#blackout sun event

[blindmagdalena]

The Drug In Me Is You

18+ 3.2k vampire!homelander x supe f!reader. dacryphilia, noncon, p-in-v, blood drinking, possessive homelander, vampire bites as an aphrodisiac, cunnilingus, fingering, kidnapping, reader is held captive, gaslighting, abuse. dead dove!

Ever since Homelander got his cold dead hands on you, you've been the answer to his every prayer. You exist solely for him, kept safe in his home, delicious to the point where he refuses any blood that isn't yours. He isn't conscious of the extent he's grown to rely on you until the day he comes home to find you gone.

written for Monsterlander Mania! thank you @staarboyyy for the incredible vamplander gif. 🖤

There are few things that Homelander despises more in this world than summer. While the heat doesn’t bother him even beneath the thick layers of his suit, the rest of the world isn’t so lucky.

The meet and greets are by far the worst; a crowded collection of sweaty bodies piling in against one another like directed cattle, stewing in their own filth just long enough to reek of their own humanity by the time they’re touching him with clammy hands.

He’s never more grateful for his suit–especially his gloves–than during these occasions.

On top of that, these sardine can buildings become an echoing cacophony of juicy, throbbing hearts, every single one of them pounding in eager anticipation. Indoor events are better for blocking out the sun, but worse for every other aspect when it comes to his senses.

By the end of the day, his skull is throbbing and his stomach is twisting itself into knots. He needs quiet. He needs home. He needs to eat.

It’s dark by the time he lands on his balcony, the hour late. While he does prefer flying at night, he doesn’t like coming home so late. He tugs off his glove to use the thumbpad, which unlocks his automatic door. Stepping inside, he then hits a switch that triggers his blackout blinds to close behind him alongside the door.

“What a fucking day,” he grouses, making his way to the kitchen. “Twelve hours of this shit. I hate summer,” he says, tossing both of his gloves onto the kitchen counter. He reaches into the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water and a dark, thick green slurry in a tall lidded cup. It’s packed full of everything he both needs and likes, but perhaps most important is the iron content.

He goes through a fair amount of that.

“But I’m glad I’m home,” he says, carrying both beverages to his bedroom. “Because it looks like someone didn’t drink their shake.”

Homelander stops dead in his tracks, staring blankly at his empty bed. Standing perfectly still, he listens for the familiar cadence of your breath. The beat of your heart. Anything to tell him where the fuck you are. When he hears nothing, he drops the drinks unceremoniously to the floor and spins on his heel, instantly tearing through the penthouse.

He doesn’t smell blood or death, but the thought of you dead seizes him anyways, hurling him instantly into a panic. He scans through every wall and ceiling, but you’re not here. He calls your name, shouting it down each hall, but he’s met only with the reverberations of his own distraught voice.

At the front door, Homelander moves to input the code to open it, but halts abruptly. The panel is green. It hasn’t locked. Pulling it open, a thin piece of plastic falls away from the mechanism. It had been blocking the lock from securing.

Wednesday is grocery day, he recalls distantly. A staff member came to restock the fridge. They must have had the door propped open, and you…

Left. 

You left.

Homelander rips the door open, nearly yanking it off the hinges, and storms down the hall, fangs bared. You must have waited until it was late and the guard presence was scarce, otherwise someone would have reported you. You can’t have gone far.

When Vought realized that the continued development of Homelander’s powers came with a particular quirk that necessitated the consumption of human blood, they began the process of ensuring he always had a steady supply to keep him from eating his adoring fans. He never really cared about where the blood came from until he tasted yours.

Yours was special. It did something no one else’s ever had; it made him feel alive. He could taste the world in ways he never could before, and if he drank enough, he swore he could feel his heart start to beat. None of the scientists knew why. It didn’t matter to him. From that point on, he wasn’t interested in drinking from anyone other than you.

That was when he decided to keep you close at hand. Cut out the middleman.

You belong to him, and you have for months. He’s taken the utmost care of you, ensuring that you could have everything you need within the confines of his penthouse. The finest foods, every form of entertainment one could dream of, exquisite service at your fingertips and most compellingly of all, the love and adoration of the world’s greatest hero.  

So why the fuck would you leave?

Homelander rips through the tower. He’s furious, wounded and hungry. Those few security guards smart enough to get out of his way evade his rampage while a couple of unlucky ones wind up with their own personal craters in various walls.

He can smell the intoxicating allure of you trailing a path through the halls, but the combination of his hunger and his rage makes following it disorienting. He’s in no condition to hunt–he’s become sickeningly complacent in your time together, more reliant on you than he ever would have admitted freely. He’s grown to love the wait, letting himself feel his hunger so that you taste all the sweeter on his tongue.

Now the churn of it in his gut burns like fire.

Nevertheless, he is relentless, and within minutes he finds you in the garden just outside the tower, locked in by looming steel gates. You aren’t even properly dressed, garbed only in the thin loungewear he keeps you in, barefoot and combing your fingers through a tall hedge full of flowers just beginning to wither, their pink petals curled and browning.

You don’t even notice him until he’s upon you, snatching your wrist and whirling you around so sharply, the hedge behind you drops its wilting petals in a flurry. He must be a fearsome sight if your expression is anything to go by, your eyes wide and panicstricken.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” He hisses through his teeth, fangs fully protracted. You take a breath to speak, but he doesn’t want to hear it. He jostles you by your shoulders to cut you off, fingers biting into your arms.  “Do you have any idea how fucking worried I was?”

Your pulse is racing. He can hear it, feel it in your wrist beneath his thumb. The sound of it is nearly enough to throw him to the ground, to shred the thin veneer of humanity he wears and give in to the bloodlust. His thumbnail tilts ever so slightly, biting a crescent mark into the supple flesh of your wrist. Never have you felt more tender in his hands. Never has he come so close to tearing you apart.

One slip, and you would be spilling red all over his tongue. 

“I just–” you begin, but he pulls you sharply up into his arms, seething so furiously that he can’t stand to hear you speak. He’s too far gone. Too fucking hungry.

“We’ll talk at home,” he grits out, and with a sonic boom that rips the remaining blossoms from the hedge in a flurry, he launches into the sky, purposefully flying too fast to allow for conversation. He holds you to his chest as tightly as he dares, landing back on his balcony with a thud. He uses the thumbpad and damn near tears the door off the hinges pulling it open. 

Homelander doesn’t have time to waste. You bounce a few times with the way he drops you onto the bed. Glancing up, he catches sight of himself in the myriad of mirrors. No wonder you looked at him the way you did. He looks crazed, lips parted around his fangs, his usual bright blue eyes shining pure crimson.  

It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything will be fine after this.

You scramble up the bed, moving backwards on your hands, but he catches you by the ankle and yanks you back down it, climbing on top of you with a frustrated noise that fades off into a sigh. “Y’see what you do to me?” He asks, voice low and frayed. You yelp when he rips your shirt clean apart, exposing your top half completely.  Your skin is adorned beautifully with the history of your night.

You bruise easily for a supe. Your blood just loves to rush to the surface for him, vessels full and bursting under his grip. The memory of inflicting these marks is so intoxicating that even in his frenzy he can’t help but lean down and drag his tongue over one of the bruises that mottle the pretty skin of your chest. Under his tongue, you feel like ripe fruit yearning to be bitten into.

“Please, Homelander, stop,” you plead prettily. He can hear your tears in the tremble of your voice, practically taste the salt in the air.

Good, he thinks viciously. Cry. Regret. Never do this to me again.

“Played a dangerous game tonight, sweetheart,” he tells you, that pet name dripping with affection and venom in equal measure. He forces your legs apart and settles between them, tearing what little clothing remains on your body like paper and tossing it aside. He presses his palms down against your thighs, and the heat of you compared to the chill of his fingers nearly burns. He pushes your legs up and apart, soaking in the sweet smell of your cunt.

Sex and feeding have always gone hand in hand for Homelander. Vought tried for years to satiate him with plastic blood bags and artificial alternatives, but it never fed him the way a meal he could fuck does. Still, all of them paled in comparison to you. Your inner thighs are a mixture of both new and faded punctures that dot your body in matching pairs, scars that he hopes never fade. They mark you as his.

Neither of you will ever settle for another ever again. “I didn’t mean to make you worry, please–please let me explain,” you weep, trying to squirm out of his grasp. With a predatory growl he yanks you back into place, unwilling to listen.

The hunger is driving him to madness. He can feel your pulse like it’s his own, the sound of it thundering in his ears until it threatens to split his skull in half. His nails bite into your skin while he leans in, deaf to your begging as he closes his eyes and opens his mouth wide, sinking his fangs into the soft, succulent meat of your inner thigh.

Your blood spills into his mouth like rich ambrosia. He moans loudly, losing himself to the taste and the heat. Your blood is transcendent, going beyond nourishment. Your pulse reminds his heart to beat. The more he drinks, the more the warmth of you fills his frigid body, thawing out his sanity alongside it. Your heat courses steadily through him, the fervor of it vanishing that nauseating pound from his skull until the only throb he’s left with is the one between his legs.

He sucks in a wet breath when he breaks away from you, panting his delirious pleasure. There’s nothing in this world than the high that comes after being satiated from a frenzy. It’s like he’s floating, his tongue and throat tingling with your sweet nectar.

He isn’t the only one tingling. He can smell the heady musk of your arousal. Your fearful tears are no match for the effect his bite has on your body, how his saliva mingles with your blood and makes you ache for him.

Without his hunger deafening him to the world, he can focus again. He takes a moment to lap at where he’s bitten you, cleaning up the blood that dripped from the wounds. He trails his blood-warmed tongue inward, far from placated. 

He pins your thighs down flush to the bed and nestles into the sweet core of you, plunging his tongue eagerly into your cunt. Your body jolts, but he holds you steady, eagerly swirling his tongue, collecting the taste of you to drink down. He sucks hungrily at your clit, pulling off of it with wet little pops, kissing and licking and sucking until you’re writhing beneath him for all the right reasons.

Devouring you like this is working him back up into a different kind of frenzy. He slips one finger into you, then two, mouthing your clit while he fucks you with his fingers, coaxing more and more from you. Your walls feel so fucking soft and velvety around his fingers, and his need to feel you quivering around his cock is rapidly outpacing his hunger for the taste of your cunt. With one last deep plunge of his tongue, he lifts himself over you, reaching down to hurriedly unclasp his belt, staring down at you with lust glazed eyes.

You’re a mess. Your whole body is flushed with heat, and you’ve barely stopped moaning since he bit you. He’s heard the effects of his bite described like a fever, a delirious experience that robs you of your senses and leaves you desperate for more, for anything of him. Even so, you haven’t stopped crying. It makes you look sweet. Vulnerable. Fucking delicious.

“Mmm, you’re pretty when you cry, baby,” he says, running his tongue along his teeth, over the sharp juts of his fangs. He gets his cock free and adjusts himself between your legs, laying over you. “This your way of saying sorry? Because it’s working,” he tells you, bracing one hand on the bed next to you while he uses the other to hold the base of his cock, dragging the head of it up and down through the wet mess of your pretty pussy lips. “Show me how sorry you are, sweetheart. Be good for me,” he murmurs against your skin, nuzzling at your throat.

Opening his mouth, Homelander bites into your neck at the same time he thrusts forward, letting out a muffled, ragged moan as he sinks into you on both fronts, shuddering with how fucking good it feels, tight and wet and hot as sin. Between that and the fresh rush of your blood down his throat, he ascends to a state of goddamn euphoria.

You make a noise somewhere between a sob and a moan. He drinks you up, savors the sound of you as much as he does the taste. He snaps his hips, wastes no time fucking you deep, holding you still with the lock of his jaw while he pounds you into the mattress.

“Oh, ffffuck,” he groans, lips bloodied. He laps at the blood on your neck, the sound of it as wet as his cock hammering your cunt with the relentlessness of a machine, utterly inhuman in the way he takes you. “So good to me, aren’t you? Feeding me, taking me. Mmm, fuck, m’close,” he says, nuzzling at your skin, enamored with the warmth of you.

With the ravenous insanity of his bloodlust fading, his thrusts become less brutal. He hikes your thigh over his hip and holds it there, sliding into a rhythm that’s something closer to making love. Your cunt quivers all around him, and by the noises you’re making he knows you’re electrified, out of your mind with the haze of pleasure that his bite induces. “M’gonna take care of you, too. You know that, don’t you? Yeah, y’do, and you won’t ever fucking leave me again. Don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” he pants, mouthing at the shell of your ear.

It’s a lie. He knows what he would do. He would punish any world that dared take you from him. The thought alone would be enough to enrage him all over were he not so deeply soothed by your iron on his tongue and your soft body giving into him. If he had breath to give, it would be stolen by the way you seize up against him, orgasm taking hold of you like a possession, capturing your voice and rolling your eyes heavenward.

This is love. This undying hunger, this obsessive compulsion to keep you close. He craves you not just for the ambrosial taste of your blood, but for your soft lips against his and the timbre of your voice. He brought you into his life to satiate his bloodlust, but never could he have fathomed the greater emptiness that you would fill. Knowing you were here waiting for him has made him understand for the first time in his life what it means to come home.

He’ll ruin you before he loses you.

Homelander comes with a low, wrecked moan, kissing you fervently as he stops to empty himself into you as deeply as possible, forehead pressed to yours.

You’re panting, letting out pitchy little wisps of sound with every breath. He gently kisses them from your lips, hushing you. “S’alright, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, licking the salt of your tears from his lips. He cups the other side of your face and strokes it with his thumb. You’re shaking all over. He slips an arm around you to draw you close, to comfort you as you come down from your high. “Ssshhhh. Everything’s alright. M’right here, and I love you.”

That wrings a tight little sob out of you. He smiles, dazed on his own lingering ecstasy. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you,” he assures you, kissing your forehead. “Can’t imagine how scared you must’ve been, wandering alone in the dark like that,” he says, stroking your cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Just happy I found you before anything happened to you.”

What if someone else had found you like that? Confused and vulnerable. He would have found you eventually, but had anyone been unlucky enough to lay their hands on you before then, they wouldn’t have hands for much longer. He kisses you again, firmer, possessive. “Don’t cry, baby. You’re safe now. You’re home.”

Gingerly, he slips from the wet heat of your body and adjusts himself, getting you both situated under the covers. He spends a while soothing you, rubbing your back while you lay in his arms, kissing the top of your head every so often.

“You alright?” He asks eventually. You aren’t shaking anymore, but you haven’t said a word. It makes him a touch… anxious.

“Yes,” you whisper. It’s not very convincing, but he wants to believe it enough that he accepts the answer anyways.

“Good,” he purrs, slipping his hand over the back of your neck. His fingertips brush your menagerie of scars, each bite a reminder of how thoroughly you have allowed him to love you. “That’s my good girl. I love you,” he says with a smile, tipping your head back to kiss your lips.

He waits.

“I love you,” he says again.

“I love you, too,” you finally respond.

His smile broadens. He draws you closer to him, listening to the lively thrum of your body. You are the warmth in his own veins, the beat of his heart.  This, too, is love. Kissed lips, bitten limbs, hungering teeth and bodies intertwined. It’s sweeter than anything he has ever known. The need in him is a monstrous thing, he knows. He hadn’t known how monstrous it was until he thought–even for a moment–that he’d lost you.

It won’t happen again.

[withleeknow]

thirteen percent.

pairing: minho x reader genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff; mentions of drinking, cursing, hella unedited and tbh i kinda gave up toward the end but i wanted to post smth lmao word count: 1.2k note: inspired by the events of friday night in which i had 1.3 bottle of soju and promptly passed out while unmuted all night in my discord server lmfao

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation › masterlist › ko-fi

the first thing you do when you wake up is scowl.

at the sun. at the sky. at the cars and at the people going about their day on the street below. at soonie and doongie when you find them just peacefully existing in their respective corners of the room.

at minho who's looking at you from the doorway with an amused expression on his face.

"look who's finally up," he says, approaching the bed with a glass of water in his hands. "it's almost 1pm, heathen."

you groan, covering your face with your hands as you try to sink further into the mattress. "why are you so loud today?"

"this is my normal volume?"

"your normal volume is loud."

"hmm, could this be because last night you knocked back an entire bottle of soju and then some and therefore you have a raging headache right now?"

you blink, still delirious from the night before. it's obvious that the alcohol hasn't completely left your system and minho is right. there's a pounding in your head and you wish it would stop.

you ignore his sassy quip, trying to recall what happened. "how did i get home?"

it was supposed to be a cozy night in with your friends. you'd been looking forward to last night for weeks because all of you had been so busy with your respective lives, and a fun girl's night was desperately needed. to catch up, to gossip about your partners, to escape your tiresome realities for a few hours.

and of course, to unwind and drink. not to the point of being blackout drunk; just to de-stress a little.

"how do you think?" minho asks, holding out the water for you until you muster enough strength to sit up and take it from him. he watches as you greedily gulp down the liquid to satiate your dry throat, giving him back the empty glass when you're done and lying back down again. he sets the glass on your bedside table before he joins you under the covers. "boyfriend of the year went out in the middle of the night to drag your ass home."

"you took me home?"

"i just said boyfriend of the year, didn't i?"

despite his smartass attitude, minho still snakes an arm around your body to pull you close to him, until your head is lying on his chest while he strokes your hair gently.

"it was just soju. plum soju!" you try to justify your actions, throwing a leg over his and snuggling further into the warmth of his body. "only thirteen percent!"

minho scoffs. "that's how they get you. the fun flavors make you think that you're gonna be fine if you do just a couple more shots. next thing you know, you're sending your boyfriend gibberish messages at 2am."

to emphasize his point, minho shows you his phone, goes straight to the text thread you two share.

you mostly sent him nonsense, seemingly a lot of keyboard smashes and blurry drunken selfies of you and your friends. then came the last few messages.

you: oh naue why rom sponnign you: i wsntto go homrr you: mimo tskeeee me homeee

"oh." you purse your lips. "drunk me was a moment."

"no, she was a lot of moments actually. you stayed up for almost two hours after i brought you home."

"doing what?"

your boyfriend looks down at you, an unimpressed look on his face before he rolls his eyes and sighs, recanting the story of how you exhausted him just hours prior.

"stop squirming," minho said, trying to keep your head from lolling to the side as he wiped at your face with a cotton pad doused in micellar water.

but you kept giggling, kept trying to hold his cheeks so you could kiss him. "mimo, you're so pretty. my pretty, pr-" hiccup! "pretty mimo."

it took him thirty whole minutes just to take your makeup off, then another forty five to go through your skincare routine.

-

it was an entire struggle to get you out of your clothes and into your sleepwear because apparently, the feeling of him tugging your blouse over your head and sliding your jeans down your legs tickled that amorous part of your brain - your horndog side, if you will.

you instantly latched onto him, climbing on top of him to sit on his lap, attempting to trail kisses along his neck when all minho was trying to do was put your t-shirt on.

"not now," he scolded you lightly, pushing you away by your shoulders before he held your arms up just long enough to slip the shirt over your body.

"whyyy not?"

"mostly because you're about ten seconds away from passing out."

but that wasn't something that your intoxicated brain could comprehend. all you understood was that your boyfriend didn't want to have sex with you, that he was rejecting you.

you went quiet all of a sudden, your lips pouting, your eyes turning glassy before you practically sob, "you don't want me anymore."

minho could only sigh.

-

"what now?" he had finally managed to get your restless ass into bed, thinking you'd surely knock out within seconds of hitting the sheets. but when he returned to the bedroom five minutes later, having cleared away your clothes to be put in the washer in the morning, minho found you lying on your side, your eyes glued to your phone, your face illuminated by the blue light coming from the device. "why aren't you sleeping?"

you were going through your camera roll, watching your old videos like they were your favorite tv show. videos of you and him, videos of him and the cats, or just random videos of him that you took when you thought he wasn't paying attention.

it was cute how you were so immersed, how you kept giggling and making heart eyes at the version of minho captured on your phone. it made him smile, just standing there and watching you like that.

it was beyond endearing, but it was also fucking 4:18am.

minho snatched the device away from you and put it somewhere you couldn't reach before he settled into bed with you.

"i miss my mimo," you whined. "give me back my mimo."

he knew there was no use in telling you that you didn't need to miss him when he, the object of your affection himself, was lying next to you. instead, he just yanked you closer, tucking your face into the crook of his neck and holding you tightly so you couldn't move, hoping that it would eventually lull you to dreamland.

"your mimo is right here. now go to sleep, you menace."

"and not to mention you kept-"

"nope." you put a hand over minho's mouth so he would shut up. "i've heard enough."

he pushes your hand away. "i deserve compensation for what i had to go through last night."

"the satisfaction of taking care of your wonderful girlfriend wasn't enough for you?"

"no," he says. then, you both just stare at each another for a few minutes.

"fine," you relent. "i'll make it up to you with one hundred kisses."

"i want a cat tower."

permanent taglist: @onlyycb97wife @starsandrqindrops @borahae-reads @abbiestearsricochet @cutiespaghetti @anthropologykpopmultistan @moonlinos @mjnhoz @caitlyn98s @piercidh34rts  @stayceebs97 @linocz @yaorzu-blog @biribarabiribbaem @kayleefriedchicken

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 14.01.2024]

[chronically-ghosted]

you call and I come running

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

word count: 8K

summary: a drunken confession leaves you and Javi on unsure ground. When an on the run narco douses you in an unknown, off-market drug, Javier has to save you by doing the one thing that may truly well and good fuck him over.

warnings: sex pollen, dub con due to sex pollen, minimal plot scaffolding to hold up a gratuitous amount of porn, minimally edited, feral!javi is best javi, the barest hint of breeding kink, not really butt stuff more like butt touching, light angst, no use of y/n, spanking

a/n: comes from @perotovar 's ask for my 100 follower milestone event: hi there! congrats on your milestone!! i saw your prompt list and saw "I’m so sick of this ‘will we, won’t we’ shit." and "A whispered, “Fuck, can we do that again?” against the other’s lips." and thought it would be a really good combination for either javi p or max p? which ever one you feel fits better! 😊 (as for smut, only include it if you think it works!)

🤍Masterlist 🤍AO3 Link 

Bogota was begging for rain. At the end of summer, the city and its people had been suffering months of stifling, thick, humid air without a drop of relief. Sweat clung to exposed skin, dampening shirts and tightening waistbands. Heat weighed like a physical presence in the air while open windows and doors sought to tempt in some non-existent breeze, hoping to coax some pity out of the militant heatwave. But the heat and the moisture-thick air stayed, hovering like a cloud of mosquitoes, just as merciless and just as blood-thirsty. 

Night offered no consolation either. Stagnant and cloistered, the sun-bleached air greeted its visitors with a great, warm lick – like the wide tongue of a particularly aggressive bloodhound. The ongoing joke among the locals blamed the blackouts on all the fans, spinning throughout all hours of the day and night, instead of el gobierno barato. Only then came the sigh of ease, in front of whirling blades with ice water behind them. Flapping shirts and mopped brows. Only then, was there relief to the tension. 

Unfortunately, a running car would tip off any narcos in the area, so even that small miracle is denied to the two agents sitting in the darkness of la calle. A crack in the glass window releases a tendril of smoke, not enough to expect a breeze, not enough to wipe away the smear of sweat from across forearms and under knees. 

A drunken confession lingers even thicker in the air.

You thought you could do this. You really thought nothing would change – it was an accident after all. He didn’t mean it – he couldn’t – he was just teasing you, when he leaned over the sticky fourtop in the back of the bar at three in the morning, his breath tangy with the ghost of four glasses of whiskey, his body heat immense and overwhelming as he pressed into you and said – 

Whatever he said, you told him no.

Actually, you laughed and then said no. No, because he didn’t mean it, he couldn’t, he was just teasing you and he would never, ever, ever, ever know how much you actually wanted it and even if – even if you both wanted it, it could never, ever, ever, ever happen. 

It couldn’t. It was so absurd for him to even consider it, you laughed.

And then he never looked at you the same way.

You had done something irreversible. He had said the words, but you had done something irreversible to him. 

Something in the air had changed, maybe forever. And that, that you might have lost your partner, your friend, potential potential potential disappearing in a cloud of Marlboro smoke over bottles of cerveza, that was the worst part. 

He doesn’t look at you the same way.

Or at all. 

He smokes and he watches and he acts like you’re not in the seat next to him. Like his confession hasn’t cleaved him apart.

Nothing’s moved in hours. Neither the target or the shadows in the car. The tension presses up against the windows, hot and stifling. There is no relief.

“I didn’t want it like this, you know,” you say to the sun visor, arms crossed, low in your seat. “I . . . tried to see if Murphy would switch, but I didn’t think the tip would pan out so fast, and I didn’t . . . I didn’t want . . .”

The shadow next to you emerges with his face as he brings the glowing orange light of the cigarette to his mouth. Full lips, short thick hair below his nose, a jawline sharper than any hit of cocaine. 

“What did you expect?” he asks, his voice thick and heavy like oil. It clings to you.

You scowl into the darkness beyond your window. “For Murphy to me a fucking solid, for once. Covered his ass more than once after they adopted Olivia. I just wanted one goddamn –,”

He forcefully flicks the stub of his cigarette out the window as a precursor to punctuate his next sentence. “No. What did you want, if you didn’t want it like this?” 

The acidity in his tone stings you and you unintentionally flinch as if he had pressed the cigarette nub into your skin. 

“Javier, c’mon, that’s not fair.” 

He arches one eyebrow, his teeth clenched in his jaw, hollowing out a pocket of skin below his temple. The overhanging orange streetlights sap the color from his skin.

“So you get to make all the rules now. Got it.” He crunches up the empty box of cigarettes and chucks it in the back seat. You watch him with narrowed eyes as he settles back against the seat with his arms crossed. 

“Why do you have to make this difficult?” You snap. “You know this isn’t easy for me either.” 

“But it is easier than the alternative, right?” After two hours of ice cold silence, he finally looks at you and you can feel the spike of frost in your chest. The twitch in his jaw is the rage in his eyes taking physical form. “Easier than . . . trying. Right?” 

He looks away, already having confessed too much with whisky on his breath, and he can’t afford another slip-up. He knows this. You know this. You want to reach out and touch him but you worry he might physically slap you away if you do. You’ve hurt him in places Javier Peña doesn’t like to admit he has. 

“It’s not that simple,” you say to his thigh. “And you know it.” 

His jaw twitches again. “I’m not asking for your goddamn hand in marriage. I’m just — sick of this ‘will we, won’t we’ shit. I want –,”

“No.” You say and you can feel the word imprint under your sternum. “There’s too much at risk. We’ve been in this fight for too long to get benched and if Noonan even gets a whiff of anything out of whack with her agents, she’ll . . . I want to, Javi, can’t you see that? I really want to – in case I didn’t make that crystal fucking clear. I want to, but there’s no trying for people like us. In a place like this.” The firm weight in your voice pushes on something that makes him look at you again. That rage has dissipated, melted, leaving only a corporeal ache. His brown eyes were endless in their confusion, their disappointment, their hurt. Please, he begs without words. You swallow, your thumbnail digging into your palm to keep yourself from launching yourself across the bench seat of his truck and into his lap. “I want to, Javi. I want . . . you.” 

He drops your gaze as if it burned him. He shifts back, hand coming up to cover his mouth, the side of his knuckle rubbing his upper lip as if coaxing whatever was sitting just behind his teeth back down his throat. 

Javier stares out into the oppressive Bogota night, his clavicle dewy with sweat and he shakes his head.

“Save it.”

You actually flinch. God, you knew it was going to hurt but you never thought it would hurt this much. Hurts so much it claws up your chest with cut-metal knives until you can’t breathe. Until you can’t see as tears flood your eyes.

“Javi, please.” Your voice is calm, despite the small implosion in your chest. “Don’t–,”

“No, I mean – look.” He points out across the dashboard.

The door that has been shut tight for the past three hours has opened. El Corto, a man who lives up to his name, pokes his round face around the edge of the door, glancing up and down the street with the paranoia of someone who trafficks drugs for a living. You turn your head into your shoulder to act like you are adjusting the firearm on your hip to wipe your eyes. Beside you, Javier turns the safety of his handgun and slips it into the back of his jeans.

“You good?” He sounds like Javier, your friend, and that swell of confidence gives you the strength to kick down a door into a whole nest of narcos. You meet his eyes and nod. 

The air is no cooler out in the open when you slip out of Javier’s truck into the dark night of Bogota. Javier strides across the black street, eyes just as fast as El Corto, paranoia just as high. There’s never any telling if the narcos are alone and that’s why you hang back just a bit, eyes on Javier and a dozen other places. 

“El Corto,” Javier snaps, sharp and demanding. The voice of authority. The narco freezes, narrow shoulders going taught. You keep eyes on his hands, your own hovering over your weapon in case he chooses to go for his. “Ven aquí. Tenemos algunas–,”

Without warning, El Corto takes off running, darting off down an alleyway. 

“Fuck,” Javier hisses and pulls his shirt out of his pants, experience the cruelest teacher. But you’ve already passed him –  running your favorite way to unwind, train, and way to avoid your problems, tearing down the alleyway after the shadow sprinting into the night. 

There is something singular about running that is more addicting than any drug the narcos peddled. A chosen target. A finite end. The only thing you had to count on, the only thing to worry about, is how hard you had to pump your arms, the length of your stride, the control of your breathing. Hunting down narcos was a breeding ground for chaos. But not this. This made sense. 

El Corto, despite having about half your stride, makes up for his short stature with speed. You catch only a glimpse of his jacket, then his shoe. A mile through an empty street and he finally comes into view. You’re gaining on him. The unrestrained creature in your chest roars and blocks out the searing pain in your calves, under your ribs. God, you swear you can almost smell him.

Maybe all animals, big or small, can sense the moment before the trap ensnares around them because without warning, El Corto darts left, leaping over a wrought iron fence into the lower levels of an apartment building. He’s gone before you can blink.

Snarling, you squeeze the fence railing as you tuck your legs over it, the momentum of your run clearing you from the tips. 

A voice in your head and possibly behind you is yelling at you to wait, don’t go inside without backup, but you can’t stop. You can’t help it. If you can’t have who you want, this is what you want. This is what you need.

And you need a fucking win. 

You burst through the screen door to an empty concrete room – torn carpet, wall paint chipped away, maybe an old living room – a flash of jeans around the hallway at the end giving a fraction of an indication of your target. So you take off after him, rounding the corner. You watch as he nearly runs through a faded yellow door, the wood cracking and splintering from the force as it slams open into the wall. The door ricochets off the wall, nearly slamming close again, just as you reach it, but the brunt of your shoulder knocks it back again.

And something cracks you across the chest. 

Powder. Blue. Lots of it.

You stumble, your eyes and nostrils burning, as it seizes in your lungs. You cough and hack, trying desperately to unseal it from your lungs, but it barely budges, barely slides loose. Blind and gasping from the heat of your run and through the powder, you veer off course, stumbling into what feels like boxes. Your knees tremble, suddenly unsteady on your feet. 

Through your watery eyes, you watch as El Corto drops the plastic bag that used to contain the powder, a malicious glint in his eyes.

“Puta,” he spits, the slur hardly original for a female DEA agent. He steps back and sheds the gloves you didn’t realize he had been wearing, still watching you with twisted interest. 

You’re no longer coughing, but the air still hasn’t settled in your body. You feel the heat in your lungs rise, expand, then fall, against your skin, as if it is in sync with your heartbeat. With every breath, a sour, sticky warmth presses against every joint in your body, every bone. There’s a knot building at the base of your spine, tightening your hips, and you stumble until you’re seated on one of the boxes, which you now see as packing crates. 

You swallow but your mouth is dry. Head heavy. Distant. Your eyes feel swollen in your skull.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” you whisper. 

He’s not scowling at you, you realize, he’s leering. Eager. Excited. He takes a step towards you. 

A floor above, you hear the sound of the door being breached and Javier calling out your name. El Corto scowls, as though his favorite toy had been taken away, before he tears himself away to the narrow window on the other side of the room. More shipping crates have been stacked against the wall and El Corto scurries up it, unlatching the window. He pauses, glancing back over his shoulder at you.

“Diviértete para mí, putita,” he waves with three fingers as Javier crashes into the room, his gun raised. He spots El Corto just as he slips up through the narrow window – the space no bigger than the width of a child – his foot kicking down the tower of boxes. Javier nearly nabs his ankle, leaping up the concrete wall, as the narco disappears into the night.

His open palm striking against the humid wall is a wet slap. “Fuck,” he snarls, this time pounding with the heel of his fist, “we almost fucking had him. What the fuck ha–,”

He turns and meets your gaze for the first time. His mouth drops in horror.

Sweat blooming across your forehead, you lean over on a crate, limbs trembling, breathing uneven. Every scrap of fabric over your skin burns, your thighs burn, your blood burns, you are burning. The sweat peaks in droplets that run down the back of your neck, under your armpits. Whatever he hit you with makes you want to take off every inch of your clothes –maybe then you could fucking breathe – but even then, it wouldn’t be enough. 

He’s got you by the shoulders, forcing you to look at him, before you realize what’s happened.

“Talk to me.” Javier snaps, that authoritative force sharp and demanding, and it sends an aching bolt between your legs. You whimper in pain, your eyes fluttering. He shakes you. “Stay awake and tell me what happened. I need you to focus. ”

Your lips feel puffy, overripe and ready to split, your jaw tight and throbbing. “H-h-hit m-me with blu-ue – don’t–don’t know what i-it is.” 

Javier steps closer and the scent of his cologne hits you like a train. Groaning, a strange, unwelcome instinct yanks your head down into the curve of his neck, the source of the smell. The touch of his skin beneath your lips is a balm – cool egg yolk over a fresh burn – and you bury your face in deep.

“Oh, fucking Christ, Javi.” Your voice trembles, wavering down into a low moan. That same alien instinct latches your hands over his shoulder, nails digging into the cotton. But it’s not alien, you realize through the muggy, humid fog in your mind – you know this feeling. You are intimately aware of the coiling knot between your legs, your soaked underwear, the tightness of your nipples. But this can’t be happening. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t hurt like this. 

You gasp, in real pain, a throb that starts clenching your cunt before rippling up your spine and locking your shoulders. You hunch against him, waiting for the contraction to pass. 

“What is it?” Javi holds you, panic evident in his voice. You swear you can hear his heartbeat in his neck. “What’s wrong? Talk to me, goddamn it.” He demands with no bite in his command. 

He peels you off him, you hiss, ripped out of the soothing embrace of his arms, and he makes you look at him. His eyes are wide, mouth twitching. The entirety of his chest is blue, most of powder from your skin covering his shirt.

He cups your cheeks, trying to see if the powder has left an acid burn, as another wave hits and you lock your body, now a battleground against the strangling desire to turn your face into his wide palm and inhale. There’s liquid making the crotch of your pants sticky and it’s embarrassing. It’s mortifying and silly and the ounce of sanity still left in your head keeps an iron grip on every muscle in your body – sanity telling you to not fucking do this. Don’t do this to him. Not when it would mean so much to him.

To you. 

But fuck, you want it. You need it. You might actually die without it.

Tears spring into your eyes, making a gooey muck as they slide down your cheeks and mix with the powder. Whatever this is, you have to fight it.

His eyes dart to your tears, the little bit of powder still on your face, and without thinking, he brushes your tears away with his thumbs.

Sanity cracks the whip – if it gets on him, then –

With the last ounce of strength, you shove him back, as far away from you as you possibly can. The second his warmth is gone from your skin, you tremble and your knees give out. Fresh tears, spurred on by the pain, by the fear, by the shame, spill from your eyes and you curl up against the wall. 

“D-don’t, Javi, don’t. I th-think it’s t-t-transderm-mal–,”

“What do you–,”

You watch helplessly as his pupils contract and then expand wildly, black swallowing that aching brown. He shakes his head like a bewildered animal, sweat already bleeding across his skin, and he stumbles back onto a springy metal cot on the opposite wall. He blinks, hand tightening around his knee. It makes his forearm flex and you have to physically close your eyes, the sight forcing your cunt to clench down on nothing. 

“What . . . what the fuck is this shit?”

You bite your lip, your chin tucked to your shoulder as your body cramps, punishing you for denying it the only source of relief. You squint at him and see he’s half-hard in his jeans. You whimper.

“I-I don’t know . . . new– new party drug?” You grunt, your head thrown back against the wall. God, your skin is going to melt right off your bones.

“This is way fucking worse than ecstacy,” Javier murmurs, his jaw tight. “Fuck, got a bit on me, but you . . .”

He blinks at you, eyes glassy, with sudden and total understanding, with perfect clarity why you shoved him away, and what exactly you need. 

He murmurs your name and you gasp, another cramp yanking new tears down your cheeks. 

“J-Javier,” you swallow thickly, “I know what I s-said before, a-and in the car, but if you ever cared about me, p-please . . . please, just –,”

You can’t encompass all that you need into words, but you hope he understands, is feeling kind despite all that you had done to him. Your bones ache, skin too tight.

He shakes his head, but weakly, his eyes caught on your throat, the wetness clinging to your lips. “You’re just saying that because of the drugs. We have to call Murphy. Get us to a hospital or something.”

“Javi,” you whine and maybe it is the drugs, or maybe he has an inkling of how much it hurts, but he’s across the room in an instant. He grabs you by the shoulders and hauls you to your feet. He drops his head and inhales like he can draw the heat from your blood. The tip of his nose dragged across your jaw is a cube of ice against the furnace of your skin. You shudder, hands clasping around his shoulders, dragging him against you, his hands cupping your hips as if to steady him. 

“I-I’ll give you this.” Javier Peña doesn’t stutter. Your eyelids weigh a thousand pounds as you draw your gaze up to him. “I’ll help, cariño, and then we call Murphy. Okay?” 

You nod, dizzy and overheated and sick with wanting. You nod and tilt your hips forward into his fingers as they pop open the button of your jeans. The sound of the slide of the zipper drives a shiver through you and you feel his cock, fully hard, against your thigh. 

His lips brush your cheek, his voice slurred, dripping slow in molasses, sweet and dark. “I’ll help. I’ll give you what you need.”

The first press of his fingers against your pussy rubs slippery and wet. With a sigh of relief, you drop your head against the wall, hips shoving into his hand, begging for more.

“Fuck,” he wheezes. “You’re already soaking.”

“More, Javier, more.” 

He grinds his cock against your thigh to soothe his own ache. He nods slowly as if dazed, his eyes locked onto to where his hand disappears inside your jeans. “Y-yeah, okay.”

If any hesitation remains, it’s gone when he sinks two fingers inside of you and taps up. You moan and he shoves his knee between your legs. 

“You like that, pretty girl? Does that help?”

“Yes,” you gasp into his neck, his fingers rocking into you. “Yes, Javier, yes!” 

His touch douses the ache, the fire, across your skin, in your spine. With every snap of his wrist, he draws away the heat from your exposed, too-sensitive nerves, easing the lighting storm in your low stomach. The noises you’re making, the noises your cunt makes against his fingers – it should embarrass you, should draw red up into your cheeks and ears, but it’s just more release. You yowl like an animal in heat and Javier’s groin jerks against you. You gain enough sentience to realize he’s fucking you with his jeans on up the wall, his hand never slowing or easing. You can feel yourself gush between his knuckles. 

“You’re almost there, muñeca, I can feel it. Just give it to me. Come for me,” he pants into your clavicle, the spread of bone across your chest. You tighten at the thought of his breath against your nipples, his teeth on the soft weight of your breast –

And you do. You come with the easy brush of his thumb against your clit. White lightning soothes the rage beneath your skin and you shudder in his arms, forehead collapsing against his shoulder. The snap of his hips against your thigh is a bruising rhythm, harsh, feral, an understanding that only something rough and wild can actually save your life. 

“Is that better, querida?” His wide palm pushes the hair back from your damp neck, cradling your heated cheek. His thumb brushes just under your bottom lip. You can feel his own fever, radiating from his skin. “Can we get you somewhere safe?”

But you’re still too high, too taut, to answer him. Another one builds, stacks up on itself every time his rock-hard cock digs into your hip. He scissors his fingers and you bear down onto his thigh. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, but without exhaustion or anger. He sounds almost gleeful. When he looks at you, his pupils are blown wide, sweat making his skin glow. The skin around his mouth is damp. “Alright, I’m not gonna stop. You can have one more. One more, querida.” 

His shoulders tense, the muscles in his back shifting, as he changes the angle of his fingers, renews the pressure of his thumb on your clit. He brushes against something deep inside of you, wet and spongy and never before reached and you arch your back in response, air sucked from your lungs. His thigh nearly lifts you off the floor. 

“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it?” He taps the spot again and tears flood your eyes and spill down your cheeks. 

“Oh my god, Javi,” you murmur and he seems to like that. You clamp down around him and his hips stutter, his moan deep and coming from an ache in his chest. He inserts another finger and your cunt sucks him in, greedy for more. 

He eases back into his rhythm, raggedly humping your hip, the rough material of his jeans burning between your thighs. 

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” he breathes. “Fuck, I knew it would fucking feel this good. You’re clenching down on me so hard, baby.” 

On the tip of your next orgasm, the haze clears for just a second and you catch him in the eye. This isn’t just the drugs, you know, this isn’t just an excuse for both of you. This is hating to see the other one in pain. This is sharing a worry for a bit of yourself that lives in another body. What passes along the length of your gaze is the exact thing you feared losing. 

Selfishly, you’d rather not have him like this, than not having him at all. 

But this is what it could be, he tells you through an open, gasping mouth, through eyes that pin you to the wall, this is what we could have every day, every night. If you just let me in. 

If you just –

“Come for me.” 

You answer with his name, on a cry high and sharp, and you’re coming – harsh, fast, exploding as you drench him, his fingers pressing roughly into that one sweet spot. 

Javi slumps forward, the weight of him nearly stifling, as he gasps, his hips stilling, stuttering, stopping. His skin flushes cold for a second, sweat cooling his fever, his face buried in your neck. 

You feel it. Against your thigh. You swallow in surprise, the fog parting briefly again. 

“Javi, did you . . .”

He wrenches his hand out of you, releasing his grip on your hip as he lowers you down. 

“I’m not fucking calling Murphy,” he grits out.

*~*~*

Javier is a man of singular focus. Almost dogged and single-minded in his hunt, it’s rare he is even capable of listening to the voice of reason. It’s a different voice than his own that tells him when he’s doing something monumentally stupid. There’s a part of him that knows exactly why that voice sounds a lot like you, unconsciously knowing that you’re the only thing that could give him pause. And yet, there are times when he can shut the voice out, can shut out everything inside of him screaming at him not to do the thing he’s going to do. But this, this decision, genuinely has him torn. There is no right way to do this.

Well, there is a right way. One where he takes you to dinner, buys you flowers, walks you home, tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses you softly at first, then rough, until you beg him to come up the stairs. Despite what some may think, he is capable of being romantic. He can be sweet. He can ask nicely. 

But that is something he is not capable of right now. 

In his post-nut clarity – because, yes, he did come in his pants like a twelve year old with his first porn mag after having his fingers up your cunt for what was all too short – he realized the room you both were in was some sort of safehouse. 

A cot against the wall. A portable stove with something in the pan black and sticky. The crates are empty of any valuables – by the shape and length, most likely guns – but the few that are still full have a few bags of that elicit blue powder. He makes a mental note, somewhere on the very distant laundry list in his brain, to take a bag – with gloves on and wrapped up in several other baggies – to have it tested at the lab. Because whatever this stuff is, it might actually be more dangerous than cocaine.

Especially to idiots like him, he thinks roughly as he yanks the thread-bare mattress off its wiry frame onto the floor. He snatches up the cotton sleeping bag at the foot of the frame and unzips it, the inside facing down. This is such a monumentally stupid idea, he knows it is, but he can already feel that cramp building up his thighs, his cock throbbing awake, arousal clamping down on the base of his spine. And he just got a whiff of it. He can’t imagine what you’re feeling already. Behind him he hears you moan softly, never one to complain or whine when things get tough or hard, so he goes faster. He tucks up the other end of the sleeping bag in what he hopes is some semblance of comfort, but he wonders if that will even matter to either of you when it hits again which, judging by how hard his cock is growing, is eminent. The wet spot on his thigh, beneath his jeans, is sticky, uncomfortable. He needs no further reason to unbutton them. 

You moan, this time louder, higher, again and he turns to face you, his shirt already undone to his stomach.

You’re pale again, skin glossy and sickly wet. When your eyes flutter open, they’re glassy, gaze distant and unfocused. You twitch when that first cramp settles in deep. He thinks, his mind not entirely his own, about how deep the clutch of your cunt sucked in just his fingers and he shivers. He simultaneously wanted to get this over with and drag it out for days. Have you beneath him for days. 

Your legs tucked up beneath you from where he laid you down, Javi approaches quietly, kneeling as he takes off his shirt and goes to untie your boots. He touches your ankle as gently as he can and you shudder, cracking an eye open. 

“Javier, it’s coming back. It’s coming back and it hurts.”

In addition to the many, many agency violations, this is monumentally stupid because he’s obsessed with you. Has been for a while. Not just in a way that makes him want to fuck you for hours flat on your back, but in a way that your smile is the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep and the first thing on his mind when he wakes up. An obsession with your wellbeing, your safety, your happiness. A persistent coiling thought about your laugh, and strength, and the way you can make grown men twice your size tremble in fear. You’re a hunter, just like him, and with your beauty – your staggering, haunting beauty – how was he not supposed to immediately attach himself to you? It came on slowly, his pathological need to be near you, and once he realized what it was, there was no going back. No turning it off. 

He didn’t mean to tell you when he was drunk, but after bagging another narco, it was like he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. A brief glimpse into a world where you both were safe, and happy, and – god willing – together and in this world, he told you and he was brave about it and you said it back and he felt warm all over. But that was not this world, not his reality. In this one, he has to save you by doing the one thing that may truly well and good fuck him over. 

“Sit up, baby, that’s it.” He eases you into his arms and it’s like his touch drags you back into consciousness. Your fingers dig into his bare arms as you take in his exposed chest. 

“Javi, fuck, I don’t wanna beg, but before when you – you – I felt better. It cleared. I don’t know why or how, but with your fingers inside m-me, it . . . helped.” 

“I know, cariño, and I want to help more.” His thumbs press up under your jaw, tilting your head up to look him directly in the eyes. There’s fear there, pain, and it’s agonizing to him. “But I don’t know if that’s what you want.” 

“What I want? Javi, I–,” your eyes widen in understanding of what he’s offering, of what he’s scared to do. What he’s scared to take without your permission. 

You swallow, a pink flush crawling up your throat. “I . . . I don’t . . . I didn’t want our first time together to be anything like this, but . . .” You shake your head, shuffling closer to him, your breathing thinning as the drugs start to strike matches against your nerves. “I just don’t want you to think it doesn’t mean anything.” 

“It’s gonna mean everything to me, no matter how I get it.” He presses a soft kiss to the corner of your chin, just in front of his thumb. You nod, eyes squeezing shut, as you fight this arousal that claws into your skin like meat hooks. He pulls you to your feet, holding you steady as your knees try to lock up. He unbuttons your shirt with shaking hands. 

You touch his chest like you’ve never seen a man naked before. The hesitant, awed touch of you sends all the blood still remaining in his head straight into his cock. 

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he murmurs to your cheek, your shirt off your body, his hands tugging your jeans down your hips. You nod again, speechless in your relief, and follow your jeans to the ground. Twisting on the nest he made for you, you slide your bra off, your nipples already tight and perk and waiting for his mouth. You huff, a sound so unlike you it makes him genuinely concerned, as the front of your panties darken again. 

“It’s okay, Javi, this is what I want. I want this.” You hate being vulnerable, he knows this, your attitude a front that leaves no room for sexist comments in the bullpen. And yet, here you are, deflowered and begging for him. You spread your legs for him, eyelids heavy, and he can smell the arousal on you. 

He drops to his knees, unsure where to start first, but the blue powder coursing through his veins demanding he puts his hands on your hips, which he finally acquiesce to. 

“I don’t think I can be gentle,” he admits quietly. He wants to nip, suck, slurp every inch of you, wants to see that perfect body bend to his will, to his turning. He wants to fuck you open and stuff himself up inside you so deep it leaves a mark. In his haze, the instinct to fuck supplies him with an image of you pregnant, bred and full of him, and his cock twitches so hard he drops onto all fours over you. 

You slip your underwear over your toes and your knees take him by the ribs.

“Please, Javi, please.” 

He knows it must hurt, must be so blindingly painful for you to beg like this. You never asked anyone for anything and that independence turned him on and frustrated him to no end. 

“Please, be rough,” you ask him from under your lashes, your body writhing beneath him. His hips, on a separate system than the rest of him, thrust the rough teeth of his zipper against your cunt and you keen, the sound imprinting into every crevice and curve of his brain. “Make it hurt.”

Oh fuck, this might actually be the thing that kills him. 

He hushes you, stills your flushed whimpering with a kiss that ends in teeth against the high curve of your cheek. He noses to your mouth, then down to your ear, where he bites on your earlobe. He’s balancing on one hand as his other tugs his jeans down and off his hips. 

He wants to fuck your tits. Come all over them, have his spend flush up your throat, your chin. He wants to come so hard he blinds you with it. And then he wants to flip you over and fuck your ass with his come-lubed dick. 

You wriggle and whine, legs wrapping around his hips, tugging him down onto you when, half-a-mind away, he realizes he just said all of that outloud.

“Yes, Javi, you can have whatever you want. Fuck me however you want.” His blood is boiling now, the white-hot bomb settling itself in the base of his spine, his balls already tight. Why he’s dragging this out is beyond him and possibly a medical detriment to you. 

“Javi, just fucking put your cock ins–,”

He watches as every conscious thought wiped from your mind, brow heavy, mouth seared open as he plugs you full of him in one rough thrust. You shudder and his elbows buckle, his body locked up tight because if he moves, if he dares to rub his cock through your velvet, hot clutch, he’ll come right there. Your eyes roll back in your head as his cock makes space for itself inside you.

“Javi–,” he claps a wide palm over your mouth, his teeth straining in his jaw, his temple twitching.

“Baby, I know it hurts – I know it fucking does – but I need you to stay still.” It feels too good. You’re too hot, too slippery, and soft. He can feel the hum of words behind his fingers and he shakes his head. “Do not fucking move – I just need to – I have to –,” 

He inches in just a bit more and you both gasp to the ceiling when he bottoms out. Your rough curls against his pelvis sears him, hot and sweet like cinnamon. He drools when he thinks about eating his own come out of you.

You only get one word out, one word that sets his whole world on fire: “Please.” 

He rears back, yanks you up his thighs, hands cupping the backs of your knees and he plows into you. Your tiny fingers that have pulled countless triggers and clapped irons on criminals twitch, tightening into the smelly cotton fabric, your mouth contorted open. His pace, his thrusting, is relentless, unforgiving but the look on your face is pleased, an almost maniacal grin across your lips. 

“Oh, right there, Javi, just like that. Just like that.”

He’s faster than he is precise. Precise comes later when the bestial fog clears from his brain, when the lust bleeds out of his system, when he doesn’t want to hump you like an animal with his teeth bared and cock so deep inside of you it kisses your womb. 

Before his mind entirely succumbs to the mounting arousal, he’s grateful he had the foresight to take the mattress down. If he hadn’t, there’s a good chance he would have fuck you, the bed, and himself right through the paper-thin walls. 

And then he lets go. Lets this thing in his chest and hot behind his groin take over, lets himself indulge in whatever carnal, depraved thing sparks in his mind.

He’s fucking you so hard you’ll both have bruises by morning. 

He watches, transfixed, at the place where his soaked cock disappears through your puffy, wet lips into the mind-numbing heat of your pussy. He can’t stop watching. He barely feels your nails digging into his thighs. 

The walls of your pussy squeeze him and it makes him falter, hitch speed. His gaze is torn away and instantly, it focuses on the bounce and sway of your tits. Sweat droplets roll from your neck into the valley of your breasts and without hesitation he bends to catch them with his mouth, tugging you further down his cock. You cry out, hands digging into his hair, as his tongue drags a wet trail over the top of your breast, the tip flicking your rock hard nipple, then beneath the swell where he meets it with his teeth. 

You jerk, pleasure overwhelming. “Uh – oh – oh – fuck – Javi.” The words leave your mouth truncated, cut short by his rhythmic bouncing. He nuzzles your tit, streaking you with his own sweat, not able to stop fucking up into you to really get a good grip on your breast, but wanting to put the whole thing in his mouth. 

“I’m gonna do it right next time,” he swears fidelity to your skin. He grinds his teeth against your sternum. “Next time I fuck you I’m going to pull you apart bit by bit. Starting with these fucking tits and ending with my tongue up your cunt. Maybe your ass.”

Against his cheek, he feels your skin break out in ridges, your whole body shivering at his words. He leans up, grinning wildly and grinds particularly deep inside of you. You still haven’t fully opened your eyes.

“Oh, you liked that, didn’t you? You want my tongue up your ass. What about my cock, huh? Want my fat fucking cock inside there?” 

You whine, clawing at his chest, as you nod frantically. He could ask anything of you right now and you’d give it to him. And god, he wants so much.

“It’d hurt, baby, you know it would.”

You nod, words tumbling out of your mouth in a mindless babble. “I don’t care. I want it there. I want you inside me. I want it to hurt. I want you to fuck me raw, Javi.”

He groans, more like a growl, rapidly picking up his pace. He lifts your knees higher and fucks up, the change in angle making you moan so loudly it fills up his ears with blood.

“Tell me where you want it. Say it, querida.” 

“I want it in my fucking ass, Javi.” 

His jaw twitching, that primal, unrestrained urge in him wrapping itself around his spine, he shoves you off him. Wetness dribbles down his lap but he doesn’t let himself smell or see it for long, as he flips you onto your hands and knees, sliding in and pummeling your pussy from behind.

You whine, singing for his cock, and collapse onto your elbows, presenting your ass for him. The pair of you really are just fucking animals.

He presses his thumb to your tight hole, the wet slap of his balls against your ass suddenly the least obscene thing in the room. There’s barely enough room for his thumb there and he tips his head back at the thought that no one had ever taken you there before. His. All his and no one fucking else’s. 

“Javi,” you sob, that preening need gone from your voice as though you are begging him not to go further, but desire kept you from voicing what you actually wanted. 

His bottom lip twitches and he leans down and gently bites your shoulder, grounding you and clearing out all fear. Drugs or not, he’d never do anything you didn’t explicitly ask for, but the second this is all over, he’s going to get on his hands and knees and beg you to let him work your ass open. 

“Not tonight, cariño.” He slides his thumb out of you, his wrist twisting as he palms the meat of your ass. “But I’m not leaving this completely untouched.”

He smacks the jiggling flesh until he sees a pink hand print, earning him a yelp from you every time his palm lands. He feels fresh, sticky wetness soak his cock with each slap, enough for it to dribble down his thigh. He’s not going to shower for a week. 

The higher he climbs, the faster that animalistic heat leaves his blood. You’re not as pale as before, the skin of your back growing a nice healthy flush. As his grip around your hips tightens, he feels your cunt clench around him. If he won’t take your ass tonight, he still wants you puffy and sore. He leans back just to watch his cock pound your pink, abused hole.

“I’m close, Javi,” you admit breathlessly. He nods, leaning forward again, that image of your pussy split open for him deliciously sealed in his mind, and he drags his nose down your spine. Sweat from his chest drops and splatters against your skin.

“I know you are, I can feel it. Can I see your face? Watch you? Can I put you on top?”

You nod and he slips out of you for what he hopes will be the last time in his fucking life. He’s no longer drug-crazed, but he is drunk. Pussy drunk. Drunk on you. Imbibed by the juices trailing down his thighs. He shifts and you swing a leg over his hips, immediately swallow him deep inside you. 

Unlike the courtesy he gave you, you give him no time to adjust, grip his chest, and ride him within an inch of his life.

Your tits swinging in his face, he presses his fingers so tight into your thighs, he’ll be able to count the distinct bruises, and plants his feet. He meets you, thrust for thrust, and he watches your competitive nature battle your overwhelming chase for release. 

“Just come, cariño,” he pants. “You’ve done so good tonight. Just fucking come all over my lap. Let go.” 

His words melt something inside of you and you whimper, curling down over him, which he takes to wrap his arms around your back, and roll you under him. He kisses your chin, your temple, the corner of your mouth. His big palm cradling your head, he grinds low and deep, seeking out that place he touched with his fingers. 

“It’s alright. I’ve got you. You can come.” He prods that spot once and it’s all over. You clamp down on his cock, milking him for all he’s worth because as you arch, mouth open, tears down your face, he comes too. He comes and he comes and he comes until he drips out of you and that breaks another orgasm across you, this one bumpy and leaves you shaking. 

He feels dizzy, unsure up from down, the loudest sound he hears is his own blood rushing in his ears. He’s never been more exhausted. 

He can hear the vibration of you saying something against his throat, but nothing is quite working like it’s supposed to, so he slumps off you, his hand never leaving your skin, as he tugs you against him.

He’ll be dried and sticky in only a few hours – you both will – but that doesn’t matter right now. The only thing that does is the feeling of your heartbeat over his. 

*~*~*

Morning, along with the scent of rain, glides in through the open window and your fingers twitch as sunlight hits you. Your eyes fluttering open, you lift your head from the sleeping bag to see wet puddles on the floor under the window, the concrete streaked and stained with water. It must have rained sometime last night and, shockingly, you didn’t hear a thing.

The heatwave had finally broken. 

It’s not until you’re full awake do you realize his hand rests in the cup of your neck, thumb rubbing smooth, soft circles into the hard knot near your shoulder blade. You smile, groaning softly, becoming more relaxed by how good it feels. 

You roll over and greet his eyes. They’re brown again, the hungry blackness gone, but leaving an edge of uncertainty in its wake. 

He wants to know how you feel about last night.

“You fucked up,” you tell him and that worried crease appears between his eyebrows. You inch closer, your hand curling up against his jaw. “All that time last night, all the time you had me under you, and you didn’t kiss me once.”

You close your eyes, drop your head, and press a fervent, determined kiss against his pink lips. You can feel it as he swallows it in, his body shifting forward, hand coming up to your hip. But just as quickly as it starts, he pulls away. 

Javier shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says almost mournfully, eyes downcast. “I don’t want to know – what you taste like, if . . . I can’t kiss you if this is the last time.”

He’s still respecting your boundary, your wishes, while coated in his release and yours. He knows he can’t be selfish with you again.

You wet your lip, hand still on his cheek. 

“Javier, you saved my life last night. That was some kind of fucked up drug, but if you hadn’t been here and did what you did, I think I would have had a heart attack.” He shakes his head, ashamed and desperate to prove you wrong. You understand his hesitation. It felt too good for it to be anything other than a transgression. “And if anything, it showed me something I think I already knew but couldn’t find in myself to admit. I need you, Javi. I need you because I can’t live without you. Because I love you.”

His eyes light up when you return the words he uttered in the bar. None of this is how it should have been – in an abandoned narcos hideout, but god, there’s not a single thing you’d change. 

“Yeah, baby? You mean that?” You nod as hot, natural desire flashes in his eyes as he pulls your body under him and captures your mouth in his. His warm palm cups your hip, your ribs, up under your arm, and pushes your elbow to your head. There’s more to say, more to worry about, but that fucking heatwave over Bogota has finally broken and Javier Peña’s cum is dried and flaky between your thighs. 

“We should call Murphy,” you giggle, withdrawing your tongue from his mouth. He shakes his head, the blunt edge of his teeth against your cheek. “There’s a deadly new drug on the streets. Lives are at stake.”

“My dick is at stake,” he murmurs, lips hovering over your skin, drawing your knee up to his ribs as he slots himself between your thighs. The smile slides off your face as he thumbs your raw clit in rough, desperate circles. 

“I thought you said you were going to take it slow next time,” you huff, hips rolling against his stiff cock. 

“I will. Gonna take you to dinner. Cup your ass over a distractingly short dress. Buy you flowers and fucking gold jewelry . . . then I’m going to take you home and open you up with my fingers, then my tongue.” 

“So what’s this?” You gasp against his neck as he sinks his cock into you. 

He groans, grunts, as if he hadn’t spent the better part of the night making your cunt his personal possession. 

“This is me, fucking you, before breakfast. Then we call Murphy. Any objections?” 

You squeeze your knees around him, ankles hooked across his low back, sucking a mark into his neck. 

“Not at all.” 

When you do go public, not shying away from holding hands in the office, or openly walking in at the same time from the same car, Noonan is irate, but can’t bring herself to cut her two best agents loose. It seems catching Pablo Escobar matters more than some silly, little government-issued guidelines. She’d get her day in court, but not today. Not for a while. 

Noonan is annoyed. 

Murphy is not. 

“Came across some new party drugs and not a single thing happened, right?”

“You could have found it, taken it home for you and Connie to enjoy,” you say as you slide your arm across Javier’s back, his hand on your hip. He rarely ever takes his hands off you now. “But, no, you bailed on me instead.” 

“Sounds like you should be thanking me, instead of busting my balls.”

“He’s right, baby,” Javier nuzzles your neck. “Could have been him stuck in that basement with me, horny as a cat in fucking heat.” 

You shrug as Murphy makes a face. “I blame the heatwave.”

He leans into your ear. “And I blame your fucking ass in that skirt. I’m gonna take you home, make good on my promise. Any objections?”

“Not at all.” 

[wood-white-writer]

"Didn't mean to make your heart Blue" || [6/...]

— OPLA!Buggy x F!Reader

“On sunny days I go out walking, I end up on a tree-lined street. I look up at the gaps of sunlight. I miss you more than anything."

— Mitski, "Francis Forever"

Pairing: Buggy the Clown (Live action) x F!Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 7

Summary: You were an apprentice of Gol D. Roger’s crew in your youth, long before his eventual demise. Along with the Red-Haired Shanks and Buggy, you were a formidable trio; the embodiment of a new generation of pirates yet to come. But times changed, and so did you and your friends.  The crew arrives at the Baratie, and several things go down in a matter of hours. Decisions are made, both stupid and not so stupid. Old and new faces come back into your life, and unable to deal with the events in Orange Town, you handle it in the worst best way possible: through the bottle.

Warnings: Canon typical violence, fem!reader, LA!Verse, slight canon divergence, alcoholic indulgence on a catastrophic scale (drink responsibly ppl), blackouts, morally grey reader, violence, mentions of everyone (marine, fish people, pirates, etc.) having a past beef with Reader/"Cross-Hairs", Buggy POV in the end,

A/N: So, since this chapter was delayed, I think it compensates due to the fact that it is approximately 7k words long. The chapter jumps a little between the events of the Baratie, but there's a reason for that: the reason being that the Reader is shitfaced for most of the time during this chapter. Also, shout out to @ay0nha for putting up with my rambles during this period, really appreciate it XD

It hurts. Everything hurts. That’s the first thing he feels. 

His feet, his back, his torso, but especially his head. It’s like a hamster is running on a wheel inside the bones in his skull, squeaking, chirping, driving him insane from the inside. 

The wheel is pounding, and pounding until all he wants is to chuck that fucking hamster into–

“Hey, he’s waking up!”

Shanks? Why is he in his head? Fuck, he takes it back. The hamster can stay, rent-free, for as long as it fucking wants to, as long as it isn’t fucking Shanks—

“Buggy?”

On second thoughts, that voice doesn’t strike any sense of irritation with him. In fact, he finds it comforting, like the morning sun shining atop the ship deck. He doesn’t mind listening to that.

“Buggy?”

His eyes open, and he thinks he's seeing the sun for the first time. The sun and the moon, in fact, at the same time. Golden, blinding, warm, and cold, but he wants to watch them until his vision turns white and all sense of sight abandons him. 

It’ll suck to be blind, but damn, what a hell of a way to go.

The more he stares, however, the more everything else falls back into place. He realizes it’s not suns he’s staring at, but two sharp eyes and a concerned face that makes him feel just as warm.

He’s in a bed, he finally discovers. There’s a pillow under his head, a fresh sheet up until his midsection which strangely smells of vinegar, inside a room he just now remembers is the Oro Jackson’s de-facto ‘infirmary’ which really is just an old storage space that was refurnished when they first got the ship.

There’s something wrapped around his head, tight but not too tight that it’s squeezing. It’s been done by precise and sturdy hands; a professional, someone who knows what they’re doing.

He blinks once, then twice, and everything around him finally settles. Including everyone perched around the bed.

“Ah, Buggy, my lad!” It’s hard not to recognize the booming voice of his captain, who proceeds to lean over him with his hands pressed around his biceps until the massive mustache trickles his chin. “Thought you were a goner for a moment!”

He kind of wishes he was one because the strength of Gol D. Roger is not to be underestimated. His ribs squeeze and it's hard to breathe, but out of respect for his captain, all that leaves his throat is a guttural groan that he hopes conveys the message clearly enough.

Gol D. promptly removes himself from his poor apprentice with his hands raised, and when he steps back, Shanks takes his place next to the bed. “Gods, Buggy! What were you thinking? You could’ve been killed! Rayleigh said you were lucky it was just a concussion!”

That’s when it dawns on him. Riiight, there was a scuttle. Some asshole pirates trying to ambush them, they picked the wrong fucking targets. Some … guy was flying over him? Did that happen, or was it just a fever dream?

He remembers kicking someone in the balls, and then … and then …

Lightning. Making its way for him as the darkness embraced his vision. A line of gold, straight as a sword, narrowing in on him.

Did it catch him before the darkness did? 

He hopes so.

“Lay off me, will ‘ya!” he shouts at his friend, trying to get up. However, the fucking hamster wheel in his head keeps spinning until he settles back down against the pillow. “I was doing good!”

“Yeah, until you weren’t!” Shanks disputes and grabs his fellow apprentice by the collar of his sleeve. “I told you to fucking move, but it’s like you spaced out! She had to carry you all the way back here with your head all bleeding!”

Carry him?

He glances at you, finally. You’re sitting there, hunched slightly over the bed with those eyes looking at him, and he’s thinking you fucking carried him? It’s not that he’s ashamed, not at all, but if anything, he was always hoping the roles were switched. 

He’d be the one carrying you. With your strength, he imagined it would be quite the weight to uphold, but he would do it. For you, he would move the seas if he could, Devil Fruit or not.

“Buggy, are you alright?” 

You’re the one talking this time. Not the captain, nor Shanks, just you. The lighting is here, and he feels his skin prick. It’s electric. Cold. Warm. All and nothing combined. He could listen to it – feel it – for hours, days, maybe even years without ever growing weary of it.

He puts on his best brave face and scoffs, forcing his arms to cross themselves despite the surge of aches that rush through his body doing so. “Of course I’m alright! I’m Buggy! I bounce back, always!”

“Still,” your hands fall on top of his, and he feels his body freeze. “I was worried.”

“’Worried’?” Shanks cackles and gestures to you with his thumb over his shoulder. “You should’ve seen the damage she left behind. The entire place was smithereens, I tell you, Buggy! She knocked over those assholes like frickin’ chessboard pieces!”

“What did I always tell you?” Gol D. slams a hand on top of your shoulder, knocking you slightly forward. “She’s got eyes sharp enough to cut through steel, and pirates too, apparently.”

You laugh awkwardly. “I didn’t cut through them, really. I just … knocked them a little over.”

Shanks cackles. “Don’t be humble. You should’ve seen the guy who knocked you out. I swear, none of his bones were where they were supposed to be. He won’t be walking, or doing much of anything, ever again.”

Buggy can imagine it, but also not. He looks at you now, and he sees his concerned friend with those kind eyes that contain both the sun and the moon. He’s always known you’re strong – the strongest person he knows of save for his captain, but not unkind. Not cruel. Not sadistic.

Yet, if what Shanks just said carries any weight, it confirms what he’s always known. 

You’re a beast, and beasts only follow their prime instincts. They don’t allow others to harm what or who they consider theirs.

And it means that you consider him yours. 

Maybe in a different way than he’d prefer, maybe in a way that’s different from the kind he harbors towards you, but it still confirms he’s yours. 

He will never want to find himself on the opposite side of that. Of you. Never you.

When he looks at you again, looks down at where your hand is pressed on top of his, he takes it in his own. 

“I’m fine,” he finally says, his lip tugging in what is supposed to be a smile. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, though.”

You chuckle softly, and he smiles. Fuck, how can he not? He remembers it all so clearly. The way your dimples are shaped, the length of your hair, the soft tint of your lips.

“You? Never.” You finally say. “Never you”

---

You reflect on how it's weird that some things change whereas others don't. 

Flowers prosper and bloom and die. The sun ascends, stays up for a few hours, then descends back into the horizon. 

Friendships grow strong, stay strong, then they aren't.

Some things change, some don't. 

Baratie being among the latter.

It's bright enough inside to momentarily blind you, just like it was a little over ten years ago. Save for new faces with the employees and some design choices, the overall place has stayed the same. 

There are people there of prestigious backgrounds - both pirate and not - and you think of how receptive the restaurant must've been to make both parts come together without any regular scuttles. 

A neutral ground for all to come and enjoy the feast. Well, that is the principle, but not everyone abides by it.

It’s been a while since you last visited the establishment, and last time, you were banned for life. 

Frankly, you don’t recall much of the events; too drunk on rum at the time.

What you do remember is that it involved a few broken bottles of Baratie’s finest wine, some mashed-up furniture, and cutlery, a rival captain who wouldn’t take a “fucking get lost” for a “no”, and it ended with you standing surrounded by a bunch of broken bodies of your own making.

Needless to say, Zeff was pissed. 

More than pissed, actually. He was fuming.

He probably still is.He has a thing for grudges if he’s still alive.

Maybe … Just maybe the old man’s chewed off something more than his leg and kicked the bucket? That’d be a sight to see considering he only has one remaining foot.

"My name is Sanji. What can I get for you?"

The waiter - Sanji - is fine, not going to lie. A good fighter, too, if his little display seconds ago is a testament to that. A bit too young for your preference, with a nose too small, and hair too bright and blonde. Not quite blue colorful enough.

All in all, not a bad look at all. Just for the aesthetics, though. A solid 7/10, you conclude.

"One of everything, please!" Luffy requests enthusiastically.

For whatever reason, Sanji does not seem to share your general affinity for the restaurant. That’s odd. Most people who work here tend to boast about their occupation in the famed restaurant.

Though, if you have to make a guess, Zeff is likely a contributing factor behind that disdain. He’s tough on people, even tougher if he likes someone.

As discontented as Sanji seems, however, it does not keep him from trying to withhold his flirtatious demeanor with Nami. A Casanova, it looks like. Funny.

"Waiter, can I get a beer and something for my friends?" Zoro asks, fed up with the one-sided dalliance going on between your shipmate and the waiter.

"Two beers!” Usopp promptly adds. “though, I usually have three."

"And one milk!" Luffy chimes in.

"Three beers and a milk," Sanji notes. His eyes land on you, and that signature smile falls to his lips. "And for the ladies?"

You’re already here, you think to yourself. Why not make the most of it? For nostalgia’s sake.

"A bottle of Baratie's Finest," you request, your chin resting in your palm. "Not the kind you keep for customers, though. Pick one from Zeff's private stash, if you can afford to smuggle it past his bushy nose?"

"A classy beverage for a classy lady, I see." A mischievous glimmer shines in his eyes and smile. "Although that stash is off-limits, what kind of a man would I be if I refused a lady her desired beverage?”

You tilt your head a fraction to the side. "I'm sure he won't mind. At his age, he needs to watch his liver."

"That is true,"

Quite frankly, everything else evades your attention the second the waiter arrives with your order. Sanji brings you your meals, and your pricey bottle of Baratie's Finest, and it’s the Red Apple edition.

Perfect.

You eat, and eat, and drink, and then drink some more, not even stopping to concern yourself with the price tag. 

The food at the Baratie's has not been in decline when it comes to quality above all else. It's delicious, and not a lot of places have earned that kind of claim in your life.

The food is good, but the drinks are ethereal. 

One glass turns into two, and two promptly becomes three. So forth, and so forth. Anything to dull the tightness lodged in your chest. 

A tightness that has not left you alone in the past couple of weeks.

You've developed a pretty good tolerance over the years, and after several more units, you begin to feel the tickle on the edge of your hands. Baratie’s Finest indeed.

After five, the feeling settles on the tip of your spine.

After seven, you start to wonder what went wrong. It's a dangerous area to indulge in, especially if liquor is involved, but you don’t stop.

What went wrong?

What did you do wrong?

In another life, you would've traveled the world with them, doing nothing but drinking, fighting, exploring together.

Instead, you’re here, drinking with a crew yet still feeling like the loneliest asshole in the world. It’s not your crew.

You lose a smidgen of focus, and in the grand specter of things, focus is something you could do well with less off. 

You can afford to think less, feel less, and know less. Life has been full of ups and downs, and quite frankly, you've grown weary of it all.

Fuck, maybe Luffy’s onto something? Maybe you are sad?

… Nah.

Once Zoro orders another beer, you go as far as to share your bottle with him. His face scrunches at the taste and he coughs several times, but he admits that it’s good.

As you sit there on the edge of the couch, sipping your beverage and tasting your food, Sanji arrives to collect the bill. You know Luffy doesn’t have a berry to his name yet, and so you wonder how long it'll take before Zeff notices.

More specifically, how long it’ll take him before he realizes he's missing something from his private collection?

“Who the hell is Monkey D. Luffy?!”

Speak of the Chief… and he shall appear.

This time, you do not interfere when Luffy attempts to bargain for his lack of cash. You simply sit back and observe. 

As much as Luffy tries, he does not have the words or mind suited for this kind of business yet. It’s Capitalism at its finest. 

“You eat, you pay!”

Thoughts and dreams can only get you so far in life, but at the Baratie, it’s coin.

When Zeff grabs Luffy by the front of his shirt, the chief's eyes turn to you, and holy hell, is he furious. 

“And what in the blazing hell are you doing here?!"

“Zeff,” You greet him and raise your beverage his way, a tilted smirk on your face. "It’s been too long."

"Not long enough! I thought I told you to get fucking lost last time? The damages you did cost a fortune!"

“In my defense, it was the other guys that started it.”

He gives you such a dirty look that his jaws clench. “Don’t give a shit. Why are you here?”

You twirl the bottle around in your hand. "Just enjoying the ambiance, as always. I was in the area, and so how could I pass up the chance to try your scrumptious meals again? Or drinks, for that matter?" 

On cue, you raise your - or rather his - bottle closer up to him. 

It’s stupid, the rational part of your brain argues. One does not fuck around with the Chief of the Baratie, but among the few joys you have left in life, this remains one of them.

His eyes narrow in on the bottle and there he is.In the blink of an eye, he snaps it out of your hand with such fast precision that you're almost caught off-guard. 

Zeff narrows in on the mostly empty flask like it's personally insulted him and his entire lineage. “Where did you get this?"

"It was on the menu."

"It sure as shit was not! How could you—" He freezes like a thought suddenly dawned on him, and if a man can become purple from anything other than oxygen deprivation, Zeff's current mood is the closest thing to it. "Sanji. Why that snot-nosed, little—! ... When I get my damn hands on him."

It seems that whatever vendetta Zeff has towards his employee, it outweighs the one he has for you tenfold, which says something. Without another word, he yanks Luffy by the scruff and all but drags him with him to the kitchen. 

Ordinarily, you would’ve intervened on behalf of your captain, but with Zeff now preoccupied, it’s your chance to rob the bar of a few more beverages.

And in your dictionary, “a few” is the equivalent of “a shitton”.

"Wow," Usopp murmurs with a low whistle. "That guy really hates your guts."

"What are you talking about? I’m his favorite customer." You raise what remains in your glass to them. “Anyone want another one?”

"I do," Nami relents.

Zoro laughs, probably for the first time since you’ve met him. "Now you're talking."

Maybe, just maybe, you’re beginning to like these people. 

With a couple more drinks, maybe you’ll be able to tell.

———

“You know, I kind— I kinda assumed you were an asshole when we first met?” 

Usopp’s struggling to stand on his feet, legs bent slightly forward as he makes a half-assed attempt at ordering another drink. You can’t tell if the bartender is electively ignoring him or not, and truth be told, you don't blame the guy if the former applies.

Between the two of you, you’re more adept when it comes to dealing with liquor. Sure, your lips are a little looser now and the bright lights are starting to hurt your eyes, but all in all, you’re not even half as drunk as you want to be. 

Seriously, fuck me sometimes. You just had to go all out when you were younger. Days and nights spent pouring bottle after bottle left your liver hardened rather than weakened.

Now, because of the high tolerance you stupidly developed, it's come here to bite you in the ass and keep you from getting wrecked. 

“Oh?” Your sarcasm couldn't be any more discernible than it is now as you eye your crew mate. “What made you reach that conclusion?”

Usopp twirls around, horribly off-balanced, and slaps a hand over your shoulder. 

A little too personal for your liking, but you let it slide for now.

“I mean, for starters, you—,” he hiccups. “You always have that look about you. Like someone just pissed in your ale.”

You give him an unimpressed but vaguely piqued once-over. “Descriptive. Go on,”

“And soso— And so I and the guys are wondering if you’re like that because some clown broke your heart or—,” he hiccups again. “Or some— something? Did he piss in your ale?”

You shrug his hand off at once. You don’t want to think about him, now least of all. "No.”

Not even a second later, his arm his back over your shoulder and he leans closer. It's probably meant as a comforting gesture, but given how absolutely wasted he looks, you perceive it with a grain of salt. 

"Y-You can tell the great Capt— I mean, the Great Usopp, alright? We've all been there before, I—I'm ssssure. I mean, Zoro doesn't strike me as much of a ladies' man, but he's probably got stories, too."

The bartender finally stops by and leaves a beer bottle in front of you on the table, completely ignoring your companion, and disappears to make his next rounds.

You take the flask and flick the cork off with your thumb. "Well, if you really want to help, —" 

You turn around so that your back hits the bar counter, twirl Ussop around with the guidance of your hand and shove him lightly towards where Nami and Zoro are sitting. "— Talk to the others first about their heartbreaks."

If he wants to object, he's too drunk to for it. Instead, he recollects his limited stance and all but wobbles over to the corner where your other companions are seated.

He’s their problem now, but it’ll be an interesting display.

You recline against the bar counter to chug your beverage in peace when a voice suddenly speaks up from next to you. 

“I thought you were retired.”

With how loud the music is, it might have slipped your notice completely. Then again, the owner of said voice has always had that thing about him. 

He could whisper, and the entire room would’ve heard.

You glance up at your side, and you’re halfway tempted to smile when you see who it is. 

“It’s been a while, Hawk-Eyes.”

Everything from the feather on his hat to the cross around his neck and the pointy way his beard is trimmed has stayed the same. Not a scar, a bruise, or blemish to spot on him.

In ten years, he looks to have aged only one. Some people are fortunate in terms of youth, and you would definitely consider Dracule Mihawk one of them.

“Cross-Hairs.” He inclines his head to you, a silent courtesy reserved only for those whose company he tolerates. “I believed you abandoned your life behind the mast years ago.”

You take another generous gulp from your bottle before you respond. "So did I, but life finds a way, doesn't it?"

"Indeed." He peeks over his shoulder to where your companions are seated, his countenance less than impressed. Then again, that's just his face by default, so hard to tell with him. "And last we met, you were a Captain."

"Last time we met, you almost cut my right arm off." For emphasis, you pull back your sleeve to show off the straight scar that separates your upper arm from the rest. It's faded, old, and never noticeable unless you decide to wear anything short-sleeved, but it's there all the same.

He doesn't apologize. Of course, he wouldn't. Instead, he raises his sparse glass of wine to you. "Nothing personal."

You raise your bottle to him in turn. "Of course not,"

Clink!

You drink your respective beverages in companionable silence. However, even with your halfway inebriated state of mind, you can't help but think of the reasons for his presence. 

You have your suspicions, and you're not shy about voicing them.

"This isn't your usual scenery." You say. “What makes one of the great Warlords of the Sea seek out a place such as this? Business or pleasure?"

"Business," he answers curtly, as though he'd prefer to do anything but. "I'm looking for a captain."

“It’s not Shanks, I take it?”

“No, it’s not. It’s a captain by the name of Luffy.”

It doesn't surprise you. It should, but it doesn’t.

The lengths the vice-admiral is willing to go to retrieve his grandson, which apparently includes hiring a Warlord to do so, doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. Unbreakable willpower is a family trait, after all, if you've learned anything from Luffy. 

It wouldn’t suffice with a gun; he had to send the entire fucking arsenal.

Still, at least it’s Mihawk of all people. It shouldn’t be a source of relief, but had it been anyone else, be it Kuro or Axe-hand or Bu-... 

Your fingers subconsciously dig into the fragile, empty bottle you’re holding.

The point is, had it been anyone else, you would've intervened. You have intervened, several times by now, but not tonight. 

Tonight, you're here to drink and forget, then drink some more. You don’t have the sobriety to worry about much of anything anymore.

"Garp must truly be at his wit's end if he employs you for his endeavors." Once you retrieve the bottle at your disposal, you pluck off the cap and swirl it lazily in your hand. The lights from the bar dance around the transparently brown rim, like a shooting star with no exit and no entrance to the rest of the universe. Forever stuck. "Seems excessive to send you of all people after something so seemingly simple."

"From what I've heard, this particular quarry is something of a wildcard."

"If you’re here, I’m sure of it."

Mihawk tilts his chin up, eyeing you curiously in your peripheral vision. "Are you saying that you're acquainted with this Luffy?"

"I'm saying no such thing. It's just mere speculations on my part." Another fistful of alcohol travels down your esophagus. "You're only employed when it's truly serious, and the vice-admiral is known for only getting involved in those kinds of matters. It adds up, is all I’m saying."

“I hardly consider it dire. It's more a means of killing some time on my part." He does not take his eyes off of you, and even in your current state, you can tell that something is brewing beneath those sharp eyes. "However, if said captain has you in his arsenal, then I feel like some investigation is warranted. After all, the Captain of the Cross-Haired pirates is not particularly known for her tendency to submit to others."

You quirk an eyebrow at him and circle your finger around the bottle rim, pondering on the subject yet not biting at the metaphorical carrot he dangles in front of you. "Technically, it’s just like you said: I'm retired, and the Cross-Haired pirates are no more. I’d think most people are aware of that.”

"The Marines believe otherwise,” he counters calmly. “The Cross-haired pirates may be disbanded, but their captain’s bounty remains on the posters. The vice-admiral was quite adamant that, while he wants the boy alive, he’d prefer it if you weren’t."

“I see.” The vice-admiral should learn to take a fucking number. “Tell me, have you elected a means of execution, or is it the dealer's choice?"

"I recall he mentioned something along the lines of wanting your head on a spike."

"Crude."

"I agree."

"Then," you raise your glass. "Am I to have my last drink here tonight?"

He shakes his head. "No, I'm here for the boy and nothing else."

You'd expect him to be forward with his line of questions; demand you just give Luffy up and be done with it, not side-stepping the subject like he's doing now. 

If he suspects something, he'll sniff it out like a bloodhound until he gets what he's searching for, regardless of how many cards or people fall around him. You’ve not exactly been subtle about your affiliations with his quarry, something you’ll berate yourself for come morning, but it all depends on how this plays out now.

"I won’t give you the answer you seek. You’ll have to do that on your own.”

You're not friends, but you're not necessarily foes either. 

For as long as you’ve known the swordsman, Mihawk's only ever had a beef with Shanks for reasons undisclosed even to you. Even after you parted ways with your red-haired crew mate, Mihawk never seemed to have anything personal against you despite the rather brutal nature of your previous encounter. 

If anything, there's a certain level of respect veiled between you, one former pirate to another semi-former one, and it’s something you hope he'll honor just this once.

To your relief, he decides to not push the matter, but the interest lingers in his eyes. 

It's not easy to notice, but you make it a habit to take note of limited details. "The boy must be something special to have earned your loyalty like this, Cross-Hairs." 

"I suppose you'll have to find out for yourself." 

"Perhaps so," he concedes.

You chug the rest of your drink in one go, put the empty bottle on the tabletop in the space between you, and push yourself off the counter. "For what it's worth, I wish you good fortune with your endeavor. However, I’ll warn you; if anything happens to the kid, I'll get involved.”

“Duly noted.” Once again, he dips his head to you. "And Cross-Hairs,"

"Hmmm?"

You glance at him from over your shoulder, but his gaze is fixated on something else this time. Something on the other side of the bar, to the borders of the waters. If he sees anything, you can't tell what it is, and he doesn’t share. 

Not explicitly.

"There is unrest brewing in the seas," he finally reveals, casually as if he's discussing the current state of the weather. "I'd suggest you keep your feet dry for now, at your convenience."

You don't know what he speaks of, but whatever it is, you'll follow. He is not a man who prides himself on his capacity to proclaim falsehood. If he tells you that the sun is green, you'll believe it, and you make it a habit not to believe in a lot of people.

That applies to this warning too.

"I'll see you around, Hawk-Eyes."

You need another drink.

———

You slip in and out of consciousness a couple of times throughout the night, never coming to the same places twice, with a belly full of rum, beer, and whatever else with enough alcoholic percentage to knock out a horse. 

At one point, you're in the restaurant munching on some bread rolls.

At another, you're puking your guts out in the bathroom stalls. 

At the third, you're chugging even more liquor straight out of the bottle while a bunch of people cheer you on.

The circle goes on and on and on until it spins out of control like a zoetrope. Faces flash in front of you, one after the other, never the same two times in a row. 

It's alright, you tell yourself, as long as you forget.

You forget about blue eyes, blue hair, and red noses. 

You forget about Gol D. Roger and the time you spent on his crew.

You forget it all, if only for a few hours.

Next time you come to, you're still miraculously standing on your feet. You’re currently in the kitchen on the Merry, and currently listening to Nami telling a ridiculous story about how Zoro challenged Dracule Mihawk to a duel.

What a funny story.

In fact, it’s so funny and so outlandish that you can't help but snort. Since when has Nami been the kind of person to tell jokes?

Maybe Usopp's tendencies have rubbed off on the standoffish young woman, or maybe she's smoked something along with her drinks? 

Fuck, you have to ask her where she got the stuff.

It takes a few moments of awkward silence until you realize that no one is joking, Nami least of all. The room is still, and as if all alcoholic content has left your blood, it dawns on you last of all.

Oh hell no.

You slowly turn to Zoro with a deadpan look in your eyes, and despite the urgency, you ask him as calmly as you can, "You challenged Dracule Mihawk to a duel?"

He bobs his head and continues polishing his swords. "Which he accepted,"

You blink, and blink, hoping that this is just a fragment your beer-and-bottle-drenched brain has conjured to fuck with you, but Zoro remains where he is and so is everyone and everything else.

Fuuuuuuuck…

You thought he was one of the smart ones, too. His sense of navigation doesn't work for shit and if anyone can get lost on their way to the lavatory, it's him. Still, you withheld some semblance of hope that he would exhibit the same kind of recklessness as his captain.

Turns out, it has all been for naught.

You rub your temples hard enough to sting. With a nasty headache developing, you decide to pop the question. "Cremation or burial at sea?"

"... What?"

"Pick one or the other, I'll see to it that arrangements can be made."

"I'm not going to die.”

"You are a fly to him." Nami grimaces. "Something to be swatted and forgotten,"

"Not if I win." Zoro is steadfast and determined, like every new pirate on their first voyage.

It’s a look you remember well. In a way, the young swordsman kind of reminds you of Mihawk himself, and if there's one thing you can link to both, it's that annoying stubbornness that never yields. Even when the odds are against them.

"You're not going to win," Nami tries.

Zoro remains infuriatingly unconvinced. "You don't know that."

"You won't." This situation, to your chagrin, sobers you up enough that you can't blame the liquor on your next actions or words. 

You take a step towards him, and with an iron fist, grab him by the front of his shirt and force him to face you. He's unamused. “I think I liked you better when you were drunk,” he murmurs.

"I want you to get this, really get this.” You snarl. “Once you go against Mihawk, and there's no coming back for most. He's not known as the World's Greatest Swordsman for no reason, and as good as you are, take it from me. He'll end you."

He inclines his head to the side with deep-rooted skepticism. "Sounds like you really know the guy,"

"It doesn't matter whether I know him or not." 

"Everywhere we go, we make enemies, and for some reason, they've already got a grudge against you, Captain Cross-Hairs." 

With one hand clenched against your offending wrist, he starts to list off his other hand. "Since you know just about every asshole we come across, you might as well tell me about Mihawk's preferred method of execution. Will he chop me in half, or is he excessive like the damn clown and goes all the way with splitting someone into pieces?"

You feel your nails begin to pierce through the fabric of his shirt, inches away from leaving open gaps. You're not their guardian or their mentor. You're not the one supposed to keep the crew at ease or lead them towards certain victories. 

That's the captain's role, and you're not it. Not on this ship, with this crew.

Your only purpose here is to keep them from killing themselves on their first voyage, but if they're so determined to do it themselves despite the warnings you provide, then it's not on you.

Pulling him a few inches closer to you, you look him straight in the eyes, and that's when you see it. The aforementioned stubbornness that follows each and every young pirate you've come across in your life. The notion that they're invulnerable; unkillable. 

Nothing can hope to end them.

You remember what it was like, that feeling, and it almost breaks you to see it in front of you like this. 

You know aggression won’t do it for him, so you try an approach you haven’t tried in years. Bargaining. 

“What will it take for you to pull back from this?”

“He’s coming for Luffy. I’m his first mate, it’s my duty to protect the captain.”

To protect the Captain…

That's how you know that there's no convincing the young swordsman to stand down, not this time. 

He's persistent, exceedingly so, and if there's one thing you've learned during this voyage with these people it's that hell hath no fury like a straw hat pirate determined.

This is not on you, yet it doesn't make it any easier to let go of him. But you do.

Taking a deep breath, you uncurl your fingers and let him step back. 

"Fine."

You need another drink.

Glancing over your shoulder, you meet Luffy’s concerned gaze. “This is your call, captain.”

You don’t need to be here for this. You’ve done your part, and now it’s his turn to do his.

You give Zoro a pat on his back, just one. It's not meant for comfort, it's not an act of sympathy either. 

It's just a pat, like the kind you give your friend when they're about to gamble away all their savings over a game of cards. It’s the “fuck around and find out, but do it yourself”-kind of gesture.

Heaving a sigh, you sidestep him and let your fingers fall off his shoulders. "It's been fun, Zoro." 

And the worst part about this all is that you mean it, truly. It has been fun to sail with them, share a few beers, and joke at the expense of others. Your time on this ship has been fun. 

Like old times.

You won't go as far as to call Zoro a friend, you never do, but it's close enough that you'll probably miss him in the long run.

Zoro looks at you, his countenance indecipherable. "Say that to me again when I win this fight,"

"I can't." Because you won't.

---

The water forces its way into his lungs at such speed that it feels like he's swallowed buckets by the time they finally come up for air. He harks and coughs and tries to get as much of it out, but he doesn’t feel any lighter. 

Get it? Lighter, because he’s just a head now and— alright, forget it.

For once, he's happy his head is disjointed from the rest of his body because if it wasn't, he'd probably sink to the bottom of the ocean from the fluid in his belly alone.

The taste of salt and sand stays like a sour afterthought on his tongue, and as much as he tries to spit it out, he can't be rid of all the grains. "Fuck! Give me a warning next time, will ya?! Kinda vulnerable to seawater and all that!"

Whatever fish-guy has him strapped to their back this time does not dignify his complaints with a verbal response. Instead, all he hears is a couple of snickers, like their humor is fuelled at his expense. 

Assholes, the lot of them. 

It takes some time for the tangy scent to abandon his nostrils, but once it does, it's immediately replaced by the fine scent of something divine. Something delicious. 

It smells of food. Actual fucking human food. Not whatever Arlong and his litter gorge on, which he personally believes to be carcasses of dead sea animals they happen to catch on the shores of their island. 

It's honest-to-god cooked, seasoned, edible food.

Buggy can feel his mouth water, and for once, he cannot blame it on seawater.

They're finally at Baratie.

The finest restaurant in all the East Blue, renowned for its excellent taste and unrivaled quality. Only the richest of the rich get to dine here, and while he's not exactly flowing with berries at the moment, he’s famished.

“Hey, Lips!" he yells out as loud as he can through the shitty bag. "How about you order me some hot dogs once we get a seat? A clown's gotta eat!"

The only sort of response he gets is an elbow to the bag, which incidentally clashes right into his nose. "FUCK!"

"Shut up!"

There's scuttling to be heard, doors opening, and a shitton of gasps echo from all around him. They have an audience, he deduces, and not a particularly receptive one at that. 

Arlong makes a spectacle, something about "serve" and yish and yash about dinner and last meals as they get a seat.

Fuck, what he would give for a meal.

For the first time in what feels like forever, he feels solid ground settle under his neck. Though it's a pleasant reprieve from being thrown back and forth like a yarn ball caught in a cat’s game, he won’t consider it much of an upgrade. He's fucking hungry, damnit!

"Who are you, old man?" Arlong speaks, and Buggy hears uneven steps approach them.

An unfamiliar voice answers. "My name's Zeff, and I own this place."

Right, the Chief. Maybe he can ask him for some crumbs since his captors aren’t exactly on the generous side.

"Well, I'm Arlong, and I own the East Blue."

"No one owns the sea. Not even a fish man."

Ooooh, burn! Suck on that, shitface!

"Listen up!” Arlong exclaims when the chief’s negotiation tactics fail to appease him. “I'm looking for a pirate in a straw hat! Goes by the name of Luffy!"

The saw-nosed motherfucker truly has to be even more extravagant than himself, Buggy admits to himself with no short amount of begrudging compliance. Fishface even goes as far as to threaten the poor diners with having them for dinner instead, by the sounds of it. 

Buggy can appreciate the message it conveys; he’s used it himself, but he refuses to find any common ground with his captor, so he buries the sentiment ten feet down into wherever the hell his body is.

He listens as the diners lose their appetite, all the while Arlong begins to gorge on whatever he has on his plate. For a while, all he can make out is the sound of meat being torn off something and the occasional cry from one of the diners in the distance.

Even from miles and miles away, Buggy can feel his stomach twist painfully due to the lack of food in it. Oh, it’s hell on earth to smell everything you want yet being unable to even grasp it. And here his captors are, toying with him, torturing him with it.

Seriously, fuck them.

He’s about to demand to get something to chew on when Arlong’s other henchman — Kuroobi or some shit like that — beats him to it. "Hey, boss, I'm feeling for a bottle right about now."

Arlong laughs. "Don’t have to tell me. Take what you please. I don’t think that one will mind sharing one of hers.”

“And get one for me too while you’re at it,” Lips supplies.

The henchman cackles and gets up to his feet to retrieve what he’s looking for, but not before lightly kicking the bag that is Buggy’s current prison cell in the side. 

“HEY!”

“Sorry.” He apologizes unapologetically.

Buggy grinds his teeth together and tries to think of something — anything — to keep his mind off his ever-rising hunger. When he gets his body back, he'll take some bottles and shove them right up these fuckers a—

CRASH!

Buggy hears the sound of something breaking from the opposite side of where the fish man just headed. Countless gasps ring through the restaurant’s interior, bouncing on the walls, and he hears the henchman’s painful wails from a distance away.

He’d laugh - he does laugh, because it seems like someone didn’t want to share their precious drinks and decided that full-on attacking one of the fish people was the appropriate kind of response.

It’s impressive, he thinks. Very much so. Oh, he’d pay to see that again, and he’ll have to give that person a fucking kiss, just for making his day a little bit better.

It’s a shame he can’t see the—

"Fucking get lost."

Buggy feels his head freeze in the bag.

He recognizes that voice. The morning sun shone atop the ship deck. Warm. Cold. All of them at once. 

He's finally found you.

---

Taglist: @kurinhimenezu, @carpinchootaku, @ay0nha, @teh-vampire-bunny, @lokiscure, @internationalsuper-spy, @detectivesparrow , @yuriwk , @notyuralycat , @angeli-fucking-cat, @machinema7k , @shuujin, @avatar-lover, @gingernut1314, @autumn-slaves. @marvelouskatie, @floristoflillys, @dizzyenby, @redpool, @deliri-yum22, @aemondsb1tch, @ackroxia, @gayandfairycore (If you want to be tagged for this story, just send me a message or leave a comment :))

[thewertsearch]

@manorinthewoods asked: We're still midway through Act 5, but I'd like to ask - what do you theorise will happen in the rest of A5 and in Acts 6 and 7 of Homestuck? ~LOSS (7/6/24)

It's an interesting question. We're coming up on the halfway point of the comic, but our current main plotlines - namely, Murderstuck, the Blackout, the Green Sun and the Scratch - all feel like they'll be wrapped up in a thousand-ish pages, along with the kids' session and the Act itself. The question of what's next is beginning to present itself, and I have a few thoughts.

My main prediction is that back half of the comic will be extremely English-centric. As the man behind Scratch's schemes, he's going to be revealed as the 'true' villain who's ultimately responsible for the current crisis, as well as crises yet to come. I think he'll elbow Perfect Jack out of the primary antagonist's position - and honestly, his chief minion is already more intimidating than Jack.

To contrast Noir, I think English will be a less instinctive, more cerebral villain. His choice of Scratch as a lieutenant suggests that he's more about carefully laid plans than open aggression, and his absence from the Felt Intermission suggests he prefers to hide in the shadows, weaving a web of conspiracy that would put Vriska to shame.

As a result, I expect the next arc of Homestuck to be more about information warfare than flashy displays of power. Our heroes will need to advance their understanding of the multiverse's wider cosmology, as they come to terms with what English is, what he wants, and most importantly, how to stop him.

The later arcs of the comic will involve discovering a glitch in spacetime that can break through English's supposed invincibility, while English works to keep the protagonists in the dark about his weaknesses. How this weakness could manifest, I can't say - but I do think Spades Slick will be directly involved in his demise.

Outside of English, I think the world of Homestuck will expand in other ways, too. It might finally be time to make contact with other Sburb Players, since our current sessions aren't going to be habitable for much longer. We might even be leaving the 'session' framework behind entirely, and travelling through the Furthest Ring to parts unknown.

I know these aren't very specific predictions, but it's hard to be specific about events which are thousands of pages away. I still don't know how the Pen-Pal fits into everything, for example, or why Gamzee is so important to the story.

I guess we'll find out together!

[agalychnisspranneusroseus]

While Marcy miraculously staying in LA after the events of Amphibia """misses the point""" and """ruins the story""", my most self indulgent side NEEDS to see these three together in Highschool. I need Sasha being a bit of a mean girl especially to people who look at her girls weird. Yes she HAS spread people's secrets yes she HAS destroyed the self-esteem of countless boys yes she HAS gotten half the cheerleading squad kicked out while jumping through all the moral loopholes imaginable to be juuust on the side of chaotic good and not chaotic neutral. All because they said something mean about the time Marcy freaked out like a baby over a blackout, or because they mocked the food Anne brought from home. Need Anne being surprisingly popular, a big sports girly, seeing her two girls cheering for her during her games - one of them as an actual cheerleader, the other with big signs and maybe a trumpet or something. Need Marcy with her weak nerdy legs (and lingering nerve damage oops) asking Sasha for piggyback rides on the way home, discussing anime and FPS videogames with her while Anne carries her backpack, phone in her free hand, waiting for those two to be distracted so she can snap a picture.

I want them to be so uncommonly affectionate with each other in school, that everyone finds them kinda weird but their families have given very explicit Do Not Separate orders so the teachers let them be. They've been through a lot. Doesn't stop the cheerleading squad laughing at Sasha and questioning how come she'd rather hang out with her two kindergarden friends - one being cringe and nerdy and the other being dumber than a bag of rocks - instead of dating any of the cute boys that always ask her out, or how come she always cancels plans on them as soon as one of her girls calls. Sasha will make sure to teach them not to question her in the future.

The teachers quickly realize Marcy's potential but also notice she only hangs out with two girls who are pretty lazy and are barely passing their classes, and they wonder if they're using her to get good grades. Those two do seem to fit the stereotype of the jock and the mean girl taking a nerd under their wing to make them do their homework. Marcy does help them study, but she doesn't lose sleep over it - she knows they're smart and they'll figure it out, she's just there for a little encouragement. They just haven't seen the care and concern with which they hold her when her chest starts burning all of a sudden, how they race after her to the bathroom whenever she's feeling unwell, how protectively they cuddle her at sleepovers.

Anne has her own group of jock friends separate from Marcy and Sasha, and they get along fine, but they're beginning to think it's odd that she turns down every boy that asks her out, while lighting up like a flower in the sun whenever she gets a call from one of her girls. They ask her about it at one point, and all she says is "I don't really think I want a boyfriend. These two already take enough of my time", with a fond smile and a tender tone of voice that might make you think there's more to it if you had any idea of the concept of consensual non-monogamy, or lesbians. But you're a teenage boy so what you think is more along the lines of "wow they seem like very good friends".

[sylosofgrain]

You thought it was just parkour civilisation on this page? Ha! I’ve been a Grian subscriber 2015 boys, it’s time for some life series posting.

I feel one of the fandoms most under considered concepts is the lasting impacts between series. A joke is made by Bdubs through his skin at the start of season three, still having on the beaten up red life skin and saying he still hadn’t recovered from the events of last life.

While for the most part people return in one piece to the next series, coaxed by the watchers to battle once more, I love exploring the idea of final deaths having some kind of impact on them. For some, as of Last Life, it’s only scars they can hide beneath shirts, wounds where arrows struck their heart or swords pierced their stomachs. Yet Scar can’t help but occasionally labour in breathing, and having his neck crick at odd times. Grian’s legs aching when he stands, wearing splints, eventually using a cane to support the damage done to his knees.

When Double Life comes about, it’s greater, it’s been more violent. Pearl still shudders in the heat of the sun, skin too sensitive to heat. So she wears cloaks, she wears her hood. Joel and Martyn suffer bouts of hacking coughs, feeling as though their lungs themselves are blackened and damaged. Ren covering up bite marks and rotting scratches that will never quite heal. Scott beginning to deal with blistering migraines that white out his vision and ring through his ears, as if his brain itself was fighting against him to shut out the world.

And the carnage Double Life brings! Grian and Scar suffering hearing loss (this whole post was actually just disability aid design propaganda, more characters should have aids, whether it be mobility, hearing, vision, etc because I love projecting and I said so) BigB and Ren dealing with blackout headaches that leave them bed bound, or the chronic nerve pain Scott is left with after blowing himself up.

I hope I’m making sense, I’m shaking you all by the shoulders, this is a concept I want to (tastefully) see more of

[ninjamelissajulien]

I'm gonna rant about Zane for a moment so bear with me

Zane's Motif is Humanity and Betrayal.

From his first conversations with the group, to his chapter book, to Night of the Nindroids, to Tournament of Elements, to SOG/Hunted/MOTO, to the Ice Emperor, to Crystalized, and now Dragons Rising- there is a repetition of Zane not being human. 'He's not like us'. 'He's weird... no, he's weird weird.'

Going into the Pilot Era (Season 0 through S1E6 The Snake King), Zane was always different in how he spoke, acted, and almost existed. Part of this is the brilliant voice acting by Brent Miller- he/Zane speaks very eloquently, a bit monotone but still full of emotion. "Yes. It was a joke. Ha, ha." "The Golden Weapons have left this realm and are now in the Underworld. The end is drawing near." Zane is blunt in how he speaks, yet internally he's in pain. He doesn't know where he comes from, where his family is, or who is family is. One of my favorite lines is from the early chapter books, Kai: Ninja of Fire. "I envy you." "No, I envy the fact that you know they're gone." Zane, at this point, is orphaned with no memory of his family. Kai decides to drop everything to help Zane find his old village and look for any sign of his past (fun fact: Zane and Kai are drugged in his book, I'm dead serious). Although, they do not find anything to help Zane and his past, it allows the pair to bond and grow closer.

In Zane's own chapter book, he is tempted by Garmadon for information about his past. If he gives up the Golden Weapons (and betrays his friends), Garmadon would tell him about his family and their whereabouts. This is the first of numerous instances of someone in power tempted Zane with something he desires, but to achieve it he would have to betray his friends. Zane is tempted. He misses the idea of what his family could be, the false idea of where he came from. Zane, of course, doesn't fall for it, but it's a lingering wonder of is Garmadon telling the truth? Did he really know who Zane's family was? Were they still alive, looking for him?

My favorite graphic novel, (other than the first volume, The Challenge of Samukai), is Night of the Nindroids. This book, taking place between the Art of the Silent Fist and Blackout, focuses on Zane and his feeling of isolation. Yes, he's a ninja, but he's a nindroid. Is he truly on the right team, or should he be with his own kind? In NITN, Zane is separated from the team and brought to the Overlord (Garmadon calls him a "toaster with attitude").

"What are you afraid of? Or can a collection of nuts and bolts even feel fear? No, you can't. Not fear, not hate, not even love, just imitations of those feelings. You are a robot. But I have the power to make you more! Defeat the other ninja for me, and I will transfer your mind into one of their bodies! I will make you human!" the Overlord to Zane.

On a side note: Night of the Nindroids is an incredibly fucked up concept. Zane would get to choose who's body he would take over, inevitably killing the original person. He chooses Kai, meaning (if) he went through with it, he would be living in Kai's body while Kai himself is dead. :)

Back to the point. Zane is tempted with the idea of becoming human. Of feeling emotions, of being able to get hurt, of "feeling the sun on your skin", of being normal. And, he does agree to work with the Overlord (as mentioned previously, choosing Kai's body to inhabit). He, single-handedly, takes down Cole, Jay, and Kai. Zane, though, doesn't want Lloyd anywhere near the events so he sends him away to bond with Sensei Garmadon, but he also sends Nya on a mission. He knows that Nya is intelligent and needs her out of the way for everything to succeed. Even the cover itself shows Zane's separation from the team; while Kai/Jay/Cole are caught, Zane is in front with his internal systems being revealed. He's even in his damaged appearance, showing the mechanics under his false skin. I won't spoil it, because it is a fantastic graphic novel, but it shows that Zane by himself is incredibly strong and powerful.

Tournament of Elements is the death of Human!Zane and the introduction of Titanium!Zane. In his previous appearance, he was able to pass as a human, unless he was drastically injured, but now, in his titanium form, it's even more obvious that he's different. He has PTSD and panic attacks from his encounter with Death. Zane, at this point in time, is the only one who's died and come back, further separating him from being human. But, I feel like, this could aid in his desire for humanity. He knows how precious life is, he knows how easily things can go from bad to impossible. His whole reasoning for living is "to protect those who cannot protect themselves"- from an outside perspective, it's a way for him to be a hero. But, on a deeper level, its almost a suicidal way of seeing things. He was built to face the danger so others wouldn't. Now, that's just my perspective on that.

The Oni Trilogy brings in Zane's cloaking. A way for him to be human again, while still being himself. He's able to switch between blending into the crowd in plain sight versus being himself. Though this does not change how he acts, it allows him a cover especially for when he needs to be hidden (Snake Jaguar).

Now. The Ice Emperor. Arguably the opposition to Zane himself. The Ice Emperor is what could've happened if someone found pre-pilot Zane and used him for their own selfish desires. Both start out as someone with no memories, no compass, just a lost child. Zane, pre-pilot, finds the village he later lives in and allows himself to be aided. Here, he is given things to do and ways to help others before being given the chance, by Wu, to find and better himself. The Ice Emperor is turned into a weapon. He's not allowed to think for himself, every decision is made and manipulated by Vex. The dialogue between IE and Vex is repetitious. The Ice Emperor is stripped of his humanity, betraying himself in the process. His powers are used to cause pain and suffering, killing Krag's family, freezing the Formlings, and causing a realm-wide ice age.

Even how the Ice Emperor sits on his throne shows how captive he is to Vex. Every time that IE moves from the throne, he has to shatter the layer of ice that forms over his arms/body. He's constantly asleep/powered down, possibly due to the amount of energy the Staff is demanding (especially for holding it for so many decades).

Crystalized is the closest Zane gets to voluntarily losing his humanity. the Ice Emperor was forcefully stripped from him, but Crystalized has him choose to lock his emotions away. He doesn't know how to deal with the grief of losing Nya. Even being with Pixal and Cole can't get him out of his depressive funk. It takes an outside perspective of allowing emotions out for him to see that its okay to be emotional, that being emotional is being human.

[sonnet009games]

Incubus Chapter 2.5

(A small glimpse into Flea's POV sometime between Chapter 2 and 3. For mature readers only.)

The sun was way too bright; the day way too young. Flea didn't regret flouncing out of the detective's apartment—it was a damn good flounce—but it would've been better if he could've killed more time there. There were a few bars on Pink Street that opened at midday, and he could hole up in a corner of one of them until it was time to move on to Shangri-La, but fucking Christ—what a long day.

He was still left with a few hours to while away before then, and his feet had carried him to Moss Park before he'd even realized he was heading anywhere in particular. It was a quiet, green patch of tranquility in the middle of the city, and ever since the night a few years back when he'd woken up there after a blackout evening of true craziness, he'd sometimes found himself coming back of his own volition on days like these, when the hours were so long and the thoughts so loud.

He took a seat on a bench by the little pond and half-watched the still, green water. He didn't regret what he'd said. None of it. Not even the really vicious shit. There'd be no point in regretting it. It happened. It had to happen.

The sun broke through the clouds, warm enough that Flea didn't hate it. It had been jacket weather for a while, and he hadn't had a jacket since he lost his last one—nearly eight months ago now. Time flew. Well, it did and it didn't.

A man appeared in his periphery and sat on the bench beside him. His nervous energy clued Flea in right away that the man was here for him. This always happened now. You visit a park a few times, just so happen to get a little hungry and successfully proposition a passerby one time, and the bench you did it on gets a reputation and suddenly you can't come to the park to just sit for a few minutes ever again.

Flea opened his mouth to tell the man to fuck off, then stopped himself. What was the alternative? Sitting here, alone with his thoughts? Revisiting the events of the last 24 hours again and again until noon? Remembering the look on the detective's face—

"Fuck it. I could eat." He turned and lounged against the bench. "Hey, handsome."

Until Chapter 3...

[gothic-bunny]

Sunday Morning

Summary:

You and Xavier get up to some lazy morning sex after you spend the night in his dorm. 

Contains:

Sex. Duh. It’s between an afab reader and Xavier, so you can guess what parts are used.  It’s told in second person. No y/n or gendered pronouns for the reader here.  The sex is unprotected. Condoms are important guys.  It’s fluffy but it’s a sarcastic kind of fluffy. The reader definitely has Dom sort of undercurrent.  Technically underaged, or you can consider them as eighteen-year-olds. Or you can consider the fact while the character is about sixteen, the actor is twenty-one.  I guess there’s also fingering, hickeys, and some hints of hair-pulling? Do those need separate warnings? I don’t know what I’m doing.

Oh, and it’s about two-thousand words long. 

Author’s Note:

Remember that time that I said this would be out before the end of February? Yeah, me too. College midterms are a bitch. Also this is my first fanfic post to Tumblr and to the fandom so if there’s publishing etiquette I’m missing or other constructive criticism, please let me know. Also, if you can guess the band and album for the song I stole the title from, two gold stars for you. 

Smut Below The Cut.

You awoke to sunlight streaming through an open window and smacking you in the face. Vile sun. You attempted to roll over, pulling the blankets with you, but the blankets pulled back. Weird. Come to think of it, waking up to sunlight was also weird. Blackout curtains were part and parcel when one was roommates with a vampire. Giving the blankets another tug, you buried your face in the pillow underneath you, trying to recall the events of the night before.

There had been a Nightshade meeting. You had snuck out of your dorm room after your roommate had fallen asleep. The meeting had run later than usual. When Bianca had called the meeting to a close at three in the morning after a game of 'Never Have I Ever' had gotten out of hand, Xavier had insisted that it was his 'good boyfriend duties' to walk you back to your dorm. It was then that you realized the time and that there was no way you were successfully sneaking back into your dorm room that night. Which would mean that you were...

A look to your left confirmed it. Xavier's caramel-colored hair spilled over the bed in ribbons, his left elbow propping up his peacefully sleeping face. You reached over and poked his cheek, causing his brows to crinkle slightly and air to escape harshly out his nose. His reaction was cute, so you prodded him again, harder, and this time closer to his mouth. Bleary eyes squinted back yours as Xavier woke up, eyelashes fluttering against the sunlight.

"What'd you do that for?"

You ran your thumb over his lower lip, pulling back when he tried to stick out his tongue and lick it. "You looked cute."

"But I was sleeping," his disgruntled tone contrasted sharply with how he placed his right hand against the small of your back and pulled you closer to him and away from the edge of the bed.

"Go back to sleep then," you retorted, throwing a leg over him and pulling the two of you closer together. Gently gripping his jaw, you tilted his head up, pressing a kiss into the corner of his mouth.

"Maybe I will," Xavier retorted, chasing your lips for a kiss. You evaded him, turning his face away from yours so you could begin to suck a hickey on the place where his jawline curved to meet his ear. "Hey--not fair--I can't sleep when you're doing that!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you want me to stop?" Xavier gasped when you bit down lightly, then whined when you pulled away. "I'll let you go back to sleep then."

"No--wait--that's not--I wanted--" Xavier's hand moved from being outside your t-shirt to pushing the fabric up so that he could run his fingers over the bare skin of your back, tickling you slightly. This motion was coupled with his hips bucking up to meet you, growing erection dragging against your pelvis.

"What is it that you wanted?" Your hand went from his jaw to his hair, fingers threading through the strands against his scalp before grabbing a fistful. Using his hair as leverage, you pulled him into a kiss, teeth scraping against his lower lip as he moaned.

"You--fuck--" Xavier's voice broke off into a moan when you reached into his sweatpants and wrapped your hand around his dick, firmly stroking from base to tip. His hips jerked up to meet your touch, fingers fumbling to pull down the black panties you were wearing. "I want--"

The angle at which your bodies met was awkward, so you rolled the two of you over to straddle his upper thighs, panties tangled around your ankles and t-shirt getting turned inside-out as you took it off. Utilizing your new vantage point, you pulled down his sweatpants, exposing his now-leaking dick. "Want me to ride you?"

"Yeah--okay--please--" You pushed two fingers into his mouth, shutting him up. While Xavier had many talents, coherency during sex was not one of them. When your fingers were sufficiently coated in spit, you dragged them along his tongue and over his lower lip, a string of saliva falling back as they left his mouth.

You were wet enough that figuring out where Xavier kept his lube wasn't worth it, so instead, you used your newly spit-coated fingers to stretch yourself once, twice, three times, feeling him push against your opposite palm that you had planted against his stomach in order to hold him still. Sinking down onto his dick felt like being flooded with warmth, your legs trembling as your pussy stretched to accommodate him. You paused when he bottomed out, adjusting your hands so that your thumbs brushed along the valleys of his hips. Taking a breath to ground yourself, you attempted to make eye contact with Xavier, whose eyes were scrunched closed as his breath came out in pants.

"Xavi?" His eyes opened at the sound of his name, hands gliding over your thighs and ass before finding purchase at your waist. You rolled your hips, grinning as he let out a breathy moan. "How're we feeling?"

Xavier gave you a look that would've read as "how the fuck do you think" if it hadn't been so blissed out. You rolled your hips again, letting out a moan yourself as you built up a steady pace, going from little more than a slow rocking motion to a faster--but still lazy--rhythm. It's too early, and you're still too sleepy for anything more energetic. Xavier seems to disagree, whining when you don't let him speed things up.

"Faster...please?" Ordinarily, you'd give in to Xavier's begging, but this time listening to his whimpering would be more rewarding. The signs that he was getting close--like the faint crease between his eyebrows and the trembling of his lower lip--were starting to appear already, and you wanted to savor the moment.

He turned out to be closer than you thought. You were running your palms over his chest, feeling his heartbeat pounding through his ribcage--when abruptly he grabbed your forearms, fingers digging into you almost painfully. His mouth opened in a silent scream as you felt his hips jerk against yours, and your pussy was suddenly flooded with warm spurts of cum. You waited for him to stop shaking, gently removing your arms from his grip after he went limp and carefully lifting yourself off his now-spent dick. Pressing a kiss to his hairline, you waited for him to return to reality, your own climax not yet reached.

"Xavi...?" He blinked rapidly, then rolled onto his side to look at you. "Help me out here?" Xavier squinted at you, confused, then his eyes widened in realization.

"Right...yeah..." He reached up a hand, thumb brushing lightly over your clit before sliding two fingers into you, the cum still leaking out of you a stand-in for lubricant. "Like this?"

Xavier knew you wanted it like that, but you figured it was fair play after your "how're we feeling" comment. Unlike him, you didn't lose your ability to sass back just because you were so aroused you felt like you were vibrating. "Fuck you."

"You just did." Xavier laughed as he picked up the pace of his fingers, using his other hand to grab one of your tits, thumb brushing over your nipple. You reacted with a moan, not bothering to respond to his teasing. Just because you had the ability to sass back didn't mean it was worth it. Sitting up a bit, Xavier replaced his thumb with his mouth, swirling his tongue over your nipple before sucking a hickey into the sensitive skin of your cleavage. You could feel him smiling against your skin as you gasped, your body tingling with your rapidly approaching orgasm.

Pressing a kiss against the hickey he'd left, Xavier switched to the other side, the hand not preoccupied with fingering you placed between your shoulder blades, pressing your tits further into his face as he began to work at a second hickey to mirror the first. It was the feeling of his mouth coupled with the scrape of a blunt nail over your clit that finally broke the dam, your orgasm washing over you in waves and your legs shaking with pleasure.

The feeling of his hair running through your fingers, his hands against your bare skin, and the texture of wrinkles in the bedsheets under you were all heightened--along with a vague awareness of Xavier shifting his hold on you into something more resembling a hug. Slowly, you loosened your grip on his hair, fingers flexing as feeling seeped back into them. You took a few deep breaths to bring yourself back into the physical plane, returning Xavier's hug and pressing a kiss into his hair. He mumbled something into your cleavage, but your mind still wasn't present enough to make sense of it.

"Hmm...?" You questioned. Folding your legs underneath you so that you both were now sitting face-to-face, you brushed back some errant strands of his hair to better see his eyes. "What was that?"

"I was wondering what time it was. And also thinking aloud that you're beautiful," Xavier tacked onto the end when the corner of your mouth twitched. But he was right though; getting dressed and out of bed was probably a good idea. Pulling away from the hug, you leaned across his lap to grab your phone and your t-shirt that had ended up tossed over Xavier's bedside table.

"You're not too bad yourself, Sweetheart. Can I borrow a pair of sweatpants?" Though somewhat preoccupied with turning your t-shirt inside out and pulling it over your head, you caught a glimpse of Xavier blushing at the pet-name. "Five seconds ago, your face was buried between my tits, but 'Sweetheart' makes you blush?"

"Shut up. 'S different," Xavier mumbled in response, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and locating his pants. "Did you check the time?"

"Eleven and some change. You're still dripping out of me." You ran two fingers over the fluids leaking out your pussy and held them up as evidence. Preoccupied with pulling his sweatpants over his hips, Xavier was not paying attention, so you stuck them in your mouth instead. "Do you have tissues or a washcloth or something?"

"Um, yeah. One second." Xavier tossed you a box of Kleenex, followed by the pair of pants you had worn the night before. "Do you need anything else?"

"Not really." You cleaned yourself up as best as possible with the tissues, then pulled up your panties, followed by your pants, grimacing at the slightly sticky feeling. You grabbed your phone, confirmed you hadn't forgotten anything, then gave Xavier a quick kiss on the cheek. "Mostly a change of clothes and a shower."

"Yeah, okay. Meet me in the cafeteria for lunch?" Xavier pulled you back from his door into a more forceful goodbye kiss.

You smiled against his lips, then pulled away, opening the door out of his dorm. "Yeah, see you in fifteen."

[anotherdayforchaosfay]

For folks in the US celebrating 4th of July with explosives aka fireworks:

Please be considerate and don't set property on fire. This means taking care when setting off fireworks. The grass is very dry, there are a lot of dead trees and dead tree limbs and branches, and no one wants to deal with (very preventable) fires.

Fireworks that shoot up are illegal in many cities and states. and for good reason.

There are plenty of empty parking lots. Consider using them for setting off fireworks. The chances of setting places on fire is greatly diminished there. Bring chairs, a cooler, snacks, and make an event of it.

Keep safety in mind, as well as the law and why such a law exists. This may otherwise be the last weekend you have all 10 fingers on your hands.

Another thing worth mentioning is many war veterans haaaaaate fireworks. I know several who pack up and run far away because fireworks are a massive PTSD trigger. You may see it as celebration, but for them it is pain and suffering they relive in great detail. It certainly doesn't apply to all veterans, but it's enough that should make you consider using parking lots rather than your driveway or street.

In my case, I'm autistic and have epilepsy and a low seizure threshold. The noise fireworks make is physically painful. The flashing triggers seizures. I'm in the bedroom with blackout curtains over the window and earplugs in my ears as soon as the sun begins to set. I won't be asking neighbors to tone it down because this is a me problem. What I am requesting is that y'all consider not set off fireworks in the neighborhood after July 7th. There's also my intense fear of fire because I lost my home seven years ago due to neighbors setting off fireworks all the way to the middle of July and getting careless. That's a problem many have suffered.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope you're more considerate of your neighbors, war veterans with PTSD, you don't lose any of your fingers, and have a good time while being careful with explosives.

[jaegersmae]

Stargazing - Eren Jaeger

Chapter One: Here Comes the Sun

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Series Summary: After you get dragged to a concert following a crazy night of events you somehow end up becoming the new photographer for an upcoming band, where you end up reconnecting with an old friend Eren Jaeger, and are welcomed into the band's inner circle.

Chapter Summary: After a strange encounter with two strangers you're dragged to a concert and are strangely reconnected with old friends.

After snoozing your alarm for the past hour you finally wake up to the loud sound of your door being slammed open and the voice of someone you know all too well.

"Wake up already! I'm so tired of hearing your alarms go off." Historia screams to you as she paces down to the side of your bed to your blackout curtains. "No wonder you're still sleeping, these curtains never let in any light." Just as you were about to scream at her to not open the blinds she swiftly opened both curtains in one action allowing the light to seep in throughout the room.

"Was that really necessary, Hisu?" you say as you reach over to one of your pillows to cover your face from the blinding morning light.

"It was the only way that would have woken you up in time for your photoshoot."

Just as those words left Historia's mouth you rapidly reached for your phone checking the time in a panic. "Fuck, fuck I'm gonna be so late," you shouted rushing out of bed and scattering across your room to try and get ready in less than 10 minutes. "Thanks, Hisu I completely forgot I had that shoot scheduled today."

"Yeah no problem, I kinda figured that's why I came in to make sure you were up. If you want I can drive you. I don’t have to go into work till later today and then I have to get ready for tonight. Will you be ready on time?"

"Tonight? What's going on tonight?" You're rummaging through your closet looking for the jean skirt you planned on wearing the night before. "There's no way you forgot." She laughed walking to the kitchen to have a cup of coffee ready for you when you walk out.

"Shit. I forgot the concert was tonight. I still haven’t fully agreed to go along with you!" You shouted while doing the finishing touches of your appearance. You decided to wear a denim mini skirt, a white lace tank top, Doc Marten leather platforms, rings scattered across your fingers, and the dragonfly necklaces you've had longer than you can remember.

While walking down the hall to leave the apartment you were struggling to put your earring in without the help of a mirror. The apartment Historia and you share is a penthouse in West Village that Historia's dad pays for, for the both of you. It was always spotless and well-decorated due to Historia's love for interior design.

"Here's your coffee with milk just like how you like it!" she said with the sweetest smile. "Thank you so much babe, what would I do without you!" Historia put her finger to her cheek as if she was thinking very hard about what you had just asked her. "Hmm probably living on the street begging for money on the side of some random gas station."

You spit out what was in your mouth laughing from the lack of sarcasm in her voice. "You are so lucky you didn't get any coffee on our clothes!" She exclaimed while reaching for paper towels to clean up the mess you made.

"You're not wrong though, I probably would've resorted to living in my car after we graduated!" And she really wasn't wrong. Historia has been your best friend since the first day of college. You both got assigned to be roommates during your freshman year at NYU and you both have been inseparable ever since. You wish you couldn't remember your life before meeting Historia. She's the most amazing person you know which is surprising for most people to hear considering how rich and spoiled she is. Her dad is the CEO of a law firm in the city and has a hard time saying no to any of his daughters' requests. Despite being more than well off she's one of the most humble and down-to-earth people you've ever met.

"Anyways, you said you were gonna drive me?" You say to her blinking your lashes and with the sweetest smile she can't refuse. "Yes, yes let's get going." She said reaching for her purse and coat. "Yay! I love you so much!"

You ran toward the front door where you always kept your camera bag and equipment. You have always loved photography and cameras, even when you were a little girl you would always be running around with a mini camera in hand. You loved the idea of being able to make a moment last forever through pictures so much so that you decided to try and make a career out of it.

As you're gathering your stuff you throw on a cardigan from the coat hanger and walk out the door. Historia shouts from halfway down the hall, "Race you down!" 

"Hey, that's not fair!" You sprint down the hall hoping to catch the elevator in time before it closes with Hisu on the other side of the door. Thankfully you were able to slip your foot in the elevator while it was closing forcing the door to open for you. 

Out of breath and already sweating due to that being the most physically active thing you’ve done all month. "I can't with you sometimes." She had the most guilty face and burst out laughing from seeing how out of breath you were. "Let's get you to your shoot already!" 

After making it to the car it took about a minute of driving around before Historia realized she had no idea where she was going. "Wait a second, where am I even supposed to go?"

"Oh yeah! My bad. To Central Park please."

"What was your shoot for anyways?" she said questioning why you would need to be at Central Park so early in the morning. 

"Some lady from the Upper East Side hired me to take pictures of her dog for its first birthday." You said while going through your gear on your lap to double-check that you had everything you needed for today.

She glanced over to you "Wait you're taking pictures of a dog?" She let out a laugh not believing what you were saying.

"Yeah..."

"Y/n! You literally have a college degree, you can do so much better."

"Okay well, I didn't expect the need for photographers to be so low. At least it's something!" defending yourself because in reality after you graduated in May this is the second time you've been hired for something in five months. The first was taking pictures of different types of fertilizer for a flower shop. "Plus you know how these Upper East Side people are, they would waste no expense for these kinds of things!"

"That is true. They love their pets more than their children sometimes. How much are you getting paid for it?" 

"About $200 an hour." Historia nearly drove into another car once those words left your mouth. "All of that for their dog?!" She sounded so shocked at how well you were being paid. You had braced your hand onto the door from the sudden motion of the car swerving to the left, "Hands on the wheel! I would like to not die today!"

"Sorry! That is so much considering this is all for a dog's birthday! Maybe I should've become a photographer instead." Her mouth was still slightly open from the shock of how much you're getting paid and from nearly driving into oncoming traffic. "Trust me you don't. You get paid so much for being a realtor! Plus you already have a handful of clients hiring you and this is only my second job." you said with a little frustration in your voice. You thought by now you would have had dozens of job offers and achieved your dream of working for National Geographic, but life had very different plans for you.

Thankfully from that point on to when you made it to Central Park, there were no more close calls with Historia’s driving. You finally arrived and double-checked the time to ensure you weren't running late. "It's 8:50, 10 minutes early to the shoot. Thank you so much for the ride" you said, getting out of Historia's luxurious vehicle. 

"Are you gonna need a ride back home once you're done?" she questioned while helping you get your bag from the floor where you were previously sitting. "No I'm good, I was just gonna walk back or take the subway. So you have all day to get ready for tonight!"

"You already know I'm going to look my best! I might meet my soulmate tonight so I'm gonna need a good meet cute story to tell our kids." Her pinks flushed pink from the thought.

🎵: [start playing Here Comes The Sun by The Beatles]

You couldn't help but laugh at how adorable she was being, "Have fun with that I'm gonna start going now." You shut her door close as she was getting ready to drive off "I love you let me know if you need anything!" You smiled at her "Love you too!" and off she drove after dropping you off on the south side of the park where the shoot was. Since you still had time to spare you decided to walk a bit slowly to the meeting point by the Gapstow Bridge. 

You begin to admire how beautiful Central Park looks during the changing season. Fall has always been one of your favorite seasons because of the falling leaves and colder weather. As you were walking you pulled out your camera and began to take some pictures of the flora and wildlife surrounding you. As you were walking a few dragonflies began surrounding you as if they were joining you along your walk. You couldn't help but smile and take a few pictures of how beautiful they were.

As you made your way closer to the bridge you saw a woman holding balloons who looked to be in her 30s standing under a tree, next to her was the cutest dog sitting looking up at the trees. You assumed this was the person you would be shooting for and approached her with a warm smile.

"Hi, I'm Y/n! Are you Mrs. Waldorf?"

"Yes, I am. And you're late." She said coldly. You reached for your phone to realize the time was now 9:01. You cursed yourself out in your head for deciding to take your sweet ass time in walking over here. "I'm so sorry I didn't realize how much time had passed when I was walking over here," you said in defense.

"Yeah, whatever, let's just get started. I had the idea of just having him be in nature, maybe surrounded by leaves or running around." She continued saying ideas but you couldn't help but get distracted because her dog began biting his own foot. "So did you get all that?" she said while crossing her arms, which sent chills down your spine. "Yes I did!" you lied. You kneeled down to get level with the dog, which was a very fluffy long-haired golden retriever. You reached for his collar to see the name tag with the name Prince engraved into it. "Nice to meet you!" you said, causing Prince to immediately perk up and start wagging his tail like crazy.

"Okay let's get started" You began setting everything up by placing a picnic blanket over some fallen leaves with the balloons that spelled Prince in the back. Can't forget the most important part which is a cute little birthday hat to place on Prince's head. The rest of the shoot went smoothly, besides the occasional scoffs of Mrs. Waldorf whenever Prince would get distracted by a falling leaf or dragonfly flying by.  You were able to get lots of great shots that satisfied Mrs. Waldorf and by the end of it, three hours had gone by. 

"These pictures came out way better than I would have imagined!" she exclaimed as you were flipping through the pictures on your camera. "Thank you so much! I will edit them and email them to you sometime in the next week." Prince was still running around, even after three hours of being posed he did not have any less bit energy. "Sounds perfect. I'm gonna have to come back to you next year when he turns two!" You both laughed, said your goodbyes, and went your separate ways. 

You decided to take the long way back and hop on a subway to get back home, but first, you wanted to walk around the park for a bit more. Living in a big city felt suffocating sometimes but walking around Central Park was always an escape for you and reminded you back of home. More people started crowding into the park compared to when you first got here. After walking around a bit you started walking out of the park with the goal of finding a coffee shop for your second cup of coffee for the day. After getting your cup of coffee you decided to sit outside and wait around for a while since the sun was now coming out. The warmth of the sun on you during a cold day always makes you feel better. 

As you were sitting all of a sudden two guys wearing sunglasses and hoods over their heads ran quickly from around the corner down the street and into the coffee shop you were sitting outside of. They looked very frantic and in a panic as if they were looking for a place to hide. Seconds later a third man came from around the corner, who was holding a camera and was looking around the street and into windows. He approached you and asked, "Did you see two tall guys walking around here?" You have no idea what is going on or if something illegal had just taken place but you instinctively pointed in the opposite direction of the coffee shop towards a hotel and said you saw two guys running away into there. The guy with the camera held it higher to his face and walked into the hotel with a smile across his face. 

You didn't understand why you felt the need to lie in order to protect the whereabouts of two strangers. But anyway, you continued scrolling through Pinterest on your phone while enjoying your coffee. The hooded strangers cautiously made their way out of the coffee shop and walked very slowly toward your direction. You were close enough to overhear their conversation with one another. 

"You think he's gone?" said the one wearing a gray hoodie. The other wearing a black hoodie responded "I think so... should we still run away?" You couldn't help but giggle at how ridiculous this whole situation was.

"If you both are talking about the guy with a camera he ran into that hotel," you said while pointing in the same direction. Immediately as you spoke both of the boys jumped and awkwardly stood there looking at each other. "Oh, now I feel like an idiot." chuckled the one wearing a black hoodie. They both started taking off their sunglasses and hoods once they realized the coast was clear. The one wearing black appeared to be around 6'3, had light brown hair cut into a mullet, and a strong build. The other wearing gray looked slightly shorter than the other and had gray short hair. Both of them were very attractive, to say the least. 

The one wearing gray made his way closer to you, picked up your hand, and bowed in front of you while kissing the back of your palm. "Thank you gorgeous, it would not have been fun if that guy had taken a picture of us." 

"Are you guys some kind of criminals?" you responded.

"No we're something better," he smirked while still holding your hand. "Okay that's enough Connie, let's get going before Armin murders us." said the guy with the mullet pulling the other away from you. "Hopefully we meet again gorgeous." They both made their way back down to where they came from leaving you alone sitting outside the coffee shop. You were left partially confused but not against whatever the fuck just happened. 

You eventually made your way back to your apartment and decided to watch La La Land and take a nap for the rest of the day once the movie finished. In the time you were sleeping, Historia came back home from work and was excited for tonight. "How is it possible for you to sleep this much?"  Deja vu. Historia once again woke you up for the second time today. You were still bundled up on the couch and started stretching as you were gaining consciousness. "Why don't you ever let me sleep woman?" 

"Because you're coming to that concert to me..." she said in her sweetest voice to make you feel more inclined to go out with her. "You're coming with me, so get your butt up and start getting ready." 

"Do I have to go with you? I can just sleep in for the rest of the night," you said sitting up on the couch with the blanket wrapped over your head. Historia paused from taking her jewelry off and walked from the hallway she was standing in to in front of you. "Yes!! You have to come with me, c'mon it'll be fun. You can even bring your camera, maybe they'll let you backstage to take pictures and I get to meet the band." 

"Hmm, I can use those pictures in my portfolio," you said, finally contemplating getting up and starting to get ready. "Exactly, so you'll come with me?" she responded smiling hoping for the response she wanted. "Fine, I will. But you're taking me out to breakfast tomorrow," you said exaggerating your second sentence. "It's a deal then!" she said and walked with a bounce in her step back towards her room to get ready. You finally got up with the blanket still wrapped around you, made your way down the hallway and stood in the doorway of Historia's room as she was rummaging through her closet for an outfit for tonight. 

"Who is this band anyways, are they famous?" you question. "They're called The Titans and are kind of new so not a lot of people know about them, but they're music is really good. This is actually their first ever real concert so the venue’s not gonna be the biggest so wear something short so you don't get all sweaty." Hisu said while holding different tops up in the air deciding whether or not she was gonna wear them. "So how did you find out about them?" you said while leaning more into the door frame. "I saw a video of their lead guitarist on Instagram and thought she was hot, so I followed them. But turns out their music is actually good and now we're here. Now enough of the questions and go get ready, we're leaving in an hour to make it there by 8." she said finally finding the perfect outfit. "Okay okay I'm going," you said, finally making your way to your room to get ready as quickly as possible. 

You decided to wear a black mini dress, sheer black tights, your Doc Martens again, a leather jacket for when you're outside, as well as your hair down with your favorite rings and necklaces. You decided to grab your black shoulder bag which was big enough to hide your camera inside of it. You walked out of your room to the sight of Historia ready for tonight. "You look so beautiful!" You said making her smile up from her phone doing a twirl while you hyped her up. "How many letters in Historia? ATE." She was wearing a light pink mini skirt and matching top with a long-sleeved lace top with strings that tied in the front. "Look at you! You are literally gorgeous!" she said hyping you up too. But her saying gorgeous immediately reminded you of the two hot strangers you met earlier that day. 

"Okay let's take pictures and shots before we leave because I have no idea if there are drinks where we're going," Historia said while grabbing your hand and walking out of the hallway into the kitchen. You both drank a little and started gathering your things to head out the door. You guys finally made it to the venue after taking the subway.

You both were walking down the street to where the venue was and were in shock from how long the line was outside. There were probably around 400 people waiting to get inside. "I thought you said the band wasn't that well known?" you said to Historia while you both were walking to the very end of the line. "They aren't! But I know they're becoming more popular. I just didn't think that many people would be here."

Eventually, 30 minutes had passed and you hadn't even made it halfway through the line. You both started getting cold from waiting outside for so long. "You think there's another entrance we could maybe sneak into?" you wondered out loud. "Maybe. But there's no way of knowing. You can go check while I wait in line so we don't lose our spot. Just come back if there is another entrance." Hisu said, looking around to see how much further the front entrance was. "Yes, of course, I'll be right back."

You walked around the side of the building and stumbled upon an alleyway that looked very sketchy but promising. Fuck it. You cautiously made your way down the alley. You abruptly heard the sound of dogs barking which made you flinch and question if getting kidnapped was worth all this. You decided it wasn't and planned on turning around to go back to Historia to deliver the bad news. As you were turning the corner out of the alley you bumped into somebody causing you both to jump backwards and scream. Your scream causes the person you bumped into to fall to the ground.

"Get away from me!" you screamed while reaching into your bag looking for pepper spray. "Stop, stop! I'm just trying to get inside. I'm not a serial killer! he shouted, holding his hands up and surrendering. You looked up at him and noticed the shirt he was wearing said "The Titans" which caused you to relax a little bit knowing he was just a fanboy. You still had your guard up but just put your pepper spray away. "Oh my god you scared the shit out of me" you sighed. 

He picked himself off the floor and started readjusting his clothes. "Imagine how I felt you almost pepper sprayed me." The man who stood in front of you had red hair that was cut into the weirdest hairstyle. It looked like he had a donut on his head. "Sorry about that, at least I didn't" you laughed. "I'm here for the concert too. I was just looking for a different way to get in." 

"How did you know I was here for the concert?" he responded with his eyes widening in fear. "Your shirt...?" you said with a questioning tone in your voice. "Oh," he said laughing, holding his hand to his heart. "Yeah I am here for that I was just going in through the back entrance." 

That piqued your interest. "So there is another way to get in?" you smiled hopefully to charm him into showing you the other entrance. "Yeah, there is. Want to just walk in with me?" That was way easier than you thought. "Yeah, sure! Wait, can you wait here while I go grab my friend?" you exclaimed before walking further down the alley. "Go ahead, but come back fast I wanna make it inside already," he said leaning against the wall. "Okay, I will! Don't go anywhere!" you started running back to where Historia is.

"Historia! you stood on your toes looking for blonde hair hoping to find her. After walking down the line twice you felt an arm grab you. "There you are, I've been looking for you everywhere!" you finally found her, well more like she found you. "Were you able to find another way in?" she wondered looking up to you. "Yeah I did come on there's some guy who said he knows another way in," you said grabbing her hand and walking down to where the alleyway is. "Huh?! You're trusting the words of some random guy?" she said in disbelief. "Well, when you say it like that it sounds so bad! He seems trustworthy! Plus he's our only way of getting in faster." you said in defense. "I'm trusting you on this."

As you approached the alley you saw the guy you left behind still leaning up against the wall. "Thanks for waiting up for us," you said, making your way closer with Historia right behind you. "I was worried you guys had split on me." he laughed. "I'm Floch by the way." 

"Nice to meet you." you jokingly curtseyed. "I'm Y/n and this is Historia," you said pointing at her.  "Okay awesome the door is right at the end of the alley and it's normally unlocked," he said while making his way deeper into the alley. You both followed and Historia squeezed your hand a little tighter. "What if he ends up murdering both of us?" she whispered into your ear. "There's no way, he told me he's not a serial killer." you teased her.  

"So..." Historia started to question Floch. "How do you know about this entrance anyway?" He slightly turned his head in your guy's direction but still walked forward. "I go to concerts at this venue a lot so I've learned how to skip the line. I also have been stalking the band for weeks and sent the leader an email about this venue hoping they would eventually book it." he rambled. You and Historia exchanged a knowing look wondering if you should burst out laughing or run like hell in the opposite direction. Luckily Historia was able to hold it together "That sounds nice." she awkwardly laughed. 

"Here we are!" Floch said happily. He reached for the door and was able to open it with ease. "Thank god. I always get so nervous one of these times the door won't open" he sighed in relief. As you all walked in it looked like the door led straight into backstage. There were people wearing all black and mics strapped to them running around everywhere and a group of girls standing in a circle which you assumed were groupies. Floch turned to you and Historia "Okay have fun ladies! Don't snitch about this entrance, please." he begged. "Thanks for letting us in!" you said. "Yeah, thanks! Have fun tonight!" Historia said waving bye to him. He waved bye and made his way to the group of girls and said something that made them all shriek and laugh in excitement. "Looks like he's a groupie too." Historia laughed at the sight in front of you both.

"I'm so happy we made it in! I couldn't have stood out there any longer." Historia said in relief, throwing her head to the side. "This is so much cooler than I thought." You said while looking around at the busy atmosphere that was surrounding you. "The concert starts in 20 minutes, let's go and see if we can get the front row!" Historia said excitedly while grabbing your arm. "I'll meet you there. I wanna see if I can take some pictures backstage," you said, pulling out the camera from your bag. "Oh that's true, I forgot that's why you came. I'll go find us a spot, call me if you need help finding me," she said slowly walking towards where the crowd was. "Okay, I will! See you in a bit." you smiled as she walked off.

You turned on your camera and started taking a few pictures of anything you found interesting. You got pictures of the instruments, people running around, and you even peeked your head where the audience was and got a few pictures of the crowd. You were happy with what you got and started making your way towards where Historia was while looking down at your camera. Since you weren't paying attention to where you were going you ended up bumping into someone. For the second time tonight. It felt like you walked into a wall and fell backwards dropping your camera in the process. 

"Oh my god," you said at the sight of your camera broken on the floor. "I'm so sorry! I had no idea I was gonna walk into you, I wasn't paying attention," said the guy who knocked you down. His voice sounded very familiar. He reached for your arms and pulled you up to your feet in one swift motion. You heard him speaking but his words weren't registering since you couldn't take your eyes off your broken camera. The camera your mom bought you many years ago was one of your most prized possessions, and there it was in multiple pieces lying on the floor. "Wait, aren't you the girl from the coffee shop?" That snapped you back into reality. You looked at the man who you got knocked into and it was the guy with the mullet from earlier that day. "You were the one running away with a hood on," you finally spoke. 

"What are the chances of that happening? Connie is going to be so excited to see you," he said, releasing your arms and standing up straighter. His height was very intimidating. "Connie?" you questioned. "The other guy I was with. Wait, what are you doing here? Did you know who we were when we met at the coffee shop?" he said, questioning you. "What does that even mean?" you laughed. "I'm here with my friend, we're here for the concert. What are you doing here?" you questioned him back. All he did was laugh. "I'm here for the concert too," he said amusingly. You didn't understand what was so funny but you had bigger things to worry about. You looked back at your broken camera and said "You're definitely gonna pay for my new camera." You were being dead serious. "Yes of course! I'm so sorry. I will make it up to you. I'll give you my number and we'll work something out," he said in the most heartfelt voice. Wasting no time you pulled out your phone and unlocked it so the mullet man could put his number in. "My name's Jean if you didn't know," he said in the same tone as before. "How would I have known that?" you said a little harshly. "Oh right." he laughed while giving your phone back. You felt like you were missing the point of something.

"Gorgeous?! I knew we would meet again!" you heard someone yell from behind Jean. It was Connie and he was running in your direction. You saw the silhouette of someone else behind him but were too focused on Connie to see the face of the person behind him. "Here we go again," Jean said while rolling his eyes. Connie shoved Jean out of the way so he could be face-to-face with you and placed your hands in his. "I have missed you so much, never leave again," Connie said while sounding genuinely sad. You couldn't believe how attached he had become after only one encounter with him. "I've missed you too," you couldn't help but laugh and play along with him.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the person behind Connie make their way closer to you. You broke eye contact with Connie and looked at them. Your heart dropped.

"Y/n?"

[unbunlievable]

I have theatre kid brainrot and I wanted to try and visualize what would happen if a Mechanisms album were turned into a stage production

This will have some minor edits to the songs and spoken parts, but will try to keep them as close to the original as possible. I will be focusing on the lighting and staging of numbers and how the blocking would work

“Once” and Old King Cole

Opening - the stage appears clear, with the lights in a blackout. A figure walks on stage but is not illuminated. This person (the narrator) recites the words for “Once”

The music for Old King Cole begins

“Old King Cole was a brutal soul and a bloody red soul had he” - the narrator is lit up with a single, tight spotlight. As the first verse continues, he walks/wanders/paces at the front of the stage while the spotlight follows

“Now every piggy has a razor blade and sharpened it with glee” - 3 spotlights on one side of the stage light up the actors playing the three little pigs on beat with “ra-zor blade”

Chorus - the spotlights disappear and the whole stage lights up with red backlights and top lights. The ensemble entered the stage at some point in the blackout. There is choreo (I am not understanding of choreo) and the the narrator dances among them, weaving through the other cast members. When the chorus is over the ensemble stops in place and freezes limp, kinda like restrung puppets

“Old King Cole was not missold/of years he had a hundred score” - the lights dim, not down to the blackout though, and the spotlight returns to the narrator. He is more active during this verse, walking around more in a slightly more manic way.

Chorus

“Old King Cole had conquered and stole/the wealth of a thousand suns” - the narrators movements are borderline frantic.

“Arrayed in armor black as ebony…would tell you that your life was done” - The narrator is interacting again with the Three Little Pigs, who this whole time have not moved.

Chorus

“In the center of Zantine…” the lights go back to the blackout with a tight circle around the narrator. He is calmer in his movements, more similar to the first verse.

“Where King Cole sat on his white throne” - the stage lights up again, with the ensemble gone. A large turbine set piece is in the back center, with to the actor playing King Cole on it, and the Three Little Pigs arranged at the foot of the throne. King Cole does not really move during the song, but watches the events play out

“Old King Cole had a tale he told/to those brought before his throne” 2 ensemble members playing guards drag in a third cast member, toss them before the throne, and leave. They pantomime out a scene of basically pleading for their life, but to no avail

“None could say what was said, save for the dead, and the three little pigs alone” - the ensemble member is cut down by one of the Pigs, and there is an extended silence between the end of the verse and the last chorus. The narrator has a positioned at the front of the stage directly in front of King Cole. He seems to notice where he is, and quickly leaves for the edge of the stage. This is the only time in which the narrator seems to be directly placed in the setting of the story

Chorus - the ensemble is back, with Cole watching from his throne. The narrator is next to King Cole, leaning on/hanging off his throne, etc. this chorus seems to more so have the feeling of the narrator directly talking to the ensemble, especially with the framing of him standing next to King Cole

Blackout

I’ll probably do more of this later, but that’s all I have directly planned out! If anyone has suggestions let me know :D

[threestarsaboveclouds]

How was the light pollution back when the city was still in use? How much different is it now? Was light pollution ever a worry for your observational instruments?

Light pollution was certainly a concern when my city, Zenith, was still inhabited. My facility was deliberately placed in a remote location far from other iterators so the light from their cities would not be an issue. I could still see the skyglow from these cities on the horizon, but after the global ascension event, those light sources became much less apparent. I assume many saw no point in keeping the lights on now that their buildings were uninhabited.

When the citizens of Zenith were still around, however, light pollution was a nightly occurrence, with the observatories located within city limits being the most affected. It wasn’t impossible for me to use my equipment, as most of the interference caused by light pollution can be removed with the use of filters, but it wasn’t ideal, of course.

To remedy this, my city would regularly undergo planned blackouts, eliminating the light from all but the most essential buildings. I recall many citizens being annoyed by this inconvenience, but for most it was a time of great celebration- a chance to see the stars in their purest form, free from the interference of city lights. My city was primarily a home for pupils of the sciences, but there were certainly some who visited Zenith in anticipation of this exact occasion.

I keep the lights off, now. I don’t see a point in keeping them lit in the absence of my benefactors, especially since it interferes with my research.

Despite all of this, I am still limited by something very simple: the cycle of night and day. The thin atmosphere at my altitude allows some stars to be seen during the daytime, but the vast majority are drowned out by the light of the Sun. For this reason, I use most of my equipment during the night.

I collect most of my data at night, and use the daytime to analyze it. I do find this routine comforting, as you mentioned. Not much has changed about my daily activities- though I do find it easier to focus now that I don’t have to dedicate attention to the ebbs and flows of city life. There are even periods now where I find myself with little to do; a rarity when my city was still inhabited.

I become... restless when I have no work to do. These days I have been using my downtime to converse with my fellow iterators, something I had little patience for in the past. However this activity occupies very little of my total processing power... I must look into options for recreational pursuits to pass the time. I am open to suggestions.

[hibiscusangel15]

First dossier for All Ships Ship Week over at #ficwip! I had to start with my very first OTP. Nothing has topped their relationship for me. I still adore Ichiruki with all my heart.

Tell us why you love them:

Black Sun and White Moon

The Death and the Strawberry

The Sand and the Rotator

One Boy, One Shinigami, The Story of Destiny

All canon ship titles that Kubo gave them! Insane!

I shipped them so hard even before I even knew what shipping was. They were the gateway into so many avenues for me, and without them, I don't think I'd even be writing today. I've never loved a ship more than them (or since).

They're so, so good for each other. Ichigo brings out her more assertive side that she hardly ever gets to express, which also pulls her out of her self-sacrificing funks. Rukia dries the rain in his heart (canon metaphor for depression and helplessness) and constantly pushes him to care more about himself and the people around him.

Not to mention canon sun/moon imagery, a canon rescue arc with a twist (she refuses to be saved because she thinks she deserves to suffer for bringing him into her world), and hits like this:

And so many canon moments in-between! The entirety of the manga to me is their love story until the end.

Rewatch/reread your favorite moments:

I don't have the time to rewatch the first two arcs or Fade to Black again, but the ice-skating scene of Episode 342? Always. I love how tenderly he's holding her hand here GODDD:

I also still love the hug scene in Fade to Black:

As for smaller canon moments, the "That's the kind of man you are in my heart!" scene will forever have a grip on me:

Playlists:

I don't know what to add to a new playlist, but I've made several Ichiruki playlists in the past for ship events! They're here:

Here's the second one:

Fic Recs:

I made some fic recs here for the Ichiruki Fic Exchange:

Share a prompt/idea for others to share:

Roleswap!Ichiruki - Ichigo as the Shinigami and Rukia as the human. Yes, it's been done and was the basis for my first ever fic, but it's always so fun to see what people do with it!

Share a favorite headcanon:

The reason Ichigo doesn't practice Kido is because no matter what Kido it is, it just blows up in his hands because his reiatsu is too powerful. Rukia is helping him keep that in control slowly but surely.

Make a meme:

(Sorry for the poor quality)

Text: FIGHT ME

COME AT ME

HITS YOU

WITH MY LIPS

ON YOUR LIPS

SOFTLY

if this is how we're gonna fight can we fight all the time

And with that, we got blackout bingo, babyyy!

[nalyra-dreaming]

Everyone is demanding a season 3 of newsreader but have we considered what fucked up state Dale would be in after a timeskip? Do you think as his career becomes the only thing real to Dale he would seek out another relationship with a woman(maybe she’s aware), not out of desire like Helen, but to premeditatedly cover himself because he knows there are rumours out there? Seeing hate about Dale breaks my heart because all the alienation between him and those he cares about isn’t just caused by him but the pressure of the bigoted society of the time.

Actually, I would think his deal at the end of the season already hints at that, yes.

I mean, what other... "events" and details she could write about would he be able to provide? In the Sun's gossip section? So yes, I expect a (trophy) wife and maybe kids even. At least... for a while. And, of course, the career.

And I don't get hate on him, tbh (and not just because I like Sam btw). I also haven't seen much of it, but then I didn't go and look because... yeah. I expected it, tbh.

Dale is... almost too naïve, too head-driven. The traumatic experience with his school friend has driven all other motivations out of him, what's left is his feelings and needs (which he cannot fully suppress, obviously) and the ambition. He loves Helen, and he wants to keep her safe at any cost - ill-advised actions included.

And I must say that it hurt terribly to see them break apart then, Anna said in the podcast that the infidelity (the kiss) from s1 still influenced Helen, and... that's so terrible in a way, that she is still so insecure about it all at that point (and we already see hints of that in the hotel room) - but also that it whiplashes right back, because ill-advised proposal(s) or not... he meant it?! Twice.

And only then do they both do something stupid?!

He gets drunk and (abandoned by both Gerry and Tim?! The fuck? You don't do that guys.) and blackouts with someone, and she... goes to "the real man". Ouch.

(And I love and hate that scene in the hallway, where you can see how hurt he actually is, and how much she is reeling. Bravo to the acting but dammit.)

Dale then... loses some of his innocence, after. He has to, he has to own up in a way, or lose it all. It's why he rejects her (also absolutely) ill-advised proposal, after. He knows they're past that. He knows he is.

And so he does what Gerry did.

Pain, pain and more pain.

But hate?

No. 🤷🏽‍♀️