#at least in the dollar general i went to

[rknase]

successfully inserted a tampon for the first time in my life. i don't feel it at all. what the fuck.

[authorwithissues]

.

[archibaldtuttle]

I got bored so here's a movie chart

I went to the List of biggest box-office bombs wikipedia article and put all the data into an excel sheet. I simplified the data by taking the highest estimates anytime there were ranges of estimated loss/budget. Then I made a neat little chart.

On the left axis you have the amount lost in millions, adjusted for inflation. Each dot represents a film and is placed at the year it came out.

So! What does this tell us?

This tells us that, even accounting for inflation, box office failures have been more and more expensive and more and more frequent. Which means two things - films are getting more and more expensive as are their failures... but also, those failures are no longer enough to kill studios.

It used to be that even a major production studio could risk dying out from one or two big budget bombs. It is no longer the case. A lot of the later ones, the second half of the 2010s and the 2020s, are Disney productions.

In fact! out of the 25 films on this list that came out in the 2020s, 15 are Disney or 20th Century productions (20th being owned by Disney). That's completely ridiculous. Those films all have budgets of 150 million dollars at least. They all lost at least 100 million dollars. And that is not accounting for the marketing budget of the films - it is generally accepted that a modern film's real budget is double its production cost, because studios will spend around the same amount marketing the film as they do making it.

The fact that Disney productions is not currently reduced to ashes is complete nonsense.

And that, dear readers, is what monopolies do for you. That is what "too big to fail" means. It doesn't mean too big to encounter failure... It means too big for any failure to really affect you.

[yandere-daydreams]

Hear me out hear me out on this concept idea

Southern gothic small town pastor Geto AU

tw - non/con, manipulation, unbalanced power dynamics, financial abuse via organized religion, and implied kidnapping.

wait that would actually be so hot of him actually.

i don't know what is about geto but he just,,, radiates scummy religious figure energy to such an atrocious degree. like, couldn't you just imagine him moving from small town to small town, posing as a country-values pastor to scam his ever-growing congregation out of their life's savings and retirement funds before smuggling himself away and moving on to fresher meat? if he works quickly, the whole operation takes a little less than six months, and he's got such a charming smile and such a soothing voice - no one's ever so much as thought twice about trusting him, not really, not unless they wanted to be the next town outcast.

well, no one aside from you, of course.

it's cute - just how suspicious you are of the man who has your chronically truant parents sitting in the front row of his chapel twenty minutes early. you'll tell anyone who's got the time to listen that you don't like his hollow expressions, that you don't find his sermon-topics appropriate, that you don't trust how quickly he showed up after your last pastor suddenly went missing. no one listens to you, of course. you burnt that bridge when you decided to move away to some big, new-age city and attend some expensive, self-aggrandizing university. like him, you'll only be in town for a few months, just until the start of your next semester, but unlike him, you actually care about what's going to happen to your neighbors after you leave. the fact that you stopped going to church entirely after he took over doesn't help. in a town like this, you might as well be signing the warrant for your own social exile.

you make an effort to keep your distance, but he just can't seem to pay you the same courtesy. in a town like yours, it's can be hard not to run into familiar faces, especially when he seems to stop in at the general store where you picked up a summer job every other day, when he mentions to your mother that they could really use an extra pair of hands at the church's monthly bake sale or tells your father that he might want to bring a helper the next time he comes to fix up a few things around the sanctuary. you're always so flustered around him, always so brooding - like you think someone's going to believe you just because you cross your arms and pout. he savors any chance he gets to touch you - whether it's his hand ghosting over the small of your back as he moves past you in a narrow hall or your body pressing into his after he forgoes your offered handshake in favor of a nice, tight, neighborly hug.

and, when you come to him, he thinks he might finally know why people try so hard to get into heaven. it goes without saying that you're irate, shouting at him from the steps of his parsonage as you demand he return the tens of thousands of dollars that your mother so generously donated early that day, but it's not hard to convince you to come inside, to get a glass of wine into your hand under the pretense that, if you really drove all this way just to yell at him, it's the least you deserve. things devolve from there - your glass looks a little empty, why doesn't he top you off while you tell him what a terrible person he is? you've already finished that bottle, but he's got a gorgeous vintage red, and you're just starting to slur - he's sure it'll be fine. and, oh, well, you're far too drunk to drive yourself home, but don't worry, his bed's big enough to share. and oh, look at that, don't you feel lucky to wake up naked and sore in an unfamiliar bed, the handsome young pastor's cock still buried inside of you? he's sure your parents will be elated when you two tell them about your new engagement (because, of course, you can't just sleep with your local pastor and expect to come out of it without a ring on your finger, can you?), even if you seem a little upset right now.

it's only as he watches you sob into his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist and his cum still dripping out of you, that he decides he might be able to stay in this particular small town for a few more months. just long enough to find a way to take you with him, when he leaves.

[nymphomatique]

gold star student

professor!logan howlett x fem!reader

⋆·˚ ༘ * one bad grade is one too many, so you ask one professor logan howlett, phd. for some extra credit after class. inspired by this art.

cw: reader lowkey has undiagnosed adhd, u want that cookie so effing bad, oral (m & f), praise, some degradation, swearing (it’s logan), shaky power dynamics so it can be considered dub-con, non specific age gap, college aged reader, logan puts stickers on your face while you blow him, face slapping, semi-public sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up!!), finger sucking, spitting on the pussy, grey streak logan cause if he ain’t greying im not staying!!!, this is just me being horny idk what else to say i’m sorry yall

wc: 8k

❤︎ a/n: this was…. a labour of love to say the least. i hate the ending but fuck it we ball. enjoy <3

Ever since you were a child, anything and everything that had to do with academia had been the bane of your existence. Sitting at a desk for eight odd hours in a day wasn’t only grossly unappealing to you, but a mental challenge as well. You had found it hard to grasp onto concepts and new materials as well as the other kids, unable to focus on whatever spiel of the day your teacher went on about and still found yourself struggling in higher education. From kindergarten, to elementary, to middle school, to high school, up until now in your college years, you find that not only has your attention deficit gotten worse, but so has your motivation in academia in general. 

A floater student is what you would consider yourself, showing up to class once in a blue moon, rather busying yourself with doom scrolling in your dormitory or shopping off campus at the mall, only showing up during exam time and barely passing. your prognosis would be one of the many hyperactive disorders, but you never bothered to diagnose yourself officially. In high school, your parents didn’t make a huge deal of your grades, thanking a graceful god out there that you even got your diploma to begin with. At this age however, with tens of thousands of dollars being poured into your tuition, your mother and father have seemed to coil up even tighter in terms of frustration with your nonchalant attitude towards school. 

A report card from your fall semester riddled with C’s and D’s, emboldened and italicized as if to taunt you silently, was the final straw, the cussing you received was enough for a lifetime. At your parents' discretion, before the start of the semester you consulted with your academic advisor in suggestion of a course schedule that wasn’t a twelve hour day, and professors who would accommodate you with in the case of your late assignments and missing homework. 

All classes but one would be easy- you had been told. Your world history class and its professor had been the only one where you had been saddled with a hardball teacher, rate my professor describing one Logan Howlett, teacher of Modern World History in the Context of Classic Literature, as a man with a foul mouth and harsh grading asshole— with an excellent curriculum but horrible grade weighting, as described by your fellow student body, the mandatory attendance and participation accounting for twenty percent of your grade alone pulling a groan from you as your laptop screen stares back at you, the blue light emitting from it seemingly silently taunting you with the course course outline. Get used to looking at my screen. Three hours in an auditorium, every Wednesday and Friday for twelve weeks at nine in the morning with this douchebag.

You mentally prepare yourself for the exhaustion of the upcoming semester, shutting your laptop closed with a huff of annoyance before laying in bed, mentally preparing yourself for this seemingly infamous professor Howlett.

After a rather inadequate night of sleep, a zero sugar monster energy (gotta give in for the sake of your health where you can) and a double shot latte, you feel something that briefly resembles yet still distant from awake, you find yourself struggling to get comfortable in the stiff chairs in your lecture room. You’re glad you tucked yourself away in a seat in the corner, four rows back from the front, embarrassed that your peers are silently mocking your struggle. 

It’s some odd minutes to nine on the dot, and you’re rather proud of yourself for being able to make it minutes early rather than stumbling in twenty minutes late like you’re prone to doing. Face resting on your hand, cheek squishing your right eye closed, your left eye flits around the room to the other people present, and you wonder if anyone else is stuck in your current situation: burnt out student who didn’t have a choice but to take this class at the least convenient time possible, simply for your graduation credits. Unfortunate kismet, you think, if anybody else in this room also had the privilege to have been born with the unlucky gene you possess. 

Your eyes are heavy, the seconds tickering away at the speed of minutes, and you can’t help it when the last open eye you have flutters close. You hum to yourself, relishing at the feeling of finally being able to rest some more. the quiet shuffling of your classmates feet and the soft scrapings of their chairs, clock ticking so quietly that it barely registers in your mind. The ambient noise is like a blanket to you. It’s not more than five minutes, just a micro nap— you tell yourself, counting the seconds of each minute down silently. 45, 44, 43, 42, what minute is this?, 30, 29, 28, so tired, 22, 21, time to sleep…

Your eyes shoot open when you hear the auditorium door slam shut, blinking away softly the sleep in your eyes. your heart sinks for a minute and panic sets in— did you sleep through the whole class? On the first fucking day? You look around, eyes wide, and immediately sigh in relief when you’re greeted with a full hall. Conversely, you see everyone’s attention to the front of the class with materials out, so you trail your eyes to the front of the room and that’s when you see him, finally. Not his face yet, the wide expanse of his back and tail of his coiffed head facing you all instead. Your eyes trail down his body to his feet, clad in a pair of black combat boots, you can’t help but quirk up and eyebrow, bootcut jeans that seem to be worn in well, seemingly like they’re tailored to his long, very legs, then you see his jacket, which now you catch in time to see him taking it off to reveal a black t-shirt underneath and your breath hitches a bit. You can only see his triceps flexing as he maneuvers his jacket off, but you can just tell he’s covered in rippling muscle, his arms straining against the fabric of his shirt. You can’t help but wonder what he looks like, wondering if his face is as captivating as the rest of him. Your eyes flit over to the girl sitting two seats down from you, and you can’t help but smile a little at her expression, teeth chewing her bottom lip and eyes widened slightly and blinking in slow flutters, seemingly thinking the same things about this Professor Logan Howlett as you are; He’s obscenely sexy even though I haven’t even seen his face.

When you focus your attention back to the front, your face warms immediately upon finally seeing his– Professor Howlett’s face and fuck, you feel stupid for even thinking that he wouldn’t be even a fraction of attractive. His hair, oh god his hair, styled as if he just rolled out of bed and ran his hands through it once, maybe twice even, streaked with gray at his temples, peppering down into his sideburns and disappearing in his scruffy beard. His eyes are an enrapturing shade of hazel, almost brown, almost green, you squint a little to see the mix of hues better, cursing yourself for sitting so far away. His nose, button-like yet poses so masculine at the same time. His lips look so soft and kissable, framed perfectly by his facial hair as if it’s screaming at you to kiss there, to taste each other, let your tongues touch and whisper your deepest secrets to one another-

Gravelly and deep, his voice rouses you from your rather indulgent fantasy. “Good morning. Lively bunch this semester,” he quips and a quiet wave of laughter reverberates and echoes around you. Your chest tightens at the sound of his voice and you want to smack yourself silly for it. “Gonna spare you all the pointless introductions n’ ice breaking crap, yeah? We’ll go over the syllabus and get this show on the road.”

He’s curt, forward, doesn’t bite his tongue, you deduce. Not the jackass his reviews seem to pin him as, though it’s only the first class. They didn’t seem to mention how ruggedly handsome he was as well, you think and pull your lips taut as Professor Howlett, continues to read off the syllabus. Two essays, three quizzes, and a final reading comprehension exam. Attendance is mandatory Your eyes quickly flit to the back of your skull as he reads off that point. No makeups. No late work. No excuses. 

You feel your heart hammer in your chest a little, a sense of anxiety bubbling up in you at how much this class demands. It’s nerve wracking, super fucking discouraging to say the least given your track record, but you know you have no other choice but to commit fully and pass this class, so help your parents. You suppose you can find the motivation in a hot professor and at the very least, make an effort to roll out of bed and be presentable on the days you show up to his class. You exhale softly, hearing the shuffling of books and closing laptops to rouse you from your thoughts. 

“And don’t forget, first five chapters of tulip fever for next class,” his voice booms in the auditorium, fighting with the noise of students desperate to leave and head to their next class or back to their rooms. You flit your eyes towards your professor, arms crossed and muscles bulging against his shirt, casually leaned against his desk. His eyes meet yours for a moment and your breath hitches immediately. His brow quirks at you silently and you’re sure you might disintegrate on spot. You feel your face heat up and you break away the eye contact to rush out of the lecture, both exhausted and perpetually embarrassed, not having enough energy to handle feeling both. In your haste, you miss the way Logan's lip quirks up for a split second at you, rushing out the door with Tulip Fever and streaks of grey on your mind. 

You find you can’t keep your modern history professor off the brain since leaving the lecture hall that wednesday, ever so flustered. You thought about his thick arms back at your dorm, and how they might feel wrapped around you in a warm embrace. You thought about those graying temples, and the picture it would paint with his head between your thighs. You thought about him in your humanities class as your professor droned on about morality and its many philosophical perspectives, but you tune her voice out and think of his instead, wondering what it would sound like whispering sweet nothings in your ear. The level of yearning you’ve reached is bound to get you in trouble, hell it’s gotten you in trouble already— completely neglecting to finish the first five chapters of Tulip Fever like Professor Howlett had assigned, losing yourself in the work from your other classes. Friday had snuck up on you and you smacked your forehead for being so forgetful, the beginnings of discourage and a knot forming in your stomach. I’m a failure, I suck at this, I should drop out, I’m such a fucking idiot.

The thought of letting down a man you barely know has you berating yourself even further. You need to get a grip and quickly— he’s your teacher for God's sake. You suck in a breath, finding yourself sat in the same lecture hall your vivid fantasies found themselves being born in, laptop open as you’re frantically reading the Sparknotes summary minutes before class is set to start. Today, you chose a seat in the second row, still far off to the right side. You weren’t sure you could stay coherent with his gaze on you so heavy.  You tell yourself you picked this spot for a better learning experience, closer seats meaning less of a chance you fall prey to your fantasies, but deep down beyond the denial you knew better than to convince yourself of a lie like that. You sat upfront because you wanted to see Professor Howlett better, to pinpoint the hues of his eyes you couldn’t make out yesterday from so far behind. You wanted to trail your eyes up and down his muscular frame, taking snapshots of the hair on his forearms, the freckles on his thick knuckles, the veins trailing his big hands—

“Good morning, everyone,” a gruff voice speaks and you feel a ball of energy sits itself deep in your stomach, it’s him. You've missed the deep baritone of his voice, you realize. “Hope you all read up the chapters, yeah? We’ll be discussing ‘em today, and I am the asshole who picks on students to participate.” There’s a soft wave of grumbles from some, but your panic is quiet and you hope to a God in heaven somewhere that he doesn’t pick you, god knows you barely retained any information from your flash round of Sparknotes earlier.

“Like any book, the first few chapters were mostly exposition, character and scene setting stuff. Tell me, what does Sophia’s marriage and lack of heir signify to us in these times?” Professor Howlett asks, and you immediately avert your gaze to the grooves and scratches in the table in front of you. Please don’t pick me, please don’t pick me, please please please— “Yeah, you,” your head snaps up, heart hammering in your chest when you see him nod his head at some girl, some girl with too much fucking chest out, you spit, her hand raised high and smile plastered across her smug little face. Your brows pull together and you barely contain the urge to roll your eyes at her enthusiasm. 

“Thank you, Professor,” This fucking bi- “I think that- that while Cornelius and Sophia are often representative of the way marriage was a lot of the times something more transactional, her being unable to have a kid being a main problem- shows how a lot of times a marriage with no evidence of, um, consummation, is seen as practically null and void.” Your fist tenses against the desk at her answer.

“Little long winded, but yeah, good job..?” his voice lilts off, and you smile a bit knowing he doesn’t even remember her name. “Oh, um, Amber,” she sputters out. He nods at her response and continues asking questions about the book. You feel a little bad as class progresses, your unprovoked and unwarranted jealousy towards another woman over a man who’s simply an authority figure to you both, no matter how attractive, makes you cringe. What is he doing to you? 

“Good answers, guys. Glad you all did more than skim the book,” Professor Howlett muses, turning his back to face you all as he digs through his briefcase. You take this time to admire how broad his back looks, draped in a black polo shirt today that practically has you drooling. “The rest of you I didn’t pick on today aren’t unscathed unfortunately,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. He turns around and presents the stack of papers between his large hands to you all and he smirks, “Pop quiz.” 

A myriad of groans come crashing from all over the lecture hall right down to your ears and you silently join, hands falling down against your desk. You sincerely hope these weren’t going to be graded, praying that Professor Howlett possesses some sense of apologeticness, knowing that the definite zero percent you’d get on this would completely fuck over your overall average for the rest of the semester, subsequently giving your parents ample reason to rip you a fucking brand new one. 

Row by row, he passes a stack of papers for each student to pass down and he stops in front of you, seeing as you so conveniently sat at the end of the second row. “Nervous?” he asks, brow quirked and smug fucking look on his face as you look up at him. You quirk your eyebrow right back at him, “Hardly.” A group of papers fall in front of you and he breathes out a laugh, leaving you to pass papers to the next row. You lied like shit, you were insanely nervous, knowing you hadn’t retained a lick of information from your mini crash course nor the class’ discussion prior.

“No tech, no cheating. You guys know the drill, don’t make me catch you and have to chew you out. Twenty minutes and I’m picking ‘em up.” Logan says, walking down the aisle and back to his desk, his hulking frame leaning against his desk and his arms crossed up against his chest so tight that his biceps practically bulge out of his shirt. Or maybe, he’s just that toned, that any movement, minuscule or major, would have him threatening to rip out of his clothes. You’re practically fighting yourself in your seat, tearing your eyes away from his thick arms and heavy pectorals and down to your paper. 

It’s one page, front and back, ten questions. It wouldn’t be so bad had you actually read the book, considering you can’t even remember the name of the main character in the book. You bite your lip, trying so hard to rack your brain for something that resembles a coherent answer to these questions that will give you at least a 75%, knowing it wouldn’t skew your grade average completely off. What does Maria’s role stand to symbolize in the context of 1600’s Amsterdam?. You clench your  fist so hard around your pen you’re almost amazed that it doesn’t break under the pressure. You didn’t even remember a Maria in the book.

Twenty minutes of writing later, grasping at straws for potential points that would make you feel better than getting a big fat zero on your first quiz in this class, in his class, you’re walking to his desk to place your quiz in a pile with the rest of your peers, just as he’d instructed. You kept your eyes down the entire time, feeling too embarrassed to look at him after that silly excuse for banter you had attempted earlier. Hardly. Yeah fucking right. 

After your quiz, you had been dismissed from class, and you felt the anxiety set in almost immediately. The phone call you had with your parents that weekend over your classes and grades so far only worsened, the stern and subtly implied threat of coming back home to learn at a local college looming silently above you if you didn’t keep your grades up. You had obviously avoided mentioning the pop quiz you had, choosing not to set them ablaze at the mention of the fact that you most definitely failed that pop quiz. The stress of your grades instilled a new found productivity in you, in which you took initiative to read ahead of the assigned chapters and annotate as well as take notes for your modern history class, hoping to be prepared next time he’d ask a question. Your stomach churns at the thought of his praise, Good answer. Very good, kiddo. Like that idea. you imagined he’d say to you. You bite your lip as you study your western civilization notes, maybe he’d even indulge in you, call you his good girl, his good little student, something that Amber would never have above you. 

Monday and Tuesday went by uneventfully, as you completed your labs and started on your assignments when assigned. Tuesday night however, you had been anxious almost, or maybe excited— you weren’t sure, but you did know you wanted to be prepared for this class, to prove to Professor Howlett that you could handle his class, show him that you wouldn’t let him chew you up and spit him out so easily. You took the time before bed on that Tuesday to prepare your books in your bag, organize your notes, and even pick out an outfit, neatly folding it and leaving it on your desk chair. Grades be damned, you were beyond ready to prove everyone wrong, yourself included. 

You sat in the front row again, enraptured in the world of Tulip Fever, but really you would rather focus on Professor Howlett. He was all you thought about these days, especially at night when it was only you and the dark of your dorm to entertain you before bed. You hear a giggle next to you and you snap your head to the direction of the noise. Amber. A deep rumble sounds in front of you, someone clearing their throat. You look forward again and see your professor and your face heats up. “Welcome back to earth, sweetheart,” he muses, humour painted all over his face. Your eyes widen at the pet name he’s given you and you feel like sinking into your seat. “I need you here next time, yeah? Not in that pretty little head of yours,” he says, quiet enough so only you and the front two rows can hear. Your head spins. Pretty. He called you pretty. He continues his lecture like nothing else happened, leaving you dazed at his affection. His eyes flit to you briefly and he smiles, before walking back to the front of the class. 

Little moments like these pepper themselves throughout your lectures with Profess Howlett in between the assignments and lectures and raised hands. You’d catch him looking at the juncture of your breasts sometimes as you wore low cut tops, his lilting voice calling you precious pet names, sweetheart, kiddo, sweets. They all have your face warming. Heated gazes, stolen smiles, one off banter, you were convinced you were being delusional. One particular moment after class where you had asked for details on an assignment had you reeling for days. You went up to him after class to ask your question. His face was insanely close, you could smell the mint off his breath from the gum he was chewing during the lecture, feel his words fan your face, deep rumblings and focused glares as you were only inches away from his face. His lips, oh God his lips… so close, so soft looking, so pink, you had been so caught up in him the entire time. And he had noticed, his fingers coming up to your chip to raise your gaze. He did it wordlessly, eyeing you as you eyed him. His look daring you to say something. Challenge me. I dare you. But you didn’t— you couldn’t, you had tried to focus on something else, his musky woodsy scent, his greying stubble, anything, as he continued to explain your question to you. You walked out of his class that day with jello for legs, replaying the moment in your mind. 

Next class you had seen him he had given the assignments back, adorned with little gold stars on those who had grades higher than a B minus. Your paper had come back to you with an A minu, a little gold star next to your grade. “Boosts morale,” had been Logan’s explanation when a student had asked why the gold star. You smiled. Cute. 

You had felt like you finally found your groove, despite the hiccup you had at the beginning. Your first test of the semester approached, and you weren’t nervous, in fact you showed up to class early, getting a chance to get a good spot and watch Professor Howlett walk in and begin setting up. You had waved, a meek good morning in your own words and he returned a wink back. Your insides tugged at themselves. He had waltzed over to you in your seat, starting up conversation. “Nervous?” he asks, curt and short. You smile, “Hardly,” using your own words once more. “I’m gunning on a gold star. I studied extra hard.” Professor Howlett hums, smile on his face. “I look forward to seeing your work. I enjoy reading it,” he says. He leaves you with those words as he walks back to his desk, more students beginning to pepper in the classroom as the test hour approached. You had been so sure you did excellent on your test, studying for days and days beforehand. So when you got back your test, a C Minus staring back at you with a gut wrenching empty space next to your grade right where a star would be. Tears prick your eyes as you look at the grade, feeling so disappointed in yourself. This couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.

You had promptly stayed behind after class to speak to him, and it seemed like Amber had the same idea, her body close to his as she spoke lowly. She didn’t spare a glance back at you as she spoke to him, hand grazing his bicep as she walked away and past you. Your eyes rolled in your head and you walked up to Professor Howlett next. He’s in the middle of packing up his papers in his bag when you come up to him, and he glances up in acknowledgment before going back to what he’s doing. You breathe out and his brown quirks as he pauses and looks at you. “Yes?” he asks. “I… I would like to see you after class if possible to discuss my grades,” you say, fist curling and uncurling with nerves. ”Tomorrow afternoon come see me at my office,” he says, arms crossing. “Don’t be late. Don’t get your hopes up either,” he quirks. You chew your lip before sighing. “I’ll be there. On time.” 

And true to your word, you showed up promptly and on time. Your heart was hammering in your chest cavity so hard you felt like it would burst through your ribcage. Your lower lip found itself between your teeth, chewing at it tenderly. You had been staring at the mahogany colored door, finished with a shiny golden plaque, L. Howlett, PHD. carved within the surface of the precious metal. His name posed just as intimidating as he did. You’d been standing in front of his door for almost three minutes now, fingers skimming along the hem of your plaid skirt. The accompanying white tanktop and white cardigan hand made your subconscious intentions loud and clear, as some part of you, a delusional part of you, had hoped this school girl-esque get up would grant you some sort of leniency with Professor Howlett as you begged for him to give you a retake, a makeup assignment, something for God’s sake.

Any moment more of hesitancy and you would be late for your two o’clock appointment time, so you bring your knuckles up to the door to knock, twice in succession, when the door swings open in front of you. Your knuckle is almost met with Amber’s face, her shock seeing you just as evident as hers. She doesn’t let it linger however, as she casts a glance over her shoulder and muses a “Bye Professor. Thank you so much, I’ll see you in class Monday,” before looking back forward and right back at you, holding your gaze as she walks right out the door and past you, making sure her shoulder doesn’t miss yours. You scoff. Bitch. 

“Right on time. Come in,” he gestures, refusing to get up from his comfy looking office chair. As you walk around his office you take in the interior briefly. The mahogany furniture, the lingering smell of cigar smoke, evidence of his nasty habit sitting on top of an ashtray on his desk, the glass bar cart, adorned with various bottles of whiskey and gin, and a mini fridge sitting on its bottom shelf— filled with ice and garnish you assume. You eye his book cabinet, shelves stuffed with various literary titles, old and new, classic and contemporary. You find yourself impressed, but you shouldn’t be, his teaching— albeit rough, brutish sometimes even— is a testament to his passion towards books and literature. You smile a little as you sit down in the foam lined chair in front of his desk. You try not to think of who sat in it before you as you feel the residual warmth of it against your thighs. You take in Professor Logan, black t-shirt and dark blue jeans— casual, but damn if he made it look good. You eyed his arms, veiny and bulging out his shirt, before flickering your attention back to his face, framed by those greying temples you oh so loved.

“So?” He trails, redirecting his attention from his desktop to you. You swallow a little and sigh. “Um, I know that you said no… no retakes or anything, and I understand your answer if it’s a hard no,” you say, pausing to look at him to try and assess what he’s thinking, but you’re simply met with a raised brow and crossed arms as he leans back further in his chair. “But I… I was wondering if- Well, my parents, they said that If I have a grade lower than an A on my report card this semester I had to drop out and transfer locally, and I don’t want to make this a pity story but I… It’s only this class where I’m having trouble. And I know what you said but my last test really fucked my average and I-” your nervous ramblings are cut off by him raising his hand. Your lips clamp and you watch him, waiting for his impending words. He makes you sit in the silence and with your words, instead opening his desk drawer, rifling between what sounds like various loose pens and papers before taking a lighter out. Small, sliver, zippo style and engraved with meticulous swirls. He picks up the already cut cigar out the ashtray, placing it between his pink lips, and lights it— two experimental puffs of smoke floating your way and you get dizzy. 

“You don’t mind?” He asks only now, and you try not to roll your eyes and that façade of chivalry. “No,” you shake your head. “Thought so,” he smiles, smug. He puffs from the cigar once more before he places it down on the glass ashtray once again before he speaks up. “As it stands now if you tighten up for the rest of the semester you can pass my class with a B something, which don’t sound too bad to me, sweetheart.” Your gut twists with tension. A B isn’t what you need. You brows furrow and you open your mouth to speak, but he continues. “I would love to help you sweetheart, trust me I would. But that wouldn’t be fair to all the other students who come waltzing in here dressed just like you, begging for an A,” he drawls, picking up his cigar again and slotting it between his lips before he stands up and your breath hitches. “Wh- dressed like me? I didn’t-” you begin, confused at what he’s implying. Your eyes follow his moving figure, his steps taking him around his desk to the side of your chair, conveniently eye level to his groin. 

“But you did, didn’t you?” he asks softly, thumb coming to your chin to direct your gaze up to his eyes. “I don’t understand…” you murmur, skin beginning to warm at the rather inappropriate contact and position. Your chest heaves up and down beneath your cardigan and he surely notices letting out a soft chuckle. “You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you can put two and two together,” he continues, thumb rubbing softly back and forth against your chin before he drops his hand from you completely. Your eyes drop in sync to his limb, your mind racing a million thoughts a second. But… isn’t this what you wanted? What you needed? What you’ve dreamed of for weeks upon weeks? “Look at me,” he says, stern. And you do. “You listen so well,” he hums and you feel the makings of a fire ignite itself inside you somewhere deep. I’m being good. Good for him. “Kills you inside that you couldn’t get that shiny little sticker, doesn’t it?” he muses, looking down at you with mirth swirling in his eyes. You feel tears spring to your eyes at his words. He sees right through you. It did hurt. All you ever wanted to be was good for him. 

“We can fix that today. Tell you what, you be a good student for me, and I’ll be a good teacher to you, yeah?” he says, taking a puff from his cigar. “Nod your head like a good student.” And you do. Up and down, slowly. Your brain is fuzzy. This surely isn’t happening, is it? It couldn’t be. He walks away and back to his desk, propping his cigar down after asking it. He pushes a pile of papers from his desk, until he finds what he’s looking for. A sticker sheet. What is he…

“C’mere,” Professor Howlett gestures with a finger, simultaneously sitting back on his chair. Your legs are trembling under you as you get up and walk towards his side of the desk. Logan pivots his desk chair to the side as you walk over to him and you find yourself standing between his legs, quiet. “Take that off,” he says, flicking his head towards your cardigan. You let it drop off your shoulder promptly, standing only in your white tank top and plaid skirt. “Kneel,” he says, and you drop immediately. Pathetic. Your hands lay in your laps as you’re sat between his legs on your knees. Your breathing is as laboured as ever. You can’t believe this is happening— something that you spent nights dreaming of. Touching him, tasting him, feeling him. He reaches over to his desk and grabs the sticker sheet of gold stars, a fresh sheet of stars neatly arranged row by row. “You know what to do, don’t you sweetheart?” he asks, palm of his hand running against your face. You nod, reaching forward to the zipper of his dark denim jeans before his palm grabs your hand. “When I ask you somethin’, I want a verbal answer. Y’understand?” he says. Your voice feels caught in your throat. He’s so intense your head is spinning. “Y-yes,” you breathe. “Yes what?” he spits back and your heart hammers. “Y-yes, Sir.”

“Good girl,” he hums. He lets go of your hands, taking a sticker off the sheet and placing a small gold star right next to your left eye. Your face heats up at the praise and you almost let out a breath, but you don’t. Your hands go back to undressing Professor Howlett, fingers deft with his button and zipper. He lifts his hips up and helps you shrug his jeans down until they’re sitting on top of his black combat boots, clad only in black briefs. The heavy tent in his pants makes your eyes go wide but you persist, thinking of your grade on the line. With a tug at his boxer band his dick pops up over the elastic, and you pull down until the full sheath of him is bobbing freely. Your eyes widen a little at the sheer size of him, wondering how he could possibly fit inside your mouth let alone your pussy. He was long, eight inches you’d guess just by looking and insanely thick. He was heavy too— the length of him unable to stand up fully, bobbing haphazardly as he twitched from arousal. You looked up at him, and his gaze was steady. Expectant. You sucked in a shallow breath before grabbing his cock, warm to the touch. Your fingers barely touched. You’re hand jerked up once before Professor Howlett was grabbing your wrist, only to spit on his dick, the string of saliva landing on the shaft. “S’better. Go on,” he encourages, and you do— jerking him a little faster now with his spit lubricant, the sound of his slick skin making your pussy feel warm, wet. You jerk him faster, spitting in the palm of your second hand before you join your other, breasts bouncing up and down as you jerk him. Little grunts leave Logan, and it makes your tummy feel warm. You were making him feel— “Good, just like that, yeah. Use your mouth now,” he moans. You felt intimidated by his size, but you persisted still. You wanted to be his good girl.

You look up at him as your mouth opens, coy like a fish, and you wrap your lips around his tip. He inhales a sharp breath and it gives you some encouragement. Be good. Your head drops lower, lower and lower until your mouth his full and his tip is tickling your uvula, and you gag around him, sputtering spit all over him. You pull off his dick to cough and he chuckles at you. “Let’s try again together, yeah?” You nod, “Yes, Sir.” You reposition yourself, back on your knees in front of him. “Open your mouth and stick your tongue out, open real wide,” he says, tapping your cheek. It felt soft slap more than a tap however. But still, you open your mouth wide, tongue hanging out. “Juuust like that, yeah…” Logan groans, slapping the warmth of his cock on your tongue. “Breath through the nose,” he says, before putting the length of him in your mouth and pulling your head down on him, fist clenched in your hair. He pulls you down deep, further than you managed to reach alone and you gag, spit everywhere, but he pays you no mind. His curses under his breath before standing up out of his seat, your head craning up as his fist pulls at your nape. “Good fuckin’ girl,” he breathes, thrusting his cock in an out of your mouth. Your throat feels rubbed raw, tears pooling in your eyes but you hold on, hands gripping his thighs. “Take it, fucking take it,” he grunts. His hand disappears before placing a sticker on your spit-covered cheek and you whimper around his cock. Logan’s brows pull together and he laughs. “That turn you on? You like being my good little student? You like sucking off your professor?” he laughs, fucking your face with a deep pace. You muffle a Yes, Sir around him as his spit soaked balls slap against your chin and he laughs. Sticker after sticker covers the expanse of your face, a juxtaposition to your debauched mascara-streaked-spit-covered face.

Your throat is raw, but you’re relishing in the attention, the praise, the intensity of it. “One more mouthful, c’mon,” he grunts, pushing your head down even further down his cock and you squeal around him. Your eyes snap shut, focusing on holding your breath as he brings his dick deep down your throat until your nose is buried in his greying pubes. “So fucking nasty,” he drawls, deep groan leaving his chest. “Take it, be good and take it,” he says breathless, before he’s spitting his cum down your throat, leaving you no choice but to swallow his bitter semen. Your eyes wretch open lowly, watch Logan’s face contort in pleasure as he finishes in your throat and you whimper, squeezing his thighs tightly. “Good student,” he coos, pulling his cock from your mouth and it’s a relief that’s long overdue. Your first unobstructed breath is a deep one, and you’re slightly dizzy from the oxygen after having it restricted for so long. You don’t think about it for long before a hand is pulling you up off the floor, and before you know it, lips are on yours, tongue finding tongue. Your eyes close by themselves and you melt into the kiss, Professor Howlett’s lips soft against yours, but kissing you so roughly. Your arms grip his biceps, desperate for something to hold onto, anything to steady yourself with. 

The kiss breaks and your mind feels hazy. Your eyes open and you see Professor Howlett staring back at you, hands roaming your body. “Pr-professor…” you moan out after a particularly hard squeeze at your ass. “Logan, baby,” he says, kissing your lips once in a peck, and again as a sloppy embrace, his tongue swirling in your mouth and you keen into him. His hands pull at the back of your thighs and you jump up in his arms, wrapping your arms around his thick neck. He walks you a few paces, still stuck in an embrace, until he puts on you down on his desk. He breaks the kiss between you two before pulling the front of your tank top down, revealing your breasts to him, nipples pert. He wastes no time kissing and licking your chest, and you throw your head back in a silent moan. He sucks on your nipples for a minute, pinching and toying with your breast until your chest is heaving and nipples are raw. “What a sight for me,” Logan hums, and you feel shy under him like this. “Lean back and spread your legs f’me,” he says low, kneeling as you do as he asks. He’s eye level with your pussy, only covered by your skirt and white panties. He lifts the plaid fabric up and groans, the little wet spot of your pussy a delectable sight. 

Logan leans forward and licks the wet gusset of your panties and you let out a shuddering moan. “P-please, Logan…” you breath, too wound up to wait. He smirks and indulges in you, pliant and needy. He hooks a finger in the crotch of your panties and pulls them to the side, hurrying his face into your wet and waiting pussy. It’s an enrapturing feeling, having him suck and lick and taste your clit and folds like this, groaning into you and he praises you for having such a sweet fuckin’ pussy, baby. He sucks your clit roughly, before pulling back to spit on your pussy, rubbing his nose against your clit before flattening his tongue against your gushing slit once again. The streaks of grey between your thighs sends blood rushing downwards to the center of your arousal and you can’t help but run your hands through his salt and pepper hair. He licks and tongues you until your legs go numb, teasing your orgasm from you time and time again until you’re nearly in tears for him, ready to cum.

 “Please Lo- Sir. Please, Sir. Wanna cum, I’ll be good. Just-” your begging is cut short as two thick fingers push themselves in you and you throw your head back at the stretch. “You’re gonna come for me in a little, sweetheart. Be good for now,” Logan coos, kissing your inner thighs. You’re heaving as he curls and scissors his fingers inside you in a way that feels so unfairly good that tears begin to streak down your face, gold stickers peeling and falling off your damp skin; scattering down on the desk and falling on your chest. “G-gonna… Oh my God, Sir,” you squeal, just about ready to… Until his fingers deftly leave you. Before you can whine about this, Logan’s thick fingers covered in your slick push into your mouth and you groan. “Hush, baby. You’re about to feel real good in a little,” Logan hums, rubbing his cock, now hard again, up and down your wet and sensitive pussy, the head of him hitching your clit so good it hurts. His fingers leave your mouth. “Beg for it.” And you do. You’re a babbling mess under him. “Inside, p-put it inside me, Professor,” you moan, and Logan's resolve snaps, thrusting into you in one fluid movement.

You see stars, no pun intended, at the stretch of him. Your stomach feels full and you shudder, laying back down against the desk. “Tightest, sweetest fucking pussy I ever felt,” Logan coos, fingers pushing back into your mouth. His unoccupied hand grabs your leg and throws it over his shoulder and he begins to thrust in and out of you, knocking the wind out of you with every push in and out. Your intermittent moans turn into a symphony of cries as his pace increases and he’s fucking into you at a brutal speed. Your hands are grasped around the wrist of his hand that’s by your mouth, sucking his fingers to soothe the burning part of the pleasure. “That’s it, fucking take it,” he grunts, pushing your leg from around his should back until your knee was touching your shoulder. The new angle made the pleasure unbearable, every movement rubbing against your g-spot. Your eyes begin to close, your body shutting down seemingly as you seem you enter a pleasure comatose, the bubbling pleasure, the fingers in your mouth, it all feels like too much. But Logan doesn’t let you stay in that place for too long, his fingers leaving your mouth to slap your cheek, pulling back down. “I need you right here, know it feels good but I want you with me,” he says breathy, thrusts still never faltering. 

Without his fingers in your mouth your moans are free to be heard, your incoherent babbles of “s’too much,” and “so deep in me, sir,” floating in the air between Logan’s heavy breaths and obscene curses. You’re breasts jump with every thrust in you, your head bouncing up and down from the sheer force of his thrusts. “T-Tell me…” you stutter out, eyes fluttering. “Tell you?” he asks, grinding his hips up and deep, and you’re sure he’s grazing your cervix. You grip his t-shirt and keel. He gets what you mean. “Good girl. My good girl. You’re the best girl. You want another star, don’t you?” he breathes out, a hand moving down to your clit as he thrusts up and out, up and out into you. You whimper, his words and ministration’s overwhelming, “Yes, Sir. M’good. So good. W-want it. Please, can I have it?” you babble. You belly feels warm, and the heat bubbles with every brush at your swollen clit and thrust in your pussy. He lets go of the hand at your knee, spreading you open to grab a sticker from the sticker sheet. “Stick your tongue out f’me,” and you do, overwhelmed with this moment. You’re being good. You’re being good. You’re almost there, keep being good. He spits in your mouth and you moan holding it there and waiting for him to tell you what to do. “Swallow it,” he huffs, thrusts faltering. He’s close, you deduce. I don’t want it to end. Please don’t let it end. You swallow and stick your tongue back out to show him and he groans.

He puts the star sticker on your tongue, and he thrusts in you harder, tweaking at your clit as he does. Your body seizes and you melt into a fit of moans and grunts, and you finally cum, Logan fucking you through it. “Yeah baby, just like that. Kneel for me,” he says, pulling out of you. You lay up off the desk and fall promptly to your knees, watching him jerk himself to orgasm above you with your tongue out, gold star on the middle of your tongue. He grunts with deep Fuck! before warm ropes of cum spray your partially sticker-covered face and tongue. Your eyes close and you hum, relishing in the warmth. Logan wipes the cum from your eyes with his thumb and sticks it in your mouth, and you suck, no questions asked. “Good fucking girl.” 

The moments following are awkward. Logan tucks himself back in his pants, and pulls his jeans up and you’re left laying on the floor, coming down from your ecstasy high. The zip of his jeans breaks the silence and you’re looking up at him, soiled with cum, spit, stickers, tears and mascara. He walks to his bar cart and grabs the cloth hanging off the handle bar, and he hands it to you. You clean yourself up, and when you’re done you find his cardigan in his hands. You fix your tank top back over your breasts and pull the crotch of your panties back into place before grabbing it from him. “Thanks,” you say quietly. “See you in class on Tuesday,” is the last thing he says to you before you leave his office. Stunned.

On Tuesday, he hands you back your test with a new grade, an eighty, and gold sticker placed on it right next to the new grade. He glances at you as you look over your test, and smirks. You read the note he left in red ink on the back of the test, heart beating a little faster once you look back up at him. Good girl. 

send me an ask!

[luveline]

Ahh I’m so obsessed with stripper!reader and Spencer!! Do you have any more thoughts about them you’d be willing to share, maybe just a snippet of their life together? So so in love with them and your writing in general

i got a different request for them that I lost about reader struggling to afford essentials and so I thought I’d combine them, I hope that’s ok!! <;3 fem, 1.1k

cw food insecurity/ poverty 

You attempt to save money, but the ten dollars you don't spend on shampoo and conditioner gets used on painkillers. You hide fifty dollars in a book and try to forget about it, but your shoes split open on the walk to work, and it takes all afternoon to find it again. You try so hard to stretch your paycheck and something new makes it impossible. 

So it's a cold night in late December and you spent all your money for food on the gas bill. Your stomach hurts, but at least your nose isn't that horrible stiff cold that distracts. 

It's not just that your stomach hurts, though. You feel miserable about everything, and you know you need to ask someone for help. You've thought about selling something, but you already pawned your watch, and everything else is inconsequential. 

I could sell my phone… but how would I talk to Spencer? 

It's the stupidest thought you could've had. More importantly, how would you communicate with work? How would you call your electric and gas company, or talk to your landlord? 

Spencer would be so sad if he knew you’d sold your phone to pay for food. He’d probably be upset knowing you considered it. And you won’t get paid for another three days, so unless you can somehow live off of olives and cherries from the club bar, you have to ask Spencer for money or get a loan. With your credit score, one situation is more likely than the other. 

You bring your phone across the pillow and sigh before clicking on his contact. He’s practically the only number you call. 

“Hello?” you ask. 

“Hi, Y/N.” 

“Hello, handsome,” you murmur, staging an affect of someone who couldn’t be more unbothered by the world. 

“Yeah, hi. You okay?” 

You don’t want to butter him up. It feels dishonest. You should be straight forward. “Spencer. You know I hate asking you for things.” 

“Yes, it’s the only bad thing about you.” He sounds like he’s smiling. You can imagine him on his couch reading something obscure, or watching one of his sci-fi shows, curls in his eyes, grey pyjamas too short for him riding up his calves as they tend to do.

“But I need– um. I don’t have any money?” You don’t mean to phrase it like a question. “Like. Okay, so, I promise you I am not an irresponsible person, just, my gas bill went up and I didn’t know, but it’s so cold I paid it anyways, and now I have three dollars. Um. Total. And I haven’t eaten all day and I’m sorry I’m asking, but I just need like twenty dollars until I get paid on Tuesday. Could you let me borrow twenty dollars, please?” 

“Do you want to get takeout?” 

You cringe. “No, like, twenty dollars for groceries, Spence.” 

“No, I understood. That’s fine, I’ll happily give you twenty dollars. But you said you haven’t eaten today? And I miss you, so it’s an excuse?” Now he’s the one making questions out of statements. “I can get us Thai food.” 

Your stomach pangs at the thought. No matter how much you hate this, you know he loves you enough to want to bring you dinner, and you really will pay him back, so he might as well. “Yeah, please. I’d love to see you, Dr. Reid.”

“I’ll be quick,” he promises. 

He isn’t. You wonder if he’s forgotten you and your rumbling stomach, curled into a c-shape under the sheets. It’s warm, at least, nearly too warm, the blade of your hunger threatening to drive you mad. It’s not a nice feeling, depending on the kindness of a friend to see you through, nor is it very pleasant to be this hungry. You’ve gone hungry a hundred times, and this is the only time you’ve ever had someone you trusted enough to turn to during that time to ask for help. What if Spencer’s decided he isn’t comfortable with your lending after all and he doesn’t come over tonight? 

You’d been looking forward to seeing him again. It’s almost worse than the hunger. 

Just as you’re thinking he’s decided he doesn’t want to be your friend anymore, he lets himself in. 

Your apartment is small, consisting of three rooms. The bedroom, the bathroom, and the living room kitchen combination. He lets himself into the living room with a cacophony of rustling and a called, “Hello!” followed soon by a muttered swear. 

You laugh under your breath.

“Are you coming out here, or do you want to eat dinner in bed?” he asks. 

“I haven’t decided yet.” 

It’s quiet enough besides his arrival that you’ve no need to shout.

“Well, stay there if you want. Have you been drinking anything? I brought iced tea and some stuff for you to have breakfast tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” You force yourself to sit up. One moment you’re looking at the closed door and the next you’re squinting against the light of the kitchen, Spencer in the doorway like a silhouette against it. “Hey, Spence. You’re taller than last time.” 

“I’m the same size as always.”

“You’re still wearing your shoes. That must be it.” 

Spencer takes off his shoes and crosses the short distance to you. “Hi,” he says, taking your hand as he sits down. His fingers are freezing. “Sorry I took a while.”

“Sorry for asking you for money.” 

“It’s okay. It’s not something to worry about. Everyone has to ask a favour sometime.” 

His hair is wind blown, his eyes watery. The cold weather has nipped his pert nose a rosy pink and he’s smiling at you with chapped lips, unaware of or uncaring about his own circumstances in the face of yours. “You okay?” he asks, his pretty brown eyes narrowing, eyebrows pinching together at the starts. “You can’t just not eat all day and not tell me.”

You nod tightly. It’s humiliating to be in this position. 

He softens. “Did they tell you the rate was rising? It’s illegal in Virginia–”

You take your hand from his. “They sent me a letter I didn’t open. I knew it would be bad news.” 

Spencer looks down at your knees. “I know that you’re used to doing things by yourself, but you don’t have to anymore.”

“‘Cos you look after me,” you say quietly. 

“I’m trying to.” 

You laugh and jog your joined hands to make him look up. “Okay. Look after me some more then and give me a hug. I’m too warm, and you’re freezing.” 

He hugs you tightly, quick to rub your shoulder blade with his thumb. “Stay here, okay? I’ll bring you a plate.” 

You cling to him for a few seconds, until hunger wins, and you send him off into the kitchen again. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

To Those Who Wait

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as non/dubcon, virginity loss, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are tired of being the safe one so you decide to pay for some excitement.

Characters: escort!Ransom Drysdale, Curtis Everett

Note: this is intended as a one shot but you also know I'm easy to influence.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Tony loves himself. Take care. 💖

“Happy birthday!” Vivica shoves the plastic teeth of the dollar store tiara into your hair. 

You try not to glower as the rest of the table roars with laughter. It’s a happy night. You can’t spoil it just because you hate gimmicks. They mean well, you’re just a downer. Like always. 

You force a smile, “thanks, guys.” 

“Don’t thank us, it’s your night,” Jerrod chirps. “Which means you drink for free!” 

Big whoop. You barely drink. You’ll have one or two for the occasion but you don’t like the way it makes your stomach feel. Ugh, stop being such a tight ass. It’s about you but it isn’t. They went to all this trouble planning the night. For you. Your friends. You can at least be thankful for them. 

Yeah, you have friends but how much do they really know you? For as long as you’ve known them, they should know that this isn’t you. They are the ones that want to go out, that want to drink, that want to wade into the unpredictability of the general public. That’s not you. 

“So, what are we having?” Mila asks. 

“Hm, I don’t know. You know I’m not picky.” It all just tastes like alcohol. 

“Ooh, cucumber gimlet. That sounds nice,” Jerrod says. 

“Oh, it really does,” Vivica agrees. 

“I’m going to try the gummy bear. I’m in the mood for something sweet,” Mila says. 

“Sure, I’ll try that,” you shrug. 

Jerrod flags down a server and puts in the order. As he does, Vivica stirs around under the table. Mila claps as she reveals the gift bag from beneath. 

“My favourite part,” Mila wiggles with excitement. 

“Oh, you didn’t have to--” 

“It’s only one part of our gift,” Jerrod laughs knowingly. 

You give him a wary look. You don’t like his tone. You accept the gift bag and look inside. You can’t tell what it is. You pull out the tissue paper and a small box wiggles inside. Slowly, you slip it out and just as quickly shove it back in. 

“That’s it. You wanna do it just like that,” Jerrod guffaws. 

Your mouth drops open as you look around the table. The bright pink dildo has your cheeks on fire. You can’t believe they’d bring that out in public. 

“What is wrong with you guys?” 

“Oh, come on, everyone can use a good six inches or so,” Jerrod snickers. “That’s our backup gift. Our real gift is somewhere around here.” 

“Huh?” You peek around the bar. “Like a scavenger hunt?” 

“Oh, it’s a hunt,” Vivica juts out her chin. “You set the target and we’ll take him down for you.” 

“What?” You scoff. 

“Come on, honey, you’re thirty. You need to get one last hurrah in,” Jerrod insists. “When it’s my turn, I want three beefy boys. One in each flavour, blond, brunette, and even a redhead.” 

“I’ll have the same,” Mila smirks. 

You’re embarrassed. Uncertain two. You can’t tell if they’re mocking you. Out of the four of you, you’ve always been the boring one. The sober one. All these years, and you were the one saving them from regrettable drunken mistakes and making sure they don’t leave the bar with creeps. It wouldn’t be hard for them to guess, would it? 

“Don’t worry, we’ll be your wingmen. Wingwomen. Wingfriends!” Vivica says. “How about him?” She points as the server lays out the drinks. “He’s cute. Oh, look at his eyes.” 

“Wow,” Mila preens. “A bad boy. That would be adorable.” 

You want to disappear. You want to dissolve into the cushioned bench. Become a part of it. Life as a piece of a furniture must surely be nicer. 

“And his friends, not bad, huh?” 

You’re speechless. It’s a joke. Even if they don’t mean it as one, it is. All these years and you’ve never been the one approached first. You’re the straggler. You get the odd one out and they get stuck with you. Maybe, all this time, your friends had been too self-absorbed or too drunk to notice that. 

You don’t mean to be bitter. You shouldn’t be. It isn’t their fault you’re so lame. That you’ve gone another year without a single thing to be proud of. Without any change. 

“Right, well, they look busy.” 

“Booooo,” Vivica hovers her glass in front of her mouth. “Who wants to break the ice?” 

“Don’t mind if I do,” Mila stands. 

“Wait.” You blurt out but she ignores you. 

Some birthday. You get to spend it awkwardly making small talk with another disinterested stranger. You try not to show your discomfort. You grab the skewer with gummy bears impaled on it and stir the vibrant red drink. You sip through the thin straw. It makes your cheek pinch painfully. The sugar will do worse to your stomach than the vodka. 

You keep your head down as Mila’s fluttery giggle wafts over. Vivica giggles as she watches and Jerrod cranes to see. You stare at the table and distance yourself from the moment, detaching from your body as the bar hazes around you. 

“Hey, you guys, come on,” Mila calls over, “lots of room.” 

Her waving hand brings you back to the present. Vivica nudges you with her elbow as Jerrod jumps up. He grabs Mila’s drink and you shuffle along behind them. The group of men sit at one of the tall tables. They rearrange themselves and you stand back as the others claim their seats. 

You climb up on the last, balancing your drink and the gift bag, unable to bring yourself to look at the men on either side of you. You fixate on your drink and taste it again, even as the sickly flavour curdles in your mouth. Your friends introduce themselves and you choke on your name before Mila says it for you. 

The men take their turns. Your eyes dart around evasively. A sweltering heat forms a sheen across your face. The one with the frosted tips and glasses is Jensen, the broader brunette in the button-up and blazer is Nick, the biggest with his bushy beard is Sy, and the last one, beside you, with the buzz cut, is Curtis. 

“Nice crown,” Jensen says. “Happy birthday.” 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” you reach up and take of the tiara. “Thanks.” 

“You from here or visiting?” Jerrod asks the men. 

“We work at Stacks.” 

“Programmers?” Vivica snorts. “You might know my ex. Two of them actually.” 

They laugh. You don’t know what’s funny. This is weird. You hate that invisible barrier between you and them, that makes you feel like you’re on a completely different planet. You don’t get this part of the script. The prologue is as far as you ever get. 

“How old are you?” Curtis’ deep timbre startles you as it rolls beneath the chatter of the others. You shift in your seat and twist the glass around. 

“Thirty,” you pick up the Tiara, the 3 and 0 nearly hidden by the feathers. 

“Ah, the big one,” he comments. 

“Yeah, just another year,” you put the plastic crown down. 

“What do you do?” 

You sniff and tap your fingers on the cup. You lift it and drain the last of the fruity juice and stringent vodka. “You don’t have to do this.” 

“Do what?” He asks. 

“My friends are just being goofy. You don’t have to act like you’re into me.” 

“Well, I’m not much of an actor. Never was into theatre,” he says. “I wouldn’t know, would I? Just trying to get to know you, figure that out.” 

“Really,” you give him a sideways look. “Ah,” you hiss in false disappointment, “hate to break the seal but I gotta go the ladies. Excuse me.” 

“Right,” he accepts dully. “How about I get you a refill, for your birthday?” 

“You don’t have to but if you really want to, I could use a ginger ale. Thanks.” You accept as you climb off the stool. 

You cross the bar and stop just at the threshold of the hallway that reads Girls and Boys above. You glance back. Mila has her charming smile on, Vivica is leaning into Sy, and Jerrod and Nick are watching something on his phone. Why can’t you be normal, like them? 

You flinch as you catch Curtis’ eye. His eyes flick to you as he talks to the server. You quickly spin away. You’ll wait until the third round when they’re too tipsy to care. Then you’ll make your exit. 

🍹

The hotel clerk hands you the key card. You don’t make eye contact. If you do, she might see right through you. You shove it in your pocket before the tremour is noticeable. You hurry away to the elevator and tap the button three times. 

You’re not impatient because your eager. You just want to get this over with. Finally. It only took you thirty years. 

The doors open and you step in, relieved that no one else gets on with you. When you’re shut in, you shudder. You’re disgusted. With this. With yourself. But you’re tired. You just want to pull of the bandage. You want to know what all the fuss is about so you can say you’re not missing out on anything. 

Ever since your birthday, since that pathetic deja vu of going home alone, of your friends stealing the attention on what the claim was your night, you haven’t been able to stop those thought. You’re pathetic. A loser. No wonder it’s hasn’t happened yet. Who would want to touch you? They barely want to talk to you. They wouldn’t if you weren’t a leech on your friends’ ankles. 

The doors open and jar you. You stagger then march out. You slide the card out and check the room number again. Your hands shake so bad it takes you five tries to get the green light. 

Inside the room, the nausea swells in your stomach. Your teeth chatter. You go into the bathroom and put the bag on the counter. You dig out the anti-nausea medicine and read the insert; take one or two. Do not take with alcohol. 

You pop the pink pill in your mouth and swallow. You look at your reflection. You look as scared as you feel. No time to waste, you’ve done enough of that. 

You start with the shower. You wash every crook and crevice. You check your legs and under your arms. You only shaved yesterday night but you don’t need any pricklies. And your pelvis. You did a decent enough job trimming that down. 

You get out and moisturise. You don’t want to smell. For once in your life, you don’t want to feel repugnant. You’re not some romantic. You thought of buying lingerie but that only seemed sadder. So you put on a pair of grey jersey pajamas, just a tank top and shorts. 

You don’t want to look like this is a big deal. That you tried too hard. You do your hair and a little bit of makeup. Too much would just get messy anyway. Deodorant, perfume, and mouthwash. You’re as fresh as can be. 

And anxious! 

You take out the box of condoms. You don’t think the pills are working. You want to vomit, even though you haven’t eaten. You grab your phone and check the messages. Shoot, it’s a lot later than you thought. 

‘Cashapp?’ 

Fuck, you forgot. You quickly flip over to your menu and sign in. You send the money and your chest drops. This is it. That’s a hefty wad of cash. You hope it’s worth it. 

You reply to the text; ‘sent’ then the room number. There. Done deal. It’s going to happen. Then you can say, yeah, did it, no big deal. 

You go into the suite and put your phone on the night table. You sit on the bed for a whole second before you bounce off. No, you can’t stay there. No, no, no. You pace and wring your hands as you wait. 

The knock trips you up. You turn to stare at the door and like a horror movie, your eyes widen and your ears ring. He’s here. 

You near the door and stop to look through the key hole. There’s a trickle of relief. He looks like the pictures her sent. That’s good. 

You open the door a crack and look out. He looks annoyed as he checks his watch then tugs on the lapels of his jacket. It looks like a designer; the lining has little emblems on it. He says your name, “that’s you, right?” 

“Hugh? Right?” You blink and he nods as he cheek ticks, “er, come in.” 

You pull back the door and press yourself to the wall. He struts in and clicks his tongue in his cheek. He examines the room as he shrugs out of his jacket and slings it over the small bench against the wall. You close the door and he whistles. You face him as he tilts his head, looking you up and down. 

“Smells good in here,” he grins and smooths his tidy hair. 

Despite who and what he is, he’s handsome. Well, that probably helps. It’s why you paid half your savings for one night. You sway slightly then swallow down the despair. You’re doing it. You’re really going to do it. 

A fucking prostitute. That’s as good as you can do. 

“How about some music,” he approaches the speaker under the television, “think these things have bluetooth now.” 

“Sure,” you croak, watching him as you cross your arms. It’s not too late. No, you don’t think you’ll get a refund now. 

He takes out his phone and swipes around. He holds a button on the sound bar and it chimes. Soft R&B drawls from the speaker. You bite your thumb as you stare at him. 

“So...” he looks at you. 

You nod and clear your throat. You don’t know what to do. You don’t think the whole foreplay thing is going to happen. 

He drags his hands down his cream sweater. He doesn’t really dress like an escort. Or maybe you just put too much trust in movies. He lifts the hem as you stay as you are. Your feet are glued to the floor. 

He strips off the sweater and reveals a muscled torso and a thicket of dark hair across his chest. You don’t expect it as he sports a clean shave on his jaw. You clamp down on your arms as you keep them folded across your chest. 

“Like what you see?” He winks and bites his lips. 

He’s good. You almost believe him. If you weren’t missing a chunk from your bank account, you might. 

“Come on, baby, why don’t you get some wine going,” he purrs. 

A distraction. Thank god. You go to the bar fridge and take out one of the mini bottles of white wine. You peel off the foil over the cap but can’t break the seal. You struggle, trying to hide your effort, but sense him coming close. 

“I just need to find some glass,” you say. 

He chuckles and takes the bottle. His blue eyes devour you as he cracks the seal and flicks the cap away. He drinks directly from the bottle and smirks. 

“No need. Go on,” he offers it up. 

Your lips twitch and you take the bottle. You drink, nearly gagging. You swallow and hand it back. He swigs as he watches you. 

He is so good looking. You wonder how he even got into this. He’s built like a god. No, a gladiator. You’re such a frigging dweeb. 

“Hey, you don’t gotta be uptight,” he gives the wine back to you, “relax, enjoy the wine. You paid for the night. No hurry.” 

You nod and drink again. It goes down easier. You return the bottle to him and he strides to the bed. He sits and pats the other side of the mattress.  

“Come here, sweetheart.” 

You quiver and lock your arms straight. You are conscious of every single part of you as you near him. You sit stiffly and stare ahead. The music drones as he gulps again. He bends forward to set the empty bottle on the floor. 

You wince as he drapes his arm over your shoulders. He traces the strap of your tank top and pulls you against him. You shiver as he brushes up your neck. 

“This your first time?” 

You twitch then make yourself nod. You wait for him to laugh. He doesn’t. 

“Well, let’s go slow, then.” 

“No,” you erupt. “I mean--” you grip your knees and steady yourself. “I want to just do it. Get it over with.” You grit your teeth and force a breath out your nose. “There’s condoms in the bathroom.” 

Now he laughs. “Huh, you know what you want.” 

You don’t reply. You can’t. That was the last of your courage or whatever you want to call it. 

He goes into the bathroom and you list as he opens the box. He emerges and examines the square wrapper. It looks even smaller in his large hand. He rests his other on the top of his pants. 

“How do you want it?” He asks. 

You stare at him. How do you want it? You don’t know. You raise your brows helplessly. 

“Wanna get naked?” He suggests. 

You look at the bed. You blink long and hard. Your head feels fuzzy. Must be the wine. 

“Right,” he sighs and undoes his zipper. You peek up long enough to see the top of his boxers. You back away and crawl up the bed. 

You face away from him as you strip off your shirt, then your shorts. You jitter as you lay down flat like a plank. You stare at the ceiling as the wrapper crinkles. He groans as he comes closer to the bed. 

“I like these ones,” he puts a knee on the bed. 

Your breath is like thunder. You feel like your suffocating. He touches your leg and you squeak. 

“Gonna have to open up, baby,” he pets your knee. 

You let him drag your legs apart. You can’t do it yourself. You wipe your face with a shaky hand. 

“Don’t worry, I got you.” 

Your eyes snap to him as something clicks. He holds a small bottle with a black label. He squirts the clear oil onto his fingers then reaches between your legs. You return your gaze to the ceiling before he makes contact. 

He rubs the cool lube between your folds. Your thighs quake as he glides up and down. Over and over until the moisture is more than just from the bottle. 

He tickles your entrance and you tense. He rasps as he circles around, “relax.” He pokes a finger into you and you clench. He wiggles it and hushes you as you whimper. “Look, you’re not gonna like it if you don’t chill.” 

He sinks his finger further in then pulls it out again. You blow your breath out and suck it back in as he dips inside once more. You clasp the duvet beneath you as he fingers you rhythmically. Your pussy trembles around him. 

“That’s it, baby,” he pushes a second finger into you. “You wanna be ready, huh? I mean... it’s your first time, you gotta be ready.” 

The comment is like a slap across the face. Still, you can’t focus on his words. Your eyes feel fuzzy and your body is alight with a spectrum of tingles. 

He rocks his hand and you lift your pelvis slightly. He presses his thumb against your clit and you gasp. The mix of pressure and motion is intense. You’re not completely clueless. That toy your friends gave you isn’t the only one you have, you just never used one inside of you. 

You push your head down into the pillows and moan. He hums in approval and brushes his other hand up your stomach. He rolls his thumb around your nipple. 

“Yeah, like that, relax,” he pushes deeper and you whine, little pouts coming as you dig your heels into the mattress. “Oh, my god, baby, you’re going to cum, aren’t you?” 

You squeal as you spasm. It’s not your first orgasm but it’s the best one you’ve ever had. It’s wild how different it is with someone, anyone, else. You shake as your voice unfurl and your cunt squelches around his fingers. He cooes at you as he eases you through your climax. 

“Was that so bad?” He wiggles his fingers before he pulls them free. “Huh? Think you liked that.” He gets up on his knees and moves between your legs. He strokes his dick, swollen inside the rubber sheath. “Think you’ll like this a whole lot better.” 

You lift your head dozily and stare at him. He’s big. Long and thick. That dildo was probably smaller than him and you left it in the package. 

He moves closer and you let out a surprised chitter. He caresses your thigh and hushes you as he grips your hip. He pumps himself with his other hand and angles his tip along your lips. 

“You said you wanted to get it done,” he pushes his blunt tip along your entrance. “Don’t hold your breath, baby.” 

He pushes into you and you cry put. Oh. That’s not good. The blinding pain ripples through you. This is different too. Not like his fingers. He’s... 

“Too big,” you rasp. “Please-- ah, ah, ah.” 

“Come on, baby, you can take it,” he growls as he inches into you. “Once it’s in, it’ll feel better.” He impales you down to his base and snarls as he leans his head back. He rolls his shoulders and shudders. “Fuck, it’s been a while since I had a virgin cunt.” 

Flames of humiliation lick at you. This man who fucks for a living is taking your virginity like it’s a prize. Another deposit in the bank. Why did you do this? 

“Hugh,” you eke out his name and reach down, pressing your fingertips to his stomach. “I don’t want--” 

He thrusts and you shriek. Your lips form and O as your head falls back down. You whimper as your body shakes uncontrollably. Your fingers furl into fists and your toes curl. 

“Baby, you said you wanted this. You paid for it,” he grabs your wrists and moves your hands above your head, locking them there as he holds himself above you. “Ah, fuck.” He rams into you again and your tears spill over. “Ah, ah, ah,” he continues to thrust, “you are fucking tight. Ah.” 

He closes his eyes as his nostrils flair and he groans, “the way you’re squeezing me--” 

“Please,” you snivel and he snaps his pelvis into yours. You push your legs wider, trying to ease the pressure. “Ow. You’re hurt—ing me.” 

“Argh, yes, oh,” he ruts into you harder and harder. 

The springs of the bed bounce you against him as his pace turns furious. He puffs like an animal as his eyes blare down at you. You writhe and sob, your face wet with horror and humiliation. Your flesh claps together slickly as he raises himself only to drop down with all his weight. Again and again and again. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum. Baby, you hear that. Your first time and you got about to blow,” he sneers. “Tell me you want me to cum.” 

You gurgle helplessly and he slams into you, “tell me.” 

“Please--” You squeal. “Please just cum. Just...” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he grunts as he batters you. 

“Please cum--” 

He bucks wildly and lets out a bellowing roar. He pushes his head up and drones through his climax as he fucks you into the bed. You close your eyes and turn your head away. He slows as your heart pounds in your temples and your skin scalds. What did you do? 

He lets go of your wrists and pulls out of you all at once. He leaves you splayed on the bed. His footfalls slap away to the bathroom and the faucet runs. You don’t dare move, hoping that if you don’t, this will all just turn out to be a nightmare. 

🛏️

You touch your wrist and rip your hand away as if you’ve been burned. The bruises are tender. All of you is, but especially... that part of you. 

You have a pillow under you as you sit on your couch. You can barely put your weight on your pelvis. Each time a pang strikes, you remember that horrible mistake. Now you can really say that it isn’t all it’s made out to be. It’s not worth it. 

You lean on the armrest and stare at the television. You don’t see the faces or hear the words. Like the rest of the world, it’s now a fog. Like that night. The box for the pills said not to mix with alcohol. 

You lean your head in your hand. You don’t want to think about it. That’s worse than what happened. The memory. That never ends. 

Your phone buzzes. You ignore it. Vivica called several times. Jerrod once, and all Mila sent was some Tiktok you don’t care about. 

The table continues to vibrate. It agitates you. You get up and stumble. You cup between your legs. You wear only a sleep shirt. You don’t want anything to chafe. You grab your phone and check the ID. Who the heck? 

You answer, “hello?” 

“Hi, is this...” the timbre asks. Do you know them. 

“Uh, yeah, is this the pharmacy?” 

There’s a silence, “uh, no, it’s Curtis.” 

“Curtis,” you repeat. 

“From the bar?” He says uncertainly. 

You already know that. You just don’t believe it. You frown. 

“How did you get my number?” 

“Your friend. Viv. Sorry, I... I guess I shoulda asked you but you left so early.” 

“Why?” You ask then cringe at your own stupidity. 

“Why... because... I want to ask you out. I’m not good at beating around the bush, you know, but you don’t really give a guy a chance.” 

“Asking me out?” 

“Trying.” 

You’re quiet again. It’s like sledge hammer shattering your reality. A couple days ago, you’d be giddy. Not it’s ironic. After what you did. Another laugh in the face. 

“So, did I... just embarrass myself here or...” he huffs. You feel bad. 

You never gave him a chance. You never gave yourself a chance. And now you spoiled it all. You can’t bring yourself to take out your self-hatred on him again. You can humour him for one date. Then you can say, at least, that you’ve done that too. 

“Um, alright,” you agree, wishing it was happier, wishing that it could be different. You’ll have to figure out how to let him down easy. Although Mila says ghosting is even easier. “Sure.” 

“Sure,” he echoes you. “Don’t sound so excited.” 

“Ha, sorry,” you turn and rub your neck. “Yes. Let me know what works for you.” 

“I can do that,” he sounds relieved. “I’ll text you in a minute.” 

“Alright,” you hold back a scoff. “Thanks for calling, Curtis.” 

“No, thank you.” 

He hangs up and you turn the phone to silent. Your eyes sting as you lay it face down on the table and walk away. Things could have been so much different if you weren’t so damn stupid. He’ll figure that out and maybe you won’t have to be the one to break it off. 

[drdemonprince]

interesting that anon went with "housing a stranger" out of all the things you listed. almost as if they're arguing in bad faith by picking the one thing that's just plain impossible for many and hugely impactful even if you can, and not more personally sustainable examples

I chose to include that as an example both because friends I admire have actually done it, and because my dear friend Emma Barnes speaks often about the inherent violence of private property, and how it trains us to become less generous to the people around us. We don't feed the person on the corner, she says, preferring instead to donate to the idea of a starving child half a world away via some nonprofit, because the person on the corner would know our face, learn our name, get to know us and what we have, and can knock on our door and ask us for more. There is quite literally an unhoused person at the end of my block, and there is a violence and a cruelty to me not inviting her into my home every single time I walk past her, or even every time that I speak to her and only give her a dollar or two, and there's no escaping that. I am not afraid to acknowledge this. I think we've got to at least acknowledge this.

[101suouexpressions]

Umemiya fostering Sakura to be his successor

This is an open secret by now, but in this post, I will dive into the process that Umemiya went through to finally decide on Sakura.

First notice: Pre Shishitouren Arc

In the beginning, Sakura was known as the kid who came to take over the old, disordered, and violent Fuurin, which had definitely given a lot of people the wrong impression of him. However, on his first day, he had proven to have good morals instead of being an arrogant power-seeker.

This had, of course, piqued Umemiya's interest and changed his perception of Sakura.

Shishitouren Arc

However, Umemiya's evaluation of Sakura only commenced when he let the boy participate in the Shishitouren fight. This is like an entrance exam to see if Sakura has what it takes to be a leader.

Clearly, the task wasn't simply "beating the Togame's ass", but it seems like Sakura has to check some certain, hidden boxes. Sakura officially passed the test when he successfully connected to Togame through the fist-fight based on just a few words from Umemiya.

It proved that not only did Sakura have a kind heart, but he could apply newly gained knowledge (this happened again at the bridge, where they had to defend the town from Noroshi, Sakura had learnt to take his environment into account in a fight) very quickly.

The Aftermath of Shishitouren Arc

It seemed that Umemiya had officially made the decision to foster Sakura to become the next leader after that. His attitude had changed.

Moreover, later into the day, instead of hinting vaguely, he explained the concept of a conversation through fists in great details this time.

Doesn't it look like he's teaching it to Sakura? Umemiya only did this because he had officially recognize Sakura as his successor, or at least, his direct mentee.

Throughout Wind Breaker

Umemiya entrusted Sakura with the class leader position, directed him to Kaji for experience, and let him face Endou. Not only did Sakura's credibility increase, but the last point is very interesting because no matter how strong and good at fighting the boy is, Umemiya must have been aware that Sakura is NOT going to win going against a beast like Endou.

Personally, I believe this is a very good parallel to the way Suou taught Nirei how to fight. Umemiya was letting Sakura experience, and from the newest chapters we can tell that Sakura was learning a lot from this challenge.

Why didn't Umemiya choose another person?

Million-dollar question! This was my missing piece, which had been preventing me from writing this post in the first place. Umemiya was in third year, he definitely needed to find a new leader for Boufuurin before he and the four generals graduated. If Sakura didn't arrive at Makochi, then who would be the next leader?

Well folks, with the newest chapter (chapter 146), I can finally give you an answer in the form of a theory.

Umemiya was going to train Sugishita to become the next leader.

I'm making a separate post for this theory, which is coming VERY SOON (I am writing it right after this post). In the mean time, can you guess why? :3

UPDATE: THEORY IS UP!

As a thank you for reading this far, have this Sakura playlist.

[elodieunderglass]

So for some more details:

- I am fairly time-poor with a huge amount of commitments: Grownup Job Senior Promotion, three small kids on summer holidays/starting school, writing a novel fanfic for sick friend, peak growing/harvest season at allotment, etc. so im only offering “what I can actually deliver” at this time

- swan comic is a new idea, people like those don’t they? Not sure of how fundraising mechanism would work here but maybe taking prompts?

- not sure how essay would work but it’s probably my best/most appealing skill?

- material items in exchange for a minimum fixed amount. So offline I’m most known for material works. I’m not a BAD printmaker / craftworker and for this I would be looking at designing a sort of limited print run of greeting card style original hand printed prints. I know you guys aren’t familiar with this work from me, so this would involve a bit of trust that An Art from me would be worth at least £5 lmao. However it’s kind of nice to get something real in the mail right??

- super worried about fandom auction so this would be mostly a register of interest that I’d take to more experienced people and use as leverage to start an auction; I’m not in a great place to provide much actual legwork here. I also have huge guilt from like 2000-something where someone paid A HUNDRED AND LIKE 20 DOLLARS to charity for earthquake survivors and I DID NOT FINISH THE FIC AND I HAD to write to them, weepingly, apologising forever about it, and they were so graceful, they forgave me and wrote off my fandom auction contribution, but I had never watched the tv show they requested and was in the process of romancing dr glass and it all went SO wrong, this MIGHT heal my scars of shame from fandom auctions generally OR might make them worse. It itvery hard to write fic actually it’s my worst skill pls don’t pick this

Anyway

I will dance like a monkey and get sick kids out of Gaza. What would you like to see most?

[captainbabeville]

Help for dental revision surgery

Hi folks. This is the last thing I want to be doing again. The thought of having to reach out during this past hellish year of my life makes me sick to think about. But someone told me this is what a community is here for, to help when it is needed <3 Last year I was physically assaulted (related to transphobia and abuse) which resulted in me losing a front tooth and fracturing my jaw. Its was the most pain I physically had to go through and just in general this past year has really tested me. With all those medical bills is the reason why I fell so behind with rent an utilities, but with the help of a dear friend, @julykings and so many of YOU I made it out of that and have had a place to stay, which I can't thank you enough <3 I have been experiencing severe pain in my jaw again and went to go get it checked out last week. I've been told that my jaw has been shifting again, which will cause trouble with speaking, eating etc in the long run. So the terrible news is that I've been scheduled for revision surgery on the 20th of January. If I don't get the surgery my jaw and quality of day to day life will be in jeopardy. Since I don't have medical aid I have to pay out of pocket. In total the surgery will cost $2000, which makes me want to cry. Also because I live off the little freelance work I do while actively looking for a more stable job after being laid off last year. If at least a $1000 can be paid by the 20th I can go ahead with the surgery. I know I've asked a lot from this beautiful community and all the help has not gone unappreciative in the slightest. I truly do need help with this. I get emotional just thinking about all the support and love I've received. I was thinking of setting up a GoFundMe, but that didn't generate much the first time around when the assault happened. So if anyone has the means to spare a few dollars to help me get this surgery it will truly save me

Donate here PAYPAL or type in CaptainBabeville

[httpkaulitz]

Say yes to me

PAIRINGS: Demon Bill x Female reader

CONTENT: Smutt

SYNOPSIS: Halloween is a perfect day to collect a soul.

WARNINGS: dom!Bill, sub!reader, mention of drugs and drinking, mention of stalking, mention of blood and bite, manipulation, unprotected sex, p in v, public sex.

A/N: I'm late for Halloween, but here's Demon Bill that I've been promising for ages.

Halloween parties were the perfect excuse to dress up in a scary, sexy outfit and get drunk. Most people went to parties just to get completely drunk and make out with masked strangers. And you were no different.

The general aesthetic appealed to you, since you've always liked dark things. Your best friend had gotten tickets to this super exclusive party, you didn't know how, but you didn't really care about knowing, since she probably sucked someone's dick to get it.

As soon as you stepped foot in the place you realized how luxurious it was. The old mansion had at least three floors and the backyard was huge. The whole place was impeccably decorated and there were lots of red lights scattered around the place, giving it a devilish and lustful atmosphere.

The loud music reverberated throughout the place and the people around were dancing, their bodies glued together almost in sync. You had to blink a few times to avoid being caught mesmerized by the scene.

You've been to a lot of Halloween parties, a lot of them. But none of them had ever been so perfect. You couldn’t describe it, it wasn’t just the decorations or the perfectly dressed people. It was a feeling. A mix of danger and adventure that you couldn’t explain why you were feeling.

“I told you to come dressed up.” Your friend suddenly shouted, jumping up next to you. She was clearly already half drunk, with a glass of drink in her hand.

“I’m dressed up!” You said, indignant at her not-so-subtle way of saying you were poorly dressed.

She looked me up and down and pointed her finger at you before speaking. “A black dress and a witch’s hat isn’t really a costume.”

She was right, the people in this place were dressed up like they were in a million dollar competition to see who would win the prize for best costume. Some were so good they looked real.

Your friend had somehow managed to come up with a realistic enough costume that it didn’t look like she’d just picked something improvised like you.

“Well, if I’d known it would be like this I would have rented something.” You said as you observed the people around you.

“It doesn’t matter now. Come on, I want to show you something.” She grabbed your wrist and pulled you back outside.

You followed her to the back of the tent and saw a huge tent set up. There was a small line of people and she stopped right behind the last one.

“What is that?” You asked confused.

“It’s a seer!” She said excitedly. “Can you believe it? They also made a horror maze on the third floor.” Well, that was cool, you didn’t understand why she was so excited about the seer.

“Why are you so excited about this?” You asked as you watched her. Your friend had never been one to believe in that kind of thing.

To be honest, neither did you. Yes, you always liked the idea of ​​mythological and supernatural beings existing, but it was kind of impossible for everything to be real.

She looked at you with a look of “you’re being silly.” And then said, “If real gypsies exist, they would definitely be here. Haven’t you ever heard of the party hosts?”

Of course you had heard of them. A millionaire and somewhat eccentric family who are passionate about the supernatural. Every year they throw a Halloween party, so uniquely extraordinary that everyone wants to attend. After the parties, there were always rumors of people who had supernatural experiences. In your opinion, these people were either very drunk or on drugs.

“So what? Are you going to ask about the future or something?” Just as your friend was about to answer you, the person in front of you gave up on entering, giving you and your friend the chance.

The two of you looked at each other for a few seconds and then went in. It was exactly as you expected. Dim lighting, some crystals and incense. The woman was sitting on the other side of the table and your friend ran to sit in the chair across from her.

You waited, standing a little ways away, while your friend held the woman's hand and asked stupid questions like "Is Johnny going to break up with Camila to be with me?" You had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. Seriously, she could at least ask something useful like the lottery numbers.

After that, you stopped paying attention, but it wasn't long before her time was up and it was your turn. Not that you really wanted to participate, but your friend was kind of forcing you.

You held out your hand for her to hold and stared at her. "I don't really have anything to ask." You said nervously, feeling like you were wasting her time.

"You don't have to." She frowned as if trying to understand the situation. "I see something with you, a shadow that follows you."

"Maybe it's that guy who appears in your dreams." Your friend said laughing.

You quickly looked at her and muttered "Shut up." You didn't want this woman to gather any information to even try to get into your head.

But she didn't seem to pay attention to what you and your friend were saying. She was very focused on you, almost hypnotized. "It's always with you, watching you and guiding your path."

Your friend butted in again, now looking even more excited. "So what? Does she have a guardian angel?"

"I would say it's the opposite." The woman answered automatically and let go of your hand.

"What?" You asked confused.

"Don't say yes to him." She said firmly, looking scared.

"To who?" Nothing she said made sense. Was she trying to scare you or what?

"Next!" She turned and faced the two of you, waiting for you to leave.

✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮

You and your friend had no idea what had really happened in the tent, but you decided to believe that it was some kind of marketing ploy so that the two of you would leave the party saying that you had had a supernatural experience.

You decided that after that you needed a drink and a little dancing to forget all of this. But now more than ever you felt watched. Even dancing in the middle of the crowd you felt like you were in a spotlight with eyes completely focused on you.

You felt hands grip your hips tightly, even without seeing who it was you didn't care. It was a welcome distraction. His body danced in sync with yours, as if you were one.

Sweat was dripping down your neck and the multicolored lights were making you feel a little dizzy. You closed your eyes and leaned your head back on the stranger's shoulder. His hands released your hips, he brushed your hair away from your face and then slid his hands down your arms, down your back, and finally back to your hips. When you heard the voice whispering in your ear, "Come find me." You jumped away. When you looked back, there was no one there.

You decided that you should leave the dance floor, maybe all these lights and people together were making your head confused. Since you hadn't seen the other rooms of the party besides the first floor yet, you decided to go up. The second floor was kind of an extension of the first, except that it was much darker than the first floor and there were some platforms with people dancing in almost animalistic costumes that made them look half human, half animal.

At this point, you had no idea where your friend was. Your head was a mess, but you refused to believe the nonsense that strange woman told you. You went to the stairs and went up to the third floor.

✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮

You didn't remember how you ended up inside the maze, all you remembered was a man dressed as a mad scientist giving you a neon green drink to drink.

The endless corridors and colorful lights were starting to make your head spin. There was nothing or no one around, it was just corridors and more empty corridors, you could even hear your footsteps as you walked aimlessly.

You were sure you were lost and your paranoid mind wasn't helping you. When you turned around in the hopes of being able to follow the same path and find the door you came in through, all you saw was a huge wall.

“No, no, no.��� You said exasperatedly as you touched the wall to confirm that it was real. But how could that be real? You had just passed by there.

For the first time you heard footsteps that weren’t yours, but when you looked around there was no one.

“Hello, is anyone there?” You shouted but no one answered, the only sound you heard was the echo of your voice and the footsteps that now seemed faster as if they were running.

A small feeling of panic and urgency took over you and you ran. You couldn’t say for sure what it was, maybe it was paranoia or instinct. You felt like you had to get out of there, you knew that finding whoever was the owner of those footsteps wouldn’t be a good thing.

You continued running through the maze without knowing exactly where you were going, you didn’t even know if you were close to the exit or not. The loud and hurried footsteps seemed to follow you, but whenever you looked back there was no one.

It hadn’t even been five minutes but to you it already seemed like an eternity. Until as you ran and looked back you bumped into something. The impact was so strong that it threw you backwards and you fell on your butt.

“Are you okay?” The man in front of you asked. He didn’t really look worried, his expression was neutral, but when you didn’t answer he tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy.

“I-I’m fine, I was just trying to get out.” You stammered still confused at how he ended up in front of you.

“It’s pretty confusing, isn’t it?” He asked as he extended his hand towards you. “They really just made a maze. Well, I guess it’s scarier when you realize how hard it is to get out.”

You gladly took his hand and let him help you up. You could feel the heat radiating from him even through the white glove.

“Yeah, it wasn’t quite what I expected.” You said still nervously. You were starting to feel aware of how bad your costume was as you watched him closely.

His outfit looked old, but luxurious. His long, white hair was too beautiful to be just a wig, so it must be a very expensive one. The white makeup with blood dripping from his horns and lips looked so natural that you had a hard time telling if it wasn't real. Maybe you were just a little drunk from the drink you had before entering the maze.

“Are you sure you're okay?” He asked again, now looking at you more closely as if he wanted to read your thoughts. You just nodded. “Come with me, I'll help you get out of here.”

He held your hand and you just followed him, strangely he gave you mixed feelings. At the same time that you felt like you could follow him forever, like he was someone familiar to you, you also felt like you had to run and disappear somewhere he could never find you again.

“What are you?” You asked as you pointed to his costume. An attempt to make the awkward silence disappear.

He looked at you with a small smile and then answered you. “A demon.” He looked very proud. You would feel the same way if you were dressed in a decent costume instead of the crap you were wearing.

“Witch.” You said, pointing to yourself. He laughed and you didn’t know if he was making fun of you or if he just found the situation funny.

It didn’t take long for you to find your way out. You were ready to go downstairs and get some fresh air when Bill grabbed you by the arm.

“I want to ask you something.” He said softly, his voice almost melodic.

After that, everything became a big blur. It was like you were hypnotized, like his presence was clouding your senses. His black, shiny eyes watched you intently while his hands traveled over your body, feeling every part.

No matter the question, you would say yes.

✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮✮

You couldn't stop the moans and screams that left your lips, even if you tried. Your eyes were cloudy and tears were streaming down your cheeks as you were fucked relentlessly. The danger of being caught made everything more exciting, the excitement was boiling your blood hotter and making the pleasure you were succumbing to intensify.

Bill hadn't just made you say yes to him, he made you beg and beg. Somehow you couldn't explain, he had this sexual aura that drove you crazy just by being in his presence.

And you weren't ashamed to beg for more, with drool running down your lips and tears welling up in those beautiful doe eyes due to the euphoria and boundless lust, and your lips swollen from the kiss, Bill found it hard to resist.

You were holding tightly to the railing of the stairs. Your feet stopped touching the ground minutes later, using the railing to ground yourself. Bill's hips were moving forward and relentless. The head of his cock kept hitting against that familiar spot that made you moan loudly and your body tremble.

You could only let out loud moans, whimpers and screams, your words were incoherent and you couldn't focus on anything other than the sensations that were passing through your body. Bill's well-aimed thrusts made you stupid and with the way that cock in you made your lower abdomen distend a little, he feared you would break.

No. He wanted to break you and you wanted Bill to break you into a thousand pieces and then reshape you into whatever image he wanted.

The thought of Bill breaking you and making you know no one but him had you babbling and begging for the man to go harder. If you were even halfway coherent, you would blush at the way you were moaning like a whore. Loud, desperate and hungry for more. It defied the intensity of Bill’s grunts and hissed curses. He reached down and lifted one of your legs while his other hand remained on your hip, bringing it back to meet his thrusts.

"P-please!" You whimpered, your hands shaking.

"Greedy girl." Bill whispered in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine at how thick, husky, and tight it was. "Even though I'm fucking you into oblivion, reshaping your insides with my cock, you still want more." He whispered sensually, his hot breath brushing against your neck.

You could only let out a moan in response.

"Well then, who am I to refuse you, my love." He pressed a loving kiss to your neck, sucking on the skin. His fangs scraped against your skin, wanting to sink into that excess flesh and pull out the delicious nectar that was hidden beneath it. "Take it then. Take it all."

And you did. Your eyes widened as you let out a choked gasp, your hands kneading the metal railing as they tightened.

Bill's cock was now hammering into you, the pace increasing. You couldn’t help but take it, your eyes rolling back as a steady wave of pleasure mixed with a little pain kept hitting you. If this kept up, you were going to come.

As if he knew exactly what was going to happen, he said, “Let it go.” Burying his nose in the crook of your neck.

It hit you so suddenly that you lost your voice for a second. You let out a choked noise as your body twitched and your legs shook.

Every nerve ending in you lit up like fireworks, your mouth falling open and your body shaking as ecstasy hit you like a train. You couldn’t think, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. Your senses went blank and white noise filled your ears.

But that didn’t stop Bill from chasing his own pleasure. He continued to fuck you through your orgasm, pounding the little air you had left in your lungs. His hips never stopped their impulses, still grinding relentlessly against you.

You were whimpering and babbling deliriously like a broken record. You couldn’t see clearly, your pleasure-induced haze clouding any semblance of thought. Your vision was blurred by the constant tears you were shedding.

Bill groaned hoarsely as he continued to thrust into your overstimulated body, his hips snapping against your ass without stopping. The tightness of your pussy around his cock had him approaching his own orgasm, his rhythm beginning to falter and his thrusts disorganized.

Without holding back any longer, Bill sank his fangs into your shoulder, causing you to let out a shrill cry. Around his blood-filled mouth, he groaned loudly as he came, his hips still moving as he painted your pussy with his cum. Some of it leaked out with each thrust of his cock, the squelching noises sinful and filthy. His hips soon stilled, flushed against your ass.

You passed out the moment Bill removed his fangs from your neck, the pleasure too much for you to handle. Bill just laughed hoarsely, his hair disheveled and his skin glistening with a sheen of sweat. After so much time waiting and watching you. You had finally said yes to him. Now you were all his, flesh, blood, and soul.

[kaijuno]

I grew up like. Around chop shops and construction zones. My mom was a nurse and my dad a contractor and they couldn’t afford daycare so naturally I went to work with dad. I learned how to ride a bike inside of a partially built Dollar General. I learned how to drive a back-hoe when I was 5. I went deer hunting with dad as soon as I could walk, maybe even earlier. I’m glad I grew up with scraped knees and mud under my fingernails. Like, kids need that. At least a little bit. I’m not telling you to let your toddler loose on a construction site BUT it might just give them some character

[leah-lover]

Arrogance. Alexia putellas x reader.

Let me know if you want a part 2.

You loved winning more than anything or anyone in the entire world and that was your biggest flaw. Brought up in the US soccer system, you were taught that winning is everything. You had set the precedent of joining the US women's national team as early as 17 years old which had never been done before. You were smart both academically and tactically. You graduated high school early, went to college early and proceeded to win the national championship all 4 years.

Your life always took the back seat to winning. You didn't have many friends. You didn't go out or party. You trained hard, you took care of your body, and followed a strict fitness routine. You were overall the best in your generation.

Being labeled as the best of your generation got into your head early in your life. Your strict regime made it hard for you to make friends and your cockiness and pride didn't help either. You were friendly but nobody ever dared to become your friend.

After college you moved on to the NWSL in which you won MVP , rookie of the year, and the championship in your first and second year. You had also won the world but at the same time. However, winning didn't fill the gap in your life that it once did. You didn't have to prove yourself anymore, you were renowned in the whole world as the best, everybody wanted to be you but no one wanted to be with you not long term at least. You were notorious for hooking up with people but you didn't want them to stay over for breakfast

As the years went on the international competition got harder. You were still the best but an upcoming Spaniard was raining on your parade. You were both head to head in matchies, a few tackles landing you warnings and yellow cards, and in awards. Both having very good stats you are head to head for the ballon d'or which she won that year.

You didn't talk to each other much. You can recall talking one or twice to each other . but you talked about one another a lot. The media seemed to spit you both against one another. You started hating each other in real life.

This summer your contract with Seattle fc came to its end and you chose not to renew. Offers were flying by but the one that caught your attention was Barcelona's offer.

They were willing to spend 1 million dollars on you. It was a precedent. No club had ever paid this much for a transfer. Thrie offer sticked your ego so much you accepted.

You have been playing at Barcelona for almost a season, scoring a hatrick at every game. Your relationship with your teammates didn't change. You were still space out.

The most important relationship was with your captain. Your rivalry with her was the second headline out of the b transfer. But you didn't pay her or the rivalry any attention.

Tonight you have achieved something you wanted to do for a long time. You have won the champion’s league. The locker room was celebrating the win and chanting your name. While everybody was dancing Alexia came to approached you and said “ congrats and thank u american”

“ no need capi.” you responded.

The flight back was fun, people were singing and dancing but the only thing you thought about was alexia. Her smell, her hand on your shoulder, her being thankful for you. You found yourself looking over to her from time to time. You weren't like this, you didn't day dream about people especially not the captain.

The celebration party took place in a bar. You were a few dink in when you looked over to you right yo find Alexia nursing a flute filled with champagne.

“Why aren't you dancing?” She asked.

“ I am not the type plus i am pretty sure y'all hate me.”

“And why is that “

“Don't know just a feeling.”

After that I went outside. I didn't smoke much but the nerves Alexia was giving me deserved some nicotine. As soon as I lit the cigarette I felt her hazel eyes glaring at me.

“ These things are gonna kill you, you know.”

“ I want to die young plus nobody would give a shit.”

“ I would give a shit if the most important person in my club was killing herself because she can't man up enough to talk to people. You hide behind your accomplishments. But you are just a normal girl just like any of us. You need people beside you.”

“ You are wrong about me. I am not scared of talking to people; they just would never understand me. I am a control freak. I don't like to give it up. People tend to hate that about me ” I say as I take the last puff of my cigarette. My eyes don't leave hers and the tension is through the roof.

“ I like to lose control from time to time.”

“ Capitana please don't play with me”

“ Currently I am not playing with you. Let me make you a deal. You go inside, have some fun and I will let you do what you want with the information you just heard.”

“ Why are you doing this?”

“ I don't know, I just care, I guess.

[hanibalistic]

THE SOUND MONSTER | STRAY KIDS.

genre | magic au, action au

synopsis | your client shows up in the middle of your bounty mission with answers you've been searching for and without the million dollars he promised you.   

word count | 10.5k+

warning | mention of violence, killing, blood, injuries / reader wears a skirt (necessary due to character)

note | lousy writing at the end because i got bored

If you had one million dollars each time you were asked to kill a homeostatic curse within a specific area in a forest that covered most of the city limit, you would have one million and fifty thousand dollars.

The first client who contracted you to kill a curse in this area paid you only fifty thousand dollars. Your current, suspiciously generous client offered you one million.

This should be the area. You thought as you scanned your surroundings through squinted eyes, then back to your phone, where a screenshot of a location was shown. 

The picture was taken from a fan website, one of the first things you stumbled into during your research into the Warp Curse. 

Since there has never been a sighting of what artifact the curse resided in, all you've got to begin looking for it was a bunch of historical texts and posts written by curse fanatics loitering in online forums. 

So far, you knew two things about the Warp Curse: (a) it has been killing random hikers that step foot inside the forest, and (b) it was speculated, using the locations of all its murders, that its artifact should be somewhere near the forest’s edge.

Closing your phone and dropping it in your pocket, you scoffed in frustration. The picture was taken straight from the album provided by the internet's map, and most of the photos uploaded there were captured by the satellite.

There was no way to compare and contrast the picture to what you could see in front of your eyes. Everywhere were greens and trees, short trails, and grass beds. 

Much like your last mission in the forest, you needed to take a wild guess and hope you get lucky with your search. At least you knew you had to keep to the edge this time. 

You roamed with your head in the clouds. There wasn't anything else to do besides daydreaming or thinking with a purpose. Whichever one came to you easier at the moment—the latter, obviously. You've got a lot to think about. 

First, it will be easier and faster if the Warp Curse decides to suck you underground and bring you directly to itself. 

The curse's power spanned across the forest from what you learned, most of them being speculations, but you were willing to take what was presented. It was no wonder so many hikers died on a leisurely day. The curse has an impressive reach. It would pull you underground and warp you to where its artifact is located, and then it would kill you for energy.

Second, what would you do with a million dollars? 

Abandoning hunting may be the first step since you were only doing this job to get by. The grand sum of money wasn't all that great when you were constantly blowing through it for medical expenses.

Your ruination curse heals at the pace of a snail strolling through a park, not considering your livelihood relied on having a functional body. Functional arms and legs, at least. 

If the family curse wasn't so greedy about hosting your body alone, you would have tried to sign a contract with a curse that has a faster healing process. 

You could use the money to find the remainder of your family. Specifically, the person who abandoned you near a police station when you were three years old. 

These three years of searching for clues have been less hectic than you desired, which was a reflection of your lack of progress in finding a blood relative. If you were close to your goal, you reckoned things might pick up the pace. 

But, all the ruination curse was willing to tell you was that it was a family curse, and all the police could provide you were three things: you were found at a park near the station, most of your family went missing years ago, and your uncle was sent to a mental institution by reason of insanity after killing most of your family members on Christmas night.

Oh, you would love to visit somewhere fun too, like an amusement park or an aquarium. Traveling the world sounded like a chore, so you might put that off for another year or two once you got the payment. 

You could go to college or try your hand at paying your way into a prestigious university. However, pursuing an education wasn’t appealing when you’ve got a million dollars to rationally spend. It wasn’t appealing now when you have empty pockets. 

You should prioritize buying a house, actually,  but that was unlikely to happen with today's market. An apartment was good enough. The thought of having a roof over your head instead of hopping through motels was desirable. 

The more you mapped out what to do with one million dollars, the giddier you became. If your client turned out to be a fraud, thus tearing your FastPass to an imaginary happy life, you might kill them along with the Warp Curse. 

The trees bustled around you as the wind suddenly picked up. Winter was steadily approaching, albeit much slower than the previous years. Feeling a short breeze or two, out in the forest nonetheless, was common. But your instincts—your monster-hunting psychic eye—spiked a joint of weariness in you. 

Your body tensed at the sound of the rustling leaves, fingers hardening, and toes curling into the bottom of your old and dusty shoes. As you carefully scanned your surroundings, you could not figure out the source of the rustling noise. It didn’t come from the leaves above you.

“Well, what have we here?” 

A voice! But was it a person or a curse? 

You whipped around to face where it came from, your feet cautiously taking two steps backward. The messy heaps of branches, all growing from the lower side of multiple trees planted in close quarters of each other, shifted. The leaves that adorned the wood swung like an elegant fan before they revealed the voice's owner. 

A man, wearing a coat unsuitable for the current weather and wearing black gloves, showing no skin besides what was above his collarbones, stepped out of the branches after his black derby cane stomped on the ground as an official entrance.

You tilted your head with squinted eyes. Someone’s missing a top hat, but that wasn’t the issue. You should be the only person in the forest. After multiple cases of the not-so-mysterious killing, law enforcement sealed off all forest entrances and forbade civilians from visiting.

You had to sneak past the security guards (which was easy) and the cameras (which was also easy, but researching their blindspots was time-consuming) to get inside. 

“Okay, here we go.” The man swung his cane off to the side in a pit of defeat after seeing the disdainful look on your face. To him, it couldn’t have been the cause of stranger danger. It must have been something about his attire today, which was just his daily attire.

“Is there something on my face? Or is it my height? Is it because I’m short? You think I can’t pull off an overcoat because I’m too short?”

When he saw your eyes travel down to his knees and back up to his face, he realized he read you wrong. His panicky questions about his appearance were what made you focus on them. It was not the first time he’d made this mistake, but he thought he kept repeating it to fulfill his inner comedian.

You furrowed your brows and sneered at him because you thought him embarrassing for being so anxious on your first encounter. You weren’t judging his attire or his height, at least not maliciously and not based on any fashionable knowledge. Who asks four questions in a row only a second into meeting a stranger? 

“Actually, don’t answer those questions. I fear you will hurt my feelings.” He waved a hand with a bashful smile that surprisingly still fit a man his age.

Looking down at his feet as if taking a short moment to make himself a mockery, he returned his eyes to you. He toned down his bright disposition when he saw that you remained cautious of him. “My apologies. This is all spiraling out of control. I need to stop improvising so much and stick to the plan I was given–“

His sentence was abruptly cut short by a claw or a hook. The event happened so suddenly that your reflexes didn’t register it fast enough to tell you to close your eyes when fresh blood splattered onto your face. 

Your lashes caught the droplets instead of your widened eyes, and as you could not avert your gaze from the man, you finally saw that it was a giant hook. A big upside-down fish hook. It pierced through the man’s head, the pointed end going through the top of his head and out the bottom of his chin as if making him the bait for a fishing activity.

Blood dried along the black, gooey surface of the hook. You’ve seen that texture before multiple times to be the skin of a typical monster. This monster was likely manifested by the Warp Curse to protect its homeostatic body. 

The knowledge didn’t ease your mind at all. While you have seen many a monsters, you’ve never seen a dead person, let alone watch one get killed. It was an aftermath of you choosing to work independently. 

Rigidly, you turned your head over to look at the killer. 

With a hook of that size, it was no surprise that the monster was almost as tall as the trees in the forest. It looked like multiple rotten tree branches haphazardly stuck together into a worm-like body. Its head, protruding like stacked tree branches, shifted like fat pounds of flesh, with sharp teeth sticking out at random spots. Its hands and horns were curled into a hook-like structure.

You suspected it could shift its mass at will, though, as you would have caught sight of it the second you snuck inside the forest if it was always this huge.

That didn’t matter. It could be in the shape of a kitchen knife, a clothing hanger, or a fly swatter. If it could kill you, you have to either leave the premises or end it before it could get you.

Your hand reached for the handle of your sword, strapped to the belt around your skirt, which you wore so your legs had ample space to explode when needed. At the same time, or at a pace much quicker than yours, the monster raised its other hook high and brought it down the direction of your head.

A cane stuck out at the speed of light. It went through the hoop of the claw and trapped it in the air, only a few inches away from your tiny head. It took you a few seconds to snap away from nearly being stabbed. When you finally recognized the familiar cane, your eyes gradually pulled into a confused frown. 

Only one person here owned one: the stranger you just met. You looked toward him and a bold gasp left your lips when you saw him already looking back at you, one arm stretched out with his cane to block the attack for you. 

“Hey,” he greeted, blood still squirting from his injuries. “I’m surprised you still flinch at these things!”

You looked visibly appalled, which he understood. He definitely wouldn’t say he cared much the first time he saw a mutilated body. But, if there was anything he learned growing up, it was that some people were simply more mentally endurable than others! 

Besides that, he knew you must be confused, which he also understood. He definitely wouldn’t say he’d still question the impact of biology at this day and age when curses make binding contracts with humans like gamblers at a casino. But, if there was anything he learned growing up, it was that some people were simply smarter than others! 

“Oh, where are my manners? Let me introduce myself,” he said over the monster’s growls. 

Turning his cane sideways so the handle laid horizontally, he pushed his arm down to tip the cane upward, knocking the hook away from your head. Throwing his cane into the air for a quick moment and catching the middle of the shaft, the man closed one eye to aim for the body of the claw before throwing his cane straight at it.

The pierce of the cane flew at a velocity strong enough to knock the claw back into a nearby tree, and it was strong enough to keep it nailed to a spot. 

“I’m Chan, host of the Immortal Curse,” he introduced before his eyes rolled up. “I’m gonna need help pulling my head out of this claw. Do you mind?”

You minded. Of course, you minded! You wanted nothing to do with that bloody pulp of a man hanging on a monster claw like a rag doll. Witnessing him talk under that circumstance was disturbing even after knowing he was bound to the Immortal Curse. The pain should at least paralyze him for a while, yet he was up and chatting. 

Unsheathing your sword anyway, you nudged your head at the monster standing tall to indicate to Chan that you’ve got a bigger problem than his head stuck in a claw. 

“Don’t worry about the monster. My partner will handle it!” Chan exclaimed after huffing out a dissatisfied laugh that you didn’t heed his request immediately. 

The monster shifted about in multiple attempts to pull its claw away from his needle-like derby cane. It was a miracle his head wasn’t sliding about the curve of the hook like a wooden bead maze. 

He pointed at his head, his eyes maniacally wide. “I’m getting old. Pain is starting to bother me! Also, I’m sure I look ridiculous, so come here and help me!”

You relaxed your stance, but your expression remained frigid without trust and clear information of the now. You looked at him, then around him at the monster.

Chan noticed your hesitation and attributed it to needing proof that the monster would be taken care of. He smiled, his voice cracking defeatedly in the process; he couldn’t blame you for being cautious on a curse-hunting job. It was something he would do as well. 

“Kim Seungmin! Get your ass over here and help us!”

“Don’t use my government name.” 

A voice as clear as crystal, seemingly sounding directly from the chest into an open throat, traveled through the wind blowing behind you. The bushes rustled once again before another stranger entered. 

He sauntered to you with his hands in his pockets and promptly stopped by your side. For someone with such purposefully lazy eyes, his posture was pointedly straight.

He leveled Chan with nonchalance as if he’d seen the same bloody sight more than enough to get used to it. Then he sighed in annoyance because, despite being used to it, Chan would never stop being a pest, and helping him was always a chore. 

“He is always like this,” Seungmin said once he pulled a hand out of his pocket. He planted his palm on your shoulder, squeezed to keep you in place, and waited for it to light up a green-black color.

Before you could retaliate against his touch, he spoke, “Sorry to borrow yours, I haven’t pissed enough people off today. Don’t worry, though. It’s better that I take them off your hands.” 

You shook your head at him, confused. Putting two and two together, Seungmin realized that Chan hadn’t gotten to explain anything or introduce anybody to you. He let his jaw drop in acknowledgment before letting his hand slip off your shoulder. 

He rolled up one sleeve to reveal his forearm, which was painted with bulging black veins. You could see the blood traveling through the vessels to his fingertips, gathering to completely darken his nails beyond recognition. 

It was as much of a rare sight for you as it was for Seungmin. 

He’d never collected this much karma from a single individual, so much almost his entire arm was blackened with it. The closest he has gotten to this effect was when he took from Chan, but considering that man’s personality, it may be hard not to accumulate so much karma.

Even he gets pissed at that boisterous fraud multiple times a day, so frequently he couldn’t remember why he was annoyed in the first place. 

Closing his fist to feel the energy, Seungmin figured all of this may come from your curse rather than yourself. 

“Seungmin. Karmic Curse,” he informed without looking at you. “Can you go over and hold him in place? I'm going to blast the claw out of his head. It's much faster."

You furrowed your brows and pulled a grimace. It was a question unasked when you debated if you wanted to help Chan or deal with the monster—how would you get the claw out of his brain? 

Sliding him out of it sounded painful and slow. Aggravating the beast so it swings its claw enough that he slips out of it would make a mess. Pushing the claw out of his head garnered an even worse painful illusion than sliding him out of it.

The conclusion was that this situation was terrible no matter how you viewed it.

"Hey, I got it from here," Seungmin said, returning you to reality. He was surprised you felt hesitant in causing pain, considering how you afforded to work as a hunter. "Go help Chan before he decides you’ve stalled enough time for him to rant about being abandoned for the next few hours. And trust me, he will complain.”

He put a surprising lot of emphasis on ‘will,' as if he believed Chan wouldn't make his whiny tendencies known within five minutes of meeting someone, purposefully or not.

You blinked at Seungmin for a good second before you sheathed your sword. He felt more trustworthy, and you got that from the mere fact that he wasn't incessantly cheerful when he saw you.

"Oh, good! What made you decide I'm finally worthy of attention, hm?" Chan asked in a quick slur before he shouted, "Clearly not my bleeding head!”

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, which wasn’t hard considering you were about to get another massive round of blood powdered onto your face, you reached around his waist and held him down on the ground. 

Looking afar at Seungmin, who had taken a few steps backward to avoid the whiplash of close-quarter shooting, angled his arm upward so his fingertip leveled with the curve of the hook-like claw. When he fired the karma, it blasted across the air like a gunshot and tore the claw off the side of Chan’s face. 

When his torso went limp, you let go and dropped him to the ground. Without any time to react to the splatter of blood on your face, barley seeping through your eyes and mouth, the monster behind you screeched, unsure from pain or annoyance.

Still, the intensity of its noise broke you away from the allurement of glimpsing at the bloody aftermath on the floor. 

Snapping your neck to access your surroundings, you immediately unsheathed your sword again. You jumped to catch the end of its swinging hook, letting it take you into the air. A grimace surfaced at the gooey skin and how you could feel your hand submerge in its wetness. Despite its disgusting texture, you crawled with the help of its sticky skin before hoisting yourself on top of its claw. 

Your legs curled around the curve to keep from falling, and you wasted no time raising your sword and stabbing it through. Once you deemed it deep enough, a clanking noise sounded from your sword while something in your backpack exploded. The claw you sat on followed after, bursting open and leaving you in the air with no support.

With one of the monster’s arm stuck to a tree and another gone, Seungmin took the chance to power up his makeshift gun. He waited for you to drop to the ground; he would catch you, but there were bigger things to worry about than you fracturing an ankle from the fall. 

Once you landed, with a loud thud, he pointed his index finger at the eyes of the monster and made another shot. You took cover by curling into a ball as the shot blazed past you. Once the shot entered the creature’s mouth, Seungmin waved his hand to create an explosion from within, leaving nothing to remain but a downpour of its fluids.

Everything remained still for a little after. That went by quicker than usual. Typically, as you often try not to resort to using your curse unless necessary, killing a monster would take much longer than one second of a shoot. No complaints about the process being quick, though. At least you didn’t have to do all the work. 

Considering the size of the monster, if Seungmin wasn’t here, you’d probably have to break a leg or two. 

You pushed yourself off the floor by using your sword as an anchor, and then you sheathed it slowly so you could spend your attention on finding Chan’s body. You saw Seungmin standing over it with a cane, and you approached him. 

Noticing your presence, he barely turned his head to glance at you, then back at Chan on the floor. He used all the karma he took from you to kill the monster. Sleeve rolled down to his wrist, his arm no longer felt heavy. 

Much as he expected, the amount and intensity of the sins your curse brewed were more than enough to end the monster with a straightforward attack. The Ruination Curse and its atrocities—he’s heard all about it from Chan in the short pursuit for you. Finally seeing you in person, you were underwhelming. 

“Welcome back,” he greeted when Chan began to stir. 

The previous numbness remained vivid, but so far, it had gone away from the side of his face torn open when the claw was forced out the side of his head. It has got to be one of the more painful events he’s experienced these years, but he did die the moment it happened, so, to be fair, he barely went through any pain. 

Touching his jaw, Chan casually cracked his neck as he stood up, and then he was beaming for the return of his durable cane.

“I’m certain there were other ways to get me out of the hook, but you chose the most painful one,” Chan said. He reached into his coat pocket and took out a handkerchief. 

“I could have kept you there and let your flesh heal into the claw,” Seungmin retorted as he shoved his hands back in his pockets. 

“Never a peaceful moment with you,” Chan mused, dusting his coat before haphazardly shoving the handkerchief back where it came from. He turned to you and sighed in mock annoyance. “He’s always like this.”

You eyed Seungmin once before you shrugged. If you have to choose, you will pick Seungmin’s aloof temperament over Chan’s overwhelmingly sunny disposition that bordered as suspicious. Besides, how a stranger treats you was never within your realms of worry. You would never see them again, and you almost always have bigger things to deal with, such as the Warp Curse.

Considering the monster attacked you here, it should mean the cursed artifact was near. You’ve wasted enough time chatting; you should get going before the night arrives.  

Giving the two a nod, you brought your hand into a faint wave before turning around, prepared to continue your expedition.

Seeing your ready departure, Chan raised his brows in dramatic panic. He threw his cane up to catch it by the end and shot the handle out toward you. It hooked onto the back of your shirt, but you didn't notice it until you were abruptly stopped in your tracks by the restriction it placed upon you. 

You jerked around with an irritated glare, your eyes hardened with a furrow so intense you almost created yourself an extra eyelid. Chan rested the tip of his cane back on the floor. He didn't seem to believe he'd done anything unusual, which wasn't surprising. 

You opened your mouth only to suck in a huge breath, all the words you wanted to say swallowed by your inability to voice them. Coming to terms with that, you squeezed your eyes shut and turned away, honing into the silence of your mind. 

A pointed smirk was evident on Chan’s face. “Yeah. The Sound Monster is a bitch, isn’t it?”

You opened your eyes slowly into a squint. Chan was correct. Your voice was taken by the Sound Monster when you were very young. It was abrupt. You were praying to God to be reunited with your family, a mother and an uncle you could barely remember, and others you’ve never met. 

Then, suddenly, your voice vanished. Your foster parents dug around to find a reason behind the disappearance, but you were medically cleared. They eventually concluded that the Sound Monster had taken it. You haven’t been able to speak since. 

Back then, you didn’t understand why you were chosen to be stolen from. Now that you’ve grown up, the criteria wasn’t any less confusing despite you scouring the internet for information and stories. 

It seemed the Sound Monster picked at random, and you were just unlucky. But that shouldn’t be something Chan knew. It wasn’t uncommon for someone without a voice to be a victim of the Sound Monster, but it also wasn’t common for one to be.

The ratio between being born mute, becoming mute from an accident, and having your voice taken by a monster was balanced. Chan was weird for assuming the latter unless he already knew who you were. 

Seungmin rubbed the bridge of his nose when he saw the pointed look you gave Chan. This wasn’t exactly the plan. Sure, they were supposed to find you and introduce themselves. Surprisingly, none of them factored in how monsters lurked around a forbidden forest and would increase tension. 

Alas, there was a monster, and on top of that, Chan was the least subtle man on Earth. One thing on top of another, it wasn’t the best idea to spring onto you the fact that they’ve been stalking you for a while. 

“Maybe I should do the talking,” Seungmin suggested after he leaned toward Chan.

“But you’re terrible at talking,” Chan responded at the same volume of a whisper.

“You’re bad at making people want to listen to you.”

“That insult doesn’t hold the value you think it does,” Chan mused with a dismissive wave too close to Seungmin’s face. He returned to you, his smile more polite than friendly, but there was an element of natural mockery he may not be giving off on purpose. “Let’s chat.” 

You faintly shook your head, a movement to accompany your features morphing into the manifestation of incredulousness. The smile on Chan’s face deterred for a thoughtful second before he closed his eyes in realization. 

One finger pointed skyward, he sent you a dramatic nod—one single nod—and began reaching into his coat pocket to fumble out a notebook and pen. He limped toward you unnecessarily; you knew he could walk fine.

“My apologies, once again. How callous of me! You don’t have a voice.” He grabbed your hands and forcefully placed the notebook and pen in them. “Thankfully, I’m prepared. You can write with these.”

You held onto the items with one hand, clearly uninterested in using them. While unfazed by the proven assumption that these two strangers knew who you were, you had no intention of chatting with them. 

They could be rival hunters looking to kill the same curse. In that case, you’d want nothing to do with them. They could be random stalkers, to which you would respond with neither fear nor intrigue. All you wanted was to complete the mission, receive your end of the contract, and go home.

“I’d much rather be left alone,” you signed.

“Oh, we don’t do that. We don’t understand sign language because, obviously, we can talk,” Chan immediately responded. He pointed at the pen and paper in your hand. “This is accomodation. Please utilize the resources at your disposal.” 

Seungmin pursed his lips to prevent a defeated smile. That felt moderately problematic, but Chan’s confidence and nonchalance in executing rudeness made it less targeted. He wasn’t sure if he should make a point for Chan to stop acting like this, not that verbally accosting him has ever changed his ways. 

When you two accidentally shared a glance, Seungmin grimaced, but he wasn’t apologetic. 

“Leave me alone,” you wrote hastily instead. 

“Well! If only we all got what we wanted! I wouldn’t be holding this cane if that’s the case!” Chan laughed, but his eyes shifted to an unexplained glare as if you’ve taken something from him. People like him always thought the world owed them something. It wasn’t uncommon. “How about I offer a proposal instead of accepting your request?”

You rolled your tongue toward your inner cheek. You would always take advantage of an opportunity to earn more money. “I’m in the middle of a job.”

“For the Warp Curse, I know,” Chan said. “I am your client.”

“Great. So you’re a stalker. Through and through.” You shoved the notebook to his face, to which he backed off to avoid it. A thought flashed through your head, and you quickly flipped a page to write at an intensity so strong you could scratch a hole through the paper. “Do you even have a million dollars?”

You could see it. You could see your daydream vanishing before your eyes. 

The apartment you’d own, a regular college life, finally reuniting with some of your family—your promised million dollars was the center of a fraudulent contract. It was all too hasty. You should have checked before signing onto something too good to be true. 

Glaring up at Chan, you wondered if you wanted to kill him until you realized he has the Immortal Curse, and you weren’t breaking an arm just to watch him get back up again. 

“Stalker is a bad word for a description of me, but I don’t mind being praised once in a while,” Chan responded, then cleared his throat.

“And no, I don’t have a million dollars. But hold on, little sphinx–“ he reached out to pull you back from taking a prompted leave again–“I’ve got something better than a million dollars that I reckon you’d be interested in.” 

You swatted his hand away and fixed your shirt, soothing it down at the bottom and dusting off the fabric on your chest. You scoffed by blowing air out of your mouth, which made it similar to huffing, but those with the proper context would know what you were trying to do. Not sure if they would take into consideration your annoyance, though. 

Scribbling on the notebook again, you turned it around and raised a brow at Chan.

“WHAT?”

“I love the full capitalization. It’s like you’re shouting at me,” he joked as he stomped the cane on the ground for attention already on him. He sucked in a breath, preparing for the grand reveal, then asked, “How much would you like to help us kill the Sound Monster?”

“You can’t kill the Sound Monster.” 

It was the first response you gave them. You wrote it down without hesitation.

The Sound Monster wasn’t ordinary. Unlike the creature you just faced, it wasn't bred by a homeostatic curse. It wasn’t a product of species reproduction, which monsters have learned to do over the centuries as their sign of evolution. It wasn’t—technically—man-made. A person with a specific curse did not mold the Sound Monster into existence, and the ministry ruled out the creation of monsters through curses a long time ago for obvious reasons.

It was created by people, but it was done unintentionally.

Besides its uniqueness, the Sound Monster has a lasting impact on its victims and those adjacent to them. 

Taking one person's voice inconveniences the individual, and those around them, and the Sound Monster has taken a lot of voices. Hence its disreputable size and dreadful appearance. Only a handful of people have seen it up close. After realizing the amount of people out for its life, it closed itself off to a remote area. 

But, those who have seen the Sound Monster described it as a fleshy pulp. Its body was twisted together through thousands of esophagi, making throaty noises as it stomped, and it spoke with all the voices it stole: there shall be no hope, there shall be no prayers.

“It will be like killing a God.” 

Seungmin raised a brow at your statement. He didn’t necessarily disagree. The Sound Monster was speculated to be the aftermath of the Miracle Goddess descending into madness after receiving too much hatred from unanswered prayers, hence its mantra about hopes and prayers. He thought that speculation best suited the Sound Monster’s existence. 

However, ultimately, there was no guarantee. It may be a regular monster with immeasurable power because taking voices was the easiest thing to do. 

Besides, a monster would never be anything other than its name, regardless of where it came from. Seeing it as the Miracle Goddess, not the Sound Monster, was your mistake. 

“It won’t be like killing a God,” Seungmin disagreed nonchalantly. “In fact, it’ll just be like killing a monster.”

"However, even if it meant killing a God–" Chan chimed in enthusiastically. He was now relying more on his leg to walk. He saw that you noticed, but to avoid the current, far more prioritized topic, he didn't mention anything about it. "That is where you come in, dungeon crawler!"

"You and your whatever–ruins curse, rumination curse, ruffian curse–" he blew a messy raspberry–"your ability is going to be vital to our operation to kill–"

“Ruination.” You shoved the notebook at Chan’s face in emphasis. 

You underlined it three times, which he thought was unnecessary. 

It was the only word on the page, so there was no way he wouldn't see it. You detestably interrupted him with your lack of attention and lousy scribbling to correct an insignificant mistake. Although, to him, all errors made by his hands shall be minor. 

Alas, a man with a mission would be humble to those he required. He moved his head out of the square frame to deadpan at you before he sucked in a deep breath, brows raised with a calming mind. 

“My apologies–your Ruination Curse,” he corrected before waving a hand at your notebook and pen.

“I advise you to stop interrupting me. I talk much faster than you can write, and by the time you finish correcting me, I’ve moved on. Then you’d look terrible having to make me backtrack. Seriously. It’s more embarrassing for you than it is for me.”

“I don’t think it’s embarrassing.” Seungmin shrugged from the side.

"Your curse has you getting on people's nerves for a living," Chan sneered. "If I had skin as thick as yours, I'd find nothing embarrassing, too!"

You rolled your eyes. The irony was hot on the tongue.

“Never the matter, my point is–“ Chan raised his cane to point at your heart–“your curse’s ability to cause the destruction of anything if its host so desires is the key to killing the Sound Monster.”

“That’s refutable.” 

“It’s not,” Seungmin disagreed with a shake of his head. 

You narrowed your brows, your eyes gleaming with a dissatisfied sneer he couldn’t care less about. Looking down at the notebook, you quickly jotted something down and held it up. “What do you know about my curse?”

"Enough. Once we established we needed your help to defeat the Sound Monster, we researched you. Hence, we were able to track you down and offer you a curse-killing job," he replied. 

Chan leaned his torso forward not a beat later, popping from behind Seungmin’s shoulder with a grin. “We also know what happened to your family, by the way.” 

Your hands dropped to your side, but your fingers itched to move the pen. 

You already knew you were well-known among the hunting field because of your curse, but you’ve never personally met any of your clients and you’ve always used a fake identity for communication. No one ever knew they were talking to the person with the Ruination curse.

The fact that these two found you meant they weren't lying about looking into you. It was uncomfortable, but disregarding the confessed stalker behavior, your desire to know more about what happened to your family besides everyone's sudden disappearance was overwhelming.

What could they possibly know that law enforcement couldn't find out? 

“I was holding off on that,” Seungmin pointed out with a sigh. Considering the severity of your history and the current location, he thought it best not to mention something that would require a lot of time to explain and muster a lot of unnecessary emotions. 

“Why? They should know what happened.” Chan shrugged. 

“Are you sure it’s transparency you care about?” Seungmin turned to Chan. “Or do you want them to accept your favor in exchange for something they should already know anyway?”

"No one is entitled to information. If you want to know something so bad, you should have looked harder for it. Alas, I have something they want to know, so they'll have to work for that. No answers for free," Chan replied with a gentleman bow done out of, as usual, mockery. 

He straightened himself and exclaimed, "But of course, I care about getting what I want! If I can help them along the way, that'd be fantastic! Besides, information on your family is not my only leverage." 

You saw him wait for you to respond, silently gathering details of your subtle reactions to see if you cared enough about your family to not need him to enact his backup plans to rope you into this operation. He didn’t need to. You were already leaning toward joining it. 

Besides your family's history, having your voice back would be convenient. You just wanted to hear what he had to say. As obnoxious as he was, Chan has an outrageous amount of valuable intel for you that you failed to seek. 

“Which is?” 

“You can have your voice back.”

“Okay.” You wrote something more. “And?”

Chan smiled at your notebook. 

“Killing the Sound Monster means you can also kill the Ruination Curse.”

“I have to say I’m not a big fan of the cave,” Chan complained, for however many times now. “Actually, I’m not a big fan of any cave.”

Seungmin’s steps faltered. His shoulders slumped as he huffed, and his eyes rolled to the side to barely spare the whiny man a glance. “Yeah, you’ve made that clear.”

“You whine about everything,” Chan said. “Sooner or later, you’ll find out you are just like me.” 

The corner of your lips stretched downward as you watched Seungmin’s eyes roll to the beat of his exhausted sigh. You haven’t known him for long, but being stranded together with someone as insufferable as Chan developed a bubble of solidarity between you both. 

He might have felt the connection, too, as he immediately searched for your eyes to share another silent glance with you, a knowing smirk on his lips. Pausing your feet, you waited for him to catch up with your pace before walking. 

“He must have a lot of karma in him?” You showed Seungmin what you wrote, a finger jabbing at Chan, who walked ahead of you. 

He held back a brief chuckle. It wasn’t a flawed assumption, and it wasn’t wrong either. He just found it funny you thought that, and you were right. Chan has more karma stored in him than anyone on the team. 

Since karma was considered any evil deeds done by a person without counting the reaction of said deeds, it was easy for anyone to accumulate a level of karma in them, even if the act could garner only a small amount. Everyone litters or says the wrong thing once in a while. It was unavoidable. 

Nonetheless, Seungmin was always digging deeper into understanding his curse’s criteria because the fact that Chan has enough to act as a karma reservoir could either mean Seungmin’s curse worked in ways beyond his knowledge or that Chan has more secrets than he let on. 

Chan says and does many uncomfortable things, but verbal jabs and a whack of his cane don’t count for great karma. Seungmin didn’t think Chan had done nearly enough per day to garner so much karmic power, either. Something happened in his past that made him this way, just like your Ruination Curse made you. 

“He does, but not as much as your curse,” Seungmin whispered.

Your hand dropped slowly to your side when you realized you understood the pattern of his moving hands. Surprised eyes shaking between his fingers and finally up at his face, the excitement blossomed across your lips into a grin. 

You’ve had to accommodate others for so long, which hasn’t been a great hassle or anything. Still, encountering someone who didn’t have to wait more than five seconds for you to properly jot down a reply was pleasant.

Clutching the notebook with only two fingers to spare the others, you fumbled about where to put the pencil, gave up, clapped once, and signed back to him. 

“You know sign language?” 

“I’m still learning,” he said. “When we decided to recruit you, my best friend thought it was only fair that he learned how to communicate with you. He dragged me to take lessons with him.”

You pursed your lips. “You didn’t think to do it yourself?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t interested in learning something new. But this has been relatively easy to pick up. I made more progress than him.” 

“I can understand you fine, that’s for sure.” You huffed just as your lips stretched into a smile, giving an illusion of a laugh. After a short moment, you continued, “What’s your reason to kill the Sound Monster?”

“Do I need one?” he signed, then, with a frown, he spoke, “Monsters are monsters. It’s always beneficial to purge them.”

Chalking it to a deed for the greater good was always the easiest answer. It was understandable and clear. No sob story, no personal grievances, just out of sheer goodwill. People with those answers were often lying—you’ve never known anyone who does things out of mere goodness of the heart.

But Seungmin didn’t seem deceitful. He wasn’t set on the betterment of the world, that’s for sure, but he thought eliminating the Sound Monster could make the world more convenient, so there wasn’t a reason not to kill it. 

You nodded. Whatever his reason was, it wouldn’t bother you so long as it didn’t negatively impact you. 

The cave began to dim as you three moved away from the entrance. You realized you haven’t been paying attention to your surroundings, but didn't think you’ve missed the Warp Curse yet. 

There were no special skills or a keen eye when looking for a homeostatic curse; it could be the resident of anything, from rocks to trees, paintings to instruments. Sometimes even a dead body, but you’ve only heard of those instances and never seen them. 

The key element was that they had to be inanimate. Anyone bound to a curse would have an easier time figuring out where a homeostatic curse was simply because curses could recognize each other.

It usually manifested in the forms of anxiety symptoms, an unnatural unease, and bodily reactions that went against logic, such as sweating in a cool area.

In the same breath, detecting and destroying a curse with multiple hosts is more challenging.

Chan poked a piece of debris on the floor, not quite examining it because he didn’t think looking for the Warp Curse was his job. Then he stood up from the crouching position and swung his cane backward to swiftly turn to face you and Seungmin, who were both lagging behind, engrossed in a chatter.

He sighed—this was dragging out longer than he wanted. He should have suggested canceling the commission. 

“How long is this going to take?” Chan asked once you both were within earshot.

“Somebody is bored,” Seungmin mused with a roll of his eye.

You took out the notebook and pen and jotted two things down: you could sense the curse nearby and that he should occupy his time explaining why killing the Ruination Curse would benefit you. 

You tapped his shoulder and shoved the notebook to his face. Chan snatched it away to read your handwriting better before returning it, a frown hanging on his lips. He handed the notebook back to you and clicked his tongue in preparation. 

“Considering your family’s history with the curse, I’m not sure you want to keep it alive in your body,” Chan said. “I am coming at this from an emotional standpoint.”

The Ruination Curse was a family curse, which you already knew. It worked because every generation would pick an offspring as its new host. It wasn’t noted why the curse wanted to reside in younger bodies, but the assumption that it desired them was eliminated when the members of your family started having children, which forced the curse to reside in adults well into their forties. 

But, in every generation, there was only one member of the family that could utilize the Ruination Curse. The previous host of the curse, just before you, was your uncle. 

“Does he have a name?” you signed to Seungmin.

He shrugged. “I’m sure he has a name, but it’s scratched off every record for some reason. Not even the mental institution he was sent to figured out why his name was crossed off all the records a day after he escaped.”

“He escaped?” you signed frantically. “Why was he sent to a mental institution?” 

“He–“ Seungmin licked his lower lip and looked at Chan. “He escaped, or maybe he vanished into thin air. Nobody knows where he is. We didn’t find him either."

“Leaving the big news to me,” Chan mused with a smirk. He paused from walking and twirled his cane on the spot. “You are the last member of your immediate family, [Name]–“ he corrected himself–“you and your murderous uncle, actually.”

Your uncle had no intention of letting go of the Ruination Curse, but since he knew its parting wasn’t a choice he could make, he contrived a scenario where the curse would have no other host to jump to except him. 

On one Christmas gathering, back when your mother's pregnancy wasn't visible, and she had set to announce the good news at the party, your uncle used the Ruination Curse to cause a mass miscarriage. All the pregnant wives, which weren't many, within your family lost their baby, except for your mother. He didn't know of your existence yet. 

Only killing those unborn was a form of mercy. When he was challenged for his action, he took it as an attack on his morals and agency and decided to end the lives of those who stood up to him the same night. 

Your biological father was one of those people, and your mother—a smart woman stunned into faux calmness, sought empathy from her brother, which she obtained. After that night, those who were alive went their separate ways, and nobody spoke of the tragedy until your birth. 

"It came to me." You signed, slowing down and looking to Seungmin for confirmation. "The curse came to me automatically after I was born, and my mother…"

"She had cut contact with your uncle and fled to live somewhere far away. She left you with an old friend from college when she realized you inherited the curse. She might have wanted to pretend she wasn't the one who had a child, and maybe she was convincing, but he killed her anyway," Seungmin said. "Some of what I said are speculations, but mostly it's true." 

You looked at the floor. That was all you needed to know, and it took that much for you to realize you never had any reason to look for the truth. It didn’t answer any questions because you had no questions, and neither did it give you feelings of closure. You just felt lost and wasted, like your journey has come to a unfulfilling end. 

“Your mother’s old friend, the man she left you with. His name is Seo Changbin.” Chan twirled his cane and hummed. “He was the one who abandoned you at the police station.”

“Abandon–“

“I am not wrong,” Chan cut Seungmin off calmly. “It sounds bad because it is bad. Despite any nuance of the situation, I am right. I always am.”

“Is he alive?” 

“Why? Did you think he left you to keep you safe?” Chan mused. “Like what your mother did?” 

The ground suddenly gave away from beneath you all. 

You reacted quickly, unsheathing your sword and throwing yourself toward the wall, stabbing its pointed edge inside it. You jumped to stand on the grip, only searching for your two new companions when you've stabilized yourself.

Chan resorted to a similar method with his cane, except he dangled on it as if using a pull-up bar, groaning as he tried to pull himself over his thin cane. He looked up and immediately squeezed his eyes shut, a disgusted scream louder than the rumbling of the ground pushed out of his mouth. 

"My goodness! I suggest biker shorts!"

You grimaced. For everything he knew about you, one would have thought he'd understand your decision to keep your attire to a minimum. Besides, you were already wearing safety shorts, albeit very short ones. He was looking for things to complain about.

Ignoring him, you waved away the dust for a clearer sight. Across you was Seungmin, his entire forearm covered in goo that stuck itself to the wall. You raised your brows; you didn't know karma has other functions, too. 

Seungmin had begun the box breathing method to ease the beating in his ears, but he wasn't so much anxious as he was exhausted. The goo around his arm needed to support his entire weight, so it was tightening on him for dear life, practically cutting off the blood circulation. It would take longer for any irreversible damage, but the fatigue and numbness arrived within seconds, making him sweat.

“There’s all the missing hikers,” Seungmin muttered as he accessed the sight.

Below the collapsed ground was a formation of blood vessels. Each of them was linked to a sharp edge protruding from the ground like a nail, and they were stacked with dead hikers still in their hiking gear. 

The blood painted onto the nails was what made the vessels red, and staring dead at you in the middle was an ember-colored hole. That was where the blood gathered, and they must all flow toward—

The curse is here. You thought as you hopped off your sword and plucked it off the wall.

Chan squirmed away from you when you fell from a great height. You dodged the nails when you landed and covered your nose with your hand upon the decaying smell of bodies around you. Carefully, you made your way to the ember in the middle. You looked at it, then up at the curse, which was just an ordinary sapling growing out of a place it shouldn't. 

You rolled your eyes and raised your sword. Before you could hit it, Chan’s boisterous holler stopped you. You lowered your sword and spun around, staring at him with wide eyes that screamed annoyance and confusion. 

He fixed himself atop his cane and huffed. "Hey! Are you sure this is a great idea?" he asked. "You don't even know what that is. What if it just gets angry and retaliates?"

He raised a good point. You just didn't care that he made one. Taking out the pen and paper he gave you from your bag, you scribbled something and held it up in his direction. Seungmin snorted as Chan leaned forward with his eyes squinted, pretending to read the words on the notepad. When he finished his theatrics, he moved away from the awkward position.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” he said with a few approving nods. “You think I made a contract with the 20/20 vision monster!”

“I don’t think someone with perfect vision can see from all the way up here either,” Seungmin chimed in.

“Just telling me you can’t read it is also an option.” You raised the paper higher by stepping on your tippy-toes.

Chan’s eye twitched. Without trying to read your handwriting, he groaned with a slurred emphasis on each word, “I can’t read it.”

You chuckled with the faint movement of your shoulders, the air punching out of your nose indicating temporary humor. Dropping the pen and paper on the floor and picking up your sword, you turned to face the ember again. As you aimed it at the ember, getting ready to stab it, a bright light engulfed you. 

You closed your eyes, bringing an arm up to block any potential attacks, and when you opened your eyes again, you were moved far away from the hole. You looked up at Seungmin, and he shrugged in response.

“It’s the Warp Curse. You didn’t think it’s going to warp you?” he said. “At least we know it doesn’t want us to destroy the ember.”

“That’s more reason not to touch it,” Chan said. “We don’t know if that is the heart of the curse. If we make it angry, we’re all doomed here.”

Seungmin pulled a face. “You mean I am doomed. Both of you are immortal.”

“They are actually partial,” Chan pointed out. “I’m the real immortal here.”

“What do we do then?” you sighed after clapping your hands for their attention, shifting your weight onto one leg and dropping your sword to your side.

“I don’t know. Do it again?” Seungmin suggested. “Let me see what it’s actually doing.”

You spared him a disapproving glance but didn’t have any brighter ideas, so you did as he asked. You approached the ember, raised your sword, and got teleported elsewhere. The pattern repeated several times until you decided to stop, glaring up at Seungmin to pressure him into figuring something out. 

He avoided eye contact to think. He noticed something, but he wasn’t sure how viable his idea was. Looking up at his arm, which must be turning paler based on the numbness, he sighed. He slowly released the karma from the wall so he could slide off of it instead of falling feet first. When he landed, he dusted his hands and hurried to where you stood. 

“Hey! Are you guys abandoning me?” Chan shouted. 

“You should join us down here!” Seungmin said. “Your face is turning red. You’re gonna fall!”

“You wish I would! I might be old, but I’m very endurable!” he exclaimed, tightening his grip on his cane. “You guys figure out how to kill the curse so I can get out of here! The dead bodies stink!”

You rolled your eyes. “The real surprise is his cane being able to hold his weight.”

“It can do much more than that,” Seungmin signed back, then he said, “It’s his partner in crime.” 

“Why does he need it?” You almost spared Chan a glance, which would have given away the fact that you were talking about him. “He doesn’t limp.”

“Nobody knows. He makes up stories. My friend looked him up, but there was nothing.” Seungmin shrugged. “He sometimes limps.”

“Nobody knows why?”

“What else can it be? An accident.”

“Hey, I love that you are hitting it off with them. But can you focus on your mute outreach program some other time? I’m getting tired!”

Seungmin put a hand on his hip and squinted, the corner of his lips quirking into an unamused smirk. “You said you’re endurable.”

“One word for you, young man–“ Chan leaned his head forward as if to spit–“coexistence!”

Seungmin turned around. “I don’t blame you if you reject our invite.”

“I hate to say this, but it’s not like I have a million dollars to give you, so why don’t we leave?” Chan continued. “The area is already on lockdown anyway. We should let the city deal with it! That’s what our tax dollars are for!”

“He hasn’t paid taxes in years. What is he talking about,” Seungmin muttered. 

“Neither have I.” You grimaced. 

“You’re legally unemployed,” he said. “You’ve never paid taxes.”

You shrugged. He wasn’t wrong. All of your bounty-hunting jobs were through backdoors. None of them were official, and most of them were suspicious, but those were the ones that paid the most. 

“Anyway, this thing seems to operate like a tunnel,” he signed. “If you get put in, you can always get pulled out.” 

As Seungmin cleverly pointed out, since the curse might understand human language, it came in handy that you two could communicate through sighs. Since he was still learning, he mainly talked through short and choppy sentences with a few keywords that could get his point across. 

He told you he noticed a few patterns of which you were warped, meaning the curse must have laid out specific routes that it could use. It was no coincidence that all those routes ended up somewhere above a nail. Another thing he saw was that you turn invisible when you were being warped, and judging by the laying of routes, he doubted the curse could see you when you were in the middle of the routes.

“Okay. This should be secure enough.” 

He squeezed your hand firmly and pulled at your fingers to check for security. You two shared a nonchalant nod as he removed his hand from yours. You rubbed your fingers to feel the goo he transferred to your skin; like he warned, they stung like spicy mint or super glue on your skin.

Seungmin watched you intently as you approached the ember again. You twirled your sword so the point faced the ground, and as you pretended to puncture the ember, you were whisked away. Forcing your eyes open, you waited a few seconds for the curse to push you toward a considerable height before you let go of your sword. 

Seungmin ran toward the direction of where you were moved away. There were only faint lines of the ‘tunnel,’ so he could barely see where you traveled to amid the multiple routes possible.

He raised a hand, and a thin line of goo webbed between his and yours. He turned his wrist around the line and held it to keep it steady, and then, with one leg anchored on the floor, he pulled the string over his shoulder.

The light around you disappeared like a camera flash as you were snatched away from the air tunnel. Your blurry vision steadily rubbed itself away, but you could faintly make out the shape of your sword still in the air.

Once you were almost in arm’s reach, you shot a hand out and grabbed its handle, and then you leaned your weight forward so you could begin to fall to the ground.

Seungmin raced to the ember when the karmic string snapped. There was no way the curse would idly sit by this operation, and he couldn’t count on the probability that it couldn’t activate its warp one after another within a moment’s rest. If his assumptions were correct, when you were about to fall sword first into the ember—

He pulled you down by your shirt and shielded you from behind, briefly taking your place, and then he was flung into the air. 

—the warp curse would try to remove you again.

Wind released between the crack of the broken ember, and one by one, explosions from beneath the blood trail broke apart its food source.

The ground rumbled beneath you, forcing you to lose your footing. As you were too busy trying to regain your composure, a slit cracked between your feet, and then bigger and bigger until a rocky nail shot upward from the spot.

You were pushed aside in the nick of time, and there came a trail of pained groans from none other than the gentleman himself. The earthquake didn’t stop, but you scrambled up to your feet upon the chaos and bolted toward the curse. Grabbing a fistful of the sapling, you squeezed it tightly in your hand and willed for its destruction. 

Your arm twisted with a pop—a low price for multiple lives lost, and the sapling in your hand turned into ashes. 

The nails crumbled soon after, dropping all its victims to the ground in several thuds. Chan spat the blood out of his mouth as he tried to get off the ground, but instead, he flipped his body over so he could lay on his back. With his eyes closed in relief, he breathed away the pain in his chest as his curse sealed his injury up. 

“I hate this job,” he muttered, earning a chuckle from Seungmin, who walked up to him just to kick his thin.

“How’re you holding up, old man?” Seungmin asked. “Hyunjin did offer to be here today.” 

“If it wasn’t for me, they would have died–“ Chan groaned. “Ugh, I forgot they can’t die too.”

You held onto your broken arm as you made your way to them. Chan closed the eye closest to you when you neared, turning his head away and bringing a finger gun up at you.

“I’ll repeat it,” he laughed, “try biker shorts.”

You clicked your tongue as you took a big step back, pressing your hand onto your skirt to cover up. 

“Is your arm broken?” Seungmin asked, gesturing toward it. “We can check it out at base. The one who was supposed to be here in Chan’s place is our medic.”

You nodded. Agreeing to head to their home would have established your agreement to join their operation to kill the sound monster. Truthfully, there wasn’t much else you could do as an individual project now that they have explained your family history. Killing the sound monster didn’t sound like a bad next step. 

“I guess I’m in?”

“Great. I’m glad you agree,” Chan groaned as he sat up. When he noticed your surprised expressions, he smiled. “Yeah, I do know sign language. I had a weird sister.”

As you and Seungmin drowned yourselves in shock and mild annoyance, Chan ruffled his hair and looked around. He nonchalantly looked past the dead bodies on the floor and exhaled.

“Say, do you think we can still get monetary rewards for finding these missing people?”

[writeyouin]

Swerve X Reader – Quiz Night

Description: When Swerve is exploring Earth in his holoform, he finds a movie quiz where he meets you and quickly falls in love. Set in a Transformers Prime AU wherein Swerve went to Earth with the Autobots. LIGHT SMUT BELOW THE CUT.

A/N – Okay, so every fortnight, I go to my local cinema’s movie quiz and I’ve had this scenario in my head since I started going to that. I just wanted to write this for me to try and get back into writing on my days off from teaching.

Also, there is a Steve who wins every week. I am determined to beat him just once.

Warnings – MILD SMUT / NSFW.

Rating – M

Swerve looked around the small café, wringing his hands anxiously. He felt all too aware of his holoform, sure that any minute now, every human in the room would see him for what he really was and that his life would turn into a B-Movie wherein the FBI and CIA would chase him down, shooting everything they could at him until he was captured and tortured for information. And why not?

Something similar had happened to Bumblebee before he met Charlie. Why not Swerve too? Then again, the Autobots had a base on Earth now, and Swerve was confident in the use of his holoform… though this was the first time he’d tried it outside his hab-suite in the base.

Then there was the other thing. If Optimus knew that Swerve was wasting precious energon to maintain his holoform all because he just had to get out and see some humans up close- Well, sufficed to say, the big guy would be pissed.

But it was just one night. Surely, Swerve could justify that. Even Cinderella got one night out. Alright. For tonight he would be Cinder-Fella. Or at least he would be if he could find somewhere to sit.

Honestly, when Swerve jumped into the little cinema on the promenade, he hadn’t expected much, he’d just wanted to see it. Then, he headed upstairs and saw that they were setting up a movie quiz, and he just couldn’t resist entering. It was only a dollar to enter and he’d found the occasional bit of cash on the street, so why the hell not?

Yet, as Swerve looked around the café on the second floor, he realised that he was not a part of this community. There were several friend groups, most of who seemed to be regulars and who were riling up the other teams obviously used to the atmosphere, and there were no empty tables, just a few spare seats.

Gathering up his courage, Swerve loped towards your table, seeing that you were the only person on it.

“Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here? I sorta came here on impulse and well- Y’know,” He gestured around at the lack of available tables.

“Oh, sure,” You said agreeably, putting your phone down. “I’m (Y/N).”

“Swerve,” He introduced himself, feeling less shy at your friendly demeanour.

“Huh, unusual name,” You commented, not unfriendly in tone.

“Oh, y-yeah. Unconventional parents.”

“So, no team, Swerve?” You asked, changing the subject to make him more comfortable.

“No, uh, first time. I didn’t even know there was a quiz till I got here. How about you?”

“I had a teammate but she just texted that she can’t make it. So, I guess I’m on my own tonight unless you wanna team up.”

Swerve stared blankly at you. He couldn’t believe that you were being so nice. Then again, you barely knew him. He was certain once you got to know him, you would find him as annoying as the other Autobots did.

Seeing his hesitation, you held up your hand kin a Scout’s promise, “I promise to share any prizes we win.”

Swerve felt his human obsession taking hold and his energon pump thrummed excitedly, “Yeah, that sounds great.”

When the quiz started, you thought you were good at movie trivia, but Swerve shot you out the water. He was even better than the quiz champion Steve, who generally won every week. The only thing Swerve seemed to struggle with was the years movies came out, though that was because Cybertronians measured time differently, and you did well enough at those, getting most right.

“Wow,” You chuckled at the first break between rounds. “You’re insanely good at this. You’re even beating Steve.”

“Steve?” Swerve asked, worried that he was someone you were interested in, even though he had no reasonable claim to be jealous.

“Yeah, he’s the old guy by the counter. He wins a lot, but he’s a good guy. Always shares his prizes. I think he’s just in it for the social aspect, y’know? A lot of people here are. It’s a nice little community. Plus, this is the only thing we have against the big cinema… There’s no heart in that place.”

“No kidding,” Swerve hummed, fascinated by you and your energy. “So, (Y/N), tell me about yourself.”

You smiled, thinking about how comfortable you felt around Swerve. He seemed like a nice guy. You filled him in on a few details of your day-to-day life. In return, he responded with a few facts about himself, though he was sometimes vague, unable to tell you the truth behind his Cybertronian life.

He told you that he was a scientist in a government base; this wasn’t a massive stretch from the truth since he was a metallurgist, using his skills to help the Autobots against the Decepticons, though he stayed far from any battles, generally being a house-mouse.

You were impressed with his work, feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the high-status job. Then, the next round of the quiz began and the two of you were back on the same wavelength as teammates.

The quiz questions were set in a bingo card formation, giving everyone a fair shot at winning, so despite Swerve’s movie prowess the two of you didn’t win anything until the third round, wherein you were awarded two cinema tickets, free to use for any film.

At the end of the night, standing outside the cinema, you held the tickets out to Swerve, “Here, you can take these. You answered all the hard questions.”

“No, no. I can’t take them. I mean, it was your table and you helped a lot, and you come here all the time and I’m just-” Swerve began nervously babbling and you grinned, finding him cute.

You grabbed his hand, handing him one of the tickets, “Alright, fifty-fifty split. But hey, if you’re not doing anything next week, I was gonna come and see the seven O’clock showing of the new fantasy flick. You could join me for that if you wanted.”

Swerve nodded dumbly, thinking how warm your hands felt atop his.

“Great, it’s a date. See you then.”

You walked away with a bounce in your step. Meanwhile, Swerve stayed there, unable to move while he wondered whether you meant a date as in a real, romantic date or whether it was just a turn of phrase. Either way, for the rest of the week, he was quiet and distracted, unable to get you out of his processor.

When Swerve next snuck away from the base, using his holoform once again to meet you he fell in love. This was not the first time he had fallen in love, since he formed attachments quickly, but it was the hardest he had ever fallen, fascinated as he was by your world and species.

The two of you sat down to the film, and Swerve felt his brain freeze when you rested your head on his shoulder halfway through the film, grabbing his hand and entwining your fingers with his. It took him a few seconds before he stiffly let his cheek rest against your hair which was so, so soft.

“I had a really good time with you tonight,” You said quietly as the two of you filed out into the cool night air.

“Me too,” Swerve replied almost giddily as he drank in the sight of you.

You pulled a slip of paper from your pocket, offering it to Swerve, “Here, call me.”

Swerve unfolded the paper, finding your number with a little heart doodled next to it. He flushed red, becoming even more flustered when you pecked his cheek, lingering for a second before you said goodnight and left him there again.   From there, you and Swerve went on several more dates, though he always avoided dinner dates, being unable to eat, and then things between the two of you got serious.

Swerve knew this was wrong. When you’d asked him back to your place, he should have said no. He should have never started any kind of relationship with you in the first place, but now things were getting serious and beneath all the excitement, he was ashamed of himself. What would you do if you knew who he really was? What he really was? Yet that didn’t stop him from sloppily kissing you, listening to you gasp when his erection pressed against your thigh. He was addicted to you and he was being selfish. Worse, as the intimacy built and you gave yourself to him completely, Swerve couldn’t stop himself from saying, “I love you,” repeating the phrase as he kissed your neck, and again when your body was pressed against his, and again as the two of you cuddled afterwards. He held your body against him during the night, stroking your exposed skin while you slept. He loved you. He loved the idea of a relationship with you. He loved that you had said the words back to him that very night. But ultimately, love wasn’t enough. Yes, he loved you in a million ways, but he couldn’t trust you. He wanted so badly to, but after he had betrayed your trust so thoughtlessly, he was too scared that if you found out what he was all of your love for him would evaporate. In the twilight hours, nearing early morning, Swerve received a communication from Prime, demanding his presence back at the base. Swerve sighed. First and foremost, all Cybertronians had a duty to their faction, and though Swerve wanted to put you first, he had to go back. If he stayed out any longer, he would have to explain his many long absences. He was a scientist and his duty was to the Autobots. He kissed the back of your shoulder, took a minute to find a paper and a pen, then left a note on his pillow stating that he wished he could stay but an emergency at work had come up. Then, glancing longingly at you before leaving, Swerve felt one last flush of shame and disgust at himself. No matter how much he loved you, he was using you to make himself feel better, and he knew he wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t.