied murder (Choso)

Satoru Gojo

You're nothing special. Not compared to him, at least. With no long line of sorcery or blue blood running through your veins, your family is just about as average as it gets.

You're nothing special---not to Jujutsu society, anyway. But who gives a shit about that? To Satoru, you're more than special.

You're everything.

He's always been the strongest, and yet, when he's with you, he just feels so weak.

Like a schoolgirl fawning over her latest crush, Satoru often finds himself checking his phone while away on missions, hoping to see your name appear on his screen. It doesn't have to be anything special—even a picture of some ugly animal with the caption "That's u, lol." is enough to get him going. Just knowing you were thinking of him at all, even in an unflattering light, makes him feel lightheaded in a way not even battle can emulate.

It's weird. It's embarrassing.

But he can't get enough.

Satoru wants you more than he's ever wanted anything, and he wants you to feel the same way. He'd do anything if it meant winning your heart.

If you asked him to kneel, he'd kneel. If you asked him to beg, he'd beg. If you asked him to rip out a man's heart and present it to you, he'd ask if he should do so on a silver or gold platter.

If you asked him to let you go, however...

You sigh and fall back onto the couch. It'd been a week since your landlord mysteriously kicked you out, and Satoru took you in with a frankly suspicious eagerness. To say that he was an overbearing roommate was to put it lightly.

He'd follow you around the flat from room to room, enter your bedroom without knocking, and once, you even caught him sifting through your laundry. He wasn't even embarrassed about getting caught, let alone the fact that he had done it in the first place.

You decided to start searching for a new roommate after that.

"Y'know," Satoru says, slinging his arms around your shoulders---you hadn't even heard him approach. You quickly close your computer, which happens to have very clearly been showcasing cheap apartments in the area. "I could have just taken ya'. Snatched you up off the street like some kidnapper."

"What...?"

"---But I decided to play nice instead. I thought we could forge a real relationship that way. But you've just been pushing me away. I'm starting to think I've been too lenient with ya'. Like maybe I should have just locked you up instead."

"That isn't funny, Satoru."

"Who said I was joking?" You open your mouth to respond, but Satoru cuts you off before you get the chance. "You want dinner? I can order us takeout. Anywhere you'd like."

Drop it, his eyes say. You do.

That very night, you pack a bag and head to the nearest hotel. In the morning, you'll ask your job if they can transfer you to another city. For tonight, you'd like to just get a good night's rest without the lingering fear of waking up to his figure looming over you.

You wake up to familiar surroundings. It doesn't register as strange until you remember checking into a hotel the night prior. You shoot up to get a better look around. Sure enough, you're in your own bedroom, not the hotel's.

But how...?

You're sure you left last night. Did you dream it? You go to check your phone, but it's not there.

Just then, the door opens. "Oh, you're up," your roommate says.

"Satoru, what's---"

"I called you in sick for work today," he says casually, "and tomorrow. Actually, starting today, you're unemployed."

"What?!"

"Don't worry. I can take care of us. I've got more than enough money."

Satoru wants you more than he's ever wanted anything, and he wants you to feel the same way. He'd do anything if it meant winning your heart.

If you asked him to kneel...If you asked him to beg...

If you asked him to let you go, however...

"C'mon, baby, you know I can't do that," he'd say, arms around your waist and head in your lap. "Ask me for something else, anything. Just not that. Do you want a pony? We can get a pony."

"No---"

"What about a cat? Or maybe you prefer dogs? I could get a purebred if you wanted one. I know it gets lonely being in the house all by yourself."

"I want to go outside, Satoru."

"We could get a fish tank, I guess. Though I doubt they'd make good company."

"Listen to me---"

"Actually, maybe that's for the best. Wouldn't want to compete for my lover's attention in my very own home, you know?"

Suguru Geto

When he was at his lowest, Suguru thought of you. It kept him going. It kept him sane.

So, of course, you were the first person he asked to join him in the creation of the new world. His world.

"Our world," he said, the look on his face desperate, pleading.

You declined, of course. His ideals went against everything you stood for as a Jujutsu sorcerer. As a person.

He took it well---or seemed to, at least. He flashed you a plastered-on smile and released your hands from his, leaving you with no further fuss.

For a while, that seemed to be the end of it.

Life went on. Though you would occasionally catch wind of his nefarious deeds, dealing with such things never fell within your purview. In fact, it almost seemed as if the higher-ups were purposefully keeping you from any cases that involved him.

You had all but forgotten about that fateful evening when a call from the higher-ups had you booking a flight to Okayama.

Apparently, there had been a sudden influx of cursed spirits in the region. And as the lead researcher in cursed phenomena, you were called to the scene.

You had already been given a file outlining the happenings, but out of courtesy, Yumi, the assistant supervisor assigned to the case alongside you, filled you in regardless.

"It's not that there's a higher rate of cursed spirits being born in this area," she said. "They're migrating here."

"Hmm," you look over the map on your tablet again; colour-coded dots mark the locations and grades of each (presumed) non-native sighting. The spacings are far from natural. They seem to have been made with intent, almost as if forming a pattern of some kind.

"We've set up a barrier to track the arrival of new cursed spirits. Nearly every curse from fourth to semi-first grade in the neighbouring towns has been coming here. Some of our windows have even spotted them moving together in groups."

"Was there anything strange about their behaviour? Like moving in single-file lines, with strange movements, or perhaps even speaking?" Yumi lights up.

"Yes, actually! They were all---"

Your screen flashes, suddenly restarting the tablet without your input.

"Huh...?"

"[Last]-San..." Your supervisor almost whispers. You tear your eyes from your screen to hers as she weakly holds up her tablet to you.

Over four hundred cursed spirits have been spotted crossing the Okayama border within the past fifteen minutes.

Your tablet finishes restarting, and you scramble to view the map again, hoping what you just saw was nothing more than a glitch.

The loading screen seems to take ages to complete, but when it does, the map shows exactly what you feared.

Oh. You get it now.

The pattern it was trying to spell out. It's "愛"

---"Love".

You hear a scream.

"Ah, it's good to see you again. How long has it been now?" A voice---one you're all too familiar with---says. "Two, no, maybe three years?" Suguru is wiping blood off of his hands. You don't want to look down. You can't look down.

Yumi is dead.

You looked down.

"I'm not sure why I phrased that like a question I didn't know the answer to," he says, smiling in a way that makes your heart ache. "I've been keeping track down to the days, you see."

"Were you...behind this?" You've never been one for combat. You can't use reverse cursed technique to save Yumi. You can't fight to save the others. There's nothing you can do.

You've never felt so helpless.

"I did," he admits casually. "I recently got my hands on a new curse. First-grade 'Pied Piper', its technique creates a sort of call-and-response between itself and other curses of a lower grade through a musical frequency only other curses can perceive. With that technique, I can manipulate the movements of curses I haven't yet acquired without leaving my residuals behind."

"But if it's coming from the technique of a curse you possess, your residuals would still be left behind," you counter.

"Ah, as quick on the uptake as always, [First]," he praises. "You're right, or you would be if this curse were under the control of my curse spirit manipulation. No, this curse was tamed, not subjugated."

"Why are you telling me this?"

He's going to kill you once he's finished explaining.

"I've always appreciated an inquisitive mind," he says. "especially when it's your inquisitive mind." Your mouth forms a vague 'O' shape as the realisation dawns on you.

"愛"

"Love"

...You're never getting away.

Kento Nanami

Nanami is someone who has never really been all that content with life.

Sorcery sucks. Corporate sucks. Japan sucks.

Sometimes, on his darkest days, Nanami thinks about what would have happened if he had joined Haibara—or better yet, if he had never even been born in the first place. If the world is this awful, wouldn't it be better to have never experienced it at all?

But then he met you, and suddenly, the world didn't seem all that bad.

Don't get him wrong, it's not like your presence suddenly made all the wrongs in the world right, but it did make him feel like they all mattered just a little bit less. Like maybe all this suffering was worth it, if it also meant he could see you smile.

So, of course, he'd do anything to keep you safe. To protect that smile.

The easiest way to ensure that, of course, would be to clip your wings. To lock you away somewhere where only he could reach you. A songbird that only sings for him, a dove in a birdcage.

He'd treat you like royalty, of course. His job pays well, but he's a somewhat frugal person by nature, so he has plenty of savings lying around. Whatever you wanted, he'd get you.

As long as you stayed safe, he couldn't ask for anything more. Even if you didn't love him, as long as your smile could be protected, that would be enough.

He's in the middle of researching what kind of restraints would cause the least damage and irritation to your skin when he realises what a grave mistake he was about to make.

'If the world is this awful, wouldn't it be better to have never experienced it at all?'

What if...

What if you started feeling that way, too?

What if, in trying to protect your smile, he ends up being the one to take it away?

He could offer you all the material things in the world, but if it comes at the price of your freedom, it might still not make you happy. After all, it was the same for him.

If money didn't make him happy, why would you be different?

Sorcery sucks. Corporate sucks. Japan sucks.

Nanami is worse.

He doesn't deserve you. It's with this thought in mind that he begins to avoid you. He refuses to meet your gaze, leaves the room when you enter, and declines all missions that involve your presence.

He feels like he's going crazy. Separation has made him sloppy and reckless. He comes home with more injuries, and a part of him thinks he deserves it.

Bags begin to form under his eyes as two weeks go by without the haven of your presence. He sees you everywhere now. The girl across the street is dressed in a substyle you like. The model in that magazine has your eyes. The cafe down the block is having a special on your coffee order.

"Nanamin, why're you avoiding [Last] all of a sudden? They do something to you?" Nanami scoffs at the remark but doesn't answer. He turns to leave but stops when Gojo continues. "Y'know, they actually came cryin' to me about it. Said they had no idea why you suddenly started treatin' 'em like they've got the plague." Nanami turns to look at Gojo, who's fiddling with his blindfold. "You should make up with them soon. Can't leave our cute little assistant supervisor feeling so down, you know?"

Nanami hates to admit it, but Gojo might be right.

'What if, in trying to protect your smile, he ends up being the one to take it away?'

Fuck. He can't do anything right.

He really doesn't deserve you, but what can he do? If he leaves, you won't smile anymore, but if he stays, you'll be smiling at a monster.

But what can he do? He'd do anything to protect that smile.

Even if it means hiding his fangs.

Toji Fushiguro

Toji is a man who takes what he wants and doesn't care if he has to get his hands dirty in order to take it.

Naturally, this applies to you as well.

It's strange, he's never wanted someone as badly as he wants you. Not his past flings, not even his late wife.

Toji is no stranger to romance. He was married, after all. He knows love. It's a familiar feeling.

That's why he's inclined to believe that what he feels for you isn't love. No, what he feels for you is far too primal to be love. It's rough and all-consuming. It's nothing like the soothing feeling he had around his wife.

Love wraps around one's heart like a warm blanket. This wraps around his heart like a python.

But if it's not love, what is it?

Actually, scratch that. It doesn't matter.

Whatever it is, it's some form of desire. And if he desires something, then all he has to do is take it.

Yes, it's better to keep these kinds of things simple rather than getting tied up in technicalities.

There is a problem, however. He'd like nothing more than to just lock you up and keep you for himself, but with his somewhat unstable income and his habit of bouncing around from place to place, that isn't exactly feasible.

Ah, what to do...?

He could settle down or stop spending his money as soon as he earns it, but where's the fun in that?

No, rather than try to adapt to your lifestyle, he'd much rather force you to adapt to his. Still, he supposes some sacrifices will be necessary, as his lifestyle is currently only fit for one.

You'll have to quit your job since you'll be moving around from place to place alongside him, but he'll just take on some more jobs to cover the extra cost; it's no big deal.

He proposes the idea to you so matter-of-factly that it's almost as if he believes you to have already agreed to the plan beforehand. In reality, this is your first time hearing of such a thing, and you're so stunned that you momentarily lose your voice.

You've known this man for two, no, maybe three weeks, and yet he's asking you to drop everything and come overseas with him? You're not even friends! He's just a regular at the cafe you're employed with.

It dawns on you that he must be joking, so you chuckle awkwardly and avert your gaze. Perhaps you simply haven't known him long enough to gauge his sense of humour. You feel a little embarrassed for nearly having taken him so seriously.

Then, he shows you the plane tickets.

Bewildered, you end up being more blunt than you perhaps meant to: "I'm not going," you say, pushing his tickets back to him.

"Sweetheart," he says dryly. "I'm not asking." You shoot him a strained, confused smile, which quickly morphs into a more genuine one as the door chimes.

To think you'd ever be happy to serve a customer. It's a foreign sentiment, but if it means an end to this strange interaction, you'd happily serve a hundred---no, maybe even a thousand customers.

You take their order and get to making their drink, shooting quick glances at the man---Toji, you think---from behind the bar.

He hasn't taken his eyes off of you.

It's days like this that you wish the company wasn't so stingy about hiring more than one person for shifts. You're about to clock out, and if that man is going to stay until closing, you'd really like to have a coworker walk you back to your car.

It's twenty minutes until closing when Toji finally leaves. You let out an unconscious sigh of relief, feeling your shoulders relax. That was weird, but you shouldn't have to see him again, right? He's going overseas tomorrow, after all.

Yeah, you won't see him again. Thank goodness.

It's with that thought in mind that you flip the "We're open!" sign to its side and lock the doors. It's only 6 PM, but the fall season means it's already dark. You shiver from a cool breeze as you make your way towards your car at last.

Huh. Flat tire.

Ryomen Sukuna

Those who know of Sukuna will inevitably feel sorry for anyone who happens to catch his gaze. Sorcerer or not, none will ever possess even a fraction of the strength he carries, and for someone like Sukuna, that means you're no better than a bug to be trampled on.

What a poor, pitiful thing you are. You must be treated more like a pet than a person. A plaything for him to toy with, to discard once you've ceased to entertain.

However, this interpretation couldn't be more wrong.

What others fail to realise is that Sukuna would never waste his time on someone he doesn't consider his equal. Weak as you may be, there's something about you that seems different in his eyes.

Like a precious gem left unpolished, there's a certain allure to you that only a trained eye could see, and he'll be damned if he lets anyone else stake a claim on you first.

No, he'll be the one to bring out your true potential.

Sukuna has never met someone worthy of being his companion. This has never bothered him, however. Loneliness was not something he was familiar with. There are those who have tried, of course, to prove their worth, to stand by his side, but none have ever moved him.

None until you, that is.

The funny thing is that you don't even try to win his attention. You never once asked for his gaze to land upon you. And yet, he can't bring himself to look away.

Sukuna doesn't know what to do with you. You make him feel things he's never felt before.

Is this weakness? Is it love?

Is there a difference between the two at all?

Should he kill you? Should he keep you?

What can he do to make these feelings go away? What can he do to ensure they never go away?

In exchange for not pillaging your homeland, the townspeople offer you up as a sacrifice. It was Uraume's idea.

At midnight, you're dragged out of the comfort of your home and tied to a stake, where you stay for hours. By dawn, you've worn yourself out with struggle, dried blood sticking to your hands and the ropes around your wrists, when a white-haired stranger comes to collect you.

The stranger undoes your bindings, but only the ones keeping you bound to the pole. You're dragged along like a dog on a leash for countless hours until you eventually arrive at the largest estate you've ever seen in your life. It's midday when you're untied and allowed to bathe. The warm water releases all the tension from your aching muscles, and as you bathe, the white-haired fellow replaces the garments you arrived in with robes made of fine silk.

The stranger's name is Uraume, they tell you. They'll be taking care of you until their master is ready to meet with you.

"What happens after that?" you ask tentatively.

Uruame flashes you a smile that refuses to answer.

Before you know it, a full week has passed you by. You're still yet to see this so-called master, but Uraume tells you not to worry. After all, the master has already seen you lots of times, they say.

The thought of being watched in secret sends a shiver down your spine.

Though the prison is large, you're confined to only one wing of the estate, and after a week of having nothing to do but wander, you have the entire layout memorized. Bored and unattended, you decide to venture out into the unknown past the garden's gates. There, you come face-to-face with the largest man you've ever laid eyes upon.

A hulking figure with four arms and fiery pink hair turns to you, and in an instant, you fall to the ground, only vaguely aware of the blood pooling around you and the pain across your chest.

In truth, Sukuna had tried to kill you, but his technique missed your vitals. It takes him a moment of watching your blood ooze out of the open wound to realize he did it on purpose. Before he even realizes it, he's picked you up in his lower arms and applied reverse cursed technique to your injury. You've lost consciousness, and your pulse is weak, but you aren't dead. Relief floods through Sukuna's veins as he listens to your soft breathing.

From that day on, you're never to leave his side unless absolutely necessary. From that day on, Sukuna has someone worthy of standing by his side, not as a servant, nor a pet, but as a companion. From that day on, Sukuna has a lover.

Whether you like it or not.

Mahito

As a curse born from the hatred and fear humans feel towards their own kind, Mahito relishes humanity's anguish and despair. He kills without a second thought, not caring who he hurts or who gets swept up into his path of mass destruction.

So why is it that this particular human sways him so? Why is it that he thinks your soul looks pretty, just the way it is? Why does he want to touch you but not to warp you beyond repair?

Why does he want you to look at him? Why does he want to scoop your eyes out of your sockets so that you can never look away?

To be a curse is to always follow your own desires, no matter how contradictory or inconsistent---that's the motto that Mahito lives by.

So, of course, this philosophy applies to you as well.

It doesn't make sense, and he doesn't understand it. But that doesn't matter to him. Why would it? He's a curse, and curses take what they want. What he wants is you, so, of course, he has to take you, too.

Mahito doesn't spend long watching you before he makes his move. First, he has to check if you can even see curses to begin with. If you can, that'll make things easier. But if you can't...well, that'll be fun too.

He bumps into you at the train station around 2 AM. It was a late night at work, and you're now dead on your feet. There's no one around, so it's the perfect time for him to test you. He taps your shoulder with a smile.

If you don't react, he starts feeling you up, talking aloud about how much he wants you as his hands roam your body.

"Mm, you're so weak," he says, palm on your stomach. "Look at you, all unguarded. If I wanted to, I could take your soul and just—" he squeezes the flesh on your abdomen. "—until you go splat! Hmm, but I don't really want to do that. I wonder why?" His hand trails down to your hips, brushing past—but not quite landing on—your private areas.

"It's weird, isn't it? You can't even see me. You don't even know I exist. But I know you exist." He grabs your hand, interlocking your fingers together. "Humans usually wear rings when they're married, right? I wonder why you don't have one? You're such a catch," he giggles. "Ah, well, I guess it's better for me. Less work, y'know?Though, I would have liked to see the look on your face, coming home to dear, sweet hubby, all mangled up in your living room. I wouldn't even bother transfiguring him. No, I'd want you to see his face clearly, all contorted in pain with his guts splayed out all over the floor."

He follows you home. You still can't see him, but you at least seem a little aware of his presence, with the way you keep glancing over your shoulder, randomly picking up the pace and taking more turns than necessary.

How fascinating! You can't see him, and yet you can sense him? He's swooning already.

"Don't worry, [First]," he says, arms around your shoulders as you fumble with your keys. "You'll be able to see me soon. And after that, you're never getting rid of me."

If you do react, however, he holds himself back, opting to strike up a lighthearted conversation with you instead.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing here all alone?" He asks. "Don't you know the subway is dangerous at night?" You visibly bristle, clearly on guard. He grins.

"Do you need something?" You ask, clutching your bag to your chest and stepping back. His grin widens, easily closing the distance you've just created.

"You're lonely, aren't you? All you do is work; you don't even have any friends! It's kind of pathetic, really. That's okay, though, I like you anyway. I might be the only one."

"What do you---"

"I could help you, you know. Ease your loneliness, maybe?" He's touching you now. Nothing outright inappropriate, but you could smell his intentions from a mile away.

"No thanks," you say. The train stops, and you hurry off the platform. Fortunately, the stranger doesn't get off with you. He waves at you as the doors close, and you run all the way home.

Finally feeling safe, you don't bother to do anything more than kick off your shoes before collapsing on your bed. It creaks under your weight, then creaks again. You freeze, your eyes shooting open.

"Heya," the stranger says. "Fancy seeing you again."

Choso Kamo

If you were to describe him in one word, 'inexperienced' may be your best bet.

Though it's true that he has 'lived' for over one hundred and fifty years, he spent most of that time as a cursed womb, unable to truly experience the outside world for himself. Even after being incarnated and absorbing the memories of his host, Choso finds himself unable to relate to any of his body's experiences. He knows what love is and what lovers do, but only from a technical standpoint. To actually experience it is something he's never even dreamed of doing.

So, of course, when he starts feeling these things for you, he's unable to properly put a label on them. At first, he thinks he's sick, which isn't unreasonable, considering his rather long list of symptoms (fever, shakes, sweats, heart palpitations, and clouded mind, he notes dutifully).

However, that idea is quickly shut down. Being a cursed womb death painting, it's highly unlikely that he even can get sick; plus, his symptoms only seem to surface when you're around (or when he's thinking of you, which, admittedly, is often).

Did you curse him? No, you don't have a technique like that.

Then, what...?

It takes him a somewhat embarrassingly long time for him to realise the truth behind his feelings. It isn't until after he catches himself staring at your lips and thinking about how soft they'd feel against his that he concludes he likes you.

So, he's figured it out. Now what...?

Choso searches through his host's memories in an attempt to figure out how to woo you. Unfortunately for him, his host was a frat boy with commitment issues who knew more about one-night stands than how to build the foundations for an actual relationship.

So, Choso consults Yuki Tsukimo, who he, with his very limited circle of friends, considers to be an expert.

As expected, Yuki is ecstatic at the news that Choso has found his type. Immediately, she's giving an impromptu lecture on the ways of the heart.

"First, you have to figure out their type," she says, wagging a finger. "If it's a match, you're all good. If not, you either need to give up or double down."

Through Yuki's mentoring, Choso learned the general rules for signalling romantic interest. Flowers, chocolates, walks in the park, walks on the beach—a lot of walking in general, actually—candlelit dinner, pick-up lines—he's got it all memorized.

The problem is that his throat gets dry, and his knees lock up when he so much as thinks about talking to you.

So he takes to following you with his eyes instead.

"It's just until I gather the courage to talk to them," he tells himself. "I'll stop once I figure out their type."

Right, if he can't ask you about your interests, he'll just have to observe them instead.

So, he watches you. All the time. Eventually, he all but forgets about his previous plan of it being a temporary habit.

It's just so...addicting. Watching you go about your day like normal. Completely unaware of his presence in the shadows. 

He learns about your hobbies, your interests, what kind of shows you like, your favourite foods, whether you still keep stuffed animals in your room, and more. He has a mental folder of all your likes and dislikes. And while there are some things he’s not able to learn, some places he’s not able to follow, it’s enough. Just knowing this much is perfect. 

He doesn't do anything. He doesn't plan to, either. He’s content with just watching. It's comfortable like this. He doesn't want anything to change. So, he forgets about stopping, and instead sinks even deeper into his newfound obsession.

If he had it his way, things would stay like this forever. Him, never confessing, and you, never knowing. But, unfortunately, fate had other plans in mind.

It was 10:15 AM, and you were at a local coffee shop by yourself when the barista handed you their number with your receipt. You shyly accepted, and just a day later, the two of you had plans for a date the next week.

Unfortunately, your 'date' canceled last minute and blocked you with no explanation.

It's a good thing, then, that your good friend Choso just so happened to bump into you, lending you his shoulder to cry on.

Well, there's no reason to waste a good dinner reservation, right?

You never do go back to that cafe, but if you did, you'd find the barista missing from the register.