#as an unrelated mark on the board

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

re: a conversation i was having with myself months ago, if yellow WAS legitimately just the rest of the king then like, season 3 arthur's treatment of him would immediately become wildly more justifiable. bc like, that means yellow was solely personally responsible for all of the dreamlands?? and i don't think you can expect arthur to play nice with the Literal Exact Same Dude who put him in a hole for three months and broke both his legs and kidnapped his friend and dumped him in a freezing wilderness to get eaten by wolves even if he DOES have amnesia about it now. like, it's not really about objective redeemability, i'm just saying that it's not arthur's fucking job. that redemption arc can be kickstarted by someone who Wasn't driven to suicide by the guy, right. especially not while he's also in mourning and trying to keep them both from getting murdered while yellow just hangs around bitching at him. at a certain point of torturing someone, if you wind up at his mercy later and he's not very nice then, like, you kind of don't get to be too mad about it, yknow

[i-give-chess-pieces-to-people]

Could I please have a chess piece for my birthday? Any will do!

Happy birthday, here's a bishop

[ID in alt text]

[ch3rrybbie]

Messy (part 2 of please please please)

Summary: he’s back like a cat with a dead bird.

Warnings: smut, p in v, no protection, oral fem rec. , dead body, blood, ominous end?

Note from the author: based it off the song by Lola young (loosely) mainly bc he is too messy but when he relates to the song it’s bc he’s pathetic yet dangerous lol idk if that makes sense.

———

Gore, blood and sweat enveloped him.

He heaves out heavy breaths, eyes unrelenting from yours.

Unconsciously your feet carried you back from him.

Had he looked this way at whoever’s blood was on him?

“Come. Here” he punctuated. The emblematic flag of freedom swinging behind him like a grotesque red flag.

Eyes scanning his face for danger, you relent tenderly walking towards him.

His gloves creak as they stretch to soothe your fearful face.

You’d seen the posts come through live on social media, Vought news smothering all reports of his rampage.

“I had to do that baby” he whispers nodding in self assurance.

When your expression didn’t soften from your apprehension he started to do his typical ranting.

A string of false preaching to bring you to his side.

“I mean they were going to take you away from me when I told then what you wanted and i will never let that happen. I would’ve done that a thousand times over, I will do it a thousand times over”. he’s left grasping at breath passion makes his eyes wild his hair is drooping into his face.

He looks villainous.

You cant help but reach up and smooth it back, “what have you done?” a voice drips out shaky and unrecognisable.

Cold breeze breaks your attention as the soft cotton curtains beckon you. Moving to grasp them you are breathless at the sight before you.

Dumped on the balcony is Stormfront, eyes gone with ragged laser marks across her face and body.

His body is marble behind you when you step back in shock. Toned hard planes keeping you upright. Kissing your cheek sweetly he grips your hand and guides you out, eventually dragging you over the threshold into the biting air.

It was his idea of some sick sort of wedding gift, an I am yours for ever and ever gift, a fate sealing bauble. And like a cat that got the cream he beams at you, face nuzzling into your beating neck.

“I love you” he sighs.

In the distance a sirens race towards the destruction he’d left. A promotion board with him and stormfront is almost unrecognisable, stormfronts picture is hanging above the shocked civilians.

His image grins down proud.

———

You’d been unable to speak and he barely batted an eyelid.

Shuffling around making you food and coffee. Keeping you no further than his eyesight. He was finally yours.

But did you want that?

He was even still covered in her blood. You couldn’t hold it in any longer. Fat hot tears slip down your face in whispers and he rushes from the stove to grasp you like you’d disappear.

Confused he pleads, “what’s wrong tell me i’ll sort it baby”.

Still in shock you finally let your looping thoughts fly free at him.

“You killed her”.

He sours.

“No,no,no” his finger wags in your face

“You asked me to kill her my love”

You breathe in sharply, you did ask him. He obeyed you, and not so deep down you wanted that.

Needed that proof of loyalty.

Once trembling and begging before you he now stands over you.

Worshipper victorious. He had sacrificed for you, he would always sacrifice for you.

“Let me take care of you baby” he smooths at you slick as silk, he kisses you softly but you knew hunger bludgeoned in him.

———

Food forgotten and probably burning he pulls you into the bathroom. Gently pulling clothes from you he smoothes his hands over your soft skin. Looking at you like you’re a marvel. A mere mortal that swayed his heart, perhaps you were a marvel.

You settled under the warmth of the shower attempting to breathe through the images of stormfronts ragdolled body on your balcony.

His sudden heavy presence behind you brings you back and you lean in to him letting him ground you. His skin is hot under the burning water. Steam perfumes the space between you and you feel his hardened cock bob and nudge into you. He grips your hips to him, but you couldn’t fuck him covered in blood.

Covered in your commands, your vicious dog. Turning to look up at him you begin to wash the blood off him, an iron tang hits your senses. He smirks down at you knowingly.

Arousal and blood.

You can’t help but let him kiss you, all teeth and tongue. Blood be dammed.

He kneels devoted, parts you legs desperate to taste you, he is unrelenting and messy when he kisses your aching pussy. You drip with desire, a string of wanton moans music to his ears and he begins to moan back into you. Drawing back he looks up at you, bloodied face, mused hair and swollen lips. He relishes in your shocked face as he pushes two of his fingers in, knuckle deep. His hair is gripped in a silent command for more and you wrench him back up to you.

Fervent desire sets your senses alight the salty water spray and copper tang of his bloodied lips envelop you. He pushes into you and the burn is delicious. A wet cacophony of thwacks and groans accompany his pursuit of your pleasure. Suddenly you are up against the cold tiled wall and you nipples pebble at the temperature change. The new angle means his relentless fucking into your sopping cunt hits the most perfect spots and the sheer size of him brings a pleasurable pain.

He is stoic. Looking down through wet hair and bloodied trails he grins and reaches down to harshly rub your clit. Letting your nails dig into his taught back you release around him. Fingers and toes curling and tingling you are out of your body as you violently clench down on his twitching cock, pulling him in. He comes in hot spurts lining your spasming walls.

You are satiated. For now.

He gently lowers you and peppers you with kisses, pushing your hair from your face.

“I love you” he asserts

“I know” is all you can return.

He finishes washing you and escorts you to bed, all thoughts of the burnt food and stormfronts corpse vanquished.

You can’t help but think about how calm and quiet he seems as you drift off to sleep in his arms.

You don’t see him rise and clear away the burnt food and stormfronts corpse.

You don’t see him slip back into bed and whisper promises of your new life together.

You didn’t see the messages from Ashley about the missing compound V and his foolish plan.

———

TAG LIST: @melody-deathnote

[pwettybbybunny]

I am so on board with Yan Sunday physically punishing/disciplining his spouse.

In public spaces he’ll squeeze your arm so tight that it aches from the lack of blood circulation. Or he’ll dig his nails into your thigh under the table to shut you up. But that’s only if he’s really really mad. Otherwise he’ll just give you a look (to others it just looks like his neutral, polite smile— but you know better).

He has a horse crop that he regularly uses. Paddles, canes, small whips, etc. He doesn’t use his hands to hit but he does use them to grab you and yank you around. A tight hand in your hair— pulling so hard that your scalp burns. Or to grab you by the jaw to make you face him. Or to shove your head into a wall and press your face against it until it’s sore (though he prefers not to leave any marks on your face).

It’s all to set you straight. Stop resisting him, stop talking to other men, stop trying to run off, stop behaving so poorly in public— you’re his partner and you represent him now, as well as The Family. If you just listened— just gave in and accepted his teachings and his affections— then he wouldn’t have to punish you like this.

And for poor reader it’s torture. It’s like you’re walking on eggshells every second of the day, bending over backwards to please him, even when he isn’t around his servants are perched somewhere out of sight and watching you. You become terrified of stepping out of line, even the smallest mistake leaves you shaking like a leaf at the thought of punishment. It really fucks you up. It almost feels like you regress mentally, you freeze up and tears immediately prick at your eyes, you begin to tremble and your lips quiver but no sounds come out. If you do this freeze response in public, Sunday apologizes to the people and excuses the both of you (writes it off as a panic attack or a sudden flare up of illness, and that he must attend to you. His guests are moved by his devotion); and your heart sinks because you know what’ll happen once you’re both alone and you want to run but there are people watching and it’ll only make Sunday more upset. The closer you get to your room the more violent your trembling becomes. You might stumble as a result but Sunday is already two steps ahead of you and he wrings his hand around your arm and drags you along.

You can babble out apologies and beg for forgiveness but it doesn’t matter— he’s already shoving you into the room and locking the door—

It’s excruciatingly painful, and he deals out punishment with unrelenting resolve. He’ll have you bend over the bed while he deals out the blows. If you try to block them with your hands he’ll tie them up— and if you continue to resist he’ll completely restrain you. It’s hard and fast and he makes you count. It’s humiliating and painful— like a white hot iron lashing against your skin. He doesn’t mind the sobbing but when you start screaming he winds his hand into your hair and shoves your face into the the bed to muffle it. On really really bad days (usually after an escape attempt) he’ll whip you until your skin splits under the cane.

Then afterwards he’ll kick your feet apart and screw you— the writhing of your body and your sobs from earlier really got him worked up. And as it’s still punishment he doesn’t really try to make it good for you. It feels like a nail being hammered into you, sharp— but the pain is still duller than the whipping. Nonetheless your body still reacts, and it jerks away from his erratic thrusts but he yanks at your hair and pulls you back onto him. You try to just let it happen but it hurts— and your body seizes up from the painful intrusion.

Sunday will be in your ear throughout all of this— telling you how you deserve it, how he loves you, how you broke his heart when he came home and you were gone, how he’ll make you into something better, how good you feel, how he doesn’t want you to leave— he won’t allow it. He tells you that he’ll forgive you for this slight, that is if you accept what it takes to earn it.

Once everything’s over, you’re completely shattered. Everything’s blurry and your ears are ringing and you can barely making out the fuzzy colors in your vision— or anything in your surroundings for that matter. Sunday pets your head (hair matted and tangled from sweat and his constant pulling), his hands are gentle and loving. It takes you a while to finally come back, but Sunday is patient. He coos at you, pressing soft kisses to the crown of your head and your damp cheeks, tells you that you did such a wonderful job enduring everything, and that he hopes you’ll be better after this so he doesn’t have to do it again. Tells you that he loves you.

He welcomes you when you finally sob into his lap and blubber our apologies and promises that you’ll never leave again. You’re so tired, it hurts to move, it feels like you’ve been gutted of everything you have. Sunday embraces you, and he is so incredibly tender with you afterwards. The affection and softness is addicting, and you can’t help but allow yourself to fall into it after all the pain.

OMG ANON!!! you're speaking my language and your writing is so so divine!!

But, one, Sunday definitely got the mom glare, that makes you squirm, and he will give you that Pavlovian dog treatment, training you, breaking you. You're his little side project he take pleasure in cultivating.

After all, he's merely your shepherd, training his naughty sheep.

[rainbowolfe]

Chaos

*cracks knuckles* finally, some fucking lore.

Here's the song for those who haven't heard it yet.

All of my time spent scouring for and trying to interpret symbols... trying to interpret the tarot cards... a conspiracy board of connected dots. It all pays off now, with this album. MY TIME HAS COME.

Before I get into analyzing the lyrics, I wanted to call attention to the tarot cards that appear in the music video.

True Sight, Strength From Within, Diseased Heart, Death's Door, Divine Curse, Hands of Rage, Gift From Below, Ambrosia, Weeping Moon, and two cards that haven't appeared in the game (yet).

I will make an in-depth analysis of what I think these cards mean for Leshy's fate in another post, cause it's gonna be huge. I also wanna see what cards the other Bishops get, as many of the tarot card's reference each other and have meanings that depend on the context from other cards.

But some quick surface level observations based on the notes I already have about the cards:

-whatever "it" is, it starts with the Blood Moon Ritual.

-Either Leshy or his demon were wounded, metaphorically or otherwise, putting him on a path towards corruption.

-Leshy has large reserves of Fervour. His demon receives strength/power from the Sun.

-He almost dies. A deal is struck to exchange something (or someone) for a boon.

-He was eating Gods for his immortality. A specific type. More on that some other time.

-Leshy is the receiver of a gift (of extra life)from TOWW.

The two remaining cards that are still unknown may relate to Leshy's eventual fall.

ON TO THE SONG.

Enough interpreting vague pictures and cryptic lore text. It's time what I've been hungry for. DESPERATE for. Very plain and straightforward text about what a character's been up to.

So there are four entities singing in this. There's the demon who starts the song off, the Green Crown, Leshy, and a fourth being related to the Green Crown.

The demon is marked by a specific, deeper (almost whispery? Dare I say... hissy) voice. We don't hear it again after it says it's peace.

I am the demon growing inside of you. I feed off all your fears and lies. It's so true. I can't wait to hunt you down, capture, and do the horrid things I must do to survive this.

This could very well be the creature that is literally inside of Leshy, visible only in his Eldritch form. But it could also be Leshy's heart. At the core of all the Bishop's actions was fear, and something had to be feeding that fear. Resulting in hearts cast in vile, impermeable, unrelenting terror.

Or it's Shamura.

It also plays off of what Leshy says to the Lamb. "I hear your lies and I smell your fear."

We then transition into what seems to be Leshy finding his Crown (while burrowing) and emerging from the dirt.

I claw my way out, My feet on the ground This horn atop my head... ...is my Crown.

We can know this part is Leshy's because the summoning circle that appears in this section is the one found in Darkwood. Thus, based on the summoning circle in the next section being the same one used by the Red Crown Snake, these lyrics are the Green Crown speaking. ((I would even posit. It's the Crown's original, intended owner. Someone had to put it in the dirt, and it surely wasn't on accident.))

I won't stay in line (I won't stay in line) I'm destined to die (I'm destined to die) The thunder rages on (The thunder rages on) (as night forever falls) As night forever falls

While it's Leshy's voice, they aren't his words. These words belong to the second voice echoing him which slowly reveals that it isn't repeating after Leshy. Leshy is repeating after it. As the 'secondary' voice gets ahead of the 'primary' voice.

The night falling means both an eternal nighttime and the literal "Night" falling. As in, dying. If the Light is the Sun, then the Dark is the Moon. And the decorations in the Heretic's pack would greatly suggest that the moon is dead (if not, then heavily injured).

The eternal night is a reference to the Old Faith, more on that later.

Next section!

True Name vs True Moniker. Moniker does technically mean name, but it's more in the sense of your "brand". Here I'm sure it's being used as a "nickname".

We know him as Leshy, he's representative of chaos (his ""brand"" lmao) and thus is known by that title. But he's not Chaos itself. Something I've pointed out before is that he's "he of havoc" and not "he of chaos". Havoc is not synonymous with chaos.

No, no. Chaos is the one on the other end of the Crown. Because the Crowns are just conductors of devotion. We even see with Narinder's Crown that there's something we make sacrifices to that gives us/the Crown power in exchange. And unless Narinder's hiding tentacles under those robes, it's not him. There's someone/thing higher.

The Old God. Maelstrom. Or Turua, they're both red-coded.

Know him as Leshy, the vessel of chaos. But the second voice (the one influencing Leshy without him realizing it) demands you worship him as Chaos. And only Chaos.

And the "me" here is strange but maybe it'll make sense after hearing the other Bishop's songs?

An important side tangent though. As this is "The Goat" album, there is of course going to be a slight difference in what's being described in this song and what actually happened in Lamb's reality. And that difference lies in the names of the songs.

It's Chaos, and not Leshy. I suspect it's a lot like how Narinder stopped being Narinder, and became The One Who Waits. A being his siblings regard as something indistinguishable from the Red Crown. Maybe even something more severe, as he eventually gets to go back to being Narinder it seems.

Daylight will come undone; as we eclipse the Sun

What I assume is going to be Kallamar's song was previewed in the Goat trailer/teaser, and that too makes an explicit mention to killing a representation of the sun. (or someone adjacent to it)

I said before that the Old Faith represents an eclipse. That's why those specific, but incomplete moon phases appear on all their stuff. They are the omen. They are the punishment for someone's misdeeds towards a higher power.

Destruction wastes at noonday.

[yawnderu]

Touchy | Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

From the You Fight Your Demons, I Ride Mine series of drabbles.

Today marks one year since the events of that night. You remember it all vividly, how your friends drunkenly suggested to play with a Ouija board they found, and how you accepted without even thinking much about it. Nothing exciting was said— all of you accusing each other of moving the planchette, insults and laughter exchanged until you all got bored of the dumb game, not even saying goodbye to whatever was actually moving the board.

Big fucking mistake, because whatever that man is— he's now attached to you. It doesn't matter how much you try to escape him, he's in every single corner, disappearing the second you try to look at him until you're in the privacy of your room, his figure always standing out even in the darkness of your room. Even if you pray... it won't do anything. He finishes the prayers for you, sometimes even mockingly praying for you, tauntingly pleading God to help you, but God never listens. He's a part of your soul, something you can't simply rip out and shoot down, way too attached to you.

He isn't as cruel as he is scary, but every single day you're getting more and more used to his lurking presence. Waking up from a nightmare unrelated to him, you almost scream as you see his dark brown eyes staring down at you, caging you in with his massive body, trapping you with him even when you're not thinking about running away. His shoulders shake in silent laughter and his eyes crease in pure amusement, the small shift in his balaclava letting you know he somehow finds your fear amusing.

''It's not funny, asshole.'' You don't even remember when you started talking back to the man yet he never takes offense to it, taking your little displays of bravery as familiarity. His masked nose rubs on your cheek and you push his face away, cringing at the cold sensation of his covered skin, ignoring the way something hard is pressing up against your abdomen.

taglist: @tomiesdiet @blueeweeb @aredheadednerd

[heartfullofleeches]

Holiday period at the fast food reader's workplace. Do they have costumes for Halloween? Do anything special for thanksgiving? What about Christmas, do they do something like a secret Santa? Do they all celebrate Reader's birthday/anniversary of them being hired?

I'm fine if you focus on one or do any of them/something unrelated that I haven't thought of. I just want more fast food reader and the gang of nightmares that adore them 😭

(Going with Birthday because I thought of the funniest thing, but maybe Christmas Special in the future?)

Twenty minutes left on the clock.

You shoved your coat and bag beneath the counter before the start of your shift to make for an easy get away. You'd recently invested in a lanyard you keep hidden down your shirt to keep your keys secure and on you at all times. The line was moving quickly thanks to the new hire that had yet to witness the horrors of the establishment. You could probably even get away with leaving without clocking out if you sucked up to your boss enough tomorrow. There would still be consequences, but as long as you could make it through today everything would be fine. Just twenty more minutes...

"Hey..."

A gentle tap on your shoulder draws your ailing mind from the depths of dread this cursed day traps you in. The janitor stands behind you, hands tucked into their pockets. You eye the slight bulge of a square item in their left, but decide its none of your business as you raise a hand in greeting. "Hey. What's up?"

"Not much..." They rock on their heels, more fidgety than usual as their hands shift in their apron pockets. "Hope I'm not bothering you, but I was cleaning up the break room and noticed there was a mark on the calendar with your name on it... It's your birthday today, right?"

Oh no.

No. No. No.

You open your mouth to make up some ahitty excuse, but your tongue remains glued to the floor of your mouth. Your eyes dart towards the boarded doors of the party room as they speak.

"If I had known sooner, I would've gotten you something better, but this was all I could pick up during my break. Honestly, birthdays are a new concept to me, but a lot of things are. You've... helped me learn a lot about myself so I just wanted to say-"

The Janitor pulls their hand from their apron - presenting a yellow box with a bright red bow.

"Happy birthday."

A loud bang shakes the doors of the party room, rocking tower of unused tables and chairs used to keep them closed. You knew they wouldn't be enough to keep what's inside in - a distraction to keep it at bay hopefully giving you enough time to flee. You quickly grab your things and vault over the counter, shoving past customers still waiting patiently in line as another bang knocks down the top layer of defense. Bang. Bang. Bang. Your heart leaps in your chest with every crash of furniture hitting the ground. You force yourself to look ahead as the doors fly open - stale air raising the hairs on your skin. The squeaks of its shoes send chills down your spine - raspy voice crawls in your ears like maggots to a fresh carcass.

"Did I hear it was a certain someone's.. Birthday?..

Against the voices in your head screaming at you to do otherwise, you glance over your shoulders. There are still smudges in its makeup from your last encounter with it dating exactly one year back to this day. You shutter as its twin tongues, still tied in that braid it tried shoved your esophagus snakes over its painted lips.

"No?"

Its smile grows. "You don't have to lie... I have the date written right here... And here...."

The clown points its gangly fingers at its forehead and chest respectively.

"I think you might have my birthday confused with that guy over there."

You pick up your feet as the clown snaps its head in the direction your finger aims. Seeing a blank wall, and hearing your shoes slap against te, it gives chance - crouching on all fours and bounding after you. Its cold hands latch around your ankle, yanking you off balance and towards the party room doors. You scratching at the floor doors, clawing faster as you feel its eyes on you from over its shoulder.

"No! My birthday was last year - I swear!"

"Silly, silly. You have one every year, and it should be celebrated every. Single. Day.... I've got cake!"

[murciafire]

My Jacket, My Girl

Pairing | Jason Todd x reader

Summary | You and Jason had been friends for the longest time, and today you had to ask him for a favor. Who can resist saying no when you bring scones?

Warnings | If you squint smut is implied

Words | ~2.5k

Notes | this is my very first fanfic so dfgfdgfd pls forgive me if it’s not good. This has been running rampage in my brain and I really needed to get it out. Jason Todd has been living in my head rent free and it’s time he pays up.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*: ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ

Sirens cried to a crescendo, faltering until it fused with the unrelenting sounds of traffic; it was a rhythm, a song that struck itself against the window, barely muffled by the thin glass that already struggled to keep the Gotham chill out. The sound did not die, not entirely, in its slow diminuendo through the pane, but enough that it became a murmur, like the soft pattering of the rain that became insistent through the evening. It seeped through the kitchen window, entering the small apartment, the sound as steady as Jason’s hands as he prepped dinner for himself.

It was a slow night, one that he favored but had yet to admit that to anyone, where life trickled by as slow as the rain drops sliding down the pane. It was odd, he supposed, that this sense of solitary in his kitchen brought a sort of consolation, a normalcy despite what he did every night. And he knew that despite the solace he found, there would always be something to pull him back to what he was. And his knuckles were a testimony to that, bruised and swelling, marked like a lover had kissed his skin with lips stained red.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. He did not have to think that; it was ridiculous and he knew it, because damn him for thinking exactly who’s lips he wanted to touch his skin. He clenched his jaw, about to busy himself with another vegetable when he heard the front door unlock.

He didn’t tense, not when he knew that there was only one other person who had a copy of his key. He had just placed the knife he was holding next to the cutting board when y/n walked in, her hair damp and cheeks flushed from the frigid weather and rain. His eyes flicked over her, barely noticing the pastry box she carried, too preoccupied with what she wore—and some part of him, he felt, died with how this woman was killing him.

Dressed in a jean skirt that barely covered her thighs—which he was still debating whether he should tear his eyes away from—and a black fitting top, there was nothing left for him to imagine. Well, there were lots of things that he could imagine, but what caught him off guard was that she was wearing his leather jacket. It hung on her loosely, in a way he knew she found comfortable, the bottom of it just brushing her legs where her skirt stopped. His breath hitched and he looked down at the counter, steadying himself.

“It’s cold out,” she said, taking off her ankle boots in the hallway, walking into the kitchen towards where he stood. She plopped the pastry box on the counter, then flicked her eyes to him.

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked, his eyes meeting hers. His voice was low, hoarse as he tried to keep the hunger out of his voice.

“No, I was in the area and thought I’d dop by to give you some pastries,” she said, her voice a little too sweet for him not to notice. He narrowed his eyes, picking up on her tone. She wanted something and he knew it. He’s known her for so long that she was a book that he read with ease, one that he wanted to split open and dive into its pages.

“You just decided to come by? Just for that? Just because you wanted to give me pastries and spend time together?” he asked sarcastically, crossing his arms as he leaned back on the counter to look at her.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like her in his jacket, the way it sat on her, the way it made her look like she was his.

“What? Am I not allowed to see my best friend?” she retorted, crossing her arms, mirroring him. Jason grunted, rolling his eyes.

“Of course, you can see me, but it’s a little strange to bring pastries with you to spend time with your best friend, don’t you think?” he said back, his tone dry as he raised an eyebrow. “There’s something you’re not telling me. You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

There was no way, he thought, that this was a chance meeting. It certainly didn’t have to do with baked goods, not with her legs on display and her in his jacket.

“Fine, if you’re being so picky about this, then maybe you don’t deserve the pastries,” she huffed, annoyed. She walked around him to where she placed the box, pulling it towards her.

“You’re right. I don’t deserve them,” Jason smirked, turning around to face her, reaching his hand out to where the box was. “Because it isn’t about the pastries. And you know it.”

His fingers inched closer to the pastry box, keeping his eyes trained on her. His lips were slightly parted, curving into a ghost of a smile. She looked so good in his jacket.

“That’s too bad,” she said, pulling the box closer to her and out of Jason’s reach, “because I got your favourite scones.”

“You did not pick up scones,” he growled, trying to grab the box from her hands as he looked into her eyes. He tried to not lose himself in them, as he usually did. Maybe it was the way they could change from cold and distant to burning with passion in an instant. She was a mystery he wanted to figure out, a religion he found in the crevices of her body. He stepped closer to her, the smell of rain, flora, and him radiating off her and pulling him in.

“I know you too well, y/n. You don’t do these things because you feel like it. You’re here because you want something,” he said, his words barely above a whisper.

She looked up at him, her eyebrows furrowed in determination, and he bit back a smile at how cute she looked.

“I did get scones,” she muttered out stubbornly, “and I can’t believe you think I want something.”

“You took my jacket!” he said, his voice laced with frustration as it raised slightly. “There is absolutely something you’re trying to get at!”

“Your jacket is under shared custody. It’s not my fault this leather jacket looks so good. Maybe you shouldn’t have left me looking in your closet. It’s free thrifting,” she shot back.

“You knew it was mine!” he grounded out. In the back of his mind, he wasn’t entirely upset. Not at all, not when he left that jacket in the closet knowing she would look in there. He had wanted her to try it on, and here they were because of it.

“And now it’s mine,” she said coolly, crossing her arms.

“You don’t just get to walk into my apartment and take my jacket for yourself,” he said frustrated. His eyes flicked to her hips, where her shirt showed the barest sliver of her stomach, then back up, staring her down with agitation.

“I’m pretty sure at this point what’s yours is mine,” she noted, fighting back a smile. Jason licked his lips, eyes bright as he stared at her. There was no denying how badly he wanted to tear that jacket off her at that very moment.

“Do you hear yourself, y/n? You’re stealing from me,” he rasped.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Jay. How is this any different from taking your hoodies?”

She stepped back, twirling around to show him her outfit. “Doesn’t it look good?”

Jason stayed quiet as he watched her, taking in every inch of skin and curves. She looked incredible in his jacket, which only made him want it more and more.

“It does look good,” he said slowly. “But that doesn't mean it stays on you.”

“I’ll give it back tomorrow,” she promised.

“No, you’ll give it back now,” he said, his gaze meeting hers. He knew deep down he didn’t need that jacket. He needed her—to put his hands on her and take it back. He wanted to rip it off and touch every part of her that he could.

“It’s my jacket,” he added.

“Not for this evening,” she said back. “I need it.”

“You need to give it back,” he said, voice tinged with frustration. His hand flexed as he thought about dragging her into his room, and taking it off right then and there, but he held himself back.

“Why don’t you calm down? Have a scone?” she suggested, looking at the agitation creeping into his features.

“I don’t want a scone,” he bit out. “I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me why you’re really here. You didn’t just stop by just to give me scones.”

“I wanted to visit my best friend,” she excused again, averting his gaze.

“And why did you want to visit your best friend?” he mused, narrowing his eyes, pushing for the truth. She never had to have an invitation to come over, especially not that sore of an excuse of scones of all things.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Because I may or may not need a favor,” she relented reluctantly.

Jason paused, mulling over what she said. He knew she wanted something, and there were only so many favours she could be asking for what required her wearing his jacket and showing off her legs.

“Oh?” he asked casually. “And what might that favor be?”

“I want you to take my virginity,” she said bluntly.

Jason’s lips parted, his jaw dropping slightly as he looked at her. “You did not just say that.”

He watched her expression, looking for any tells that that she was joking. And if she wasn’t, she was being way too casual about it. Jason was already half-tempted to give in, despite knowing it was a terrible idea.

“Do you want me to say it again?” she asked sarcastically.

“Yes,” he said flatly. “Say it again and say it slowly.”

“I want you to take my virginity,” she said again, exaggerating the speed in which she said it. She said it out of annoyance, but Jason could tell she was nervous with the way she played with the rings on her fingers out of habit.

Jason’s gaze flicked down to her legs, considering the idea—strongly.

“Is this what this entire visit is about?” he asked, voice suddenly quieter. He wanted her, always had. He wanted this—needed this. There was not a single part of him that didn’t, but deep down, there was a part of him saying that he shouldn’t.

“Well, I mean, yes,” she said, stumbling over her words. “Hence me trying to persuade you with scones.”

“You’re telling me the only reason you brought me baked goods was to see if I would sleep with you?” he asked in disbelief. “So, what? It’s my reward? My prize?”

He was trying to tease her, but there was an air of seriousness to him now. He wanted this.

“I thought it was an equal price to pay,” she quipped back.

“I feel like the scales are a little tipped, sweetheart,” he remarked. He stepped closer, placing his hands on either side of her, trapping her against the counter. “What more could you possibly want? What more could you possibly ask of me? If this is how much you wanted to try and tempt a man, I can’t imagine what else you’d want from this  . . .”

“If you don’t want the scones, I can get something different,” she uttered out, face flushing at the sudden proximity.

“I’m not here for the pastries,” he said, his voice low and soft as he dipped his head into the crook of her neck. “And you know it.”

Her breath hitched and he looked back up, her eyes searching his before dropping to his lips. “So, do we have a deal?”

“We do,” he said, his voice gravelly as he watched her with intensity, his hands inching closer to her hips, sliding across the counter to pin her there more.

“Good,” she breathed.

Jason’s gaze darkened as he looked back at her face. “My room. Now.”

He wasn’t asking, he was commanding, already walking into his room knowing that y/n was obediently following behind. She had barely stepped in before Jason was on her, pressing her up against the wall, kissing her with the fervor of a man who only lived to love one woman.

She kissed him back, her hands in his hair softly tugging, and he groaned. She tasted better than he thought, and as he continued to kiss her, he held back a grin. She had also tasted very faintly of the raspberry scones she had brought. She had eaten one—what a traitor, and so very much like her to do so. And that is what he loved about her, the little things she did. He didn’t care if she had eaten one, she could’ve eaten all of them, if he knew what they were going to do tonight. She swiped her tongue along his bottom lip and he moaned, opening his mouth without hesitation. She could have him, all of him. He wanted her to.

And God, he felt like he was going to drop to his knees and start muttering her name like a prayer, begging her if he didn’t feel her skin. He let his head fall, kissing her neck, making her elicit moans that if he could, he’d bottle them up and listen to—other than her laugh of course, another sound he often bottled up in head and got drunk off later. His hands gripped her waist, his thumbs rubbing soft circles.

“Are you sure you want me to take you?” he rasped out, pulling back.

“If you don’t mind,” she smirked. Smart-ass. “Unless you’re already backing out from our deal?”

He smirked back. “Hell no.”

“Then take me,” she challenged, her eyes burning, and pupils blown wide.

He groaned, his hand wrapping around her throat, her eyes fluttering closed. “Is that all you’re good for?” he asked, his voice low, just above a whisper. “For me to take? To use?”

Her back arched at his words, a moan slipping past her lips, cheeks flushing. Jason’s eyes narrowed, watching her expression. “That was hot,” he remarked, his other hand slipping up her thigh teasingly.

He kissed her again, all teeth and tongue as he pulled off her—his jacket. “You should’ve never worn my jacket,” he whispered, his face against her neck just below her ear where he kissed the skin there lightly. “You asked for this.”

He lifted his head up from the crook of her neck, looking into her eyes. “Tell me what you want me to do. Use your words, love.”

Y/n could feel her neck flush, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. “Making me talk? Thought you liked me better when I shut up.”

“I like it better when you beg,” he smirked.

[isacksteban]

"more strollini would make my year, a mood board or a small fic would be nice" for @stoptakingthegoodname5

800 followers celebration

a moodboard i threw together and here's the fic to go w/ it:

Lance had just played the game of his life. At only 20 years old, he was already one of the most celebrated professional hockey players in the league — a prodigy who had risen to fame with blistering speed and skill. On the ice, he was a force to be reckoned with: fast, calculated, and unrelenting in his pursuit of victory. His teammates leaned on him, his coaches praised him, and his fans adored him. To them, Lance was more than just a player; he was the embodiment of determination and resilience, a young man who carried the weight of high expectations with a calm grace far beyond his years.

That night, he had lived up to every bit of that reputation and then some. In a game that had teetered on the edge of defeat for his team, Lance had singlehandedly turned things around. His lightning-fast moves, his almost telepathic ability to read the opposing team’s plays, and his clutch overtime goal had secured a victory that would go down in the annals of hockey history. The arena had erupted in cheers, fans chanting his name as he skated off the ice, exhausted but triumphant.

Off the ice, Lance’s reputation was just as spotless. Known for his humility, sportsmanship, and professionalism, he was the kind of player parents wanted their kids to look up to. And though his striking good looks and natural charisma had earned him a legion of admirers, Lance was famously private about his connections outside of sports — though he was far from private about his nights getting wine drunk and singing his favourite songs. Since making it pro, he had never been linked to anyone romantically. Some fans speculated he was simply too focused on his career to date, while others joked that he was secretly married to his hockey stick.

But all of that changed the moment he stepped off the ice for his post-game interview.

Lance still looked every bit the star, his jersey clinging to his sweat-soaked frame, his hair damp and tousled, and his grin as bright as the arena lights. Reporters swarmed him, eager to get his thoughts on the game that everyone would be talking about for weeks.

The first few questions were standard fare.

“How does it feel to score that game-winning goal in overtime?” the first reporter asked, leaning forward eagerly.

Lance grinned, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “It feels incredible. The team worked so hard tonight. Honestly, I was just in the right place at the right time. I couldn’t have done it without them.”

Another reporter chimed in, scribbling notes furiously. “Walk us through that final play. It looked like you knew exactly what was coming before the pass even happened.”

“Honestly, I think it’s just about trust,” Lance replied. “I’ve played with these guys long enough to know their instincts. When Jake got the puck, I had a feeling he’d see the opening. All I had to do was be ready.”

The questions continued, each one building on the last.

“Lance,” another reporter cut in, “you’ve had a reputation for being clutch in these high-pressure situations. What’s going through your mind in those moments?”

“I try to stay in the moment,” Lance said thoughtfully. “There’s no time to overthink. You just trust your training and focus on the goal — literally.” His smile widened, drawing a few laughs from the room.

As Lance turned his head slightly, gesturing toward his teammates in the locker room behind him with a grin still plastered on his face, the lights caught a glimpse of something faintly visible on his neck. The purplish-red marks, clustered near his collarbone, stood out against his skin under the bright glare of the cameras.

For a moment, the room seemed to collectively pause. A few reporters exchanged quick, knowing glances. One of them tilted their head slightly, their eyes flicking from Lance’s neck to their camera screen, as if debating whether to bring it up. Another reporter shifted, their lips pressing together in an effort to suppress a smirk.

The silence stretched just long enough for Lance to notice. His smile faltered, only briefly, as realization dawned on him. He straightened slightly, adjusting the collar of his jersey as if to shield himself. It was a futile effort — the cameras had already captured everything and the marks were far too high up to be covered by his jersey and protective gear.

The next reporter, perhaps the most seasoned of the group, cleared her throat and decided to push on. “Lance, this win puts your team in a great position going into the playoffs. How do you plan to carry this momentum forward?”

The question steered the room back on course, and Lance seized the lifeline. “We just have to stay focused,” he said, his tone regaining its usual confidence. “One game at a time. If we play like we did tonight, I think we have a good shot.”

But the shift in the room was undeniable. The glances, the barely concealed smirks, and the sudden stiffness in Lance’s posture told a story the reporters wouldn’t say out loud. Whatever they were thinking, they weren’t going to ask. Not here, not now.

It wasn’t long before the interview wrapped up, and Lance stepped away from the cameras, his composure intact despite the unspoken buzz in the air.

Meanwhile, social media erupted. Screenshots of the marks on Lance’s neck circulated like wildfire, accompanied by every theory imaginable. Hockey’s golden boy, known for his calm under pressure and squeaky-clean image, suddenly seemed a lot more human — and a lot less single. Fans flooded timelines with replays and zoomed-in photos, while hashtags like #HickeyGate started trending worldwide.

Headlines that should have celebrated Lance’s historic performance quickly veered into playful speculation:

“Hickey or Hockey Bruise? Lance Stroll’s Neck Tells a Story”

“Mystery Lover Scores on Hockey’s Golden Boy”

“Who Left Their Mark on Lance Stroll After Tampa Bay Win?

"Stroll's Newfound Good-Luck-Charm: Love Bites.”

The internet was divided. Some fans insisted it was nothing, attributing the marks to a rough play during the game or a harmless prank by a teammate. Others were convinced they were personal, a clear sign that Lance had been hiding a secret relationship. Even casual viewers couldn’t resist weighing in, with gossip accounts and sports blogs dissecting every public photo of Lance since he'd been signed to the Canadiens for hints of a romantic partner.

Paparazzi were already on the hunt, but Lance was anything but rattled. Instead of shying away, he leaned into the chaos with as much charm as he did anything else.

“Guess I should’ve invested in a turtleneck,” he quipped the next day during a press conference, earning a round of laughs. “Or maybe some makeup tips from my sister. She’s always said I needed to step up my skincare game.”

His teammates weren’t spared either. During practice, they took every chance to poke fun, and Lance gave it right back. When a particularly cheeky reporter asked if the team had been giving him grief, Lance smirked. “Oh, absolutely. They’re relentless. But hey, it’s nothing I can’t handle. Besides, they’re just jealous.”

On social media, Lance joined in on the fun, posting a photo of himself on his knees during the game with the caption: “Scored on the ice… and apparently off it too?” Fans went wild in the comments, flooding the post with jokes, theories, and declarations of love — a couple hundred admitting that they were the Canadian's secret lover.

Despite the playful banter, his focus on hockey remained unshaken. “At the end of the day, it’s all in good fun,” Lance told a reporter when asked about the attention. “I’m just here to play the game and enjoy the ride. If people want to talk, let them talk.”

The press room buzzed with laughter and murmurs, but one reporter couldn’t resist pushing further. “I have to ask,” he began, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

Lance raised an eyebrow, his grin widening into something almost mischievous. “Girl?” he echoed, his tone light, but the single word hung in the air like a firecracker. He let it linger just long enough for the reporters to scramble for meaning before giving them a casual wave. “Thanks for your time, guys,” he added, turning on his heel and walking away, his grin firmly in place.

The room erupted the second he disappeared behind the curtains, reporters trading theories and laughing at the way Lance had expertly sidestepped the question while adding even more fuel to the speculation.

By the next morning, Lance had broken the internet again. On his Instagram story, he’d posted a picture that left no room for doubt about who had left those marks on his neck.

The photo was simple but telling: Luca, shirtless, sitting on the edge of a bed with his back to the camera, the morning sun casting a golden glow over his broad shoulders, tousled hair, and suspiciously scratched.

"🧛‍♂️ @lucamarini10"

Fans lost their minds. Replies poured in by the thousands, ranging from utter shock to full-on celebration:

“NO WAY. LANCE. THIS IS ICONIC.”

“THE DRAMA. THE SUBTLETY. THE AUDACITY. I LOVE IT.”

“Are we finally living in the golden age of hot athlete couples?!”

“Wait… does this mean #HickeyGate was real?!”

“Luca Marini, you lucky vampire... 🧛‍♂️”

Luca, never one to shy away from stirring the pot, responded with a picture of a shirtless Lance, still shirtless in bed, looking up at him with hearts in his eyes within minutes.

“🧛‍♂️💞🧛‍♂️”

From there, it was chaos. The hashtag #Strollini trended for hours, fans obsessing over the unexpected crossover of hockey and motorsports. Even their fellow athletes couldn’t help but join in the fun, with Lance’s teammates and Luca’s fellow riders leaving cheeky comments and teasing replies.

Lance, for his part, didn’t seem fazed by the attention. In a follow-up story later that day, he posted a selfie from practice, sweaty and grinning as usual — though, this time you could see Luca not far away, evidently deciding this was his time to go full on wag.

“Back to work. 🏒🧛‍♂️”

The internet was officially obsessed, and Lance and Luca were the center of it all, their playful reveal cementing them as one of the most talked-about — and beloved — couples in their respected sports.

[fabflava]

Here’s a deluded think piece that I feel only my Avanites will understand lol

The lyrics “ If I left the party would you look for me” has two different meanings for both of them.

For Janine, the lyrics cut from a different angle. Being left behind, whether by Gregory at the hookah lounge or Ava on Christmas Eve, stirs a deep-seated insecurity. Janine is someone who gives her all to others—her love, her kindness, her unwavering support—only to find herself standing alone when she needs the same in return. She doesn’t just wonder if someone would look for her; she feels the sting of realizing they didn’t.

Yet, in the midst of her insecurity, there was Ava—a party girl who ditched her crew that night at the hookah lounge to make sure Janine was okay. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it was Ava's way of showing she cared. She looked for Janine when she needed it most. While Gregory walked away, chasing something—or someone—else, Ava had been the one to step up, her usual sass softened into genuine concern.

For Janine, this moment left a mark. Ava, who always claimed she didn’t care about anyone or anything, had cared enough to find her outside, standing alone in the cold. It was a quiet contradiction to everything Ava projected about herself, and it stuck with Janine. Ava had seen her when it felt like no one else did, even if she wouldn’t admit it outright.

But then there was the ‘Winter Break’ episode, a night that really showed their dynamics. Ava had been there, too Christmas Eve, sharing a fleeting vulnerability about her strained family ties, only to cover it up with her usual sharp humor and an abrupt exit for the party. This time, she’d left, and this left Janine and also even me wondering if Ava wanted someone to chase her the way Ava had chased Janine that night outside the hookah lounge.

Ava left the Christmas Eve “party” with hope—a hope she’d never admit to—that someone, maybe Janine, would care enough to follow. She didn’t truly want to board that party bus or surround herself with people who didn’t know her beyond the surface. It was her escape, a defense mechanism to push away the vulnerability she had exposed when she admitted her loneliness and her strained relationship with her father. But behind the witty humor and her dramatic exit, there was a quiet plea: Will someone care enough to come after me?

It wasn’t just about wanting company; it was about wanting someone who truly saw her, someone willing to peel back the layers she kept so tightly bound. Janine, with her open heart and unrelenting kindness, had the power to break through, and Ava knew it. That’s what scared her—and maybe, just maybe, that’s what she hoped for, too.

[silverskull]

Chenford and The Rookie S6

This is a post where I vent my frustrations with The Rookie season 6 and the Chenford breakup. I will take questions, but I do not guarantee an answer. Retain the fact that this is a TV show I am mad at, not someone/thing in your personal life.

This month/few weeks haven't been great for me to absorb what happened in the last episodes of the season. Some of the reasons are listed below before I start sounding off.

-Unrelated but irritating:

Working 3 jobs, only 1 is paid. 

Crunch time at all 3 jobs

Visiting family expecting all of my time (same crunch weeks as work)

-Related and disappointing:

Cancelled cameo

Cancelled convention appearance

Sloppy SM and PR, frequently missing Melissa

Short S6

Late S7 renewal announcement

Delayed start S6 and extra-long hiatus before S7

Specifics:

Okay, so in 606 Tim lied - so did Lucy and Lopez. Why was there no IA investigation for them or concern about their honour? We were led to believe in 214 (Casualties) that everyone involved in an off-book mission could be compromised. So now why is the fact that Tim is lying more important than either woman compromising their career? Why is there no acknowledgement of THEIR discomfort? Lucy was already on shaky ground after he let her take the blame for SOME RANDOM SCENE COPS??!!? at the clown murder before her detective exam, but now I’m supposed to be worried about Sergeant Spotless-Record Bradford and his honour?! He could have just let that Ray guy go, or even fucking TOLD SOMEONE. He'd still have saved the Venezuelan, but it would have been above board.

And then, apparently the breakup happened over the aforementioned lying and Tim and Mark’s coverup of Ray’s misdeeds. We got no further clarification on this. And I really tried. I read deeply, DEEPLY into Tim’s reasoning (there are tumblr posts and twitter threads). I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I earnestly plead with people on twitter to give it time. But instead of that patience paying off, all we got was Tim trying to act normal, Lucy justifiably pissed, and generalised "things" opened up in (blackmail) therapy?

(Here’s where people have been coming at me too: I don’t really care about the therapy storyline. Honestly, if it’s not done well, I don’t know why we bother. I'm not out to get therapy, I just don't think it's working here. Just mention it and carry on like with Lucy after DOD, or show some scenes from the damn sessions. But turning the therapist into a blackmailer for Monica, who was selling to The Swiss?!?? or an Argentinian??? (I don’t even know and I do not care, and I will not listen if you try to explain, lalalalalala) How did we even end up here???)

And it PISSES ME OFF that we spent years building up the momentum for there to be turbulence in their relationship over Lucy going UC. We were ready. We were waiting. The traps were laid and baited. And they just went PSYCH! IT’S TIM’S ARMY DAYS THAT ARE THE PROBLEM, EVEN THOUGH WE LEAD YOU TO BELIEVE HE WAS WELL ADJUSTED BACK IN 214 WITH MITCH AND 311 WITH KATIE BARNES LOLOLOL

We have spent SO MUCH time on Tim's backstory. In fact, here's a list!

Isabel - wife -> ex-wife, UC drug addict, unfaithful

Tom Bradford - abusive father

Army - Let Mitch get his leg blown up; told Katie to let it go with a ladybird; unblemished record;

Cop Buddies - Wrigley -> lazy; Mack -> Addict;

Love Interests - Isabel, Rachel, Ashley

Family - Genny and Tyler (and some other nephew, and apparently a niece and a drunk uncle)

Here is what we know about Lucy:

Mother, Vanessa and father, Patrick, are psychologists and hard on Lucy

Mother had an affair with a patient (also named Patrick) who is Lucy's father, but - boo - he's dead. So is bff Jackson.

Aunt Amy and unseen Nana are nice.

Lucy's other love interests (206 ex, Emmet, Chris, TIMOTHY BRADFORD) have been assholes.

NOW WHOSE FECKIN BACKSTORY DO WE NEED TO SEE MORE OF???

(sorry to those of you who have heard all this from me before, I am literally typing my sporadic thoughts with you guys into longform)

Look, no doubt characters on this show need therapy, but if we’re just gonna make it a vehicle for some random side-characters to have an entire story arc, then WHY? And like, we were misled with the Bailan getting-pregnant storyline too, only to end back up where we started with fostering - because it’s only worth second place if your ovaries are geriatric. LIKE? SO. MANY. PROBLEMATICS.

It’s as if The Rookie plotters were given the outline to the exam questions… then tried to make the answers fit all the WRONG QUESTIONS (I may be speaking from experience). If the cards are laid out one way, don’t struggle to make a different answer fit. Just use what you’ve got, and use it wisely. Especially when it’s been working so well.

And another thing!!! Canon is not fiction - we all know that. We’ve all seen the ones who get carried away with fanon Chenford and ‘Lucy is vegan’-type imaginings that were never actually true. But saying if we don't like canon then we should just write or read fiction to deal with it is only serving to send people deeper into denial. There is a point where you are not crazy, and the writers did something stupid and you start understanding what ‘jumped the shark’ actually means.

Speaking of outdated TV lingo, I saw a really good tweet from Brian_Cronin :

TV showrunners accepting the "truism" that getting "will they/won't they?" characters together hurts the show, always citing Moonlighting, is because they like "rules" that remove their responsibility, as "Don't write the show poorly once they're together" puts the onus on them.

This goes for Chenford. No, Eric Winter. No, Alexi Hawley. We don’t need to see a breakup because it’s more like ‘reality’. Here’s a shocker: we come to watch a COP show, in this age of police brutality, global dictatorships, internationally ignored genocide, timelines full of dead babies and the constant looming threat of utter climate destruction to ESCAPE from reality. We are not watching a COP SHOW - A SHOW ABOUT ONE OF THE MOST VIOLENT, ABUSIVE POLICE FORCES IN THE WESTERN WORLD - for “reality”. Get your fucking head in the game. We supported you through pandemics and strikes, and you pull this season of SHIT on us.

I love all the characters, but I’m hooked for chenford. And I feel really badly treated.

If I was marking your exam, you’d get a failing grade.

“Started off well - linked UC storyline to previously-hinted relationship trauma. Dropped the plot entirely mid-way and brought in a host of unknowns. Tried to blame breakup on army issues previously marked as ‘resolved’, instead of UC drugs and unfaithful wife/abusive father? Reused names multiple times. Confusing and inconsistent. Fatally underused Chen character - inexplicably failing downwards, while Nolan character inexplicably promoted upwards. Use basic research next time."

[deadgirlwalking91]

new update - 'thank you for the venom', chapter 4: 'sugar, we're goin' down swinging'

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter 4 Summary

After a hard day, all Lute wants to do is relax in the bath. Alone.

Adam, however, has other plans.

Author's note:

I have a super cool announcement to make - I now have a beta reader! And not just any old beta - she is none other than the most incredible, incomprehensibly talented @branded-rose! She deserves the utmost thanks for being my sounding board, fellow head-canon theoriser, hype gal and all-round legend. Also, if you aren't familiar with her work, close this tab right now and go check her art and accompanying mini-fics out!

I have had the MOST fun writing this chapter. The concept for it has undergone a few transformations in my mind, and I'm glad it's ended up where it has. I hope you all enjoy reading it!

As always, thank you for the comments, likes, reblogs, inboxes and for reading this silly little story <3

***

Lute’s Apartment, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

Lute hated being injured.

It wasn’t necessarily the feeling of being in pain that she couldn’t stand. On the contrary, she welcomed the tenderness of every bruise, the sting of every laceration – hell, the dull, aching throb of every broken bone that had been inflicted upon her over her years as an Exorcist. Pain meant she had no hesitations in putting her body on the line; she was renowned, after all, for her reputation as an unrelenting, unstoppable, balls-to-the-wall killing machine.

Her body was heavily adorned with the scars as proof of her status; hundreds of faded gold marks of varying sizes were flecked upon her otherwise pale skin. Each healed wound beheld a gory reminder of her battles and triumphs.

No, what irked Lute was the unwanted attention that she attracted whenever she sustained an injury. Thankfully, due to her recent refocus on physical conditioning, there were no weapons being handled and therefore, there should have been minimal opportunity for anybody to come into harm’s way under her guidance.

There was just one variable that Lute hadn’t accounted for: her dickhead boss.

What the fuck had Adam been thinking, tackling her so suddenly during that afternoon’s training session? One minute, she’d been pointing out common weak spots to hit on a Sinner’s body to expose their vulnerabilities, and then the next she’d unexpectedly been crushed by him. Her right hip and lower back had taken the brunt of the fall as he’d grabbed her around the torso, pinned her arms against her body and drove her into the floor with a force so great she’d been winded before she hit the deck.

Then, her sisters had shrieked, screamed – there may have even been one who cried, there usually was when someone hurt themselves – and crowded around her as she lay on the hardwood floor, dazed, confused and completely smothered by Adam’s considerably larger frame.

“Get off her, Sir, she’s not breathing!”

“I-is…is she dead?”

“Lieutenant, are you alright?!”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Commander?! What the fuck was that?!” Thank God for Vaggie, who had elbowed her way to the front of the gaggling group and stood, hands on hips, glaring at the angel who lay atop her friend.

“Out of line, Vagina,” he had drawled lazily, finally pulling himself up to a standing position. “You owe me burpees for that.”

“I don’t owe you a thing after the bullshit you just pulled,” she’d snapped back, helping Lute stand to her feet. “Ladies, back up, she’s coming through.”

“Thanks,” Lute had managed to grunt, shuffling away from the crowd as quickly as she could so they couldn’t see the golden flush of humiliation that had started to warm her cheeks. There was only one thing that she hated more than being injured, and that was being embarrassed.

Luckily, the colour of her face had returned to normal by the time she’d knocked on Sera’s door to report that training had been cancelled for the rest of the day. She’d even come up with the perfect excuse: the Exorcists had made such remarkable progress with their strength training she was giving them the rest of the afternoon off as a reward while she made some adjustments to their schedule.

Too bad her hip and lower back had started burning by that point – not to mention the feathers of her wings were incredibly ruffled, a dead giveaway that she’d been involved in some kind of mishap. Sera, astute as ever, noticed her limp and disgruntled appearance and had demanded to know what had happened. And it wasn’t like Lute could lie to the Head Seraphim.

At least, not off the cuff.

And so, she found herself fumbling for her key outside her apartment door, ordered to rest up for the evening lest her injuries worsened.

Oh, she was going to rest up, alright. Today’s events called for a bath so damn hot her skin would burn brighter than the surface of the sun, a glass of wine in one hand and steamy novel in another. She’d slip beneath the bubbles of her bath and into the pages of her book, with zero plans to re-enter reality for at least three – no, maybe four hours.

At last, she felt her apartment key in bottom of her bag. Sighing in relief as she entered her immaculate personal sanctuary, she softly pushed the front door back towards its frame without looking, kicking her trainers off as soon she was fully inside. Hanging her bag onto a hook in her entryway, she made a beeline for her small kitchen – specifically, for a bottle of red wine she knew she’d had stashed away at the bottom of her pantry for emergencies and unexpected visits from Vaggie.

After the day she’d had, this was absolutely classified as an emergency.

Ignoring the burn that seemed to now consume most of her lower body, Lute located a wine glass and unscrewed the lid of the bottle, pausing to take a long swig directly from it before filling her glass.

Classy.

Sipping her drink from its intended vessel, she plucked a candle off her coffee table and wandered into her bathroom to start preparing for her date with her bathtub.

As Lute sat her glass and candle onto the counter, she caught her reflection in the mirror. God, she looked like she’d had a day – though, to be fair, she’d had the absolute wind knocked out of her only a few hours earlier. Her platinum hair, half of which had been twisted into a small knot on top of her head, had loose strands starting to fall around her face. The bun was askew, leaning more towards the right and threatening to unravel any minute. If her little altercation hadn’t been so public, it wouldn’t be so farfetched for one to imagine she’d been sandwiched between her boss and the floor for a different reason.

Snorting in disgust to herself at the mental image she’d painted, she released her topknot and leant down to turn on the bath mixer, nudging the lever closer to the right until the water temperature was practically scalding. Perfection. She plugged the bath and turned her attention to the unlit candle.

She’d forgotten the lighter. Dammit. She walked gingerly back out into her living area, peeling her crop top up and off over her head, letting it fall to the floor somewhere near the bench of her kitchen, her socks following. Usually, she’d never allow herself to leave stray items of clothing around her apartment, but she was so hyper focused on getting into her bath she was willing to break her own rules - just this once. Besides, she’d tidy up before bedtime anyhow.

After she grabbed the lighter from an overhead cabinet that was just out of reach, requiring a little assistance from her wings, she set back to the bathroom to light her candle. The calming combination of rose geranium, bergamot and patchouli filled her bathroom almost instantaneously; the smell reminded her of the one and only time she’d allowed Vaggie to drag her to a day spa for a massage and to get her wings preened.

It was a one-time event because, as it turned out, strangers touching her body made her skin crawl and she couldn’t bring herself to relax, even if the aim was to help relieve years of built-up tension, stress and physical exertion. Getting her wings preened was even worse; the therapist kept running her fingers through all her sensitive spots, which made Lute squirm uncomfortably throughout the entire session. Neither experience was what she would call enjoyable.

The only good thing to come out of that disaster was the candle she’d purchased to reassure Vaggie the day hadn’t totally sucked.

She took another sip of wine and looked back in the mirror, turning to see if she could see any obvious signs of bruising on her body. She pulled the waistband of her leggings down for a better look – ah, there it was, a familiar dark orange patch beginning to bloom directly over her right hip. She leant forward to inspect it further – that was going to be ugly tomorrow – and a repetitive, robotic tune sung from her pocket, breaking her concentration. Probably Vaggie checking in on her, bless her.

Lute dug her hand into her pocket and retrieved her phone, frowning as she checked the caller ID.

Commander Adam.

“Absolutely not.” She hit the red decline button and padded out to her lounge, where she turned her phone off and tossed it onto her couch. Bath time had a strict no-phone policy, and Adam had already ruined enough of her day – she didn’t need him encroaching on her night, too. She shimmied her leggings down her lower half, resting against the arm of her couch to support her body as she bent over and tugged the end of them off her feet.

Clad only in her underwear now – a practical, black, seam-free thong ideal for wearing under workout clothes – Lute headed into her bedroom, where she grabbed the book she was currently reading from her nightstand, closing the door as she turned towards the bathroom. Pausing in the hall to rid herself of her last item of clothing, entered the bathroom, fully naked, shutting the door firmly behind her.

The bath was now full and inviting, bubbles threatening to spill over the edge and onto the white tiled floor, steam visibly rising from its depths and dissipating somewhere just short of the ceiling. Grinning in anticipation, Lute shut the mixer off and turned off the light switch, the flickering flame of the candle providing the only source of light – just enough for her to be able to read. Grabbing her book, she stepped into the hot water, allowing the heat to envelop her completely as she slid down into its warmth, tucking her wings comfortably against her sides.

Sighing contentedly to herself, she opened her paperback up to where she’d dog-eared her page and allowed herself to be fully consumed by the words between the well-loved cover, banishing any thoughts, any feelings, any pain that had arisen from her day out of her mind.

What she was blissfully unaware of was that she hadn’t closed her front door properly.

Or that she’d missed two calls, a voicemail and a text message from her boss.

And that he was on a frantic mission to try and find her.

Right now.

Adam and Lute’s Office, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

“You’ve reached Lute. Leave me a message if it’s important.”

“What is the point of having a damn lieutenant,” Adam growled to himself furiously, “if she doesn’t answer her fucking phone when I need her to!” Huffing impatiently, he threw his phone onto his cluttered desk, knocking a ball made entirely of rubber bands onto the floor. Women were always on their phones, why was this one any different?

Because her sole purpose in life is to make everything difficult.

He glowered in the direction of Lute’s spotless desk. This was all her fault. If she hadn’t of approached Sera with her shitty statistics and stupid proposal, he wouldn’t be facing the prospect of a pointless life in less than a year’s time. Sera would have just let Extermination Day continue as it was, and things would stay the same. Stay normal.

And now, he had to figure out a way to coexist peacefully with the she-devil. Pretend to support her ideas. Not lump his paperwork on her. Make small talk with her.

Fuck his life.

“Ribs or wings?” He asked the empty chair. He figured he may as well sound out some practice questions in preparation. “Actually neither, you’d be the type to survive on gross shit like protein shakes and probably don’t know what real food tastes like. Alright…” he cleared his throat. “Uh, what was the last movie that made you laugh? Nah, that one’s dumb, I don’t think you’ve been programmed to laugh or understand humour.” He groaned. “Last one, because I’m starting to feel like a dickhead. Most fuckable member of a band…go!”

Silence.

Adam narrowed his eyes.

“Yeah, you would pick the drummer,” he grumbled, standing up. He reached for his phone and tried calling Lute again. Bitch better pick up, or he’d search every nook and cranny of this complex for her. And once he found her, she’d have hell to pay. Screw the idea of a truce, she was pissing him off now.

“You’ve reached Lute. Leave me a message if it’s important.”

Beep.

“Fucks sake, Lieutenant, pick up your phone!” He hissed. Instead of locking the phone after hanging up, he hit the message icon instead and tapped out a quick text, tongue between his teeth as he concentrated.

Adam: Lt. Call me. That’s an order!!!

He shoved the phone into his pocket and sighed, puffing his cheeks out. Dammit, he really had no other choice but to find her.

If I were her, where would I spend my spare time? No – it could take hours trying to find her. I need a workaround. Someone who would know where she lives.

Adam grinned maniacally, inspiration suddenly kicking in.

“I’m a ge-ni-us,” he sang to himself, taking his phone out once more and tapping on a contact.

“Hello, Adam. Have you calmed down?”

“Me? Pfft. Don’t worry about me Sera, I’m so fine. I’m calling because I really want to apologise to Lute, but she’s not answering her phone. Do you have her apartment number so I can drop by to check on her?” He balled his hand into a fist near his crotch and made an obscene gesture. Check on her, his ass.

Silence.

“Adam.”

“Sera.”

“If I do this in good faith,” her voice was dangerously cool on the other end of the phone, “and I find out that you’ve misused the information I’ve given you, there will be consequences. Understood?”

“Crystal, boss.”

“Her apartment number is 583. I mean it Adam, one more incident from you and I-”

“SweetkaythanksSeraloveyoubossbye!” He quickly hung up the phone before Sera could finish her sentence. He’d deal with the inevitable lecture he’d get for hanging up on her later.

He had a lieutenant to hunt down.

Apartment Block, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

It wasn’t often that Adam found himself in a situation that required him to make a mental pros and cons list.

However, Lute had left him in quite the predicament: her apartment door was slightly ajar. Which meant he was likely to find her in there: big pro.

He was also likely to find her in a more hostile state than usual, given the events that had transpired earlier that day: big con.

But, if he went in, he’d be able to propose a truce, which would help ensure the success of the next Extermination: bigger pro.

Also, he could twist his pitch to emphasise that it would make her job easier: another big pro.

Fuck it, that was all the evidence he needed. He was getting impatient. He nudged the door open, expecting a response from inside. Nothing.

“Lieutenant?” Adam called, pushing the door open further and poking his head inside. “You home?”

No answer.

He frowned as he fully entered the apartment, observing the immaculate home in front of him. His colleague lived a truly minimalistic lifestyle – he found it borderline depressing, really. A small TV, two-seater couch and coffee table were all that occupied her living room. No decorative clutter. No prints on the walls. No photos of friends. Clothes on the floor.

He did a double take. Clothes on the floor?!

That… he hadn’t been expecting. Then again, he didn’t take Lute as the type to leave her front door unlocked and open when she was nowhere to be seen.

He strode forward, trying to get his bearings around her apartment based on the trail of her clothes. Crop and socks by the kitchen counter to his left. He walked past the discarded pants next to the couch on his right. A dead end with two closed doors and…something scrunched up on the floor? He bent to take a closer look and bolted upright once he realised what it was.

Her underwear.

Dismayed, he blinked repeatedly at the offending item of clothing on the floor in front of him. This surely had to be some kind of fucked-up fever dream. Because if somebody had told him that during his search for his second-in-command that he’d find himself staring down at her underwear on the floor, he would have thrown them down into the pits of Hell himself.

“Sera must have put some kind of curse on me with her four hundred weird eyes,” he muttered. “This is too messed up to be real.” He took a wide berth, desperate to avoid the offending undergarment, and found himself directly in front of one door, with another to his left. Both were closed.

He tentatively opened the door in front of him, hoping to catch her in bed, asleep. Where else could she possibly be? He knew he’d likely pay for it – she wasn’t likely to enjoy being woken up, least of all by him – but it’d be worth it just to see the sheer panic that would likely cross her face for a brief second before she went off the rails.

However, nothing could have prepared Adam for what was behind that door.

Because, he’d found his lieutenant, alright. In the bathtub, her body illuminated only by candlelight.

Naked.

Adam looked down at her, his eyes widening in horror. Oh no. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. This was meant to be her bedroom, she was supposed to be asleep and she definitely wasn’t supposed to be fucking NAKED.

He’d opened the wrong fucking door.

“SHIT!”

He clapped his hand over the mouth of his mask, accidentally banging the door completely open in the process, revealing his presence to the wide-eyed angel laying in front of him.

The same wide-eyed angel who, renowned for her reputation as a bloodthirsty killer, had a murderous look in her eyes that he’d never seen before, despite many an excursion down to Hell.

Shit. I’m SO dead.

Lute’s Bathroom, Apartment Block, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

“I am going to KILL you!”

The water in her bath had long gone lukewarm, but white-hot heat radiated throughout Lute’s body, starting from her cheeks and spreading rapidly all the way down to her toes. Still seated, she instinctively flung her book to the other side of the room. She desperately grabbed in the direction of her towel with one hand, her other arm pressed tightly against her breasts in a feeble attempt to cover as much skin as possible. She just needed to get this towel around her, sprint to the kitchen, grab the butcher’s knife and-

“Shit!” Adam yelped, turning away from his lieutenant, drawing his golden wings around his middle to protect himself. He hastily began retreating into her lounge, eyes fixed on the front door. At lighting speed, Lute seized her opportunity to stand – an awful squelch filling the room as water sloshed out of the bath onto the floor - and retrieve her towel, hastily wrapping it around her body with one hand, not bothering to dry herself before hurling herself out of the tub towards her superior.

Her wings were weighed down with half of the water from her bath, soaking through her white towel completely so it clung to her like a skin-tight dress. As she ran, enormous puddles of water pooled in her wake, but she didn’t care. Water could be cleaned up anytime.

She had mere moments, however, to violently murder her boss.

With an almighty cry, she launched herself at Adam’s back, still clutching the towel at the top her sternum. Her knee caught him in his lower back, causing him to stumble and trip, face-down onto the carpet of her living room.

“How-” she growled, straddling his upper back with her thighs, knees poking into his armpit, leaning forward so that her free arm curled around the front of his neck, “- the fuck did you get into my house, you disgusting piece of shit?”

“Maybe,” Adam rasped, using both of his hands to pull Lute’s arm away from his windpipe, “you should learn to lock your door, Lieutenant. You left it wide open for all of Heaven to come in and enjoy the show!”

“And you didn’t think it polite to knock?!” she roared. “Or, I don’t know, try calling me first?! What could you possibly want so fucking badly,” she grunted the last word as she squeezed her thighs against his back, bracing herself so she could fend off his hands, which were gradually freeing her elbow from his throat, “that you needed to walk in on me in the fucking bath?! How long were you standing there, perv?!”

Adam groaned in discomfort as her knees dug into his underarms. Lute squeezed harder again as she moved her mouth closer to the side of his head to get close to his ear.

“I am giving you three seconds,” she snarled, ignoring her towel slipping down her chest as she channelled all her energy into closing the gap between her elbow and his neck, “to explain yourself before I choke you to death. I don’t care if Sera casts me down into hell; a life of damnation would be worth it if it meant I got to be the one to end yo-”

Adam’s right hand let go of Lute’s forearm and he braced it on the floor so he could jerk his right shoulder up and over to his left violently, causing Lute to teeter off-balance and fall sideways onto her already bruised hip. She yelped in pain, motionless for a moment and Adam, now free, took advantage of her breather to straddle her thighs, pinning them together with his own. His knees were quickly becoming soaked as he pressed into the wet towel that still clung to her lower body, but he didn’t care. She howled in rage and made to claw at his mask with her free hand before he caught her wrist and held it to the floor above her head, his face only inches above hers. With his other hand, he swiftly untangled Lute’s fist from her towel and brought it up next to her other hand, pinning her down completely.

“Listen here, girlie,” he seethed as she thrashed her legs violently behind him, attempting to use her hips to throw him off. “I didn’t fucking come here to do anything untoward, alright? I needed to talk to you urgently and you weren’t answering your phone. Your door was wide open. What else was I supposed to do?”

“You didn’t notice the trail of clothes on the floor and think I might be otherwise occupied?”

“Oh please, I’ve seen enough thongs to last me an afterlife. Your underwear on the floor wasn’t going to stop me from finding you. Besides, I’d assumed you were in bed, asleep. Hold still you crazy bitch, I need to talk to you.”

“There is nothing you could need to tell me that necessitates coming into my home uninvited - argh.” She arched her back to try and twist herself free, her towel now dangerously close to being rendered completely useless. Frustrated, wet and spent, she let her head drop back against the carpet, her chest heaving with exhaustion. Adam’s eyes flickered downwards, and he grinned devilishly.

“Didn’t realise you gave up so easily, Dangertits.”

“What the fuck did you just call me?!” she hissed. Her cheeks flushed brilliantly as she looked down and realised that he’d snuck a quick look at her cleavage, which was beginning to spill over the top of her towel.

“You heard me, babe. I think that’s what I’ll refer to you as from now on. It really…” he let his gaze trail down to her chest again, before deliberately taking his time to being his eyes back up to hers again, knowing that he was antagonising her now. A wicked gleam etched across his mask. “…suits you. Ready to wave the white flag and hear me out?”

“I’d rather fucking die.”

“Not an option, Lieutenant. Shut up and stop running that filthy mouth of yours for a sec and listen to me. That’s an order.”

Lute glowered at him.

“Let me go.”

Adam snickered. “Not a chance.”

“Now.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“I’ll tell Sera.”

“Tattling again, Lieutenant? That would be twice today. I’ll give you a hot tip, because I’m feeling generous.” He bent his head low against her ear, his forehead pressing against her hair as he whispered into her ear. “I strongly advise you against it. Wouldn’t want the boss thinking you can’t hold your own now, would you?”

Lute shuddered at his closeness – or was the adrenaline starting to wear off and a chill settling in because of the wet towel? It didn’t matter, anyway. He was right. She couldn’t go to Sera again with something like this. It would make her appear weak. Incapable. Not to mention that the whole situation was utterly humiliating, and there was no way she was telling a single soul about what had happened tonight. Not even Vaggie.

“What do you want, then?”

Adam lifted his head back up, so their faces were parallel once more and scoffed.

“Are you kidding me, babe? We’re not having this conversation right now! In case you haven’t noticed, you’re soaking wet – not in a good way, either – and basically naked. We can talk tomorrow morning.”

“Y-you,” Lute gasped, shutting her eyes in disbelief. After all this, he wasn’t even going to tell her. Oh, how she wanted nothing more than to tear him apart, limb by limb. “You asshole. You evil, conniving sonnuva-”

“Nine o’clock. Our office.” Adam released his grip on her wrist and rose to a standing position. He held out his hand to help her up, but Lute swatted it away angrily. He could shove it up his ass, as far she was concerned.

“Don’t be late.” He straightened his robes and headed towards her front door, whistling merrily to himself. Lute pulled herself into a sitting position, readjusting her towel so she was adequately covered once more. She said a silent prayer of thanks that the wetness of the towel meant that it stuck tight to her lower body, ensuring some level of modesty for her during their scrap. She desperately wanted to scream at him, throw something at his head, charge at him again and make him pay for the humiliation she’d just suffered.

But she didn’t. Because, despite wanting to exact her revenge immediately with every fibre of her being, she was overwhelmingly exhausted. At this point, all she had the energy to do was crawl into bed and forget that she’d even woken up this morning.

Adam grinned as he opened the door.

“At ease, Dangertits.” He saluted her mockingly before exiting.

He managed to close the door just in time to hear the TV remote hit the back of the door and clang to the floor.

***

Next time: Lute's suspicious that Adam's trying to poison her.

[grandepretresse]

“Aaaand right on time!”  [ Today is Tarokki’s day off, but she still finds herself at the police station for matters unrelated to anything forensic or art. No, today she’s meeting a colleague, or, well… were they friends? She guessed that they were becoming friends, at least, with how kind and cheerful the detective had been the entire time they’d worked together since she’d joined the police department as a forensic artist a few months ago. She considered him a friend, at least.] “Alright, we already decided on a café, I have the address marked on the map, we’re all good!” [ A pep talk to herself to get rid of her nerves. Tarokki had suggested the tea shop she’d worked at during her studies for their next hangout, and Bobby had been on board, with his bright cheerful smile, as always. Florilège was a place filled to the brim with flowers, surrounding giant bookshelves, in a renovated tall glasshouse. She’d mentioned it to the detective on a previous café visit together. The place was very whimsical, and an ideal place to relax and drink a variety of beverages which contained either coffee or tea. She adjusts her giant scarf on top of her coat, some strands of her short hair poking out of the wool. Her breath was visible in the chilly winter air, and she swayed on her feet as she waited for detective Bobby Fulbright to arrive, a smile already on her face.]

@injusticeitrust

[kaibutsushidousha]

What are your thoughts on Papermoon? Did it change your expectations for the Ordeal Call arc?

I really liked most of PAPERMOON's cast. My unpopular opinion is that Minase can be a garbage writer but he's a great character creator. His characters are always built around one solid core and can feel one-note due to how they never shift too far from this core element, but the element is always chosen with one impactful scene or interaction in mind, and these goal scenes generally hit more often than they miss. Maybe. At least in PAPERMOON, they hit with Lainur, Bhima/Cerejeira, Medusa, Kama, and Duryodhana.

Another thing that Minase always knows how to do brilliantly, better than Nasu even, is to re-deliver the most memorable quotes of past Type-Moon content in new contexts. Bazett's growth marked by well-timed use of Angra quotes pretty much carries her event, and Yuga Kshetra's remixes of JinaKarna interactions ultimately deliver what's still the most powerful scene in FGO. Honestly, only Haganeya (Lilim Harlot event writer) competes with Minase when it comes to hard-hitting references. His good sense for this shows in his great choices for which otherwise minor aspects of Sakura and Rani should take the forefront in this new context and which shouldn't. And then his handling of Lainur is about as masterful as his handling of Bazett. When Lainur drops the "Because it might cause something to change"? That's exactly what I mean by clever recycling of old quotes.

But enough about his strong suits. Minase's storytelling sucks for a couple reasons and the most prominent of them is that he almost never knows what to do in the middle. His good conclusions suffer from how he struggles to lead up to them in exciting ways. And his number one crutch for this problem is reaffirming the character traits that will be relevant to the good conclusions ad nauseam.

PAPERMOON also introduces us to Minase's crutch number 2: plot recycling. Again, his inability to plan the midfield leads him to corrupt one of the things he's legitimately good at. Here we get sections 5 to 12, a whole 50% of the chapter, dedicated to the most uninspired and uncathartic rehashes of Gilles and Zouken's arcs in Fate/Zero and Heaven's Feels respectively. Genuinely garbage recycling. This cool cast really could be doing cool things instead.

Ultimately, I think Minase was a poor choice for the Alterego chapter because the setting and concepts involved play directly into his crutches. Alteregos being isolated facets removes the absolute need for Minase to flesh out the characters beyond their necessary core, and System Grail War being a simulation taken from real samples facilitates otherwise inorganic repetition. He's an uncreative man thrown into the smack middle of his comfort zone and this is the result.

Final verdict:

As for Ordeal Call expectations, yes, they did change. Before, I saw two routes for Ordeal Call.

A: pure Class mechanics-based filler that doesn't advance any of the plot points necessary for the finale.

B: final showdowns with each of the Apostles since Kotomine is Alterego, Dantes is Avenger, and Holmes is Ruler.

PAPERMOON was neither. It was completely unrelated to Kotomine, but it still changed the board for the finale by dooming Sion's plotline at the end.

Sion's arc in this chapter comments on how she's been always a sidelined cheerleader than a proper companion to Novum Chaldea, with her reasoning that she's not fit to be Fujimaru's friend because she predicted a role for herself in the finale that requires her not being a friend. This was already alluded to in Imaginary Scramble but mostly forgotten by the narrative otherwise.

Our main companion through this ordeal is an Alterego in the form of Sion's childish aspirations to be Fujimaru's friend despite knowing she can't, and the two of them are stuck in an unreal world where her actions wouldn't have consequences. So little Sion wholeheartedly indulges in this fun adventure.

However, even the most childish side of Sion knows that this cannot be. In the end, when she finally returns Fujimaru's Alterego to their complete self, she chooses to stay behind. The joyful memories of the child's adventure can't be allowed to return to the adult. Sion can't be Novum Chaldea's friend. This is essential to preventing mankind's demise.

The young Sion closes the door behind Fujimaru and leaves herself stuck in an isolated micro-world. It's the only option Sion Eltnam Sokaris is capable of taking. And then comes the epilogue revealing the fallout of it:

Sion remembers the adventure. Sion remembers being Fujimaru's friend. The bystander "unfortunately" became part of the team. The actress can no longer take the role in her script. It's over. She got attached to her sacrificial pawns. Sion had a chance to save the bleached Earth, but now she's suddenly faced with the greater challenge of saving both the world and the people she was planning to discard to save the world.

This is a big game changer for the final chapter, and honestly, in a route much more interesting than anything I had in mind. The Sion hype for FGO's finale is finally undeniably real. Took her long enough.

[gatheringfiki]

Coming soon: Kink Bingo and H/C Bingo 2024!

Something kinky this way comes... (and it's probably limping).

Yes, very soon we will be back with our most daring events of the season: the Kink Bingo and the H/C (Hurt/Comfort) Bingo! With the Valentines Day just around the corner, it's time to charge up your toys, prep your bandages and generally brace yourselves for a delicious avalanche of guilt-free indulgence!

As usual, we will be running those 2 events in paraller, so you can take part in both, switch between the two, or take part in just one, and totally ignore the other. They are unrelated to each other.

Basics:

We have 2 Collections: Kink Bingo and H/C Bingo

In each of those, on the 17th of Feb, the prompts are going to be revealed, on a 7x7 card.

We are playing between 17th of February and 17th of March.

Your task is to create something for 7 consecutive fields (horizontally, vertically or diagonally) to achieve a bingo line. 

... Or not. We really have no way of checking who’s completing which line, so you can use it as a free-for-all, pick and choose prompt board, if you prefer. But it’s good to challenge yourself and attempt prompts you wouldn’t normally pick - you may be surprised to find you like it!

Both Collections are fully Anonymous and will remain that way forever. However, you may choose to ‘reveal’ yourself as the author and ‘claim’ your work, if you wish at the end of this event. You don’t have to. More about this below. 

Usual pairings apply: FiKi or any fictional pairing portrayed by Dean or Aidan.

Tag your warnings and kinks R E L I G I O U S L Y.

No kink-shaming or judgement, please. We are all grown-ups: don’t like, don’t read.

There are no word limits

Play as little or as much as you like; you can even attempt all 49 fields, if you wish.

This event is mostly aimed at Writers, but Artists can also take part. More about this below.

Gatheringfiki will be doing our best to post links to all new responses during this event here on Tumblr (for exposure and promotion), but your freshest stuff is always in the Collections.

Q&A section under the cut:

Q: But why run those two bingos together?

A: The common theme for these events is that they cover subjects that could be considered ‘guilty pleasures’ or ‘taboo’. We wanted to create a safe environment where these themes can be explored and shared. Plus, they will have identical rules, so it didn’t make sense to run another Bingo event, with a different theme, later in the year.

Q: Do I need to post each response in a separate work or can I have a single work with chapters?

A: We would suggest separate works, because it will make it easier for you to tag it appropriately, and for the readers to search for, or avoid.

Q: Can I create one thing (story or art) for multiple fields in a single bingo card?

A: You can, but we would encourage you not to. The aim of this event is to create as much new content as we can and that doesn’t help it. Having said that, we understand that sometimes brain just connects things and it wants a combo.

Q: Can I create one thing (story or art) that covers both a Kink and H/C scenario?

A: You can, but we would encourage you not to. See: above.

Q: Can I mix and match pairings, e.g. within a single line have 4 FiKi and 3 Britchell?

A: Yes.

Q: Can I create more than one response to a single prompt field, for example for different pairings?

A: Yes, just post them as separate works.

Q: Can I use a prompt that someone else has already used before me?

A: Absolutely.

Q: Can I somehow visualise which line I’m working on, or which prompts I managed to fill?

A: Sure. Feel free to copy the Bingo Card image and start marking off the ones you’ve done. You can then post your updated Bingo Card picture with each response.

Q: Can I comment on the works posted in the Collections?

A: Yes, please do! If you wish to comment anonymously though, you’ll need to log out of your account first and comment as Anon, or open the story in a private tab. The Collection won’t anonymise the commenter’s identity automatically.

Q: How does the ‘Anon’ thing work?

A: The author is displayed as ‘Anonymous’ to everyone, except you. Yes, this includes the mods - we don’t know either. If you wish to respond to your comments, it will automatically show as ‘Anonymous Creator’.

Q: When can I ‘claim’ my works and ‘de-anon’?

A: Please only do this after the event has ended, i.e. after the summary post has gone up. The guessing is part of the fun!

Q: How can I ‘claim’ my works and ‘de-anon’?

A: Simply message @linane-art with the works that are yours and you wish to 'reveal' now. As a mod, I have a way of removing the anon status, while keeping the work in the Collection. It will automatically become your own work, like anything else, and you will not lose any kudos or comments. You may then choose to make an accompanying Tumblr post, if you wish to promote it.

Q: Do I have to ‘de-anon’ at the end of the event?

A: No. You can leave your works as anonymous forever, if you wish.

Q: I am an Artist and I would also like to take part.

A: Great! Fantastic! We’re all dying here to see it! However, because we all have our distinctive art styles, we can’t think of any way to keep you anonymous. If this doesn’t bother you, just play like everyone else, using artwork inspired by the prompts for your responses.

Q: But how to post artwork as a part of event response?

A: Post your artwork on Tumblr or host it elsewhere (Tumblr doesn’t like sexytimes, so it might try to block you). That will give you a hyperlink to the picture itself. Then create a new AO3 work within Kink or H/C Collection, and add a picture (using hyperlink) into the body of the work. If in doubt, message @linane-art for help.

Any further questions? Please give us a shout!

Good luck!

~gatheringfiki

[beardedmrbean]

NEW YORK — Mayor Adams blamed the city’s independent election watchdog agency Monday for stirring up “a lot of sensationalism” by releasing a draft audit that found his 2021 campaign failed to properly document $2.3 million in spending, among other alleged violations.

Marking his first comments on the draft audit that became public last week, Adams argued at an unrelated morning press conference that the Campaign Finance Board “leaked” the document to media outlets.

“I think it’s unfair when someone produces a draft report that we’re supposed to respond to and that draft report is leaked by the agency that is supposed to be doing the right thing,” Adams told reporters at City Hall.

“There was a lot of sensationalism attached to that draft report that was leaked, and I don’t think that follows the proper procedures of how you’re supposed to handle a draft report,” he added.

The New York Daily News, which was among several outlets that published stories about the findings, obtained the draft in response to a Freedom of Information Law request. Under that law, the CFB’s required to disclose most external findings it produces in response to FOIL requests, including draft audits.

A spokesman for the CFB didn’t immediately return a request for comment.

Adams’ team has until the end of this month to respond to the alleged violations flagged in the draft audit, which analyzes the $20 million the mayor raised for his 2021 campaign, more than half of which was public matching funds. Once it receives responses, CFB’s board will consider what steps to take, which could include levying fines.

Adams said Monday his campaign is in the midst of responding to the findings.

The draft audit found Adams’ campaign team didn’t provide required documents, like supporting contracts and bank records, for $2.3 million in various spending.

The unaccounted-for spending included payments to key Adams staffers, like his chief adviser Ingrid Lewis-Martin and Brianna Suggs, his top political fundraiser whose home was raided by FBI agents last year as part of an investigation into whether Turkey’s government pumped illegal straw donations into his 2021 campaign coffers. Adams has not been accused of wrongdoing in that probe.

The draft audit also flagged other alleged violations, including the campaign accepting apparent straw donations and failing to properly document the activities of individuals bundling contributions for Adams’ election bid.

Campaign finance experts have said the CFB findings could result in fines against Adams ranging in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. A CFB auditor also wrote in a letter attached to the findings that the campaign’s likely going to have to return some $500,000 in public matching funds it never spent during the 2021 cycle.