#bc I am not deviating from that once I start

[sky--phantom]

De Acutis about Jacobus' House

[orion-nottson]

devil’s in the details | tfp!megatron x reader

A/N: i have tfp megatron brain rot. like i know he’s cray cray and deluded, but literally so am i we’re made for each other he’s mine

also this obvi deviates from canon, bc there is no way on god’s green earth that dreadwing and starscream could coexist semi-peacefully.

also, please be warned that i haven’t written transformers fanfic since i was like 14 💀💀 fought for my LIFE with the terminology (had to check my old WATTPAD stories to find some vocab 💀)

summary: lord megatron propositions you. it’s a rather bold request.

content: SMUT, 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, femme!cybertronian!reader, seeker!reader, sticky sexual interfacing, breeding kink, wee lil bit of choking, technically boss/employee relationship, power dynamic (it gets semi-resolved), implied past relationship/thought unrequited love, average decepticon emotional constipation, business arrangement procreation

word count: 6,367

~ * ~ * ~

The Decepticon warship lingers somewhere over the southern pole of Earth, resulting in a dramatic decrease in temperature, even with the efficiency of Cybertronian technology. You shift your wings for the umpteenth time, armor plates releasing air to alleviate the discomforting chill that’s started to bother you. Of course, it was far from being so cold that you needed to worry about your core temperature, but you are a Seeker from Vos, and Vos was always warm.

The thought makes your wings tremble again, so you hurry yourself to your quarters with a bit more haste.

It wouldn’t suddenly be warm and tropical, but at least you’d be able to curl up and shiver in privacy. Recharge sounds particularly nice too, considering you’ve been up for several cycles trying to appease Lord Megatron’s endless demands. Inwardly, you roll your optics— There seems to be nothing you can do that would satisfy him.

The corridor finally breaks into the wing that houses Decepticon high command, where yours and your fellow officers reside. Your room is down almost the entire expanse of the hall, the turn right before where Megatron’s personal habsuite lies. From where you’re walking, you can spot the sleek, black metal door. A chill runs up your back struts, and your processor convinces you it’s from the icy cold that’s overtaken the Nemesis.

“Curse this inhospitable, organic planet.” Muttering to yourself dissuades you from also blaming your Master, who was no help either, if you were to be honest. He could shove his “not wanting to expend precious Energon on unnecessary heating” decree up his tail pipe.

You resign yourself to some rather cold nights for the foreseeable future. Perhaps... If you played your cards right, as the humans say, you could convince Soundwave to pilot the ship north. Maybe somewhere near Hawaii...

A sharp, gravelly voice from behind you calls your name, and you spin around to see your Lord and Master a ways down the corridor from you. Immediately bringing yourself to attention, you straighten your back struts and bow politely.

“My liege.” You say, thanking Primus you’ve become so accustomed to Megatron’s thunderous shouts that you no longer jump, let alone flinch, when they occur. The silver mech strides up to you easily, displaying all the strength of a warrior in the confidence of his steps.

“Retiring to your quarters?” He asks austerely, as if he’s ever concerned himself with your whereabouts, let alone personal routine. Unease creeps up on you, so you shift on the thrusters of your peds and cross your servos over your chassis. Wings fluttering, you reply slowly, “Well, yes.”

“Allow me to accompany you there.” The silver mech says brightly, and it’s such an absurdly peculiar request for both the mech saying it and the situation at hand. You instinctively snort a laugh.

“I do believe I know the way to my own habsuite, my Lord.” You say before you can stop the words from coming out, and immediately regret them once they do. You meet Megatron’s hard stare sheepishly, wings dropping timorously. Forgetting your place in the grand scheme of things is not wise amongst the Decepticon ranks.

To your utter shock, you’re not met with a vicious reprimand and instead Megatron grins— this wickedly suave thing— and purrs, “Humor me.”

And all you can say is, “Of course.”

Megatron hums appreciatively, brushing past you as he takes the lead, like he always does. You step in time behind him, nearly colliding into his back struts when he suddenly halts, and you stumble backwards a few steps. The looming mech pivots, glancing down at you with a quizzical expression in his glowing optics.

“Seekers are a rare breed, yes?” Lord Megatron asks, and whatever game he’s begun to play with you genuinely stumps any reasoning you attempt. Opening your mouth, your optics dart over his face, trying to decode whatever message your Master is sending and coming up empty. 

“Er... Yes, my liege? Even before the war, Vos was not a populous city-state. There are probably... even less now.” You reply cautiously, becoming very put off as Megatron takes a step towards you. He looks as impassive as ever, though you’re beginning to see a very curious appraising expression overtaking his faceplates. It begins with the upcurve of his mouth, derma pulled into the most wolfish grin you’ve ever seen on the mech.

Utterly bizarre. Your processors want to reset because this Megatron is starting to look like the studly gladiator of Kaon you’d hear be lasciviously giggled about, not the ruthless, merciless tyrant he’s supposed to be.

“I have a rather... avant-garde proposition for you, my most loyal Seeker.” Megatron purrs, his servos clasped easily behind him as you’ve seen him too many times before, often when he schemes. He’s also talking to you as if this is casual, expected business of him; matter-of-fact and cordial, with his usual cool drawl.

Before you can reply, Megatron turns sharply once more and begins walking down the corridor, stopping after a few steps when he realizes you hadn’t started with him. He turns his helm to look back at you, this time there’s this strangely unreadable expression on his faceplates.

“Follow me.” He says simply, and without a second thought, you do.

Even though you’re a Seeker with naturally long legs, his pedsteps are even longer strides, so you have to exert some effort in keeping up with Megatron. It adds to the growing franticness that’s begun to bubble up inside your chassis. 

While not exactly fear, though that’s certainly part of it, you’ve been a Decepticon and aboard the Nemesis under Megatron’s direct command long enough to know that when he becomes cryptic, it means trouble. Or at least a command that you’d rather not be the one to deal with. Bluntly asking what the frag he’s on about wouldn’t be the best course of action, but you know that he likes you enough not to offline you immediately if you did.

So you do.

“My Lord, what exactly are you asking of me?” You inquire, noting with slight abject horror as Megatron approaches the door to your quarters and types in your lock code with ease. Of course, he is the leader after all. Instead of answering your question, he makes you feel even more uneasy by throwing you a mysteriously sultry look and quipping, “Let me have you if only for a breem. Or longer should I entertain you.”

You catch the flash of his ruby optics, their intentions indiscernible, and then he disappears into your habsuite like it’s his own.

There’s something to it, an itch of a thought that’s begun to decipher the puzzle and put together the pieces. Lately, Megatron has been far more... involved with you, more eager at your presence, and it was blatantly obvious that he grew quite miffed when others got too close. It was no secret to anyone— From Soundwave and Starscream to a lowly technician— that Megatron had an optic for you (many did, frankly) and thus he was quite possessive of your wiles and charms as well.

This line of thought leads you to step into your room, slowly and evenly as if it’s unmarked territory and not the quarters that were assigned to you millennia ago.

“Lord Megatron...” You trail off, catching his stare just as he sets your old null ray back on your weapons rack, where most of your old, dismantled, and prized tools are located. Your null ray had been a favorite, until some blasted Autobot blew out the important bits that kept it working. That had stung, and even eons later you still curse that specific Autobot to the Pits.

Megatron flexes his claws, and with a flourish he clasps his servos behind him once again. His red optics scan the entirety of your quarters, lingering on your berth until they come back to rest on you. His gaze is equal parts unnerving and fascinating, as if he’s deconstructing you armor by armor, stripping you down until he’s watched your spark pulse.

His optics, like twin red suns, center you at their universes, and you feel oddly... flattered at their amorous disposition.

“It is no secret that I have watched you for some time.” Megatron starts, tilting his helm as he becomes pensive. You nod dumbly, hardly processing a word he’s saying. Megatron takes a single step towards you, looming like a shadow. In the dim lighting of your room, his silver armor catches all the chiaroscuro, his violet accents hued to black. Only his glowing, fiery optics remain bright. He continues.

“I admit,—” Megatron drawls your name deliciously, “— That I have found myself... captivated by your beauty. Entranced by your prowess, both in battle and mind.”

“I...” Your vents hitch, wings shivering at the praise. Blinking rapidly to ensure this isn’t some monumentally vivid dream, you clear your intake and say, “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, my Lord.”

Megatron laughs, that slight chuckle that sounds halfway between his engines roaring and something genuine that comes from the spark. The silver mech’s rolls his shoulders, armor hissing as it releases air. Wildly, he confesses something you never would have expected from him, “I believe myself bewitched.”

His servos have clasped themselves into fists at his sides, and briefly you wonder if he’s angry with you, then his entire frame relaxes like he’s decompressing after a long spar with Dreadwing.

“Tell me, my little Seeker, why have you denied yourself of me for so long?” Megatron asks it like a tease, like he’s some boon to be revered or a sacred sword to be wielded. Heat rises beneath your armor plating, and your processors race kilometers a nanosecond to find a suitable answer. Or at least one that doesn’t make you sound like some lovesick femmeling.

You couldn’t lie and say you had no... feelings for your Master, who was as handsome and dark as he was powerful and cunning. Megatron was once a gladiator of Kaon, and gladiators on Cybertron were what you had often admired, marveling at their strength, drive, and raw spark. Megatron had been no different, though you also found his commanding presence and impressive intellect to be even more attractive.

That was really why you’d joined the Decepticon cause all those millennia ago; Drawn to your Master’s fight to bring equality to the rigid castes and to seize control of the Energon supply to better disperse it by his charismatic allure.

And somehow, Megatron knew all of this.

“It would have been insubordination if I acted upon my... desires.” You reply, crossing your arms over your ample chassis with a shrug. Megatron matches your collected temperament with a hum, staring down at you with unreadable red optics.

“Indeed. Though I wish you’d had disobeyed, my little Seeker.” Megatron purrs, taking a step towards you that closes the space between your frames and boxes you in. His EM field magnifies the atmosphere around you, tingling at the periphery of yours.

“M-My liege?” You gape, faceplates feeling hot as metal left in direct sunlight. He chuckles, and sinfully the tip of his glossa runs over his pointed denta. Your spark skips a beat, owlishly watching 

“If I had known sooner that you wanted me as direly as I did you, then this song and dance would have concluded vorns ago.” Megatron growls, optics flashing with not anger, but lust. He takes another step, and you’re speechless.

“That being said, I am patient. I have no qualms with how long we have waited, nor will I if you choose to wait longer.” One of the tyrant’s long, clawed digits clicks at the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upwards. His touch is delicate, like you’d break if he pushed too hard. Honestly, you probably would if he did. Part of you wants to see him try.

“What did you want to ask of me?” You whisper, optics fluttering until they stay half-lidded and dewy under the carnal scrutiny of your Lord. Megatron grins, a sliver of sharp denta flashing in the lowlights of your habsuite. He takes a final step towards you, a half-shuffle that does well to close the gap between your frames, the air warming from the work of your combined engines. You hope he feels the way your spark races, hope he feels the heat emanating from your core.

“Give me an heir, carry a sparkling of my code and stand beside me as my queen.” With each word, laden with desire until it shows in his optics that drip with lust, Megatron has you against the wall of your habsuite, one servo tracing the sleek edge of your wing.

It’s entirely intoxicating, and against your better judgment and all remaining reason— and mostly because you haven’t had a good, hard frag in ages— you moan.

It’s a soft, angelic sound that barely catches on the audials, but it makes Megatron grin like a shark. You gasp, affronted, optics flickering, “My liege!”

“Have I offended you?” He breathes, and suddenly his mouth is against your neck cables, each word leaving the softest of kisses on your Energon lines. Your resolve nearly crumbles entirely, each brush of his dermas like a shot of high grade to the systems. You sigh, vents hissing, and place one servo on his chassis. Beneath the broad expanse of silver armor, his engines rumble like thunder on the horizon. It makes you pulse with need.

“No.” You whisper, wanting to sing as Megatron kisses the slope of your jaw, then pecks the side of your mouth, agape with shock. He pulls back, the heat of him evaporating as soon as he’s once again standing at his full height. You tremble, not from the cold, but from his absence. 

It’s not something you’d ever given much thought about, your feelings towards your Lord and Master, but it’s something that’s come rushing back. All the suppressed thoughts, the dashed dreams, the impossible futures... They come back to you and leave you weak in the knee joints, cooling fans whirring from the memories of the fantasies you’d entertained when you’d had long midnights alone.

“What say you then?” Megatron’s stare is hard, unshaking and fully serious. He wants to have a sparkling with you, wants you to bear him an heir— He wants you as his queen and equal, to stand beside him and lead the Decepticon cause. The expression on his face is a cross between a wild animal, wanting to ravage you the nanosecond you say Yes, and the warlord with enough resolve and self-restraint to accept if you say No.

It’s all so much at once. Eons of time made up in just a single question. Details and technicalities will have to be conferred over later, as for now you’re content with the conditions as-is.

“Well... You are a handsome mech, my liege.” You reply, teasing him by placing a chaste kiss directly on the Decepticon insignia on his chassis. He doesn’t say anything, only his engine rumbles more audibly. You look up at him and salaciously imply with a coy smirk, “I do believe we’d make a fine clutch of sparklings.”

And then you find yourself swept up into his arms, back struts and wings pressed against the wall, your Lord’s hips slotted perfectly against yours. The more base urges inside you squeal, your Seeker coding nearly overtaking you and having you present to him like a turbofox in heat.

Not one to be outdone, Megatron quips, “And you are quite the striking femme— Shall I ravage you against the wall or your berth?”

You laugh, cut off only when Megatron captures your dermas in his, drowning you in the roughness of a mech starved of Energon. He kisses like he owns the practice and has made it an artform; Dragging your dermas with his, glossa invading your mouth, denta nipping dangerously close to sensitive nodes and wiring. You moan and gasp, coming to the realization that one of your servos grips his wrist and the other is flat against his chassis.

You shutter your optics, reveling in Megatron’s power and dominance, wanting so desperately for him to devour you. The warmth blossoms, spreading throughout your core until you feel charges pulse at your interface panels that have you whimpering.

After what feels like vorns, Megatron parts and your dermas unlock with a metallic pop. Megatron’s mouth ghosts over yours, and he hums as he repeats himself, “Berth or wall, little Seeker?”

“The berth, my liege.” You urge breathlessly, a delighted sound escaping you as Megatron heaves you from the wall and carries you to your desired destination. He isn’t gentle when he deposits you on your berth, doesn’t mind the wings, so you hiss when your back struts connect with the metal beneath you. Megatron manages to keep himself between the smooth metal of your thighs as he hitches one knee up onto the berth.

“I wonder,” Megatron stops to kiss you deeply once more, making your processors spin, “If this is an auspicious position for conception.”

A bite to the dermas stifles your wanton moan. Your Lord may not be fully aware of it yet, but each mention of being sparked, of bearing his heirs, has your more base urges spiraling out of control. While Vos was not populated by many Seekers, the need to breed is more hardwired into the programming than most other frame types. His words act like fuel to the fire.

“O-Oh— I can only hope.” You gasp, your whimpering cries smothered by Megatron’s dermas in yet another bruising, brusque kiss. This time, he lingers, slows down as if he savors the taste of you on his glossa. Your servos grip his shoulders, smoothing along his breadth before your pointed digits grip at the armor panels high on his back. Megatron responds most enjoyably, using one servo to anchor himself above you and the other to caress down your body.

His servo travels from the curve of your waist, talons scratching at your paint, down to the slope of your hip where it rests heavy and warm on the junction of your thigh. He teases the sharp point of his thumb digit on the transformation seam nearest your interface panels, causing you to arch your back struts like a cat. Megatron uses this opportunity to settle a servo on the low of your back struts, where he pinches at the sensitive nodes at the bases of your wings. That makes you cry out, your cooling fans whirring loudly as a charge builds up deep inside you. 

You’ve never been this close to an overload so quickly before, though you’ve had many sleepless nights built up to bring you to this moment. And Megatron proves his expertise in the berth, past rumors and gossip proven to hold more truth than you once thought. 

Your entire frame feels electrified, your lower body feels like it’s on fire, the heat centered gloriously on your interfacing parts. Particularly your valve and anterior node, which feel wet and pulse beneath the panel with each of your sparkbeats.

“You react so gratifyingly.” Megatron purrs, his gravelly drawl like fine high grade on the audials, uncharacteristically sweet and sensual. He glances down at your interface panels, where your glowing transfluid is beginning to seep out along the seams. With a devious grin, Megatron meets your gaze just as he presses his thumb digit to your overheated panel.

“Megatron!” You cry his name, forsaking honorifics, and nearly overloading on the spot. Almost unconsciously, you send a command and your valve panel slides open, revealing your weeping slit and throbbing anterior node. You cry out again when Megatron wastes no time and starts tight, small circles on the sensitive bundle of mesh wire and circuitry.

“Beautiful.” He hums, quickening his pace on your anterior node as he notices sparks fly as your charge builds. You grip his back, claws digging at his silver armor and leaving scratches in his already worn paint. Megatron leans in, steals your dermas in a kiss, keeps circling your wet node, and just as you see warnings for an imminent overload— He stops.

The charge doesn’t die, but it decreases to a staticky tingle, and you part from the kiss, scandalized that he’s prevented your overload. You gape at Megatron, giving him a glare that could rival the World Destroyer’s himself. He only offers you a sly look.

“My liege.” This time you growl the title past grit denta, bucking your hips against your Master’s still servo. He hums, your anger meaning nothing to him, though indulging you by brushing two digits along the transfluid-soaked mesh of your valve. You gasp, optics blowing wide as he pushes them in, mindful of his sharp claws, stretching you wonderfully.

There’s a slight burn at first, pain sensors sending alerts, alleviated as your frame adjusts to accommodate his thick talons. Megatron eases his digits back until they are almost out completely, then sinks them back in. Your knees come up, peds shaking as you hook them behind his back struts.

“Patience, my dear,” Megatron kisses your neck cables, “Is a virtue.”

And like he had your anterior node, he works your valve slowly, steadily building the charge that buzzes all the pleasure centers in your frame. Warnings for an overload screen your vision again, this time your optics flicker as it grows closer. Staccato vents escape your intake, fans skipping cycles and hitching, encouraging Megatron to go faster, digits plunging in and out of your valve with sopping, moist noises. The room smells like interface; the tinny tang of transfluid, the almost-burnt smell of metal-on-metal friction.

You moan, this time a long keen that crackles in your audials, and Megatron responds with the first pleasured sound you’ve heard from him: A low, throaty groan that he practically strangles in his intake like he doesn’t want it to escape.

“M-My liege, plea-please.” You whine, writhing, bucking your hips even as Megatron’s servo relinquishes your wings in order to still them. You sob, systems on the fritz as the charge crackles, your overload closing in due to Megatron’s working servo and digits. He laughs again, the breathy one that you adore, and surprisingly heeds your plea.

“I want you like this when you take my spike.” Megatron hisses, doubling his pace and making you scream. The wet squelch of your mesh grows louder, and with each thrust of his servo, his knuckle joint brushes your throbbing anterior node, whiting out your optics.

“I want you disheveled.” The tyrant presses close to you, tightening the cyclic thrusts of his digits, biting at the base of your neck cables. Your helm lolls to the side, voice crackling in constant whines as you squeeze your optics shut. He growls, sharp denta piercing an Energon line close to your shoulder armor, the pain mixing with pleasure and having you singing.

“I want you desperate.” Megatron snarls like an Earthen beast, the gruffness of his voice matching the hot stretch of your valve. Transfluid soaks the inner seams and mechanisms of your thighs, spilling onto your berth below. Megatron drags his dermas to yours, his glossa hot and heady as he shoves it in your mouth and dominates the kiss. You moan against him, gripping him tight and hearing the sound of metal screech as its torn.

The silver mech groans, low and rough, breaking the kiss and allowing his helm to fall besides yours. To the cables and wires of your neck, he leaves open-mouth kisses, condensation hot from his vents, then pulls himself up to your audials and whispers harshly:

“I want you as mine.”

The last word is punctuated by a hard push of his digits and his thumb squashing your anterior node, and your overload hits you like a system crash. You wail, wings fluttering and hitting the berth with metallic clangs as your body seizes, the charge overtaking your processors. Pleasure like molten lava consumes your frame, transfluid squirting out onto Megatron’s forearm like paint.

The overload lasts eons, like some supernova of a dying star. Your legs lock, armor plating shivering, wings hitched high and scraping against your berth.  Maybe this is what death is, you think illogically, Maybe I’ve joined with the Allspark.

“Beautiful.” Megatron breathes again, his optics glowing in awe, “Positively beautiful.”

It takes a click for your processor to compute what he said, then another for your optics to blink back on. Coolant tears leak out the corners, blurring your vision. Your mouth gapes, dermas damp with condensation, your cooling fans whirring in loud in your audials. The grip you have on Megatron loosens, servos slipping until they fall upon his shoulders.

The charge in your valve mesh and anterior node quivers and bounces, and you realize with a pleasant tremble that Megatron’s digits are still firmly inside you.

“Megatron.” You coo his name, “Megatron.”

He says yours back, like all you’ve done and are doing is exchanging designations in a routine meeting and it reminds you of a time when things were simpler between the two of you. It’s been eons since Megatron’s seen you the way his ruby red optics gaze upon you now, eons more since you’ve felt seen.

War has made you both volatile, too tough and too angry to do anything else but fight, and fight some more. But here, in the privacy of your berth, blanketed by the secrecy of darkness: War can’t touch you. Nothing can.

“How I have yearned for you...” Megatron cups your faceplates, his servo cool against your overheated frame. You smile, still hazy from your overload and the lingering sensation of his other servo very much connected carnally to you, feeling like you’ve overdone yourself on too much high grade. 

A switch flips inside you, the one that reminds you’re no fainting femme, but one that asks and will take regardless. You are a Seeker, after all— It’s in your code to want offspring.

“Give me a sparkling, my Lord.” Even though your voice wavers, it still sounds like an immutable command. The contemplative look on Megatron’s face morphs into the devilish one, and he snarls, removing his digits from your core. A thin line of gooey transfluid stretches between you and his servo, until Megatron brings it to his mouth and his glossa licks along the length of his digits. His optics narrow in as he hums.

“You presume you can command me.” And yet he obeys again, his interface panel unlatching with a hiss. His spike emerges, a long, thick one that fills in sections, ribbed along its length. Glowing transfluid oozes in droplets from its tip, rolling down the underside of his spike. Your jaw drops, both in want and slight alarm— Megatron is a large mech, you should have better anticipated a large spike.

“Know this, dearest: I will take you, ruin you, fill you up until my code takes.” Megatron promises, lining his bobbing spike up with your throbbing valve. He then grabs your hips, propping them up for a better angle. You quiver, writhing on your berth and bracing your servos on his forearms. His armor is hot under your touch, and your claws dig into the smooth of his paint. Then you match his stare, licking your dermas.

“Frag me like you mean it.”

Megatron suddenly thrusts his spike into you and you wail, unforgiving of your smaller stature. The delicate mesh and sensitive wires give and mold around the hot rod of his pulsing length, forming a slick suction around your lover. He groans, easing back then thrusting in with earnest. Your thighs tremble as you take him, each rimmed circlet of his spike passing into you, dragging deliciously on your valve’s walls.

It’s a tight fight, even with being loosened by Megatron’s thick digits. The transformation seams on your hips and thighs stretch, soft whirs and clicks as your frame adjusts to take him. He’s the biggest you’ve ever had, and the strongest too. The power in his hips drives you up the berth, and he pulls you back down.

You can’t meet his thrusts, but you try and buck your hips in time with him, erratic at first. Megatron’s servos are locked on you, guiding you when your movements skip or miss. All the pleasure centers in your frame are alight, charges sparking and fritzing along your circuitry. Another overload builds, a hot, deep bubbling in your core.

With each thrust of his spike, your valve squelches, the mesh slick and hot with transfluid. More drips down your legs, your aft, onto the berth, leaving everything tacky. Megatron hits a particularly sensitive node deep inside you, one you didn’t even know was there, and you keen. Coolant tears prick at your vision again, escaping the corners and rolling off your faceplates. 

“How badly do you want it?” Megatron seethes, and you could mistake his lust for anger. He seizes your neck cables, dangerous talons threatening Energon lines, as he demands, “How badly do you want me?”

“Desperately.” You wheeze, optics whiting out as Megatron squeezes your neck cables just so as he gives you a series of particularly rough thrusts. Your peds tighten on his back, urging him deeper. Your Master vents, harsh and hot, his engine rumbling loud in his chassis.

“You will look...” Megatron chokes on a groan,”... Excellent with a trine at your hip.”

That makes you whine, Seeker coding squealing and preening at the thought. A trine. Three little sparklings just like their carrier. You’d delight in carrying them in your gestation chamber, wanting to see yourself change and swell to accommodate them.

“I want... I want,” Your voice cuts out, broken by a sob, and you can only manage a tight, “I want that!”

“Good.” Megatron pistons his hips like a jackhammer, his rhythm not breaking once. Powerful thrusts meet the wet heat of your core, the tops of his thigh armor clanking loudly against your legs. The overload warnings start appearing once again. Megatron hisses when your valve tightens around his length, and it prompts him to pick up the pace.

“You are so pretty.” He growls, leaning in to recapture your dermas with his. As he kisses, he doubles his speed and the strength behind it. You moan and sob into his mouth, servos gripping him by the back of the helm. His glossa battles with yours, his sharp denta nicking you more than once. Then he switches to kissing you deeply, soulfully, like he’s found salvation in your dermas.

It’s as you’re so viscerally connected to Megatron that the heat in your core reaches a boiling point, the slow-building electricity coming to its peak. Your valve walls spasm, the giving mesh convulsing in the telltale sign of your overload on the horizon.

Somehow accomplishing it, Megatron kisses you deeper, his faceplates flush and hot against yours. A particularly hard grind of his spike on the sensitive nodes of your valve has you gasping into the silver mech’s mouth. Your optics squeeze shut, you feel like your core is about to explode with heat—

Your second overload hits, just as spectacular and wonderful as the first. Electrified charges bounce between the mesh of your valve and Megatron’s throbbing spike, transfluid soaking him and yourself once again. It’s only after your audials tingle that you realize you’ve screamed loudly enough to reset them. Your systems crash, processors overheated and cooling fans hitching and trembling. With a hiss and a long grunt, Megatron follows you over the edge as well.

Warmth blooms in your core, pleasure nodes and receptors picking up the hot liquid feel of Megatron’s transfluid deep inside you. It comes out in spurts, and he rides his overload by continuing to push into you. As your optics come back online, you catch him hunching over you, ceasing his thrusts in favor of pressing as close as he can, spike still weeping transfluid and coating your inside walls.

Megatron hisses and groans, his frame shivering just once as he finishes, lazily bucking his hips thrice to empty himself completely. He doesn’t disengage his spike, leaving it to soften in your overworked valve. You can’t feel your peds, not after the overload you just experienced, and your entire frame shudders when he nips at your neck cables once again.

For a while, he hovers above you, his EM field embracing your frame. Softly, your servos caress his upper back struts, the tips of your digits dancing along his seams. His servos finally release your hips, revealing he’s left shallow dents in your armor. No matter, you’d wear them proudly. 

“Do you have fiber cloths in your refresher?” Megatron asks, breaking the comfortable silence, his vocal processor crackling only slightly. A twitch of the helm is the best “Yes” you can offer, and brutally Megatron parts from you, drawing a soft whimper as his spike and warmth leave you. The thought of sliding your interface panel back on crosses your mind, but your anterior node and valve are still throbbing so tenderly you can’t will yourself to do it.

You hadn’t realized you closed your optics until Megatron’s approaching pedsteps makes you open them again. He stands before your sprawled, ruined frame, a sheer fiber cloth in his servo, reaching to clean you. Silently, he wipes up the glowing transfluid that’s stained your berth, then moves to clean what’s left on your body.

For a long few moments, the sounds of your cooling fans cycling down, wings softly scraping on your berth, and Megatron’s movements fill your habsuite. At some point, you hear the distinct click of Megatron’s interface panel closing and you tilt your helm up to see him putting his spike away. Also distinctly, the slight burn of soreness as Megatron wipes your exposed valve of excess transfluid.

You’d need to wash regardless, but it’s the thought that counts.

“That was...” And you have no words. Your voice sounds distant and far away, like you’re listening to yourself whisper from miles away. Megatron hums to fill your silence, then you hear the muffled sound of the cloth being discarded somewhere in your room.

“May I join you for the night?” Your Lord’s question is far more polite than it needs to be, considering the circumstances, but it’s 

“Of course.” Your answer is quick and sure, marked by the tremendous effort you put in to roll onto your side, even though you still can’t quite feel your legs. You watch Megatron around your berth and sit at your side. He stretches, silver armor plates shifting and whirring back into place, the length of his back struts revealing his hidden Energon lines.

Then he swings his peds up and lays beside you like it’s the most normal action he’s ever done. Though you do have to scoot over until your wings stick out past the edge.

“I would like for this to be a repeated venture,” Megatron teases after he settles himself, “And if you will accept, for this to be continued past a successful newspark creation.”

He glances at you out the corner of his optic, its glow dimmed. You smile.

He’s never been one for grand romantic gestures, never one to speak about softer, kinder things like “love” or “sparkbonding”. It’s unbecoming of him, the Leader of the Decepticons, former gladiator of Kaon, dark Lord and powerful Master. You don’t know if he’d ever pose the actual question, or if it will remain as nebulous, vague riddles and coded phrases for you to decipher and analyze. It isn’t in Lord Megatron’s making to be tender— At least not in the explicit regards.

“I want nothing less for the sire of my offspring.” You reply, your frame curling around the curve of his chassis, servo finding the same spot it always had: Right above his insignia, above his spark. His engine rumbles evenly, the steady drumming could bring you to power down, though you’re kept awake by the pleasant ache between your legs, the chill of the Nemesis, and the pride in bearing your Lord an heir. 

~ * ~ * ~

epilogue

Your berth is too small, much too small, for two Cybertronians attempting to recharge upon it. Megatron keeps an arm wrapped under and around you to prevent you from falling off, your frame halfway atop his. One of your servos rests under your helm, the other lazily traces invisible shapes on his broad chassis. Both of your EM fields mingle, the waves pulsing to each other in rhythm.

Earthen hours have passed since your coupling, and though you’re tired, you find yourself unable to slip into recharge.

“My Lord?” You catch his attention, Megatron optics flickering back as he pulls himself from the onset of recharge. Part of you regrets keeping him awake— Primus only knows how many sleepless nights your leader subjects himself to— and the other part of you quietly marvels at how he was nearly dozing in your arms. What show of trust is as great as that?

“If I am to carry, this means the Decepticon cause loses one of its strongest warriors—” You sigh happily as the warlord shifts so that his servo rubs your wings, tenderly caressing sensitive transformation seams and Energon lines. What more you wanted to say dies on your glossa, too caught up in the tender display of affection your Lord gives you.

“A temporary hindrance.” Megatron rumbles, shuttering his optics once again and stating, “The Decepticons will prevail.”

It falls quiet, fully so for a handful of clicks until you pipe up again.

“... And, we will need protoforms. And transitionary metals and alloys. And start the process of distilling Energon into low-grade, sparkling-safe—”

Megatron silences you with a deep kiss, one that has you purring in delight and cupping his faceplates. He lingers on your dermas for a few beats, his EM field heavy and warm on yours, lulling you closer to recharge. Megatron parts, settling down on his back struts, his frame creaking and hissing air as he relaxes. Then he sighs:

“We will discuss technicalities in the morning.”

[prncssie]

LEMON TART!

caution! mdni! 11k wrdz, bie is a little bit obsessed with you, he is also a bit ooc :3, black reader <3, fem reader, someone tries to steal your car, pet names, sexual themes, fingering, oral ( f receiving ), overstimulation but barely, you get spanked like once, use of the word cunt, cunny, pussy, i mention you having something pink like eleven billion times bc i luv pink, yes i do add links for outfits but you can totes ignore them, think that’s all lmk if i missed smthing pls do not spam like my blog if you enjoyed it, feel free to tell me in the reblogs

The day he first laid eyes on you, he knew he wanted you.

You’re on your way home from your pilates class, blissfully unaware of the interested eyes on you. Dressed in a baby pink athletic set and glistening with the sheen of sweat, you take a swig of water from the matching pink bottle. The keys to your gray Jaguar convertible dangle at your fingertips.

Truthfully, Hobie doesn’t visit that area much. He’s only there to cure his boredom, in search of a quick fix. When there isn’t a lot of crime to stop or he decides that day he simply doesn’t care enough, he sits in shopping centers. He likes to play this little game and see how many kids he could keep from running into the street without their parents’ watchful eyes.

He has just gotten comfy on his perch after “saving” his third child when he spots you walking out the glass doors of some overpriced gym. The way the sun bounces off your melanated skin almost makes you seem saintly. He swears he even hears angelic singing in the background. Hobie can’t seem to keep his eyes off you while you prance into your car. His chest tugs when you disappear from his sight, seated behind tinted windows. He almost chases after you when you drive off, disappearing into the crowd of other civilians living their mundane lives.

Hobie finds himself having to restrain himself, gripping the ledge of the building. He is already hated in the public eye. No one appreciates his borderline heroic acts, although he wouldn’t call it that himself. They don’t even appreciate the riots he starts in the name of a better world. He couldn’t count the amount of times he’s saved the public from disastrous events but they didn’t care and he didn’t mind. Hobie actually prefers to deviate from what was accepted but he fells this would be too far. To follow an innocent woman on her way home? He would never cross that line, in costume or not.

Instead, he opts for visiting this location every Wednesday at 10:27 AM. Just ten minutes before your class would be released and you’d walk out wearing some cute color that made you look tempting. Each time, you’d be glowing with the aftereffects of a workout and each time he’d have to restrain himself from tailing you. It was his routine. He’d always be in his spot and you’d always be in yours, lives never intersecting.

Until.

Wednesday at 10:24 AM, Hobie sits in his spot. Sometimes he’d look off in the distance and daydream about your future together, sometimes he’d stare at the glass windows and hope to catch a glimpse of you on your way out. It’s just as sunshiney as any other day, the birds accompanying his thoughts of euphoria to spend forever with you.

He kicks his feet over the side of the ledge and swings them aimlessly. Time couldn’t pass any slower, could it? Keeping you from each other, from maybe possibly crossing paths just this once. The thought made him smile. As if you’d ever cross paths. Too many risks with that one.

His eyes land on a man wandering in the parking lot. There is nothing particularly interesting about him but Hobie still feels that itch in his palms, the tickle on the back of his neck. He tilts his head to the side and observes the man slowly making his way through the parking lot. He seems to take a particular interest in the cars across the street. The man never actually touches the cars. He just takes a peak at the back of them, maybe the rear window. It can easily be mistaken for searching for his car in the lot but there isn’t that much traffic. Not to mention, Hobie has enough practice to know better.

He watches the man take one final peak at a familiar gray convertible. So familiar he could spout the license plate off the top of his head or point out the Hello Kitty sticker on the bumper in a room full of them.

Sure Hobie would have swung over even if it wasn’t your car but he couldn’t ignore the intense tug at his heart. He fwips his web over to a light pole and jumps off the building without a second thought. To be honest, he didn’t truly have a plan. The only sound he can hear is the rushing blood in his head and the alarm bells ringing at the back of his brain. Hobie knows he has to stop him and that’s all he has going for him.

“What’cha up to here, man.” He lands on the pavement behind the man, hands on his hips and gesturing to the scene. “Anything I can help with?”

The man’s head snaps up to meet Spider Punk's eyes. He licks his lips and his hand drops hesitantly to his back pocket. “I can’t find the keys to my car and I wanted to see if the doors were unlocked, you know? New technology and this whole push to start thing.”

“Mmm.” Hobie leans forward and peers inside the windows. While he already knew the small details you allowed him indirect access to, he didn’t need everyone else knowing Spider-punk has an infatuation. “You drive a car with a pink steering wheel cover and princess sticker on the dashboard? No judgment.”

The man only huffs. He bucks up to Hobie, nearly shoving him out the way to get to the door handle. “Listen man, I’m just trying to get in my car. What’s it to you? It’s not yours.”

“No but it’s mine.”

Both heads turn to spot you, standing a safe distance away. Your eyebrows are knit together and you're gripping your similarly pink gym bag. You’re wearing a gray set today, hair slicked back and tied down with a matching gray scarf. “What is going on here?”

You feel a burning feeling in your heart, accompanied with the bubbling anxiousness prickling your skin and causing you to sweat a bit more. “What are you doing to my car?”

“Fucking hell.” The man grumbles distastefully. He doesn’t get a chance to run away, already being blasted against the neighboring car and restrained by thick webs. His body is sure to leave a small dent on the door but everyone knows Spider Punk isn’t exactly neat with his approach.

You look accusingly between Hobie and the perpetrator. Of course the one in the getup wasn’t trying to commit grand theft auto but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have hurt your baby. You paid a pretty penny for her and it isn’t like he has the best track record. “What are you doing?” You restate from your safe spot.

Hobie’s mouth goes dry. Absolutely dry. If he tries to say anything right now the only thing that will leave his lips will be embarrassing squeaks. He is usually so much more composed than this. It isn’t like he doesn’t have women flocking to him constantly and occasionally, he does entertain them. He has enough life experience to run a brothel and here he is, getting cotton mouthed at the pretty girl he’s been watching for the last few weeks.

A breeze blows by and he gets a whiff of vanilla.

“Well?”

“I . . . uh . . . I caught him trying to break in so I intercepted. I didn’t know it was yours. You might want to call the police.”

“Oh my gosh, of course.” You reach into the front pocket to pull out your phone. How fitting to have a bedazzled case, pink and silver in a gleaming heart. “Did he get in or take anything or break anything? I don’t know what to do. I’ve never had anyone steal my car before. Do I need to call my lawyer? Are we going to court or something?” You’re rambling and rushing, messily punching in the numbers. Your heartbeat is finally starting to dull but the warm rushing has yet to cease.

“You have a lawyer?” He supposes it makes sense. Although most people he knows don't have a lawyer on call, you would be someone who would. You must come from an affluent family with the whole driving Jaguars and having lawyers thing.

You pause, sniffing a bit. “Yeah…?” You sideways glance to nothing before meeting his eyes again.

There is a beat of silence between you both.

“Right. Anyway, no. He didn’t take anything. I’ve been patrolling the area and caught him before he did. Just, uh, finish up calling the police and report this guy.” Hobie felt kind of naked. He may have been fully dressed but he is itching to find somewhere to put his hands. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have his jacket to hide them in so he crosses his arms instead.

“No, yeah. I will. Thank you so much. Is there something I can do to repay you? I feel a bit stupid and I left my car unlocked. I could, like, give you cash or something? You could get lunch.”

Oh, you’re just as sweet up close. The slight concern and guilt in your eyes. The way they sparkle and dance across his mask. Maybe you are trying to figure out who he is or engrave this moment in your memory like he is.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I don’t need your money. I don’t take people’s money anyway.” He’s not quite sure if it conveys through the mask but he smiles. Gentle and honest. “Jus’ stay out of trouble and lock your doors, yeah?”

You dip your head sheepishly. How humiliating it is to have a crimestopper tell you something so obvious. It makes your stomach churn with embarrassment and your cheeks flush with warmth but you acknowledge his warning. It’s hard not to when he said it in such a buttery voice. You wonder if he looks as good as he sounds.

Hobie takes this opportunity to make a smooth exit, swinging away into the distance with his heart in his ears and a ridiculous grin on his face. He feels like a kid in the candy shop all over again. Except instead of being presented with a bunch of different options, he is presented with his favorite option.

It’s unbelievable that the previous parallel life lines finally crossed. Sure, it’s due to circumstances Hobie prefer you never experienced but they crossed nevertheless. He saved the girl of his dreams from the big bad monster and saw her smile mere steps away. Got to see the radiant aura you emit and the brilliant warmth that just has to have an effect on everyone around you.

That must be the reason you were targeted today. Even the worst people can’t ignore the huge target on your back. They are drawn in by the invisible tiara on your head and the glow of your cheeks. They can feel there was a princess in their presence and feel desperate to tear that innocence apart. That just won’t do. Hobie has to protect you from their rotten doings. You are untouchable, too perfect to be tainted. He can’t risk their dirt and grime coming near you. Sure, he feels somewhat obligated to protect everyone but there is no one at greater risk than you. No one as flawless, as pure.

You are clearly too silly to take care of yourself and you should be. The world should bend at your will and do what you want. It is foolish to expect you to look over your shoulder or lift a finger for your wellbeing. Someone should do that for you and that someone should be him.

₊ ⊹.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You appear to be completely oblivious to the outside world, too busy aiding your stumbling friend out of the club and into the Uber with one hand on her back and the other holding her hand. Her heels are long gone and in the hands of your other friend. All of your attention is completely devoted to her wellbeing but you can’t ignore the nagging feeling on the back of your neck.

It’s been there the past few days and only makes you feel more paranoid. There has been a sudden spike in Spider Punk appearances near you, a sudden spike in dangerous situations you have found yourself in. It’s as if you can’t take five steps out of your apartment without Spider Punk swinging through to save civilians from dangers you weren’t previously aware of. In some situations, it’s you.

Once again, you give the world behind you a fleeting look over your shoulder. As usual, you are only greeted with traffic and the night sky, full of glistening stars. See? You’re just being ludicrous. There’s no crazed monster trailing you and there is no need to feel so paranoid.

“☆,” your friend is whining in your ear. Her head is slumped over and rolling, accompanied by her groans. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“Oh, please don’t.” You let go of her hand to lift her head. Your eyes met hers, glazed from tears and bloodshot. “It would be so much better if you waited until we got you home.” You pat her cheek in hopes the feeling will distract her drunken mind from the sloshing alcohol in her stomach. It’s a weak attempt however it’s still an attempt. “If you throw up, they won’t let you in the car.”

Lottie can only cry out in irritation. “I am never going to drink alcohol ever again. It feels like Satan’s ass is in my stomach.” Her head lolls onto your shoulder. Her blonde locs are draped all over you and you indulge in the small amount of warmth provided.

“Don’t worry about it, ☆. I can get her home by myself. You live in the other direction and I’m staying over there tonight, anyway.” Rico has to look over Lottie’s shriveled form to meet your eyes. She looks apologetic about her girlfriend’s condition but you shrug it off and shake your head.

“No, it’s okay. I want to make sure you guys get home safe and Lottie is gone. I don’t mind, really.” You’re almost insistent when you tell her. As concerned as you sound, deep down you know it is truly because you don’t want to go home on your own. You can’t shake the feeling that someone has their eyes on you from a distance and the last thing you want was to walk home on a busy night, alone.

Rico pulls the black Honda’s door open and ushers Lottie inside as smoothly as she can. “You’re such a sweetheart but you really don’t have to. We live thirty minutes in the opposite direction and these prices are obnoxious at this time of night. Just go home and call me as soon as you get there.”

You purse your lips. You have no intention of spending any money tonight to get home. You already spent the last of what you could to get in the club. You are just waiting for your dad to send you your weekly allowance. You can admit, you are a bit dumb with your money and your rules but can you really be to blame? You were born with a gold spoon in your month and no conception of how money works. Between lavish parties with socialites and getting anything you’ve ever asked for, you don’t have the best idea of what the world is like. However, your allowance is for fun and your paychecks are for household expenses. Is it your fault that you make much more in your allowance and could blow through it in a week if you wanted? Not at all.

“Okay,” you provide Rico with a less than satisfying tight smile. “Text me when you get home, Ri. I’ll drop your stuff off tomorrow. And let me know how Lottie is doing. Her hangover is gonna be insane.”

Rico is barely concerned with responding back. She’s both trying to wriggle her way into the car without disturbing the drunken girl and get them both safely buckled and situated. “M’kay. I’ll call you.”

“Bye, ☆! I love you so much!” The producer of the shriek is leaning against the coolness of the opposite window, reaching out symbolically to grab you. “You’re one of my best friends in the entire world and I don’t know what I would do withou –”

“Okay, bye!” Rico glances at you apologetically for the last time. Then, the door is slammed. The last you see is her hand comfortingly patting against her girlfriend’s thigh.

You watch the car drive away and sigh as a chill settles under your skin. Of course you don’t realize how truly cold it was outside until the warmth of your night has disappeared down the street. Not to mention what shots you did consume wore off the moment Lottie went off the rails. No longer could you enjoy your buzz. Instead, you have to get her home.

It ‘s a bit comical. Being marginally afraid of getting home alone on Halloween night. To be honest, this isn’t really how you planned your night to go. You were supposed to go out tonight with your friends and return back home with a guy. You were the tightest top you had with the smallest skirt you could find on purpose but now you are regretting it, standing on the sidewalk in fifty degree weather. And still, that sick, creeping feeling is nestled on the nape of your neck.

You scrunch your face in displeasure before starting your trek home. Fortunately, your luxury apartment was only fifteen minutes away and the city was still very much active. The only reason you feel an inkling of nervousness is due to the unusual feeling.

Your arms are tightly wrapped around yourself and you brush it off. It has to be nothing. There is no way you have such a persistent stalker who follows you everywhere. Sure, that is the definition of a stalker but it can’t happen to you, can it? It can’t. You simply won’t allow it.

You mumble about your irritation and tilt your gaze to the sky. The stars were beautiful but there was just something off about tonight. Maybe not in the sky but it feels like something is going to happen. As if you’re waiting to be a piece in a climatic story.

You grunt when someone brushes against you a bit too hard and meet the eyes of someone caught just as off guard as you.

“Sorry,” you speak in passing. Immediately after you find yourself cursing at yourself for being so careless. Pay attention when you walk. It’s a rule as old as time and naturally, you have a hard time following it.

You stop to take a break, maybe get out of your head. You’re leaning against the brick wall and pull out your phone. Perhaps it would be better to walk with some music. Keep you distracted from losing your mind over nothing. Or maybe not. Walking with noise in your ears while being paranoid, post robbery? Probably not a good idea.

Your fingers are fumbling across your phone screen. At this point, you’re ready to drop an extra band just to get an Uber. Already, you’re shivering from lack of physical activity. Occasionally, you can feel the weird glances from passing men, spotting a nearly vulnerable girl on the edge of sidewalk.

You’re just about to confirm your ride when a familiar tattered suit begins a slow stride towards you. Like a stunned idiot, anxious out of her mind, you squint at him. Not that you need particular aid seeing such a detailed and colorful suit, but it is a bit difficult to tell if that was the true Spider Punk or if a superfan decided to spend their entire savings on a high quality costume.

Fortunately for you, you got your confirmation.

“Yo? Aren’t you the girl with the car? The really nice one?”

“Huh?”

His voice is velvet in your ears, almost melting away your nervousness. Is it because he’s saved you in the past or because you just found yourself especially enamored by the richness of it all?

“Like, two weeks ago. Didn’t I help you out with your car and that guy?” As if you were longtime friends, Spider Punk strolls up to you. His hands are snug comfortably in the pockets in his fashionably tattered vest and for the first time, it truly registers just how tall he is.

You have to tilt your head up to view him, almost completely and it makes you feel particularly shy. Your words get caught in your throat, although you’re aware of the increasing time ticking between his question and your delayed response.

Spider Punk doesn’t fill the silence, however. He simply stands there with his head cocked to the side. His patience doesn’t help your fragile grasp on your sanity.

“Oh, uh yeah. Probably. I decided to press charges n’ stuff.” You wet your lips and turn your head away. At this rate, you are going to explode. This is overwhelming, stressful. You should be home right now. “What are you doing walking around? I thought superheroes weren’t supposed to be in public, like that.”

“Ah,” you see him turn his face to the sky and a chuckle leaves his lips. Even if you can’t see his face, you know he’s smiling. It’s obvious in how his mask pulls. “I never said I was a superhero, sweetheart. I just like protecting the people I care about.”

Your eyes meet again but instead of feeling flustered, you’re facing him with confusion. Was there an undertone or did he happen to be in the right place at the right time? “Oh. Okay. That’s cool.”

He doesn’t allow for a second of silence, springing the next question onto you almost immediately. “What are you doing here? It’s getting a bit late and pretty girls like you should be at home out of harm's way.”

“I . . . what?”

There’s another patience silence. Clearly, he isn’t interested in your stumbling and stuttering. You’re getting the point, now.

“I’m on my way home but I’m a bit shaken up. I’ve never been in that type of confrontation before.” Admittedly, you haven’t experienced any confrontation. Rich girl living in a bubble and assuming she is untouchable. Pretty typical. It isn’t something you would admit to most people. Had it been anyone else, anyone who hasn’t seen some pretty crazy crimes, you would have just chalked it up to anxiety due to lack of sleep.

“Mmm,” Spider Punk takes a glance over his shoulder. Considering the night, no one is paying any attention to him. Like you, they assume he put a ton of hard work into that costume. “Would you like me to escort you back home? I’m just patrolling, anyway.”

“I thought you do this for people you care about.” Your smile is slow growing, both from the reassurance that he’ll be able to work as your bodyguard for the passing moments and to lighten the mood.

“I do.”

“Oh.” It wavered just as slowly as it developed.

“I can do both. Like I said, I’m just patrolling.” He shrugs. His hands are drawn from his pockets and gently guide you to begin your journey to your apartment. Although you can’t see it, you can feel the size on the small of your back. If he truly wanted, he could probably crush your skull. The thought itself isn’t all that attractive but when it leads to other suggestions on where he could put them or what he could do with them is where the real fun begins.

The walk back is voiceless. Sounds of the city fill the space where a conversation would be. You feel twitchy, hyper aware of the situation. There’s probably a serious conflict happening somewhere, and here you are hogging safety all to yourself.

“You really don’t have to do this. I can make it home myself or get a ride or something.” You twirl a passion twist around your finger, narrowing in on the loose ends slowly unraveling. That nagging feeling is gone with him by your side.

He nods and you miss his eyes lingering on the top of your head, slowly raking over your form and drinking in the details. “You probably can. I’ve been swinging through, though and you’ve been in the same spot for five minutes.” The pale green color of your top looks alluring on your skin, along with the pink flowers decorating the hem. Oh, how angelic you are. “What are you supposed to be?”

Your refusal to look and acknowledge him doesn’t go unnoticed but he doesn’t press about it. In his eyes, this is a rare opportunity to burn you and your absoluteness into his memory. He’s only been able to hear the sweetness of your voice twice now, directed to him. Stolen conversations and hidden glances weren’t truly enough.

“Nothing special. A sprite or an elf or something. I haven’t decided yet.” You’re looking at your own Halloween costume now. A bit silly to not know what you were after parading around in it but it’s cute and that’s all that matters. The night is over, any and it’s not like anyone is truly that curious. “What are you doing walking around? I know you said you’re patrolling but aren’t you concerned about being followed?”

“Eh,” the thought really rolls off his shoulders, “look around. There’s dozens of me everywhere. They’d have to go and target every single one and no one wants to do that. Too busy celebrating with their families or being miserable they don’t have one.”

The conversation kind of dies there. It gets a bit awkward, walking side by side with someone you barely met. Little do you know, Spider Punk knows you like the back of his hand. He’s practically vibrating with excitement. Of course, he planned to insert himself into your life eventually but tonight was not the way he thought it would go. However, it’s better than he imagined. Walking his favorite girl to the safety of her living space, although he already knew where you live.

He’s been there almost every night, perched on the ledge of the roof of the building across the street. He knows he said he wouldn’t but that’s where you are most vulnerable. There, he would sit, watching you walk here and there, dilly dally through your night routine. Finally, when you would get comfortable under the plush duvet and set your phone down on your nightstand is when he’d consider leaving. He’d make his departure only when you are sound asleep, drifting off into your dreamspace.

But tonight, tonight he gets to walk with you. Would it be too much to hope you invite him in? He could fake a cough for a glass of water and take a mental picture of your space from a first person view, only to go home and completely map it out on paper. How would he protect you if he didn’t know every miniscule detail about your life? He is the only thing standing between you and the evilness in this world.

The silence grows oddly comfortable. Spider Punk is too deep in thought but only he knows what about. You’re relishing in the fact that you truly haven’t felt comfort like this in a while. No longer does it feel like someone is watching you from a distance. After a while, you’re both approaching the bright lights in the lobby.

“This is my stop.” You stand with your arms clasped behind your back. It’s evident you need your keycard to get in but digging into your chest to pull it out wasn’t too appealing, right now. “I can make my way in so you can leave now. Thank you so much for walking me home.”

Hobie tilts his head. Under his mask, he’s awfully disappointed. As if he’d let you dance your way out of this. “I’ll walk you to your door. Gotta finish my job completely, ☆.”

You don’t remember telling him your name but he probably got it the last time you saw each other. Maybe superheroes just know that kind of stuff.

“You don’t have to do that!” You only tighten your grip behind your back. “I’m fine and our security is really good. I’m home now so it’s okay.” You shift under his stare and his silence. Is he always like this? Stubborn and refusing to argue back? “So you can go now…”

“Or you can open the door.” He crosses his arms and shifts his weight to his side. You are certain if he didn’t have that mask on, he would be glaring at you right now. This has to be the sassiest man you know. He’s doing quite a bit just to walk you to your door.

You grumble some complaints and turn away, angling your body away from him and the glass doors. Your focus is the doors, though. The chances of you running into the residents are significantly higher than running into Spider Punk, again. You didn’t want your poor neighbors to be scarred with the image of you digging in between your boobs for your keycard. You turn back around to catch him just barely averting his gaze. At his height, it wasn’t too hard to peek over your shoulder and the temptation was just undeniable.

Your lips are pressed into a pout while you swipe the plastic square. The excitement bubbling in your stomach from attention is impossible to ignore but you lie to yourself and insist you’re so deeply bothered, you can feel it.

Like the gentleman he is, Spider Punk takes the door from you. He holds it open, following behind closely through the doorway. “Damn, this is nice.” He lets out a low whistle. His head draws a slow circle at the high ceilings and the floor to ceiling windows. “You really live like this, princess?”

You pout harder at his question. The amazement is normal, of course, but still. Somehow it all makes you feel alien, especially with the pet name attached. “Obviously.” You make a beeline to the elevator in an attempt to avoid the curious gazes directed your way.

With his long legs and therefore long stride, he doesn’t have to put in any effort to maintain your speed. “What’s the attitude for? Didn’t know I was offending you.” It’s difficult to tell whether or not he’s taunting you. It sounds sincere but somehow you doubt it.

“There is no attitude.” You retaliate back. You’re relentlessly jamming your finger on the elevator button. “You asked if I live here, I said obviously. That’s it.” Truthfully, not even you are sure what the bite back is for. First, you didn’t appreciate how he asked about your building. Then, you just found yourself stuck here. Really, this is all his fault.

Spider Punk leans against the wall beside you. His big boots scuff the floor beneath him but otherwise, he seems unphased. “Mmm,” he hums. His head lolls to the side. Your side. You’re ignoring the intense stare he’s giving you and you regret rushing the elevator now.

The door opens with a ding. Both fortunately and unfortunately, there are people already in it. While that means you don’t have to face whatever thoughts he has brewing to your response, you do have to deal with the awkwardness in front of a group of people, some of whom are too nosey for their own good.

As a result, the ride up is quiet. All the up to the fifty-second floor, neither of you speak a word. The door opens and you step out, noting that even in his brooding silence, Spider Punk lets you go first. Had it been any other man, a normal man, you would have ditched him at the front door but a “hero” wouldn’t come in and bombard you in your own space.

He follows you to your door, trailing on your heels. It’s unnerving how silent he is. He doesn’t look bothered but he merely watches you move. Watch you use your keycard to open your door, watch you turn the handle, and watch you turn your head back to his. “Okay. I’m home now.”

“Yeah. Obviously.” He retorts with a hint of a mocking tone. Clearly, he still feels a bit dishonored by your previous choice in tone. “I’m waiting for you to walk in. Like I said, gotta finish my job completely.”

“Oh. Right. You definitely said that before.” You sheepishly smile. The door to your apartment is pushed open, giving him a wide view of the pinked out living room. Not surprisingly enough, there are plenty of pastel colors, sanrio memorabilia, and flowers all over the place.

Shiny, white heated floors, stuffed animals strewn about. Plenty of comforting blankets and a flower shaped floor cushion in the corner. Looks just like you.

“I’d tell you how nice your place is but I don’t want you to bite my head off.”

Your shoulders drop, followed by an exasperated sigh. There is no way to explain he’s the reason you’re snappy and flustered. Him and his deep voice and calming nature. Him and his chivalry and big hands. “I’m sorry for how I spoke to you. Thank you for your compliment.”

Spider Punk turns his head up as if he’s miffed but the corners of his mask pull into a small smile. “It’s fine. Couldn’t stay too mad at ya, anyway. Could I come in? You know, to use your bathroom. I’ll leave right after but night patrolling is a pretty big job and I have needs, too.”

You’re hesitant, glancing over your shoulder. You really shouldn’t. Your better judgment is screaming at you for allowing this to continue this far. Despite his supposed nobility, he is a man and you live alone. Still, he walked you all the way home and saved your baby the other day.

“Um, sure.” You push your door open farther. The much taller man saunters right in as if he’s all too familiar with the place.

He stops in the entryway. Once again, his hands have found their way into his pockets. “Which way am I going, sweetheart?” He’s got a pretty rough guideline of the direction but he couldn’t tell you that. You’d never speak to him again.

“It’s just down the hall, that way. It’ll be on your left.” You’re still undoing the straps of your heels, one hand on the wall to maintain your balance. The last time you checked, the guest bathroom is in perfect order. How fortunate all your friends gather in your room and use your bathroom, instead. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right back.”

You linger around just to watch him enter the bathroom before escaping to your room. In an ideal world, you’d be home alone and jump right into the shower. However, with a stranger within your property, you would much rather stick around to ensure he promptly makes his exit.

Once your feet touch the plush rug by your vanity, you begin un-readying yourself. Your butt-length twists are going up haphazardly into a bun. You’re pulling the hoops out your ears and the strip lashes off your eyes. The makeup remained, however. You were never the biggest fan of makeup wipes. They’re wasteful and never really get into your skin the way you want. Your skincare routine is much more thorough than that.

You pad your way over to your closet and pull out one of your pullover robes. With a quick glance casted at the door to safeguard your privacy, you begin peeling your clothes off you. Your top is tossed in the direction of your hamper before you’re moving onto the flowy brown skirt.

That’s when you see him.

You’re bent over, skirt halfway down your legs. Shirtless, braless, tits all out on display. You feel like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide and frozen. You know he’s looking at you. His mask is pointed directly at you and even though you can’t see his expression, he has to be just as frozen as you are.

You snap back up, skirt coming up with you. You’re refusing to turn around, hands cupping your breasts while you reach for the robe. Your cheeks are burning and you have no idea if he’s still there or not. You didn’t hear any heavy footsteps, any boots smacking against the floor.

“You didn’t have to stop the show, ☆. I wasn’t expecting a strip tease but can’t say I don’t like it.”

You’re bumbling to pull the robe over your head. The fabric rolls and gets caught on itself but you’re persistent, tugging and pulling in all kinds of directions. “What are you doing here? This is the complete opposite direction of the bathroom.” You don’t turn around, not now, not ever. Instead, you tug on your hair next until the bun is loose and misshapen enough to mold and fit under the hood of the robe.

“You told me to tell you if I needed anything. I’m done and I’m leaving. Just happened to hear you make noise and rustling in here.”

You can hear him closing the space between you. Can feel the weight of his boots though the floor and his presence when he is eventually standing behind you. “Don’t gotta be shy about it. I’ve seen plenty in my life.” He knows it doesn’t sound the best or come out as comforting but his thoughts are a bit fogged over.

Sure, sometimes he gets glimpses of your body through your window but it’s nothing like this. You are always sure to change out of view or close your curtains, opening them when you’re finished. Sometimes he’d see the bottom of your ass peeking through your shorts. Sometimes he was lucky enough to see you parading around in tiny tops. Definitely didn’t compare to seeing your body up close.

“Gee, thanks. Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You scowling and muttering under your breath. You turn, finally, ignoring the burn of your cheeks and the rush of blood throughout your body. You’re ready to give him some sort of spiel about respecting your space and guiding him out the door but your voice is caught in your throat.

“Getting tired of the attitude, darlin’. You’re usually so sweet.” He’s so statuesque, towering over you. With his close proximity, to actually look you in the eyes, his chin is grazing his chest.

You encase your bottom lip between your teeth. If you were an idiot, which you might be for pushing this, you would have noticed the change in the air. Tensions, probably, growing much thicker than they should. “Usually?”

He doesn’t further explain. Instead, his eyes drift over to your discarded top in the corner. “What is with you tonight, ☆? You’re always so sweet. Did something happen while you were at the club? Or was it on the way back before I got you?”

“What? How did you know where I was?” Your eyes grow wide and your stomach churns. That feeling that someone was observing you from a distance, was that him? Who did you just invite in?

He ignores your question. Instead, he has a seat on the ottoman behind him with a sigh. He’s way too comfortable in your home. “Close the curtains, would you?”

You blink slowly. Nothing about this makes sense. His comfortability is unnerving and you hate the way he’s giving you requests in your own apartment you pay for. “I’m sorry? You want me to close my curtains?”

Spider Punk runs his hand down the front of his face. Your constant putting up a fight is exhausting him. He only has but so much unwavering patience, especially when he’s been anticipating this moment. “Yes, love. It would be really helpful if you could close the curtains so I can take my mask off.” He’s resorting to speaking to you like a child, slow and pitchy.

“Wait, what?” His confession to want to unmask right here, right now distracted you completely. You may not know much about his profession but you know that he is never to do. Doing right here in your apartment? That doesn’t sound quite right. “Why?”

“Oh my days!” He groans and in one swift motion, ejects his web to pull the white, blackout curtains shut. “I ask you to do one thing. One simple thing. Had you closed the curtains, I would have told you.” Spider Punk pulls his mask just as quickly as he closes the curtains. Beneath it, he reveals to you the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

Dark chocolate skin as glowy as ever and equally dark eyes. His face is adorned with methodically placed piercings. A spider bite, a nose ring, a couple of ear and eyebrow piercings. Despite the laws of physics, his mask completely hid the length of the bulk of his locs. They fell all around, framing his face and between his eyes. Your knees buckle when he looks at you.

“Come here and please do it without the mouth. I’m doing my best and you’re really getting in the way of that.”

You feel like your body moves on it’s own. What’s possessed you to be so pliant, you have no idea. You know this is wrong, know that there is something unbalanced about this. There’s such a pretty man looking at you though, with the expectation that you can do no wrong. Who are you to deny yourself of indulging in the moment, especially when your earlier plans to get dicked down were foiled when you prioritized the health of your inebriated friend. You’ll deal with the consequences later.

You’re suddenly standing in front of him before you realize and his hands fly up to your hips. Gently, he’s pushing you to the ground, only stopping when you’re kneeling in front of him. “I’m going to ask you once. What’s bothering you, pretty girl? You had a weird temperament all night and I know it’s something. You’ve never been this way before.”

You tilt your head, unintentionally pushing your cheek father into his hand. He runs his thumb over the chub of it and you can feel the rough calluses graze against your skin. “I don’t understand. You only met me twice.” Your eyelashes brush against his fingers.

“Mhm. We’ve only officially met twice. That’s not the answer to my question, though.” His hands leave your cheeks and snake around your waist, rubbing the expansion of your back, down to your hips.

You’re awfully unsatisfied with his reply and nearly push him for more until you feel the harsh squeeze on your ass. You can feel your pussy lips separating and the thin cloth of your panties is quick to stick to the thin layer of slick between your legs. The discomfort makes you squirm and though it doesn’t go unnoticed, it is ignored.

“Nothing is wrong,” you finally say. “I’m fine. Just anxious, I guess.” Your eyes are downcast to hide the lie in your eyes. You’re sure he knows the real reason and will try to drag it out of you but that’s a risk you’re willing to take.

SLAP! His hand rains down on your left cheek. He grins when you whimper and lean forward in an attempt to evade his grasp. “Don’t lie to me. You’re not talking to me like this because you're anxious. What is it?”

Your head hangs low in anticipation. You don’t know how to find the words to say but you’re very aware the time is ticking. “I . . . It’s because . . .” Your following explanation is nothing but a mumble, too embarrassed to say it confidently.

“Didn’t hear you, pretty girl. Gotta speak up.” From behind, his hand yanks down the hood and gives a correctional tug to your hair until you’re facing him again. “Tell Hobie what’s botherin’ you.”

You want to pout and whine. Your stance is uncomfortable but the pull on your scalp is delicious. You can’t decide if you’re angry with him for putting you in the position or enjoying it so much you want to play your role. “It’s ‘cause I don’t know what to do around you. You make me nervous.”

At this, he perks up. It has the opposite effect on you. His grip tightens and the pull increases. He leans forward, his lips ghost over the space between your neck. “Do I? That’s not nice though, is it? Haven’t done anything to you. Didn’t put you in danger. Walked you home, made sure you’re safe and sound. I don’t deserve that, do I?”

“No,” Your speech is shaky when he attaches his lips to your skin. Your hands are on his thighs, holding on to what little sanity you have left. It is entirely too easy to get lost in this, in him. Even when he’s doing little to nothing, you can feel him and his warmth everywhere. You press your thighs together to alleviate the gentle throb of your clit.

“Didn’t think so.”

It comes as a surprise to you when you’re suddenly bare. The cloth previously on your body is tugged off without a second thought. Your brain is spinning in an attempt to catch up. The breeze of the air entices your nipples to slowly erect. They’re budding enough to catch Hobie’s attention. He gently rolls them between his fingers, using this as an opportunity to monitor your expression. “When’s the last time someone touched you, pretty? The last time someone had you creamin’ on their shit.”

Your face is contorting in poorly hidden pleasure. You’re doing your best to maintain solid ground, occasionally pressing your legs into each other and rubbing them back and forth. He’s teasing, playing with you slowly and you hated it but you weren’t one to voice your opinion. “Mm, I- I just lost my virginity a few months ago so...”

“You poor little thing.” His voice is dripping with content. Hobie tenderly kisses your forehead. He removes his hands from your body. “Stand up, why don’t you? Let me help you out, doll.”

To no one’s surprise, there is no hesitation or lip service with this request. You’re quick to stand up, disregarding your eagerness and mostly naked body in front of his calmness and fully dressed self. You’re almost beaming when Hobie’s hands find purchase at you again. He’s tugging down both your skirt and black mesh panties. He doesn’t even have to ask you to aid him in removing them. You step out of the materials accordingly and kick them across the room.

He moves you around himself, pulling your body against his. Your hands are moved to rest against his shoulders and your leg is lifted onto the space beside him. “Stay just how I put you.” Hobie looks at you through his eyelashes. He kisses the inside of your thigh. really taking his time to draw out the soft gasps as he made his way closer to your core. Hobie nips and bites at your skin on the way there. Occasionally, he leaves teeth marks behind. It’s only proper to leave something to remember him by in case he doesn’t get this opportunity again.

He has a grip with your thigh but the other hand wanders. It brushes up your leg and your stomach. It glides behind your back and fondles with the globes of your ass, pushing and kneading. It comes back around and slips between your legs. They softly run through against your folds and collect your wetness on the pads of his fingers.

You hum, almost ready to push against him. He’s taking this entirely too slow and it’s driving you crazy. “Hobie, please.” You whine. If you didn’t know any better, you’d push his hand in yourself.

He chuckles and pats your cunny. He can hear the moisture smacking and sloshing around under his fingertips. “Patience, angel. I’m gonna take care of her, promise.” Just as he promises, he pushes a finger deep inside you. You’re moan matches, slightly drawn out and slightly wobbly. Just as you suspected, his hands are huge. His fingers are thick and long. One hand could probably cover the majority of your torso. Having them sink so deeply into you is making you delirious.

“Well shit,” he massages your hip. His eyes are trained on your pussy. He’s entranced with the act of it, with his fingers drawing out more and more juices, with your pleas and pleasurable noises above his head. “You’re soaked.” It doesn’t take long for him to work you up to two fingers, slotting it next to the other.

You’re practically dripping down herself, grip tightening on his shoulders. You’re appreciative of his continuous grip on your leg because if it were your way, you wouldn’t be able to stand still. Not when he was constantly brushing against that spot you could barely reach yourself. “Oh my god, ‘Bie. There!” Your body falls forward, barely being held up when he continues to drill into you.

“Yeah? Feels good?” He doesn’t give you a chance to reply. Rather, he’s slouching underneath your body, tongue latching onto your clit. His eyes are barely lidded at the first taste. He swears you taste like a summer day, of strawberries and whip cream. He could spend all night here, drinking you in. It’s like his ears are stuffed with cotton. He can’t hear you. He can’t even hear himself moaning against your skin.

Hobie pulls his fingers out of you, ignoring your dissatisfied whines. In his right mind, he would have shushed you with gentle kisses and reassurance but he couldn’t form the words to. One taste got him pussydrunk and now he couldn’t stop.

Hobie scoots back onto your bed, clawing at your body to maintain the proximity. His eyes are wild and he doesn’t say a single thing. It’s obvious what he wants, though, when he lays back and yanks you on top of him. You shriek in surprise, nearly falling over his body. He has you situated, facing the growing tent in his pants.

“A warning would have been a little helpful.” You speak as if trying to lighten the mood, not realizing just how far gone Hobie really was. He only grunts in response and relocates your hips back over his face. One small taste is not enough. He was determined to get more out of you, as much as he wants. His arms hook you into places before he absolutely dives in.

And he was messy with it.

Hobie didn’t care if there was spit everywhere. He didn’t care if he drowns in it. In fact, he would love to. His tongue licks a fat stripe on your cunt. He can cum in his pants from the taste and your own moans. This is where he is meant to be, he’s sure of it. He’s only been here for a few minutes, seconds maybe, but he’s never felt more right.

He tongue probs around your entrance, experimentally. You gasp with a shaky breath, clenching the sheets. It encourages him to follow through, slurping and tongue fucking you. His vice grip keeps you settled. With how much you were squirming, you would have moved off or too far by now.

“Fucking- gonna-!” You can’t form your mouth around your words. Your brain is fuzzy with the intense bliss building in your core. You’re nearly ready to burst when Hobie begins rapid small circles on your bundle of nerves. You throw your head back, hair whipping free and falling all in his face but that’s the least of his worries. Not when you unintentionally push your hips down, allowing his tongue to push deeper and his fingers to pull more.

With one final nudge of his tongue and jerk of his fingers, you’re creaming all over his face. He’s grateful to lap it up, allowing you to ride through your high. He removes his fingers from what he’s sure is your now sensitive clit and his hands take their place on your hips. You shudder, and despite his wishes, eventually pry his hands off you. “I can’t.” You drag your body off his. Your chest heaves as you get comfortable on your back. You can still feel your cunny throbbing but she’s in no shape to be touched right now. “Too sensitive.”

If Hobie’s face says one thing, it’s that he’s displeased. He rolls over and looms over you, staring you down. His locs fall in his face but he doesn’t look bothered by it. He’s too busy hooking an arm under yours and moving you closer to the headboard. “Nah. I think you got a few more in you.”

Your eyes flash as he lifts you with ease. “Yeah, in a second.” You’re already ready to push him back, glare on deck. Before he even lets go of your side, he’s forced your hands to the headboard and webbed them in place.

“Can’t trust you to sit still and let me work.” Hobie hurriedly pecks your lips. “Won’t be too long so don’t be too mad at me.” He flashes you a smile as he retreats. You think he’s going to leave you until he begins his dance of removing his spidersuit. The stretchy material peels right off him and he’s back between your legs, resting on his shoulders.

Hobie doesn’t bother looking at you. He’s smiling at your cunny, just as glistening as when he left him. “Can’t believe you tried to keep me away from her. Just look at how much she missed me?” He plunges his finger inside you again, only to scoop up some of your cum and drag it out. “Breaking my heart, ☆.”

Your legs nearly close, leg’s drawing together at the knees. He draws out a mewl out of you, your body contorting in all different directions. “You’re so mean to me.” You whine, jerking even more so when Hobie delivers a slap on your pussy.

He feigns an apologetic expression, forcing your legs apart again. “I’m so mean to you? I’m so sorry. Let me make it up to you.” He lowers his head against your skin. Like the previous time, he’s pacifying on your clit again but it’s stronger. He’s determined, gaining momentum and pumping his tongue in your slit. You can’t help but tighten around his tongue, back arching against the wood. Was his tongue extra long or were you unable to maintain your composure?

Hobie is understanding, though. He takes it upon himself to keep you where he wants you. Despite your squirming and pushing, he pushes down on your stomach. With full access, he slurps and suckles. It’s an endless stream coming from your heavenly pussy and that’s just how he likes it. Hobie drinks it all in as if he was a starved man.

He pushes your legs wider, farther, curling and compacting your body. He folds you until your knees are nearly touching your ears. You swear you can feel your heartbeat ricocheting through your toes at this point. You’re tugging at the makeshift restraints. “Ohhh my god,” your eyes squeeze shut. Your breath catches in your throat when he strikes just the right spot, still spongy from your last orgasm.

Hobie peeks up at you, smirking into your folds. You’re just as pretty as he imagined. Prettier. Even with your eyes screwed closed and your skin glossed over with a thin layer of sweat.

You tug your hands again, straining to touch him. “Don’t stop! Please, please, please,” you chant. Your own nails dig into your skin, acrylics scratching the surface. The burn is a distant thought. “Let me touch you. I need – I need to touch you.”

Hobie messily kisses your slit when your essence leaks out and smears across your thighs. “Cum and I’ll think about it.”

His bruising grip on your hip keeps your lower body still. Despite his somewhat lanky frame, he’s still adorned with the basic spider-man muscles. Not to mention his habits kept him fit with all the swinging through the city and climbing on walls he does.

Your only surface to find purchase in is your headboard. Your nails scratch the wood and you’re sure you’ll regret it later but it’s the last thing in your mind. Not when hobie is alternating between his tongue and his fingers. He’s bumping against your clit strategically. Your body is fighting against his strength, wanting to arch and wriggle.

You press your head harder into the hard surface behind you, grateful for your hair acting as a pillow. Your toes begin to curl and once again, your legs are attempting to force their way together.

Hobie only forces them open farther. He displays his displeasure by wrapping his lips around your clit. He’s watching you through his eyelashes, growing more irritated with each squirm. You’re moving too much and it’s making it harder for him.

You don’t notice, not when you’re gasping for air. You draw in one big breath, the release prompting the synchronized release of your cum. Your chest is heaving, brushing against tbe tops go your thighs. Your body shakes and shudders at his relentless to fuck you through it.

“You’re makin’ this more difficult than it needs to be,” Hobie rises from his position between your legs. He kneels in front of your and languidly strokes his fingers inside you. It’s not enough pressure or movement to draw anything out of you but he can’t help it, can’t stop. “Sit still.”

The waterline of your eyes are just barely teary. You sniff, twisting your wrists under the webs. “I can’t. Tried to tell you. You didn’t listen.” You resist a pout by pressing your lips together. “Can you let my hands out now?”

It’s as if he didn’t hear you when he leans forward and kisses the corner of your lips. Hobie’s weight shifts underneath you and your question goes unanswered. You’re committing to your pout, eyes narrowing. “Hello? Are you gonna or what?”

Hobie pauses. His eyes are locked onto yours with his head tilted as if to say are you sure about that? “You makin’ demands now?” He pulls his raging dick out of his boxers. Too nervous to, you don’t let your gaze wander downwards. Still, you can tell his mushroom tip is puffy and leaking down his shaft. He may not have the girthiest dick but it’s long and swollen, craving your tight little cunt.

Your mouth slightly drops open when he rubs it through your folds. You’re silent and pliant, maybe out of nervousness for the situation you found yourself in. Of course he takes advantage of this.

“Hm? You tellin’ me what to do?” He reiterates his question, just barely pushing his tip back inside you, only to slip it out when you mewl. He isn’t surprised when you don’t answer. He’s already moving your legs farther down. He’s hungrily watching the way your pussy envelopes and welcomes him in. “Fuck, baby. You’re tighter than I imagined.” Even after him working you soft, you’re still just as flesh against him.

He can feel your walls spasm when he give an experimentally shallow thrust. You reel, falling nearly limp just from how deep he is. The position, the mating press he has you in gives him direct access to the deepest parts of you. Hobie doesn’t have to try too hard to reach your g-spot, just shy of hitting your cervix.

He massages the backs of your thighs, smugly taking in this vulnerable side about you. “How can I let you out if you can’t even take this. Can’t have you fighting me.”

Even in his best dreams, he didn’t think you’d feel this good. Didn’t think he’d be balls deep in his favorite girl Halloween night. Hr breathes sharply, eyes closing to truly focus on his pleasure. The small amount of sanity and restraint he’s been holding on to all night is slipping out of his reach, especially when he begins slow thrusts into you. You can’t move, not even if you wanted to. Not when he has you caged in, limiting your movement.

His hips stutter the first time you clock around him. “Fuck,” Hobie clenches his teeth. His tidy nails create little crescents in your skin. If he could push you into the mattress more, he would have. He needed to be so deep inside you that your bodies had no choice but to fuse together. He wants your body to remember his, to remember the shape of his cock, to maintain is so he can come back to soften you into putty again.

“Stop tryin’ to push me away.” Hobie spits out. He can feel your legs pushing against his hands and he hates it. It only makes him tighten his grip until he’s sure you’ll forever has his handprints there.

“Too much!” You hiccup. Tears fall over your cheeks as his pace picks up. He’s nonstop nudging your cervix, going way deeper than your last fuck months ago. You could just explode, pulling and pushing to find a position to alleviate the pressure but no matter where you go, Hobie is everywhere.

He doesn’t know where to focus. Your face, your tits, the spot where you were connected. His senses are overwhelmed. “Can’t be. I’m barely doing anything.” He’s vigorously plowing into you. The slap of skin between your bodies is an absolute symphony to him.

Your moans beg to differ, booming in the air of your room. The possibility of your neighbors hearing you is a distant thought. You couldn’t give a shit about them and their discomfort. They haven’t had the sexiest man alive fuck them into insanity.

You also don’t have to tell him you’re on the brink of release, not when you’re damn near cutting his dick in half. He’s forced to still, much to his displeasure. “Poor little thing.” Hobie fakes his pity. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder. “Look at me when I make you cum.” He demands, waiting until he’s certain your eyes are trained on him to dribble spit on your soaking cunt.

His thumb follows, easily gliding rapid ministrations across it. It’s all over the place, his thighs and yours. The smell of your sex feels the air. He’s intoxicated.

Your eyes are barely open but you’re doing your best. Your heartbeat races as you wind up tighter. Your mouth drops open but you can’t speak. Can’t say a thing. It’s all too paralyzing. The only sound you can make are hums of encouragement until one final thrust pushes you over the edge.

You convulse, a water stream comes flushing out your cunny. The webs over your wrist are the only thing that keeps you from clinging onto his chest when you jerk forward.

It comes so quickly, Hobie is yanking his cock out of you. He hovers over your body, furiously fisting it until ropes of his own cum flies out and decorates your chest. He’s out of breath, expectantly. It took all of his efforts to devour you as he really wanted.

You’re just as exhausted, lying limp and silent. At some point, your legs are softly placed back on the mattress and he removes the sticky web keeping you in place.

In an ideal world, he’d do it again but there’s no way you can handle it. He reckons he’s already pushed you past your limit.

“Come back to me, pretty girl.” He massages your side. In contrast to his previous behavior, his hands are gentle. They soothe the dim ache settling into your muscles. “There you go. Come back to me.”

Hobie waits until you’re settled, waits until you’re smiling weakly. “Where’s your towels at?” His limited view from your window never showed him your linen closet. All he knows is that it’s somewhere in the hallway.

You shake your head and push yourself into seating. “I’d rather just shower.” You say. Your face contorts for a second at the feelings of your legs recovering from that punishing stretch. You don’t even have a moment to react before Hobie is grabbing at you again.

“Are you okay? Do you need anything? Should I help you?” His hands are at your waist again. You quizzically stare at him while he fusses over your frame. It’s not like it changes anything. He know what he did to you.

“No, no I’m just but . . . how do you know my name. Or where I was today?” Flashbacks of your conversation play through your head. You suddenly feel gross with the possibility that you just fucked a creep despite said creep being extremely attractive.

Hobie pressed his lips together. He tilts his head away while his eyes bounce off your white walls. He pushes his locs out of his eyes, seeming to weigh his words. “Well, mm, ever since we met that one time, you’re just everywhere I go.” He’s totally lying and he knows that but you don’t need to. If he told you the truth, you’d probably beat his ass in.

“What?”

He peeks over at you before becoming super interested in the fabric of your pink sheets. “Yeah. You don’t notice but I run into you a lot and your friends are kinda loud, y’know?” He picks off a piece of lint. “So I just caught it one day, I guess. ‘Nd like I said, I was patrolling the area. Saw you come out.” His story sounds bad, oddly strung together. He knows. But he also knows you’re a bit dumb, a bit too trusting. You let him in your apartment to pee, for christ’s sake.

“Oh,” you nod. Just as expected, you believe him. At least enough to let it go and ignore what concern you may feel. “And you did this because? I mean, you don’t do this with everyone you just meet do you?”

In your defense, you are just a civilian. You live a somewhat normal life. This sounds like a completely reasonable explanation, although you are hyper aware of the fact that you were are it naked. It bothers you that Hobie doesn’t care.

He’s lax, rubbing the silk cloth between his fingers. The corners of his mouth are upturned and you have to fight the urge to ask him what’s funny. “No. Just you. I wouldn’t wanna do this with anyone else. Thought that was pretty obvious.”

You suppose it could be, though it doesn’t make sense to you. Maybe you aren’t sure how to wrap your head around the situation. So you don’t say anything in return. You just hum and nod because what were you supposed to say? This isn’t an everyday occurrence and you certainly weren’t expecting Spider Punk himself, tonight.

“Listen,” Hobie starts, “this is a lot, I know. Weren’t expecting it or whatever but at some point, you’re gonna miss me.” He grins all wide and smug. He is smug. He knows the impression he left behind. He knows what you like, what gets you going. You’ll miss him. “All I’m going to do is leave my number here, ‘kay? It’s completely up to you.”

You don’t like his arrogance. You don’t like it even more when he stands and strides right up to your nightstand. As he scribbles his number on your stack of sticky notes, you swear to yourself that you’re gonna throw it away. He’s too confident your your liking, too sure of himself. It’s almost as if he knows you’re not gonna get the memory of him plowing into you in a few weeks.

Not to his surprise, you don’t. It only takes him a few days before he’s hearing from you again, all hesitant and precious when you invite him over. And of course, he goes. Who was he to deny your right? Especially when the day he first laid eyes on you, he knew he wanted you.

[todorroki]

Love Sea ep 6 thoughts

the way this show loves to go from backstory → sweetness → [fire emoji x10] should be studied fr

this post is gonna be mega scattered thoughts sorry

i did NOT notice until this episode, but tongrak lives by water which is so fitting.

i know we're trauma dumping in the first 10 minutes, but can i just appreciate the lighting in this scene. again, i don't know a single thing about cinematography, but like the warm glow behind mut and the cool tones of rak's shot being hit with a subtle warm light. is it intentional? I DONT KNOW!! i don't even know if what i'm saying makes sense LMAO but i feel Something. also plus points for showing peat's beautiful eyes. i love seeing them in the light.

and the cuddle scene in bed after this is so chef's kiss. I TOO WANT TO LAY ON FORT'S WARM CHEST!!!!!!

tongrak's mannerisms are so cute like the snuggling, the pouting, etc. i think peat accentuates that so well too (or am i being biased again idk idc)

please this part...... UUUUOOOOGGGGHHHH mut holding rak's hands down, the slow build up to kiss, rak with his tongue out ready to go..... fortpeat know how to dial it up!!!!! their tension is crazy

also thank u for the thighs. i love thighs. fort's thighs in those jeans. and peat's are always out in this series thanks to the short shorts.. brain food.

i want khom's green fit so bad like THE PASTEL and my favorite color. i'm wondering if we'll get to see connor at all besides his voice. in the novel, he shows up with khom during this part.

i'm glad we're getting to see more of rak and vi's friendship. i feel like there's been a lack of that so far so this short scene is good to solidify their closeness. also the way peat smushes his face against the pillow here is SOO cute. he plays cute pouty kitten characters so well.

also vimook... THEY'RE SO UNSERIOUS!!!!!!!! PLEASE mame what is ur plan for them bc i am literally the mf crying emoji seeing their progression. the show is already deviating from the novel (they have extra scenes in the series iirc) so i don't know what to expect.

BRING HIM BACK TO THE WATER!!! HE BELONGS ON THE ISLAND. mut in the city but near water... so close yet so far....

also finally we get meena aka we're truly starting the conflict of this story. i really have to praise nina. fortpeat have said before she's good, but i've never watched anything she's in so i didn't know but yes. she is GOOD. kid/young teen characters can be super hit or miss and i think nina hits it out of the ballpark. she's VERY natural and comfortable with her line delivery and expressions.

i think one of peat's strongest points as an actor is his display for yearning. he's so ridiculously good at internal panic.

also how can i NOT mention the face-fucking nc at the end!!! after getting interrupted twice (once last ep and during the mid-way point of this ep) i was like we have to get Something right? AND WE DID RAAAH I LOVE WINNING!!!!! love sea truly does make me feel like im constantly winning in the nc department.

SHOUTOUT TO PEAT ACTING A CUTIE (and leg... i love leg)

anyways i will be gushing abt fp for a second here LIKE OOH MY GOD THEY ARE JUST SOO SOFT TOGETHER LIKE

DOMESTICITY!!!!!!!!!!!!! ROMANCE!!!!!!!!!!!! COMFORT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THEY CAN DO IT ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE GET THEM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

idk if mmy will have anything for them after this (i think they hinted at SOMETHING but it's most likely not a series) but i need some casting person out there to see them and be like "YES FUCK WE'RE HIRING" LIKE IM GONNA NEED MORE AFTER THIS SERIES PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE the way they fit together..

[theserpentsadvocate]

On Names

So I try to post (work of some kind) on my days off + stats, and it's BC Day, but I didn't quite manage to crank out a chapter of Satisfaction in time (I did write 5K today, though - I cannot wait until I can quit my second job and write fanfic on the weekend), so here is a rant/meta I did about my pet peeves on names in fic, and how this applies to Veronica Mars specifically. (I started with a wide net, but the main focus ended up there because of course it did.)

Fanfiction peeve of the day –

Please, I am begging you, pay attention to names in canon! It’s so glaring when people get it wrong, but it’s so common and I don’t understand!

If two characters have any kind of important relationship in canon and we see them interact more than once or twice, we know what they call each other. Do not deviate from that to be cute, or to emphasize a character’s accent. (Cordelia’s nickname is Cordy. Doyle calls her Cordy. He also calls her Cordelia. He should not be calling her ‘Delia’ just because he’s Irish.) Do not randomly switch a character’s nickname to a different nickname for no reason, or so that their love interest is calling them something special! (Shortened nicknames are not a thing in Middle-earth unless you are a hobbit. Unless you feel qualified enough with Sindarin (usually) name construction to have someone give their friend or spouse an epessë like ‘Tinúviel’, that person should be using their full name. Yes, even if it’s three syllables. Spare me from this ‘Fara’ nonsense – Eowyn would call him ‘Faramir’. Yes, always.) Do not assign a character who doesn’t use nicknames a nickname they never use in canon just because you can’t imagine intimacy coexisting with a long name, or a standard one! (Hermione goes by Hermione. She takes pains to get Viktor Krum to say her full name, even if she tolerates a bit of mispronunciation. She is not ever called Mione.) If someone threw out a one-off joke nickname for someone, for the love of Dante, do not start using it as a regular form of address!

And for the love of god, pay attention to the context in which people use nicknames! I am running across this willy-nilly in the Veronica Mars fandom right now, so, for my sanity:

Veronica:

I am reading an otherwise mostly-good fanfic right now where Logan keeps calling Veronica ‘Ronica’ and it’s driving me up the wall. No one has ever called her ‘Ronica’ in the history of ever, and it’s not even a standard nickname for Veronica, so it’s even worse. (This is extra annoying to me because I happen to think ‘Ronica’ is an exceptionally stupid nickname (although it would actually be fine as a name in its own right), but YMMV.)

Veronica typically doesn’t use nicknames, she doesn’t introduce herself with nicknames, she’s comfortable with her full name. Her dad (nor her mom for that matter) never calls her anything but ‘Veronica’ (or ‘honey’). Her two long-term boyfriends only ever call her Veronica (with one exception that I will Get Into below). Cliff, Wallace, and especially Weevil have been known to call her ‘V’* on occasion, which is a sign that they have relatively close relationships to her that also have a strong element of casualness or flippancy (notably, during Season Four, when they are not close, Weevil only ever calls her ‘Veronica’). Lilly, who was exceptionally close to her, lengthens her name as a nickname/form of endearment, calling her ‘Veronica Mars’ pretty often.

Logan does call her ‘Ronnie’ in early Season One. This is extremely obviously him being an asshole; he’s addressing her by a diminutive she doesn’t use to emphasize that they’re no longer friends and because doing so is inherently demeaning (imagine if you have a Michael who goes by Michael (or even Mike) and you suddenly start calling him ‘Mikey’ – it’s rude and dismissive). No one ever calls her that except him and Dick, and once Logan and Veronica are back on good terms, no one calls her that except Dick, who is doing it to be irreverent and disrespectful. It is objectively incorrect for her friends and/or boyfriend to be calling her ‘Ronnie’ and utterly bizarre for the narration to be referring to her that way.

*I feel strongly that it should be ‘V’ and not ‘Vee’ because it’s not short for a name that starts with a ‘vee’ sound (e.g., if her name was Vianne or Vita I might feel differently), it’s the actual letter V that her name starts with, but I acknowledge that that’s subjective.

Also, Felix referred to her as ‘blondie’ one time, dismissively, to Weevil – ‘Blondie’ is not his nickname for her! Wallace, insomuch as he has a nickname for her, calls her ‘V’, although he sticks with ‘Veronica’ most of the time; ‘SupaFly’ was a one-off joke and he should not be calling her that on the regular any more than she should be calling him ‘Sodapop’* just because she made an Outsiders reference in the pilot.

*And on that note, it’s ‘Sodapop’ because that’s the name of a character from The Outsiders, not ‘soda pop’ like the drink.

Logan:

I am begging you, Weevil called Logan ‘Opie’ one time. It was a generic insult, not a nickname. Even in an AU where they’re somehow bros, it is not something he would be calling him on a regular basis! (Conversely, Logan should not be calling him ‘Paco’ for the same reason, and also because it’s racist so that’s even worse!)

Weevil:

Authority figures (Keith, various teachers, Cliff when representing him in court, etc.) typically call Weevil ‘Eli’; his friends, particularly the PCHers, call him ‘Weevil’ pretty much exclusively (except for Veronica), and his family seems to waver between the two with a preference for his actual name – his grandmother calls him both ‘Eli’ and ‘Weevil’ when she’s talking about him, but sadly we don’t get enough scenes with her to know what’s more common (the only time we hear her actually address him she calls him ‘m’ijo’), Chardo usually calls him ‘Weevil’ but switches to ‘Eli’ when he’s making an emotional appeal, Claudia appears to exclusively call him ‘Eli’. (Context makes it pretty clear that Jade calls him ‘Eli’ as well, which is unsurprising.) We never hear Ophelia call him anything, but he refers to himself as ‘Uncle Eli’ when talking to her.

Veronica only ever calls him Weevil when she’s talking to him, notably, although she does use his real name on occasion when she’s talking about him – to her criminology class, when representing herself as his PI in ‘Weevils Wobble But They Don’t Fall Down’, and to Jade (even correcting herself from ‘Weevil’) in Mr. Kiss And Tell. (Interestingly, she’s more likely to use his full name than just his legal first name – she calls him ‘Eli Navarro’ several times, but almost never uses just ‘Eli’. She’s also probably the only person to call him ‘Weevil Navarro’*, presumably because in that instance she’s talking to him.)

*although Cliff does call him ‘Eli ‘Weevil’ Navarro’ on one occasion, complete with audible quotation marks

The point is, Weevil does get called both, and there’s some leeway for things to change a bit as relationships change – it’s not necessarily out of character, for instance, for Veronica to start addressing him as ‘Eli’ if they’ve started dating, or if it’s a fic (particularly an AU) set around the time of the novels – but it shouldn’t come from nowhere, and it shouldn’t be arbitrary. Keith wouldn’t be addressing him as ‘Weevil’, and Felix and Hector wouldn’t be calling him ‘Eli’ (unless maybe he’s secretly dating one of them it’s Felix and they’re in private). [Writing that sentence made me low-key start shipping him with Hector – why do I do this to myself?]

What he should not be getting called is ‘Weevs’, which is right in the midpoint between ‘Ronnie’ and ‘Opie’. Yes, Logan called him that once or twice (keywords once or twice) – in the exact same context that he called Veronica ‘Ronnie’, which is to say, as a mocking diminutive. It should not be serving as a general nickname even when Weevil and Logan are antagonistic, and it should definitely never be something that Hector or Veronica calls him! (And yes, I have seen both.)

And since I’m already aggravated – while I’m on the subject ‘Eli’ is a name unto itself. There’s a subset of fandom that seems strangely convinced it’s short for ‘Elias’ or ‘Elijah’ and… no. It’s not.

[takeru-tenkuuji]

Please do tell us more about your ocs Ikki and Ace bc I too have brainrot about them 👀👀👀 (only if you want to of course) -🟡

anon im so sorry about what im going to subject you and many people to (if they read this (or the attempted version 2 that i tried to recall from memory due to me losing this draft originally, neither of which is advised)

***basically i found this draft lost in god knows where?? its the same but it..sounded more coherent than the other one and i just think itd be silly if i just had both left out there...lol..the only thing updated is that i added an extra doodle. everything else is untouched)

um something something heed suspension of disbelief. like ive warned, this is basically something totally made up in my head to the point that it deviates severely from the work's original intentions and such

but siiiiiiince you aaaaasked (cry) and i am currently sick with the flu so literally sick in the head i will do this until i think oh god, i have to be put down and never come back to the internet because i put my shitty yaoi au in here so in detail

we'll start with adjustments to revice's general plot (lol)

so this is an au where for me, george rly goes for the "make the ultimate kamen rider" guy. his father stays forever an asshole dedicated to finding shit about science, and would only create shit like the weekend to clean up his mess, but not because he feels genuine remorse. this (imo) gives george more reason to continue on hating his dad(?), and thinking he's creating something to surpass him.

george's obsession is created by his father neglecting him in his childhood and leaving him with just kamen rider to watch and play with while he worked. george grows up with a growing vengeance to beat his father at his own game i guess. feeds into a potential narrative parallel with olteca? idk

so george sets his sights on potential candidates: igarashi daiji, and kadota hiromi. both seek some sort of..justice or strength, proving one's worth, (till it all goes horribly wrong via canonical events). and of course, the inheritor of revice, ikki comes into play. george gambles on this.

in this version, they also find that ikki is not just a descendant of giff thanks to his father's genes, but giff's target human vessel. the only reason vail hates vice's guts besides wanting to kill genta's family, because he's protected under giff's will.

giff creates a demon, vice, to inherit all of ikki's memories (at least, the painful ones he doesn't want to remember, but it eventually becomes just, everything lol). vice gets a consciouness, ikki's humanity that wants to protect ikki, but ikki wants to throw away his humanity and becomes an empty kind of guy. vice inherits the desires to be boisterous and selfish, instead of somehow put together and reliable, but instead it makes ikki wonder what the hell he wanted to begin with, and desperately fills in the hole by trying to help people via nosiness, etc. hence the whole volcano form convo i think. idr. LOL

so fast forward to the sorta endish of the season, they destroy giffs body, which is perfect so he can be released from his physical form and move on to vice/ikki. george knows all of this information, and decides it's the perfect setup to test ikki's will to become a kamen rider through the wildest hardship or whatever. so george goes and tells everyone that the igarashis are descendants of giff and spreads fear that even though giff is destroyed, this family exists. shit happens.

of course, happy spa's small but passionate loyal clients try to protect the family and such, but then vice becomes a conduit to transferring giff's consciousness into ikki once he loses all his memories, he transforms into his own demon and starts attacking everyone.

(i tried lol) (sneaking in a new image)

giff has a good hold over ikki till- uh oh. huh. the demon you put all of the human memories is goin a lil crazy. vice, fueled by ikki's memories and intense emotions, alongside giff's uncontrollable power, ends up destroying giff (yay) but takes over ikki's psyche as an absolutely uncontrollable beast.

george, seeing this as a failed experiment, uses his backup plan to be the ultimate kr himself as juuga to defeat ikki, becoming a hero for the public watching and cheering him on. just like kamen rider!

except of course, igarashi family, everyone known through the season, the weekend kids, hiromi try to get through to ikki revisiting their beloved memories with him (gl daiji) while the happy spa friends try to hold back the angry mobs.

ikki begins to regain consciousness and wonder if he really was that kind of guy before

ikki's family is the last to speak to him and of course it's like. fond memories, bad memories, things that they like and hate about him, things that make him him, etc, and give that big ol berserker man a hug.

vice finally speaks up with his piece, revisiting his own individual memories with ikki as his demon, etc.

george is perplexed and livid, but he's not sure why. this would count as a success in his experiment, but not in the way that he thought it would be. the cliches of kr fulfilled(?). and the crowd no longer cheers him on.

ikki regains revice form, no vice because vice has uh. merge merged with him now. fights george, last busybody guy to hit. woooooo ahhh (coughing hacking)

and here comes my oc, post season vice LMFAO. which is just the hbdvd design bc i believe in giving maeda the chance to be just a liddle goth and have a little dangly earring

post canon vice is pretty much a preservation and a box holding ikki's memories, if ikki fights and forgets, he reminds him. but due to inheriting these memories and merging with ikki's messed up post canon soul, he ends up a lot more subdued as ikki no longer gives a shit about being a loud boy and breaking free. he just doesn't want to be alone. LOL (and in caption note, it's preservation vice and destruction ikki ty sorry. ikki in my brain wants to destroy memories, vice preserves them for him) yay. he switches in as easily as kagerou does with daiji, but doesn't like to make much conversation outside.

and FINALLY this is where my other oc (jkjk) ace comes in.

the weird ass movie, revice and geats battle royale whatever, ace uses a desire wish on ikki for him to remember all the battles he's had in place of ikki potentially wishing vice back. (i guess in this au, it'd just be in place of him wishing literally anything better for himself. also vice would absolutely hate that (ace)).

in terms of au material in geats, i believe in evil parents..or more like...morally.....wack ass parents....... like you can't be the goddess of creation that was abused for a silly future man game and not go a little crazy... so to me, the mother that ace seeks is long gone, and when he finds her again before she dies, she tells him they should just fuck up the world (thumbs up) for everything it's done to them. ace is faced with 1) contemplating the human side of him that craved what he believed was family (through keiwa and his sister, the complicated relationship between neon and her family, as well as ikki's) 2) whether he wanted to do anything with his power towards the world because of his mom, what his mom put him through, what the world put them through (hence the tarot card, judgement. the power and the perspective to judge the world?)

i love the ninetailed fox theme sorry so not only is he a white haired anime boy in god form, BUT A FURRY

so in this perspective, ikki and ace represent opposite sides of like..the demon and angel shared blood with human spectrum, and how they go about the world that way. how they see each other is a weird balance that clashes and also completes each other(?)

anyway that's my spiel because im losing brain as we speak and starting to feel the effects of oh god, who the hell is going to read this. if you made it here, im sorry. uhhhhh i love yaoi............

[lightyakami]

i am very visibly queer at all times despite tbh not really wanting to be so -- it is my face and my faggot voice that gives me away -- which is such a mixed blessing bc on one hand i am pretty much always welcomed into queer communities but on the other hand once i'm in there people immediately start interacting with the version of A Queer Person they made up in their heads instead of with me personally. between the combo of being asian and being consistently perceived as nonbinary people always see me as a commodity, like this neat little off-the-rack package that has the same opinions as them on politics and media and other queer people. they think i'm fun to be around the same way a labrador retriever is fun to be around. & when i don't behave the way they think my breed is supposed to they either get mad or completely ignore anything that deviates from how they think i ought to act. and tbh i actually get this more from other trans people than anyone else which is complicated and frustrating on a number of levels -- like i consider myself firmly allied with other trans people, i have no interest in distancing myself even from the trans people who treat me poorly and drive me utterly batshit with the things they project onto me -- but what it all winds around to is that the taxonomization of queerness and the refusal to recognize that queerness is not an aesthetic which must be adhered to fucks everyone over in unique and terrible ways.

[luckyladylily]

#but also like. regarding the first post. you are kinda supposed to feel the negative impact#like. if bus drivers went on strike and your life wasnt inconvenienced bc no one takes the bus anyways#they dont really have much leverage. but if people suddenly start yelling at the bus companies for not fucking adhering to scheudles anymor#and not having any buses driving at all. then the bus company is pressured into action. aka: giving the strikers what they want#so what people actually need to do is say:#'hey @netflix why are you delaying all of your shows?? im literally paying a subscription and you put nothing out?#just because you refuse to meet strike requests? well is your user base more important to you or the tiny margin you will lose?'#you actually NEED to be an entitled customer for once. but always make sure you blame netflix and not the actors#make sure they can't spin it like 'waaah the strike is so evil' you need to immediately fire back to make sure THEY remain the villain#but be entitled!! be MAD there is no content for you to watch!#tell them you will fucking kill yourself if they delay dune 2 and itll be warnerbros fault#you are SUPPOSED to notice when someone is striking!! it's not good when it feels normal to you!!#thats not a L on netflix' part they are HOPING you aren't inconvenienced

Ok. I am going to explain something here. I would ask that you please keep an open mind going in.

My post is an observation of my experienced reality. I fully expected this to not be the case going into the strike, I was around for and remember the last strike in 2007 when it was not the case. But as the strike drags on I am forced to conclude that this time is different for whatever reason. I am not feeling the strike.

That is not a political statement. It is a statement of fact. And, based on the thousands of comments agreeing with me, many others are experiencing the same thing. For whatever reason, many people, including many of us nerds that are most tuned into these industries, are not feeling the strike. That is reality.

#you are SUPPOSED to notice when someone is striking!! it's not good when it feels normal to you!!

Yes, I agree that for the sake of the strike this would be the most convenient reality. But that is not the reality we are dealing with. This happens all the time with political issues and indeed basically anything where reality might clash with expectation.

At this point we have two options. We can recognize reality has deviated from what is convenient or we can insist that reality is something it is not. Which is the better option, and why? Even if we put morality and long term issues aside and isolate this to only this issue, the answer is pretty clearly that we should deal with reality as it is.

Acknowledging that we are not feeling the strike now does not stop us from intellectually understanding that the strike will affect us later. In fact, working out why we are so insulated from the going ons of this industry (and why it is bad for us, how it is connected to the issues of the strike, and how it is the studio's fault) will help us understand that fact and fuel our own desire to act, not diminish it. There is nothing about this conclusion that stops us from acting pro union.

On the other hand, insisting that we are not experiencing what we are experiencing is questionable in terms of motivational force on a group level. Sure, you may work yourself into a frenzy, but not everyone will be able to ride on the back of a lie like that. And way, way more importantly, no one who isn't already zealously in agreement with your position will buy this lie. They have no motivation to overcome the mental dissonance causes by trying to paper over their experienced reality with the convenient lie, and there is no reason why our lie would be more attractive than the convenient lies of people trying to break the strike. And our lie will never be as powerfully delivered as theirs.

We are never going to win a propaganda fight against companies with access to mass media control, highly skilled PR firms, and all the money necessary to power a massive propaganda machine. We are never going to win that game. The advantage we have is that ethics and reality are on our side, even if it isn't quite as straightforward as we would like, and using those advantages is how we win this fight.

So, TL:DR

#you are SUPPOSED to notice when someone is striking!! it's not good when it feels normal to you!!

I agree, and it would be most convenient if reality lined up with that idea. But it does not, at least not for many, many people, and we deal with reality as it exists because that is the fight we can win.

You know, after a hundred days of strike, I have noticed absolutely no differences.

I mean, they say shows are canceled because of it, but they would cancel shows for any reason or no reason at all. They often wouldn't tell us one way or another for months or years. Functionally, the uncertainty is the same.

The same goes for delays. How the hell am I supposed to tell if some show or another was delayed? They were never released in any sort of timely fashion before. What does a delay even mean when there is nothing even resembling a schedule? I mean, there wasn't even something like "within the first two weeks of august we will put something up for you to watch."

Zero accountability means they got away with whatever bullshit practices they wanted to, but now its cutting both ways. Any claim that this strike is negatively impacting me is meaningless because Netflix and most the other entities like them have built a system where it is extremely difficult to hold anyone accountable for anything.

And now they seem to think they can just bring accountability back? If they had numbers they could point to maybe it would work, but that's half the battle here. They are desperate to avoid releasing anything that tells anyone outside the company what the hell is going on. So we are just supposed to take their word for it, no really bro, it's actually really bad for you and all the strikers fault if only you could see the numbers that we refuse to show you, you're just gonna have to trust us bro.

[ghoulangerlee]

replying to this here @goldenbloodytears because I'm v sorry but this got uhh long because, while I am not an expert on vocals or anything like that, I do have some examples as to how I guess, I personally perceive the Papas' voices.

I just really love this man and his voice, in all iterations. And the rest is under a read more because I feel bad about putting this on people's dashes as one giant block of text asdlkfsjd

Also, Spillways got me into Ghost, so for the most part, I first had experience hearing Copia's voice, which is, yes, sort of nasally, I don't necessarily think it's a bad thing, though. Tobias talking about how the Copia character is less "experienced" maybe (I can't remember the exact wording atm) in the Loudwire interview he just did, makes the nasally thing sort of make sense even though I know it's logically bc the mask fit does it to him. Copia's voice being nasally and different from the other Papas who, when we got to know them, they were already elevated into their position, it'd make more sense we get a polished sound with them vs Copia who started out as a Cardinal and later became Papa, hence less "experience". But this is just me trying to find an in-universe reason for it other than idk man has a deviated septum or something.

ANYWAY, so, back to the topic of Secondo sounding more like Tobias than the others---

Tobias has a really nice voice, and there's this certain thing that it does that I am not musically talented enough to put into proper words, but okay, so, House of Affection is arguably the Tobias Forge song, it's him singing it, not as a character and it's in the chorus mostly, just the tone he uses. It's that airy sorta higher, not necessarily a light sort of sound but it sort of goes up. I'm doing a very bad job at describing this haha. I don't have the right words for it, but it's this all encompassing sound.

This Ritual performance that Secondo did also has that same sort of sound. You can hear it especially in the chorus bit, it's higher, he sings upwards, I guess? Much like in the chorus of House of Affection, it's a very, at least to me, similar sort of thing.

And there's a good video that sort of goes through Primo, Secondo and Terzo's singing through the years, which is here and I think that also gives a very good indication that like Secondo's voice is very close to Tobias' voice.

Primo's voice is sorta...deeper, I guess, is a good way to put it. When he begins the chorus of Ritual you can hear how much lower he's doing it, like he absolutely does not sound like Tobias to me.

Secondo's voice, for the purpose of me comparing it to Tobias' is like, an almost dead ringer, if I were to hear Secondo sing and then Tobias sing as himself then I would be able to tell they were the same person, just because of the way Secondo would like, project? His voice, it's pretty similar vocal wise to other projects that Tobias has worked on.

Terzo's voice in this video example, it's growly, like he really got that gravel sort of thing going on really good and if I didn't know any better, I'd think that Terzo was someone else entirely. He also puts on a like sorta of thicker accent? You can hear him roll his R's more in songs and such.

Like all of this is not to say that he doesn't sometimes slip up and sing sort of like himself, because he does. He did it during HellFest this year because he was losing his voice and I think overall that was just easier for him than to try and sing nasally.

Once again, here's a compilation I found of the first three Papas singing Ritual, but like together? It's really interesting to listen to because you can hear the differences better like this I think.

Just for the sake of me not using only one song, but Secular Haze is the same way to me. Like, obviously he's singing the song without a mask in the studio versions, so I'm using only live versions of the songs.

The first time I listened to Infesstisumam, I was sort of blown away by how much different it sounds from Opus Eponymous. And then once I got into some of Tobias' other projects, one day Secular Haze came on my playlist and I had to like, pause for a second because I was like "oh that's Tobias. That's him."

Like the man is very very good at changing his voice up each era and everything and I don't think it's extremely noticeable unless you're like focusing so much on voice differences, but the overlaps are there and he does sound really close to himself obviously with somewhat of an accent, but it's there.

As for Terzo's acoustic performances, he doesn't sound like Tobias, like to an extent, Terzo also has a sort of nasally sound, and you can hear it pretty well in Jigolo Har Megiddo, esp when he gets higher, and like honestly I think Terzo and Copia are the two who sound the least like Tobias when you compare them.

Also, like, there's this performance of He Is where his voice is deep which just, in my mind is so far from Tobias that I'm not sure who that man is other than Terzo.

It's not to say, again, that Terzo has never sounded like Tobias, because he has, and that's just a thing that happens sometimes, but like it's not as consistent as Secondo sldkfs.

Another example of y'know, Tobias, so we're not just going off of House of Affection is the Me and that Man song he featured in as Mary Goore, it, to me, gives me sort of like, Secondo vibes in terms of the voice? And like it's not live but studio so it has that more pronounced sound than a live vocal one I guess.

This clip of him performing live with Subvision his voice does that upward, sort of projection thing that when you listen to Secondo's performances, it's really really close to that.

The man is amazingly talented, and he knows how to change his voice and do little things to each Papa so they don't all sound the same, so when you know it's time for a new Papa, you're like "oh what's he going to sound like?" both music style wise and vocal wise.

This also got very out of hand, for a silly little post, I'm so sorry, once again, but your reply was just such a good question.

tldr; secondo and tobias are twin brothers

:)

[agnesmontague]

Let's hear em!!!

WOW OKAY A LOT OF YOU WANT TO HEAR MY THOUGHTS

short answer: fnaf poisoned the well twice. first inadvertently and second unironically

long answer: nearly every indie horror game of what i'll call the "kiddie genre" as shorthand has been, for the most part, fnaf inspired. first there was the wave of near identical "locked in a small space (in some kid-oriented setting) while fending off horrors" riffs that just lifted the most iconic part of fnaf, ie the gameplay. those tended not to be well-received bc they were such obvious clones as to merit the title of ripoffs, and fnaf had such a distinctive mechanic for indie horror games at the time that most other parody/clone games generally paled in comparison, if not feeling like absolutely shameless youtube bait games

but when fnaf itself started to move gradually away from that mechanic with its most recent games (esp security breach) it became open season for indie horror games to revert back to their more traditional item-hunting building-exploring flashlight-waving roots while not having to deviate from the other foundation fnaf had laid: the lore. im not a fnaf veteran by any means but i am fully aware that it set the stage for the type of lore and worldbuilding that very few of the modern "kiddie genre horror games" have actually deviated from, ie "these kid-friendly things are, quite literally, possessed by the spirits of whoever was wronged at the time of their genesis." the bite of '87 (or whatever it was called; like i said im not actually a fnaf veteran) was the blueprint for this, in no small part thanks to the extensive coverage from channels like game theory, and the only real big-name kiddie genre game that i can think of that didn't follow this formula is baldi's basics (which does not even have any lore to speak of). just about any other game that got propelled into the public eye in recent years--bendy and the ink machine, andy's apple farm, poppy playtime--has all fallen to various degrees under this same trite umbrella, eventually decaying to various degrees of shameless fucking moneygrabbing based off this same formula that worked once for fnaf.

and mind you, i don't have anything against fnaf at all other than scott cawthon being a homophobic twat, or even think that this phenomenon is in itself some new blight on the indie horror scene. if a huge new game makes a splash, there will be derivatives that ensue for years on end--we saw it with the endless hyperrealistic PT clones, the Slender spinoffs and SCP games of the mid-2010s, and arguably even the "traditional" item-hunting note-collecting mechanic i mentioned above could be the long-lasting influence of amnesia: the dark descent. what really fucks me up with the kiddie genre though is that it's becoming more and more directly marketed AT KIDS instead of being the nostalgic horror intended for adults that it originally was. again, not a bad thing in itself--kids love horror after all--but when combined with the merchandising and blatant greed some of these companies have displayed upon realizing that kids are an easy market it actually kind of turns my stomach a little. it makes for shittier games AND more predatory attempts to scam kids. it's been kind of exhausting to watch this evolution happening in real time bc the indie scene already has so many issues with unoriginality, with so many unethical devs getting away with slapping fancy graphics on top of a boring unworkshopped idea, and i can’t help but feel like this is just another example of that.

[yaomomvs]

Hello I saw that your req are open if there not ignore this but I just read recovery girl... girl with todoroki and was wondering if you could do a bakugku one ? Thank you : )

apprentice | k. bakugou

in which you help bakugou bc you are recovery girl’s little protege

“oh great, you are awake now” bakugou hears a voice, a little bit more enthusiastic of what he was expecting.

you enter the infirmary with a bunch of medical supplies and some other stuff like a couple of sweets and... a sandwich?

“who the heck are you?” bakugou was indeed impulsive, but in fact he was a bit curious.

minutes before he woke up with a huge headache, when he realized he was in recovery girl’s place he groaned and tried to remember why he was there this time. but seeing you there, someone who was just about his age shocked him.

“watch your tone you brat, i’m the literal reason why you are alive!” you claim.

“wHO ARE YOU CALLING-“

“DONT DO THAT!” you yell back, but it was late. the blonde haired boy let out a groan fue to the sudden and awful pain he got in his abs area. trying to stands up to fight you definitely showed you how dumb he could be.

he flinches and sits up in the bed once again feeling how the blood starts covering the bandage in his stomach.

“great!” you say helping him recover his posture “now i have to do that again, why is the hero course so fucking stubborn and careless about themselves?”

he remembered the hero combat with class 1-B but he was surprised it got this far.

you pull him close and you try to place your hand in his stomach area but instead he pushed you away.

“look” you begin tired of him, looking directly to his eyes a bit too close for his taste “you wanna be a great hero? amazing but if you still think that title doesn’t mean accepting help from others then you should leave UA, so stop the bullshit and let me change your bandage”

katsuki is amuse because of the way you talked to him, the power and determination in your eyes actually left him... speechless.

and a bit red.

“tch!” was the only thing he managed to do “you are a bit of a pushover aren’t you?”

you laugh “if you are going to insult me, please try harder”

your touch was delicate, something kacchan actually never felt before. he kept looking at you, still curious on why was a teenager taking care of him.

“where’s the old lady?” he asks lifting his arms while you take the bandage out.

“recovery girl for you” you scold “and she was out there taking care of the other ones, but i think principal nezu came and asked to speak to her, poor nezu he is actually pissing off recovery girl so much allowing this kind of events oh shit” you interrupt yourself “guess i’ll have to do it”

“do wha-“

he couldn’t finish his sentence because a green light was already sparkling from your palm, once again you touched his damaged area, and as it was magic his most of his injure was already gone.

you step back and bakugou notices how you get dizzy so before you tripped, he actually holds you by your shoulder.

“did you just disappeared it? your quirk-“ he asks shocked.

you walk and get the half of the sandwich and start eating holding your head. “yeah, injure disappearance. i am able to disappear any injure someone has. but it comes with his side effects of course, mainly because i used it way too much today”

“then why did you do something so stupid if you already knew you reached your maximum capability dumbass?”

“well i wouldn’t have had to if certain someone sat still in his freaking bed!”

bakugou felt bad for a second but his pride was more than that, and he wasn’t one to apologize, instead he deviated the subject to another he was particularly interested in.

“so that’s why you work here?” he questions.

“ha! i wished i was even paid” you joke, and hand him the other part of the sandwich and some sweet treats.

“i am not a child” he rejects them.

“well if you don’t eat that you are not going to be awake for much longer” you talk back “your body needs sugar and something to eat, and you know it because i know you feel extremely tired mr bakugou”

he hates know-it-all people, and he wants to hate you for that, and it was his pride that actually made him ignore the fact that you were just stating the obvious.

“and i’m an apprentice only, i’m in the support department, since my quirk is not ‘hero compatible’” you mention, sitting next to him.

maybe he should not say something, but he was not sure why he wanted to help you too. he tries to convince himself it is because he literally owes you his well being and that he hates being in debt with someone.

“quite stupid of you actually” he says and before you sass him back he adds “because recovery girl picked you, and saving lives in any way is being a hero too sparkly hands”

you stay shocked and smirk a bit “so you are actually a softie awww”

“SHUT IT EXTRA”

in fact, he wanted silence, just to admire you, but of course he said to himself that he just wanted to stay in the infirmary a bit longer because ‘i guess sometimes i have to rest’

—

“what the hell are you doing here?!”

bakugou is not going to lie to himself anymore, so he admits being kinda confused and scared seeing you in his homeroom. class 1-A follows you with their eyes on your way to kacchan’s seat.

“i should be the one questioning that, dork” he talks back.

with that everyone is shocked.

“oi bakugou who is this hottie-”

“i dare you to go on, grape” you stand up for yourself, and with one look mineta shuts up “you know you can’t skip your daily health check up right?”

“the old lady said-”

“still i am the one who attends you, idiot, so you are my patient, and now in fact you owe me three more days helping me out after checking you in the infirmary” you make clear to him, almost face to face knowing that will piss him up.

“says who?”

“says me” you slowly go away in order to attend your next class “so come on katsuki, you are not gonna win this one, chao!”

“whatever loser” he scoffs, fighting to hide the smile knowing he actually enjoyed the little time he got with you while helping.

denki and kirishima remained silent as you walk out while sero starts smirking along with jirou just blinks as many others.

“BAKUGOU HAS A HEART!”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT IDIOT?” he yells to denki.

“come on we all just see how you did not ditch or even yell at her! you are an asshole to us!” mina adds.

“WHAT NO”

“you did let her call you your first name, bakugou”

“SHUT UP HALF AND HALF BASTARD!”

[fullmetalscullyy]

if you're still accepting prompts, could you do "shh, it’s okay. it was just a dream"?

always, anon <3 and it's funny u should suggest that prompt bc i just wrote something for it a few weeks ago! and you can find it here, already on ao3

so now, u have two for the price of one :') that fic was a young!riza pov, so how about a post-canon roy pov this time? tysm for the prompt and the ask!!!

rated: t | words: 1819 | tags: nightmares, angst, hurt/comfort, post-canon, royai, promised day memories

read on ao3

Roy’s body jerked violently in his bed. His legs kicked outwards, shifting the sheet off of his searing skin and knocking it onto the floor. The cool night air blanketed his body instantly, trying, but ultimately failing, to ease his distress. His dream continued to linger painfully, jolting him upright into a seated position, causing both hands to land flat by his sides to maintain some semblance of balance while his head swung from left to right, searching the inky black stretching out before him. Roy saw nothing, which only made him panic even more.

Am I blind again?

The thought appeared unbidden in his mind. A part of him knew he wasn’t, but he was so disorientated and startled by his nightmare that he seriously considered it. He couldn’t go through that again, though. The dream couldn’t have been real. No, he couldn’t be blind. This couldn’t be happening again –

A light flicked on inside the room, making him pause for a second. He blinked, seeing his legs and the rest of his bed stretched out before him, reaching towards the pale blue wall.

He was in his bedroom, not sitting on cold, brown bricks, devoid of any comfort or warmth.

A dream… It was just a dream.

Roy exhaled sharply and took another deep breath, gulping down the air as reality slowly started to trickle back to him. The second exhale left him at a slower pace, but it still rattled passed his lips as he tried to stop terror from constricting his heart painfully. Heat flashed across his brow and chest and that’s when Roy noticed the sweat. He was drenched in it, courtesy of the fear that still lingered inside of him.

“Roy?”

The voice was quiet and thick with sleep as she called to him. At first it was surprised, but then instantly alert. Not that Roy could focus on anything outside of the horrifying images – and also memories – still in his mind’s eye, but if he could, he’d have noticed the mattress shift next to him and dip as she sat up immediately, eyeing him with concern.

She had surely caught onto what had happened. To what had made him react so badly in the middle of the night. Roy knew he must have looked a state, and that was what had probably given him away, but he didn’t care, because she was okay. She hadn’t been hurt. She wasn’t dead. They were both safe in his apartment together, out of harm’s way and far away from any kind of danger.

Roy slumped back against his pillows and draped an arm across his eyes. His chest was still heaving with his breath while he struggled to get it under control and wetness seeped out from beneath his lids, dampening the skin of his forearm and wrist. The tears had followed him from his dream to a conscious state and Roy clamped his eyelids closed tightly, willing them to stop so he could try and get a handle on his emotions.

Shame flushed through him. Not because someone was there to witness his struggle, for he would lay himself bare for her without question. It was because he’d fallen for a trap. It had been a trick by the enemy. Even if it was a dream, it had cost him dearly, and his Lieutenant had paid the price for his failings. It had caused turmoil and upset to follow him to his waking sate, affecting him so deeply that when he awoke, he still couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. The vividness of it had left him completely stricken.

His Lieutenant had almost died on him before, all those years ago, and his mind had decided to make him relive it, out of the blue, exaggerating all that happened and making it so much worse.

Nightmares were like old friends to Roy, but they were still a struggle. They never really got any easier to deal with or experience. Especially when they were as intense as this one had been. Especially when they involved her dying, either in his arms because he was too late, or while he was restrained by the enemy, unable to comfort her, get help for her, or save her.

Those were the worst ones.

A palm was placed gently atop his head. He flinched at the unexpected contact and his body tensed. Then, fingers came to rest upon his scalp gently and a thumb stroked over his forehead, right between his eyebrows. It moved repeatedly in a calming motion, relaxing his tightly wound muscles, and causing his mind to falter and trip at its racing speed once or twice.

Her touch brought him back down to earth.

“Shh,” she soothed him, “it's okay. It was just a dream.”

Her comfort was incredibly welcoming as her hands combed through his damp hair without protest or complaint. He could feel it clinging uncomfortably to his face and the back of his neck, but Riza freed him from it. The wet strands were pushed away from his cheeks and ears, making him sigh quietly as he started to feel some relief. Her voice was heaven-sent in that moment of strife for him. A buoy in raging waves; something to cling on to so he could survive and get his bearings. It was like a light rain falling over embers of pain of sorrow, washing them away like a salve being applied atop the charred ground.

She was his rescuer from the darkest confines of his own mind.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Her question was incredibly quiet, so she didn’t startle him.

Always so incredibly perceptive and considerate of others.

Roy shook his head and let out a shaky breath. If he opened his mouth his voice would break. He wasn’t ready to reveal all. He would happily tell Riza Hawkeye everything, but he couldn’t just yet. Not when he’d failed her. Again. Not when his mind was happily reminding him of that fact.

Shame flushed through him once more like an unforgiving storm surge.

“Take your time,” she announced emphatically. “I’m right here.”

And that’s all Roy ever needed.

He rolled onto his side and wrapped his arms around her waist. Riza had sat up in bed and remained there, watching over him as he tried to calm himself. His face was buried into her stomach as desperate hands clung to the shirt on her back. Riza placed both hands atop his head and stilled, letting him get comfortable before she moved them again. They continued to comb through his hair soothingly, offering a comfort only she could ever give him.

“It was a nightmare,” he mumbled against her. “Promised Day.”

Riza’s hands stilled for a second after his reveal, then continued their ministrations.

“I see.”

Roy nodded against her. They were well aware of how each other had struggled while sleeping in the aftermath of that day.

“It was…” He took a deep breath. “You,” he exhaled, as if that would answer all of her questions at once. And Roy knew it would. “What happened to you that day. And I… I was stuck. I couldn’t do anything –” Roy snapped his mouth shut, remembering seeing the light leave her eyes so clearly inside his nightmare, like a safety beacon that had winked out, leaving only darkness, despair, and horror in its wake.

“It’s okay,” she reassured. Her tone said it all. She sounded pained, knowing exactly how he’d suffered because his poor, broken, explanation had been enough for her to conclude what he’d seen in his dream.

“I was too late,” he whispered. It sounded deafening in the quiet of his bedroom.

Riza was silent as she continued to run her hands through his hair. She didn’t comment, but in some way that was worse. Roy scrunched his eyes up tightly for a few seconds before relaxing, pulling away from her.

He’d failed her again.

He didn’t get to retreat far, though. Riza’s hands followed his movements to the letter, anticipating them perfectly, moving from being buried within his hair to cupping his cheeks. She gently guided his face upwards, so it was finally facing her. Finally looking her in the eye. Fear licked around his stomach, twisting it, suddenly afraid of judgement for his lack of support. It was irrational – Riza Hawkeye would never do such a thing – but he was still shaken and distraught.

What Roy found made his breath catch. Her smile was small and soft. It was so her – nothing too flashy, but reserved and fiercely loving, just like the look in her eyes. It was a smile she saved only for him.

His breath hitched again.

“You weren’t too late, remember?” Her head shook from side to side slowly as she attempted to dispel his anxiety. Her hands dropped and latched onto one of his, guiding it upwards so it now rested over her beating heart.

The feeling was strong beneath his scarred palms, thumping inside of her with such strength – the same attitude she embodied every day in everything she did. Steady, dependable, and courageous.

“Like always, I’m right here. I’m never going anywhere.”

Roy leaned forwards quickly, overcome with impulse, and claimed her lips with his own. A hand buried into her short hair, cupping the back of her neck tenderly as he kissed her with such reverence and adoration.

“Thank you,” he breathed. His hand shifted on her chest to become more comfortable when his fingers bumped into and grazed over something solid and misshapen underneath her shirt.

Roy blinked, then slowly smiled knowingly. Riza returned it, realising what he’d discovered, but she also looked pleased his heartache had been banished and eased for a brief second.

It was the wedding ring he’d given her years ago, attached to her dog tags. The one that was identical to his own.

It was a reminder that they were tied together completely, and always would be. They’d set themselves on a path they could not deviate from, it was absolute, and they must succeed, but they’d do it together. They would remain as one throughout it all.

Their foreheads tipped together, coming to rest quietly against one another and Roy focussed on the sound of her breathing and the feeling of the ring. He tethered himself to them both, slowing his own breaths to match hers.

She was right there by his side, like she always was and had promised she'd be, so long ago. The odds had almost pulled them apart once before but hadn’t succeeded. Roy wouldn’t let his dreams get the better of him either. There were always demons to fight, but Roy was thankful he had her watching over him, and vice versa. There was no one else in the world he’d trust to watch his back. And they’d fight them all together, side by side. Unyielding and relentless.

[cotea]

i just finished shanheling and i have Thoughts. i will NOT be brief.

i don’t think i’ve ever been this sad to be done with a show in my life. i never expected to love it as much as i did? my pre release expectations for shl weren’t low, they were just purely non existent. when the first “serious” trailer came out in feb, i thought it looked good and i was genuinely excited since i was waiting for that adaptation for so long, but part of me was still disappointed since i just assumed they got past censorship by changing tyk to purely focus on the armory plotline. and then shl actually got released and promptly murdered all my assumptions in cold blood. i loved it, genuinely enjoyed every moment of it, even the ways it deviated from the source material. is it perfect? no. did it still hit every single one of my trope sweet spots? did it still score one hell of a touchdown with the most comforting, romantic, relationship that put unwavering faith and understanding at its forefront? yeeeh buddy.  

(again, i won’t say it’s perfect and that i wouldn’t change anything about it, this is not a household that believes that censorship leads to better art. but that’s a much longer, more complicated conversation for another day. and its hard to take the negatives against the show (pacing towards the end and editing/cgi mistakes being most commonly called out) when a lot of that can be attributed too how little resources the production received. it was still a very solid production despite how cheaply made it was.)

i’ve seen so many negative takes on shl characterization vs tyk for wenzhou, and it was absolutely a big change. especially with zhou zishu, who was a ‘tsundere’ to the very last chapter. it ultimately didn’t bother me—it was going to be an obvious modification from the get go. wen kexing doesn’t even need to be said, but shl tempering zzs was just as much an inevitable move for much of the same reasons the untamed shifted a lot of the causality from wei wuxian in favor of making a more clear cut villain out of jgy. 

censorship, for one, the mc can’t be a unrepentant mass murderer. and in tyk’s case that title belongs to both the mc and the ml. priest leaned into the gray morality hard with qi ye and tyk, some serious moral whitewashing was gonna have to happen before that show saw the light of day. but censorship aside, the changes with zzs were inevitable for the simple fact that he is not an mc that easily endears himself. and with the direction shl wanted to go in it was absolutely crucial for storytelling that he needed to be a character people could sympathize with. 

i spent most of qi ye and tyk wanting to fuck his shit up and he’s actually my favorite. tyk isn’t zzs’ redemption arc-my man was simply late 20s going on 65 and wanted to drink away his 401k. he fully believed that there was no point in dwelling in remorse. he’s not heartless, there are moments in the novel where its obvious that he is to some extent haunted by some of the things he did, but none of that changes the fact that he still stands by his choices and believes they were justified for a greater cause. what’s the point in wasting time when his expiration date is nearing and he hasn’t gathered near enough merits for his next life. tyk!wz were terrible people— in a cool motive still murder way. their book antics are far from la friendly. shl got around that by stressing them as more victims of circumstance. which lead to wenzhou both being much softer in comparison to their novel counterparts. which is great for me, because novel (high chaotic gremlin energies, sticky leech vs aspiring hermit) and show (hurt and comfort, us against the world tropes galore) give me two different dynamics that i really enjoy. 

i don’t have the energy to be a book purist, not when i’m trying to enjoy a bl adaptation that has to get dissected to hell and back by NRTA standards and is still in danger of getting pulled even after it's approved for air. 

(the shixiongdi thing...honestly just embrace it for what it can be: a vehicle for shixiongfucking)

shl was never going to be a loyal adaptation, that’s just unrealistic. censorship against lgbt media aside, you’ve got a budget that’s essentially loose change, timing constraints, small crew, and next to no backers—they had a lot of odds stacked against them and did the best they could despite. it wasn’t a loyal adaptation but it was still one that was done with so much respect and care to the original ip. 

there’s really only one thing that i can point out and wish was done differently or that i’m disappointed deviated from the novel and that’s the ending. bc as happy that i am that wenzhou achieved their happy ending together, i don’t think it would’ve been the future either of them would have wanted. their first choice is always each other, of course. but zhou zishu telling wen kexing that he plans to live in four seasons forever and that its a home wen kexing will always have open to him? or telling cao weining that he’d rather travel the world with his soulmate while he enjoys good wine? they were robbed. and its disheartening to think about why some changes had to be made that cheated them of that ending. 

if there’s one thing i will be grateful to this show for: it’s the respect and love had for the original work that led to there being no doubt—even if you know next to nothing about tyk prior, or even the reason why it has to be labeled a “bromance”— that shl is a romance. directed, acted, edited with the knowledge that it is a romance. it not said outright but it’s shown. in the way that it’s only around zhou zishu that wen kexing allows himself to be the kid that he never got the chance to be. it’s shown in the complete 180 transformation zhou zishu went through— from the withdrawn, wake me up inside officer zhou we establish him as to the softer a-xu he becomes as he slowly starts opening up to wen kexing. they show it in how, more than once, zhou zishu states that it wasn’t until he met wen kexing that he began to want to live again. 

shl makes sure that if there’s anything to take home at the end of the show, it’s that for wenzhou the rest of the world has no meaning to them if they can’t share it with the other.

[kellyvela]

Has GRRM ever said in any interview or on his blog that he hates Sansa's complete storyline after 4th season? I dont really follow all of his fan/media interactions but from what I can recall he has spoken abt how LF in books wont give sansa to ramsay or how noone had issue when Jeyne was given the Ramsay storyline in books etc. Asking this question to you bcs you rightly point out how ppl misunderstood his interviews/posts ( sansans/targ stans etc) & I cant recall him ever saying he 'hates' sansa's story in the later seasons of the show ( not s5 in particular but even s6 to s8).

Capclave 2013:

A change that has repercussions for season 4 is Marillion’s tongue removal from the first season. Martin said that the change was made (from an anonymous singer being the victim of a de-tonguing) because they wanted Joffrey to maim someone the audience would recognize. He believes this is an issue because of the part the singer plays in Sansa’s storyline, how he affects her interactions with others in the book, and he doesn’t believe another character will be fulfilling that role on Game of Thrones.

—GRRM talks season 4 & beyond - Winter is Coming - October 13, 2013

2014 Fan Reports about Capclave 2013 (*):

In a convention panel this year, George said on the record that he had no idea what they were doing with Sansa or where they’re taking her storyline, which now makes sense perhaps. He was not pleased when he was talking about it, so who knows what’s going to happen with her! Knowing GRRM, that could mean they’re going off the canon reservation, and/or that they’re going to be making a lot of shit up

I have notes I’ll be responding to (thanks!) but enough people commented about Sansa that I thought I’d share that tidbit, since it happened back in September iirc (was the same panel where he criticized the exclusion of Tyrell brothers)

—starkalypse - June 3, 2014

GRRM’s comments at capclave about Sansa (which I was in the third row for, for those asking about legitimacy) were among others during the panel that had a general theme of dissatisfaction with show changes. He was not in good spirits for that con and didn’t really have anything positive to say regarding the show. So take it with a grain of salt; there are deviations away from the books in the episodes he gets writers credit for, so maybe they’re doing something stupid or they really don’t have a gameplan!

—starkalypse - June 4, 2014

(*) These reports were posted in June 2014, during the airing of Game of Thrones Season 4, about Capclave 2013 that happened in October 2013.

Just after the rape episode:

How many children did Scarlett O’Hara have? Three, in the novel. One, in the movie. None, in real life: she was a fictional character, she never existed. The show is the show, the books are the books; two different tellings of the same story.

There have been differences between the novels and the television show since the first episode of season one. And for just as long, I have been talking about the butterfly effect. Small changes lead to larger changes lead to huge changes. HBO is more than forty hours into the impossible and demanding task of adapting my lengthy (extremely) and complex (exceedingly) novels, with their layers of plots and subplots, their twists and contradictions and unreliable narrators, viewpoint shifts and ambiguities, and a cast of characters in the hundreds.

There has seldom been any TV series as faithful to its source material, by and large (if you doubt that, talk to the Harry Dresden fans, or readers of the Sookie Stackhouse novels, or the fans of the original WALKING DEAD comic books)… but the longer the show goes on, the bigger the butterflies become. And now we have reached the point where the beat of butterfly wings is stirring up storms, like the one presently engulfing my email.

Prose and television have different strengths, different weaknesses, different requirements.

David and Dan and Bryan and HBO are trying to make the best television series that they can.

And over here I am trying to write the best novels that I can.

And yes, more and more, they differ. Two roads diverging in the dark of the woods, I suppose… but all of us are still intending that at the end we will arrive at the same place.

In the meantime, we hope that the readers and viewers both enjoy the journey. Or journeys, as the case may be. Sometimes butterflies grow into dragons.

—The Show, the Books - Not A Blog - May 18, 2015

Report about the last Game of Thrones Script that GRRM wrote:

No Wedding for Sansa and Ramsay: Without question, one of the most controversial changes the show made in trying to streamline the books was by slotting Sansa into the role of Ramsay’s wife and rape victim in Season 5. In the books, Ramsay marries and assaults Sansa’s best childhood friend, Jeyne Poole—who is being forced to impersonate Arya—instead. (You can actually see Jeyne briefly sitting next to Sansa in the show’s pilot.)

At the time Martin wrote this script, though, substituting Sansa for Jeyne was not yet the plan. Martin has Roose Bolton tell his bastard son: “We have a much better match in mind for you. A match to help House Bolton hold the north. Arya Stark.” It should be noted, however, that in Martin’s script, Sansa isn’t free from menace either. At his own wedding-day breakfast, Joffrey still threatens to rape the older Stark sister—once he’s “gotten Margaery with child.”)

—Game of Thrones: The Secrets of George R.R. Martin’s Final Script - Vanity Fair - December 7, 2018

A month before the Game of Throne S8 Finale:

Sansa’s story, in particular, has really deviated from the books. Ramsay Bolton — that marriage obviously was with a different character. When they start deviating like that, did you initially have any emotional reaction, even though you worked in Hollywood for many years yourself?

GRRM: Well, yeah — of course you have an emotional reaction. I mean, would I prefer they do it exactly the way I did it? Sure. But I’ve been on the other side of it, too. I’ve adapted work by other people, and I didn’t do it exactly the way they did it, so ….

Some of the deviation, of course, is because I’ve been so slow with these books. I really should’ve finished this thing four years ago — and if I had, maybe it would be telling a different story here. It’s two variations of the same story, or a similar story, and you get that whenever anything is adapted. The analogy I’ve often used is, to ask how many children did Scarlett O’Hara have? Do you know the answer to that?

I know it’s different in the book and the movie …

GRRM: Three children in the book, one by each husband. She had one child in the movie. And in real life, of course, Scarlett O’Hara had no children, because she never existed. Margaret Mitchell made her up. The book is there. You can pick it up and read Mitchell’s version of it, or you can see the movie and see David Selznick’s version of it. I think they’re both true to the spirit of the work, and hopefully that’s also true of Game of Thrones on one hand, and A Song of Ice and Fire on the other hand.

—George R.R. Martin on the Stark Sisters and Ending ‘Game of Thrones’ - RollingStone - April 22, 2019

James Hibberd’s Book:

GEORGE R. R. MARTIN: Jeyne Poole was included in the pilot—she’s shown giggling next to Sansa—but she’s never seen or referred to again. I actually wrote Jeyne into “The Pointy End,” my first script, when Arya killed the stableboy. I had some stuff with Jeyne running to Sansa being all hysterical and dialogue in the council chamber with Littlefinger saying, “Give her to me, I’ll make sure she doesn’t cause any trouble.” That was dropped.

DAVID BENIOFF: Sansa is a character we care about almost more than any other. We really wanted Sansa to play a major part in that season. If we were going to stay absolutely faithful to the book, it was going to be very hard to do that. There was a subplot we loved from the books, but it was a character not involved in the show.

GEORGE R. R. MARTIN: I was trying to set up Jeyne for her future role as the false Arya. The real Arya has escaped and is presumed dead. But this girl has been in Littlefinger’s control for years, and he’s been training her. She knows Winterfell, has the proper northern accent, and can pose as Arya. Who the hell knows what a little girl you met two years ago looks like? When you’re a lord visiting Winterfell, are you going to pay attention to the little kids running around? So she can pull off the impersonation. Not having Jeyne, they used Sansa for that. Is that better or worse? You can make your decision there. Oddly, I never got pushback for that in the book because nobody cared about Jeyne Poole that much. They care about Sansa.

—Fire Cannot Kill a Dragon: Game of Thrones and the Official Untold Story of the Epic Series by James Hibberd - October 6, 2020

GEORGE R. R. MARTIN: My Littlefinger would have never turned Sansa over to Ramsay. Never. He’s obsessed with her. Half the time he thinks she’s the daughter he never had—that he wishes he had, if he’d married Catelyn. And half the time he thinks she is Catelyn, and he wants her for himself. He’s not going to give her to somebody who would do bad things to her. That’s going to be very different in the books.

—Fire Cannot Kill a Dragon: Game of Thrones and the Official Untold Story of the Epic Series by James Hibberd - October 6, 2020

I hope it helps you.

Thanks for your message.

[robininthelabyrinth]

An AU where NHS is the one JGY kills? How would NMJ react to this? Would he care about his morals in the wake of his little brother murder? Would he take JGY life as enough “justice” for his brother bc if u think about it the last time a sect killed one member of his family (the Wen) he was down to go to war and kill them all and that wasn’t someone he had swore to protect :)

Something, once shattered, could never be put together quite the same way as before; it was a truism as applicable to the soul and the heart as it was to objects. And when his brother was killed over a matter of politics, a stupid disagreement between sect leaders over a question of principle, Nie Mingjue’s heart shattered – and his convictions with it.

Wei Wuxian had once heard it said that one should fear most of all the patient man, a gentleman waiting ten years for vengeance; whoever had said that, he thought, had never met Nie Mingjue after he’d blackened. The man wasn’t patient in the slightest.

It hadn’t seemed so bad in the beginning. The man had brought his brother’s body to the Burial Mounds, the corpse curled in his arms like a child, and he had knelt before Wei Wuxian could stop him.

“You revived Wen Ning, even though he was a child of a Sect,” he said, and his eyes were like black coals, the fierce light that had once shined within them utterly extinguished. “Can you revive him, too?”

Wei Wuxian hesitated.

“I will not hold it against you if you can’t,” Nie Mingjue said. He should have been angry, Wei Wuxian would later remember thinking; Nie Mingjue was known for his anger, his rage – why wasn’t he angry? Why wasn’t he raging? It was only later that he realized that Nie Mingjue’s grief was so complete, so all-consuming, that it had pushed him somewhere beyond rage. “But I would ask that you try. In return, I will help you defend those you protect, now and going forward.”

That was a tempting offer. Wei Wuxian had been forced to split from the Jiang sect because they could not protect him; the Nie, on the other hand, were more established, stronger. If they survived this loss, they would be very good protection.

Still, Wei Wuxian wouldn’t sell a false bid of goods.

“He won’t come back to life,” Wei Wuxian said, coming forward to put a hand on Nie Huaisang’s chest. There was resentment there, not as much as Wen Ning, who had suffered so much and kept it all to himself, no, but enough. Whoever had killed him had been someone he had trusted, and he had died angry and betrayed – and no one did anger better than the Nie. It would probably be enough. “He’d still only be a corpse. You know that, right? Your sect above all others abhors the existence of evil –”

“I don’t care,” Nie Mingjue said. “It was my righteousness that failed him; I will not let it stop me again.”

“He wouldn’t be evil,” Wei Wuxian tried to explain. “Wen Ning isn’t evil. But he’d still be a corpse.”

“Even if he is evil, it doesn’t matter,” Nie Mingjue said. “I won’t be able to stop until I see him again.”

Wei Wuxian didn’t know what Nie Mingjue meant, and he was so uncomfortable with having the unbending, unyielding sect leader kneeling before him, begging him the way Wen Ruohan could have only dreamed of, that he doesn’t ask any more questions, merely agreed to give it his best effort.

He should have asked.

He should have –

He didn’t know what he should have done. At any rate, he would later learn that Nie Mingjue spoke the truth: he would not stop. He couldn’t stop.

He left his brother in Wei Wuxian’s care, and he returned to the Unclean Realm, and from there he set for to Lanling, to Koi Tower, where the people who had killed his brother lived. Wei Wuxian wasn’t sure what happened there, isolated from gossip as he was; by the time one of the Wens dared go down to the village and heard about it, everyone had universally started to refuse to talk about the entire event, naming it taboo.

Still, they heard enough.

Perhaps Jin Guangshan had hoped that his younger brother’s death would drive Nie Mingjue into a qi deviation, or perhaps he’d thought that Nie Mingjue would be so bound up in his belief in justice, his respect for etiquette and law, that he would not be able to respond in force. Perhaps he simply didn’t think it through at all.

He certainly didn’t think that Nie Mingjue would come to Lanling in the middle of the night, without warning nor declaration of war, and raze Koi Tower to the ground before half the cultivators of the Jin even knew what was happened. Who knew what salt was used to sow the fields, what monsters were willingly unleashed, but the entire city died almost overnight, the ground turned to ash, flames hot enough to melt gold rising up to the heavens with a roar like a dragon, the people was put to the sword – some people believed the children had been spared, others denied it. Nobody knew anything for sure.

They said Nie Mingjue was like a martial god, eyes indifferent even as he reaped life after life – Wen Ruohan had carefully cultivated his inner sect disciples from the most powerful he could find, and they almost all fell before Nie Mingjue’s blade; Jin Guangshan’s cultivators, who were selected on the basis of other considerations, didn’t stand a chance. There was no mercy, no humanity left; Nie Mingjue had left that all behind along with his righteousness, disregarded as useless and unimportant because it couldn’t even keep his brother safe – and Wei Wuxian thought of Jiang Cheng, thought of Jiang Yanli, and couldn’t say that he’d do it any differently.

Some people even said Nie Mingjue wielded demonic cultivation in his anger.

Wei Wuxian didn’t know if that was true.

He didn’t know how he’d feel if it was.

He didn’t know what to feel, when Jiang Cheng came to him – they’d broken all ties, not so long before, and so it was a surprise to see him.

“Did anyone see you –” he began.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Jiang Cheng said. His clothing was disorderly, his face unclean; he did not seem to be well. “Nothing does – the Jin sect is gone.”

Wei Wuxian felt fear for the first time. “But – shijie?”

“She’s safe,” Jiang Cheng said. “Jiang Ling, too; they’re at the Lotus Pier.”

“Jiang Ling?” Wei Wuxian echoed, eyebrows arching.

Jiang Cheng shrugged. “A surname is a small price to pay for life,” he said shortly, and that really said it all, didn’t it? “I don’t know what happened to the peacock, but I’m not holding my breath; rescuing shijie was already more than I expected…I’ve agreed not to interfere, in the future.”

“The future?” Wei Wuxian echoed. “What – what more is there? I thought the scheme was Jin Guangshan’s –”

“It was, but he wasn’t the only one who would benefit from it,” Jiang Cheng said. He ran his hands over his face. “The Jin were second only to the Wen when it came to the number of allied clans – anyone who had anything to do with it, even under suspicion, is considered guilty…I’ve all but given up our Jiang sect’s independence. If Nie Mingjue wants to wipe out one of the sects that answers to us, I won’t be able to stop him. My ancestors will be ashamed of me.”

“You did it for shijie.”

“I did it for all of us,” Jiang Cheng said. “I heard during the Sunshot Campaign that Wen Ruohan once sought an alliance with Nie Mingjue to dominate the rest of the world, which was rejected on account of what happened to the former Sect Leader – I believe it. I never thought it was true back then, but I believe it now. The masterless sabers –”

He shook his head, sealing his lips, and no matter what Wei Wuxian did, he couldn’t get another word out of him, just that ominous final phrase – the masterless sabers – how could a saber not have a master? A sword was only a spiritual weapon, guided by the cultivator that wielded it – even the Stygian Tiger Seal was only a tool.

“Why are you here, then?” Wei Wuxian finally asked.

Jiang Cheng looked at him as if he were stupid. “If I die, the Jiang Sect dies with me – where else would I be?” He saw that Wei Wuxian didn’t understand and snorted, shaking his head. “Didn’t Nie Mingjue promise you that those you protected would be kept safe? Well, here I am.”

Wei Wuxian licked suddenly dry lips. “Why would he kill you?”

“Because I would benefit,” Jiang Cheng said simply. “Whether or not I support what happened, I would benefit, a fellow sect leader…out of recognition for our former relationship, he told me that if I were here, I would live. The Lotus Pier won’t be touched. Besides, I’m here for another reason, on behalf of the cultivation world.”

“Oh? For what?”

“To get you to hurry up and bring Nie Huaisang back, of course. I don’t think anything short of that will make Nie Mingjue stop.”

I won’t be able to stop until I see him again.

“The process takes time,” Wei Wuxian protested. “Even though I have an idea of what to do, it’s not easy, it’s tricky –”

“I brought you help,” Jiang Cheng said shortly. He nodded down the mountain, where he’d left –

“That’s a small child,” Wei Wuxian said blankly.

“Somewhat undernourished,” Jiang Cheng conceded. “His name is Xue Yang; he’s a delinquent from Kuizhou, rather famous – well, infamous – for being pretty handy with demonic cultivation –”

“Jiang Cheng. That is a small child.”

“The Jin Sect took him in as a guest disciple –”

“Small! Child! How old is he, eight?”

“Twelve.”

“Jiang Cheng!”

“He’s pretty annoying, but he’ll shut up if you give him candy,” Jiang Cheng said. “I brought a bag. Now get back to fucking work before more people die.”

At first meeting, Xue Yang was a nasty little gremlin, full of spite and not a little bit of brilliance; it was extremely annoying how much it felt like looking into a slightly off-kilter mirror. He’d lost a finger, somewhere along the way, and while there was a sword buckled onto his belt he never used it – it took a while before Wei Wuxian noticed it, given that he himself didn’t use a sword and he’d assumed Xue Yang was following his example, but in fact the boy was terrified of swords.

More specifically, of sabers.

Even Nie Huaisang’s, which was – to be frank – the daintiest, frilliest saber Wei Wuxian had ever seen.

“You were a guest disciple of the Jin sect before,” Wei Wuxian said. “You saw what happened? The masterless sabers?”

Xue Yang averted his eyes and didn’t answer, which meant yes; he would otherwise have had a snappy answer of some sort.

“Was it that bad?”

“It was worse,” Xue Yang said, uncharacteristically solemn. “The masterless sabers - they hate evil. Who told them that people were evil?”

“I did,” a low voice said from behind him, and Xue Yang froze, the whites of his eyes showing; he resembled a small rabbit that had tried to demonstrate its toughness being suddenly faced with the teeth of a tiger.

“Sect Leader Nie,” Wei Wuxian said, much more respectfully than he might have otherwise, before the rumors. Nie Mingjue looked much the same as he had the first time: back straight, wearing his clan’s colors, his eyes dead inside. Even Baxia looked the same.

But he felt – wrong.

Maybe he really was using demonic cultivation, but if he was, it wasn’t anything like what Wei Wuxian had invented.

“How is my brother?” Nie Mingjue asked.

“The process is going very well so far,” Wei Wuxian hedged. “I should have a result for you within a week.”

Nie Mingjue nodded and turned to go.

“What are you going to do when he wakes?” Wei Wuxian asked, and Nie Mingjue stopped. “You said you couldn’t stop until he was back – what does it mean, that you’ll stop? Stop the killing? What will happen next?”

“Bring my brother back,” Nie Mingjue said. He didn’t turn back. “And we’ll see.”

That wasn’t reassuring. “Where are you going next?”

“The Cloud Recesses.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes widened. “You can’t possibly believe that the Gusu Lan sect had anything to do with it – that’s your sworn brother’s home!”

“We made an oath together,” Nie Mingjue said. “I will uphold my end of it.”

Wei Wuxian didn’t understand; he simply stood there, helpless, watching the other man leave.

There was a tug on his sleeve.

He looked down at Xue Yang.

“The one who killed his brother, on behalf of the Jin sect,” Xue Yang whispered. “It was Jin Guangyao.”

Wei Wuxian thought about what he’d heard about the contents of the oath that the three war heroes had sworn and cursed, torn between chasing Nie Mingjue and stopping him and realizing that that would be futile. Even if he could raise an army of corpses to stop him, a man with an army that could defeat the Jin sect wouldn’t be afraid of him – and he didn’t dare use the Tiger Seal now.

“Let’s do what we can,” he told Xue Yang, who nodded furiously, all reluctance and moodiness gone. “If we can get Nie Huaisang back before Nie Mingjue reaches the Cloud Recesses, that’ll – that’d be good.”

“I don’t know if it’ll help.”

Neither did Wei Wuxian.

part 2

[luckygrimreaper]

I have thoughts about New Kid, I’m sorry (Part 8)

This one feels really awkward tbh, not a big fan of how it came out. I don't know how I want it to look so I'm not rewriting it, but I'm not a fan like with some of the other ones. Defo partly bc it's out of character and no clue how to get it back into character, but yeah. But also the last one-shot I have rn. I am working on a multichapter that spans the 2 games but it's still mid-way. Honestly don't know if I'll start posting it or not. I don't know if I want to get further along in the story or leave it as is. I haven't even hit where it really starts to deviate from canon yet sooooo yeah. 

But yeah have some canon deviation after the fight where The Coon and Friends gets hypnotized to fight you.

“YOU FUCKING ANIMAL!" Mysterion yells at Jupiter. And it fucking hurt. She was just playing the game, and at the end of the fucking day it was Doctor Timothy who chose this fight. He could’ve just taken the cat, or hell he could’ve stayed the fuck out of the fight, but no. He chose this. And now? Now Mysterion is trying to blame her? Are you fucking kidding!?

In a moment of cold rage, she decks him.

Voice empty as she says, “Go to fucking hell.” She’s so fucking done with everything being her fault to these assholes. She turns her back on all of them and leaves. She’s done playing this stupid fucking game with these stupid fucking pricks. God, she hopes she broke his nose or something, she wants them to feel a fraction of the pain they’ve caused her.

She scoffs, a part of her wants to cry, but for some reason, she can’t. She physically can’t cry. And god that hurts worse, in pain, but with no way to express it. She scrubs at her eyes, in hopes maybe that gets them to just fucking work!  

So caught up in her head, she trips over a rock and falls in the snow on the edge of Stark’s pond. She didn’t realize she had gotten this far already. It’s there she lets a sob out into the cold winter air. As her leggings get soaked through and her hands start numbing, she finally cries. The cherry on the top of an already terrible night. Just what she needed, she sarcastically remarks to herself. It’s just not fair! She played by all the rules! She won every battle! She did everything, and apparently, that wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.

She wonders if she can convince Argus to move again. She’s done fighting. She just wants to run for once. She doesn’t want to face people who don’t care back.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there, tears all gone, leaving nothing but tracks in their place. Her skin has started to go blue from the cold, but she honestly can’t bring herself to care anymore. What fun news for the morning, elementary student freezes to death over the night. She doubts anyone would actually care. People die all the time. This town is no exception to the rule. What would they write on her grave? Jeremy? Jacks? Jupiter? They’re all her. She’s been all of them here. She supposes it doesn’t matter, she’ll be dead, what the fuck does she care.

The first two to stumble across her are Tweek and Craig. She’s not dead, not yet. But her shiny hair is now dull and flat. Her costume is soaked and no longer floats around her. Her gaze is empty. She doesn’t even flinch like usual at the loud noise of Tweek’s shouts, “Oh god, Jupiter!” The two rush forward. Her skin is ice cold. She doesn’t react to anything they say. Not a single word reaches her, too far into her own mind. The two boys meet eyes around her head. “Wha- what do we do!?”

“Come on, let's get her inside somewhere.” Tweek nods and helps pull Jupiter out of her kneel so Craig can pick the superhero up. Her limbs are stiff from remaining in the position so long. They rush her into the Tucker house while Tweek calls the others, telling them what’s going on. They silently agree to not tell Jupiter’s foster parent, at least not yet, Ms.Kepler would actually kill them.

They get her inside and grab a bunch of towels from the bathroom. Neither feels very comfortable removing her wet clothes, but they do take off her boots and socks. The others soon after rush in, crowding around Jupiter with varying levels of guilt in their expressions. The last one to arrive was Kenny, who broke into Jupiter’s house to grab a change of clothes.

He starts giving orders, “Everyone back off, we need to get some warm water, someone needs to get her out of the wet clothes and dried off, someone should make soup or a hot drink, and we need blankets.” Craig runs upstairs to grab some blankets, Wendy grabs the clothes and waits for Craig to get back. Butters grabs some warm water and paper towels with Scott. Tweek follows them to the kitchen to make some coffee. Soon Craig comes back down and he, along with Token, Clyde, and Jimmy; hold up the blankets to grant Jupiter some privacy while Wendy helps change her clothes.

Soon she’s done and the three boys come back in. They wrap the blankets around Jupiter and they lean her back against Craig so she isn’t leaning against the couch. Kenny, Stan, and Kyle use the water to try and warm up her hands, worried about the possibility of frostbite. All the while Tweek, Butters, and Scott try to pull her back into focus, at least enough to drink something. They can’t decide if her unblinking stare into the distance is more unsettling or upsetting. But after a while of everyone working around either to help clean up the towels or warm Jupiter up.

She blinks slowly. “Jupiter, buddy?” Butters asks a hand on her shoulder.

Her head turns to face him slightly, eyes still unfocused, but her voice croaks up, barely above a whisper, “Jeremy.” They all startle, “It’s Jeremy right now.” A collective sigh of relief spreads through the room.

Tweek’s hands still as he holds up the cup, “He- hey Jeremy. We got you something to drink.” It takes a while for his words to process but Jeremy nods. Tweek holds the mug up for him to drink. Jeremy’s hands shake in the other boys’ hands as he tries to move to hold it up himself, but can’t move his arms enough to do so. He would feel ashamed of how helpless he is right now, but he’s still not in his head enough for that yet. The boys dry his hands and let them fall down to his lap, backing up so they’re no longer crowding him.

Butters pats Jeremy’s shoulder and bids him goodnight as he needs to get home. Soon others begin to follow him out of the door, all taking the time to either apologize or wish him a goodnight. Even Cartman apologizes, in his own Cartman way he always does. Soon the only people remaining are Tweek, Craig, Kenny, and, of course, Jeremy. Eventually, his eyes come into focus and he can hold the mug for himself, mostly. His hands still stubbornly tremble, leading Tweek to lean over every now and then to hold his hands around Jeremy’s to help steady them much like he remembers Craig doing for him so often.

Kenny then begins, dropping his Mysterion voice, “I think… I owe you an apology.” The three look over at the boy who sits away from all of them. Jeremy tilts his head, indicating for Kenny to continue. He looks away, “I… fuck…” he looks up at Jeremy, “I was wrong. I wanted to be angry so badly about your betrayal that I lost sight of why. All you’ve ever done is what the rest of us asked, you tried to please everyone. Honestly, I should probably be more angry at Cartman, this whole thing was his idea in the first fucking place.” He sighs and looks down at his hands, “But I wasn’t. I only got angry at you and blamed you for all of this instead. And that…” he looks back up, “I’m meant to be a hero and do the right thing. But I wasn’t, because that wasn’t right.” He scoffs and shakes his head, “And now because I got angry at the wrong guy, you got hurt.” He looks at the floor next to him, picking at the carpet, “I know I’m not the sole cause for you running away, but admittedly I was the breaking point. And…” his shoulders sag as he meets Jeremy’s eyes, “I’m sorry.”

Jeremy’s silent for a while, but then he speaks, his voice still not completely there, “You’re right, you were a fucking dick.” Kenny looks away again, “but,” he sighs and then chuckles, shaking his head, “God help me, but I still forgive you.” Kenny startles and snaps his eyes up to meet Jeremy’s, “Oh I’m still pissed don’t get me wrong. That was the biggest dick move you’ve done so far, and you once sided with the government over a stick.”

“It was the Stick of Truth to be fair,” Kenny says under his breath.

Jeremy snorts and continues, “But you got me clothes and were the guy who got the other chucklefucks into check to help me out. Not to get me to forgive, but because it was the right thing to do.” He drops his head to the side, “I guess this is my roundabout way of saying congrats asshat, you’re still human. You’re still going to fuck up sometimes, but at least you tried to make things right. So I better not check you beating yourself up about this too much, yeah?” Kenny smiles and nods, he stands and leaves. Wishing Jeremy a goodnight before he goes.

The three watch as he leaves. “So that’s it then? You just up and fucking forgive him?” Craig asks. Jeremy smiles and relaxes back, finally untensing his muscles now that the whole thing is mostly done and over with.

“I did give him a solid punch before I left.” Jeremy jokingly reminds him.

“He’s got you there babe.” Craig rolls his eyes, grumbling under his breath. Tweek looks back at Jeremy, “Are you going to be okay?”

He lifts his hand and stares it down, “Hands are still shaking,” he drops it to his lap again, “But I’ll live.”

“You staying the night?” Craig asks.

“I don’t wanna be a bother,” Jeremy shakes his head, “Besides Argus would probably freak if I’m not there in the morning.”

“Just text her that you decided to stay the night at a friend’s house.” He insists.

“It’s already night mate.” He turns around, enough to look at Craig, “You sure I shouldn’t be asking if y’all are the ones who are good?” Craig looks away.

Tweek fidgets with his hands, “It was terrifying.” Jermy turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “We- we were the ones who found you and god-” He scrubs at his eyes, “You weren’t moving, we couldn’t even tell if you were breathing!”

Craig puts a hand on Tweek’s shoulder, “Breathe babe.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, shooting Craig a smile afterward. But then it drops as he finishes, “When we first saw you,” his voice small as he admits, “I thought you were dead. That we were somehow too late.”

Jeremy’s eyes went wide. He reaches over the blanket pile and pulls Tweek into a hug, “I- I’m sorry… for scaring you guys.” Their arms tighten around each other, “That was never my intention.”

Craig scoffs over Jeremy’s shoulder, but his voice cracks as he says, “I sure as fuck hope this night going the way it did was unintentional.” Jeremy feels Tweek pull Craig into the hug. Craig falls heavy against his back. Jeremy shifts to put one of his arms around Craig as well. He supposes it couldn’t hurt to stay the night. It’s just one night.