#hard launch is unnecessary if you’re paying attention

[reachouttouchfaith]

i honestly hope the whole “something’s coming!” vibe from dnp rn is a big psyop and the secret event is actually something to raise funds for palestine/congo/sudan/haiti etc or a similar initiative. would be really cool to see. or maybe it can be both, where they’re like “we’ll admit we’re gay for each other at 100k!” lol

[fandomlovingfreak]

Healing His Heart (18/?)

Young Remus Lupin/Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit Content (18+)

Word Count: 2100

MasterList Link I AO3 Link I Wattpad Link I Tiktok Link

Summary: (y/n) is two years younger than him, a popular Slytherin, and Regulus Black’s best friend. Yet he can’t help but be attracted to her bewitching personality and sweet smile. Unfortunately, his er–problem makes it harder to get close to others. Despite his attempts to push her away (for her own good) she seems determined to worm her way into his life.

Disclaimer: Remus Lupin (Sirius Black, James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, Regulus Black, and other Harry Potter Characters) is a character from Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling. Reader or y/n is not owned by Rowling. This work has not been created for profit or financial compensation, and is a transformative fair use work in accordance with Section 107 of the United States Copyright Act.

Notes: So So So Sorry for the extremely long wait. I just could not get this chapter out of me for all that is good in this world. I hope some smut makes up for the wait.

Enjoy

Number Nine Glovergus Lane has an exceptionally large door; Remus observes as he looks up at the towering manor.

It's an especially sunny day, warm with a slight breeze. Perfect for taking his girlfriend somewhere for a stroll around a pond or... in a garden or something.

Instead of spending a romantic day with (y/n), he found himself being practically pushed out of the front door of her home. It hadn't been a malicious action on her part; she had ripped the letter from Mister Gedius out of his hands as they sat in her family's garden, eating breakfast. A brief glance over the letter had her dragging him out of his chair and up the staircase as she excitedly talked about the opportunity Mister Gedius had written about.

He allowed her to pick out the outfit she deemed "smart enough" for an interview and practically buzzed with energy as he changed, chattering away non-stop.

Of course, he had to agree with what she wanted. She was too excited for him to just ignore the reply. Besides, Mister Gedius was offering a particularly generous deal. It was good pay, flexible time (obviously a plus for someone who had a-- furry little problem), and he would be doing something he knew he would be good at. Maybe it wasn't a flashy Ministry position or the coveted Defense Against the Dark Arts post, but it was something. And he desperately needed something.

The last thing he needed was (y/n)'s parent's to believe he was dragging down their daughter in any way. He could be a provider.

Not that (y/n) expected him to take on such a traditional role, but something in him had to prove to others he was capable. No one had yet made him believe he wasn't, but society's view of his kind was far from accepting. It would always be a fear that lingered somewhere in his mind. 

"Yes?" Remus snaps back to attention, looking up at the greying man. 

"Hello, I am Remus Lupin. I sent you an inquiry about the Library assistant job last week."

"Ah yes," the man nods, "come in, come in." The man leads Remus into a large library, "sit, sit. Would you like anything? A cup of tea, perhaps?"

"Uh-- sure, thank you. That would be great." 

The man settles down in a chair across from Remus before speaking, "Did I introduce myself?" Remus sets his cup down before responding that he did not with a shake of his head.

"Ah-- I always seem to forget. Effie always reprimanded me for forgetting to introduce myself," he chuckles fondly, "I am Iwan Gedius. I'm sure you deduced that considering, I am seated across from you."

Remus smiles politely, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mr. Gedius."

"Please, call me Iwan. If you're to take up this post, you must drop the formalities. They are quite unnecessary in my home."

"Of course s-- Iwan."

The older man smiles, looking amused, "So tell me, Remus Lupin, are you a recent graduate from Hogwarts?"

"I am, this past May."

"Congratulations. Do you have any experience with libraries?"

"Not any professional experience, but with my studies, I spent numerous hours locating books in the Hogwarts Library. And of course, multitudes of hours replacing said books."

Iwan nods, "And you're up for my library? I have to warn you, I am notorious for not reshelving my books. At least not very well."

Remus nods, "Whatever needs reshelving, I am more than willing to reshelve. And, I have plenty of patience to document or reorganize the whole library if needed. I am willing and happy to put the whole library back together, honestly."

Iwan chuckles, "You've more than convinced me, Remus. You can start next Monday, maybe around ten A.M.? I don't expect you to work more than five or six hours a day. Weekends off, of course, and personal time off is always available if you request a few days ahead of schedule. How does that sound?"

Remus grins, feeling elated, "That sounds great! I appreciate that you're taking a chance on me."

***

"So?" (y/n) is sitting at the dining room table when he gets back.

He shrugs off his blazer, setting it down on the back of a kitchen chair, "I got the job."

A smile rises on her lips, "Did you really?" Remus nods as she springs out of the chair she had been sitting on, launching herself into his arms.

"I knew you would get it! I just knew it!" Remus makes a noise of surprise as she presses her lips against his. His hands find (y/n)'s waist as he steadies them, their bodies molding together as the kiss quickly grows passionate.

"My parents-- they're gone for the next few hours," she whispers against his ear, her sinful hands untucking his dress shirt.

Remus doesn't think twice about what she said, pulling her immediately towards the staircase. Weeks had gone by between the time he was allowed to feel her underneath his body. The temptation to bury himself in her warmth, to hear her soft sounds as they move together towards mutual pleasure... It's too strong to resist.

(y/n) gets his shirt unbuttoned and thrown from his shoulders before he can get her bedroom door shut properly. He returns the favor with vigor, removing her clothing with unmatched speed. A bit embarrassing when he thinks back to it later that night, but at the moment, getting her naked and on the bed is all he could care about.

She looks fantastic, he thinks, once she's displayed in front of him. Despite actually only being a bit bigger than what they're used to at Hogwarts, the bed looks massive. The possibilities are endless, he thinks, trying to decide how he wants her situated. 

Tapping her hip softly, he mutters, "'wanna try something new." 

Sitting up on her forearms, (y/n) gives him a funny look, "like what?"

"You'll see," Remus kneels on the bed, moving her leg so he can lay next to her. "Lean against me. Just like that, good girl." He's moved her, so she's got her back pressed to his chest and her leg over his hip. Remus's left hand, which rests on her abdomen, moves up to massage her breast as his other hand begins to slip down her thigh towards her sex.

He swears she's holding her breath, her face turned towards him as he teases the skin of her inner thigh, not yet reaching where she wants him.

"What do you want?" he presses a kiss to her neck, his hands ceasing their teasing as he waits for an answer.

"You know what I want, Rem." Not the answer he wants, not what he wants at all.

He tries again with a light pinch against her breast for emphasis, "Tell me what you want."

The yelp is exactly the reaction he had wanted. Remus hides a satisfied grin upon her neck. 

"Please touch me." Her voice is quiet.

He caresses her thigh, "here?"

(y/n) shakes her head, "no, no, please, Remmy. Don't make me beg you."

"I thought you were a good girl. Good girls use their words." He can't help himself, biting lightly where he had previously kissed.

She makes a whimpering sound, her fingers intertwining with his brown hair, pulling lightly as he tongues at her neck.

"I am-- I want your fingers in me, please. Please, Remmy, I want you to fuck me with your fingers."

He grins, "there we go. That wasn't too hard, was it?" He moves his hand down to cup her sex, "got to make sure you're nice and wet for my cock. Isn't that right, darling?"

"Yes, yes, please--" She's cut short as he thrusts two fingers inside of her. The noise she makes is like poetry. 

"Is that too much?"

"More, I want more." She's already squirming against his hand, trying to fuck herself against it.

Any concern Remus may have had melts instantly, "as you wish." Pulling his fingers out, absolutely coated in her juices, he inserts a third before beginning a quick pace.

"My hands are a bit busy; how about you play with those pretty tits for me, darling." Remus's voice is low, barely over a whisper. Her hands are immediately at her chest.

"Like this?" Her voice holds a teasing edge as she watches his eyes follow the way she pinches her nipples.

"Exactly like that." With his free hand, Remus moves her beautiful face towards his, kissing her soundly. (y/n)'s hands are suddenly buried in his hair, forgetting her previous request as her hips maneuvering to press up against his lower abdomen. 

"Fuck me, please?"

And who is he to deny her when she's behaving so good, using her words like he asked? With a tilt of his hips, he's sheathed within her.

With each shallow thrust, (y/n) rocks against his hips, causing her clit to rub against his body, the leg thrown over his hip wrapping itself tighter around him. Remus lets his hand drift from her lower back towards her ass, grabbing a handful to increase the push and pull of their lovemaking.

The angle is new for them, on their sides gripping one another to stay exactly like that because he's hitting just the right spot, the spot that makes her involuntarily let out small gasps.

She's chanting quietly, breathlessly that she wants more. She wants everything he can give her and more. Whimpering about how big he feels and how much she loves his cock.

"Please, Remus--"

"What do you want?" He asks before kissing her again.

"I wanna cum, please, Remmy--" Remus grins, pulling out quickly. 

Before she can complain, he moves her to her hands and knees. Large hands massage her ass, feeling rather giddy as he runs his cock against her cunt.

(y/n)'s whole body seems to tremble, her face turning to look at him, "Oh, Gods-- hurry!" 

The night is full of new surprises, he thinks to himself before he goes right back to fucking her senseless. 

"Holy fuck," (y/n) gasps out. Remus can't help but grin, leaning over to press a kiss to the back of her neck. He feels huge draped over her body, caging her in against the bed as he relentlessly pounds into her.

This may be his new favorite position. He's got access to nearly all of her, and he can't say he doesn't enjoy having this more dominant power over her. 

His hand snakes down to her sex, fingers moving clumsily till they find her clit. At the contact, (y/n) pushes back hard against his hips, her head jerking up just a tiny bit.

"Yes, there." Remus obliges, fingers moving in practiced circles around her clit, his mouth attaching itself to the side of her neck, pushing her towards her release. Feeling he's only going to last another minute or two more, Remus's movements speed up, hoping to get her there before him.

It seems to do the trick, her pussy trembling around his cock in seconds and a low moan of his name coming from her lips. The top of (y/n)'s body seems to slump against the bed as he chases his own release.

He pulls out of her, releasing across the small of her back with a deep groan. He steadies himself by planting his hands on her hips.

He's about to make a comment about enjoying the view when he hears the (y/l/n)'s front door open and close and the sound of (y/n)'s mother calling for her.

"Shit!" Remus springs up from the bed, grabbing his wand to get rid of the mess on (y/n)'s back and to cast a precautionary contraception charm.

"C'mon now," Remus whispers, pulling his pants back on. (y/n) laughs, rolling over to look at him, but she doesn't seem to be in a rush to get her clothes back on.

"Relax, Remus." She's about to pull on one of his shirts, but he grabs it from her hand.

"Don't make it too obvious."

(y/n) rolls her eyes, "I hardly think wearing your t-shirt is going to tip my mother off to what we were doing."

"I dunno! Mothers are weirdly perceptive."

His girlfriend giggles but pulls on her own shirt for his sake. "Ya know, you're cute."

Remus frowns, "I just don't want your parents to think anything there's any... funny business going on."

"I'm sure they know there is funny business going on. All parents were teenagers once too, you know."

Remus frowns, "Still! They don't need to catch us in your bed."

[robininthelabyrinth]

Good Help - chapter 2 - ao3 link

-

Despite the circumstances of their first meeting, Meng Yao mostly appreciated A-Jue for his quick mind and fearlessness – and, yes, occasionally for his towering height that made grabbing books from high places infinitely easier – rather than his muscles, however impressive they were. In fact, after the first few weeks, he had very nearly forgotten that A-Jue was a guard of the inner hall.

The assassination attempt put an end to that oversight.

It wasn’t that Meng Yao hadn’t anticipated such an attempt, nor that he hadn’t taken precautions. He was careful to take his meals in the communal kitchen at unexpected hours and tested even the snacks he kept with him before consuming them, and naturally avoided any unsupervised hallways or attempts to lure him outside, but he had underestimated the enmity that greeted his appointment: he had not thought that they would launch a direct attack.

The perpetrators entered his office as petitioners, posing as clerks for an influential merchant, and launched the attack just as they were settling into the rhythm of negotiations. They were hoping to catch him distracted, which they did, but Meng Yao had always had good instincts; he realized what was happening the first moment they moved. He was out of his chair and reaching for the flexible sword he stored around his waist almost at once, already calculating how many injuries he could incur and still be able to fight back enough to preserve his life – he just needed to survive until the guards came in, unless they’d somehow gotten rid of those, in which case he needed to run –

The calculations proved unnecessary.

By the time Meng Yao’s hand reached the hilt of his blade, A-Jue was already in front of him, catching one assassin the chest with a vicious palm strike and knocking him into the path of another, turning fluidly to slam an elbow into a third.

He didn’t even draw the saber that hung low at his waist, just knocked aside the assassin’s swords and daggers with his bare hands and then beating them with his fists and feet.

Meng Yao stood there for a moment, blinking, and by the time even his quick-moving mind caught up with everything the assassins all were unconscious or paralyzed, the merchant was on his knees begging for mercy and swearing to his ignorance, and A-Jue was standing there, frowning slightly at one of the still-twitching assassins like he was considering going in for more.

“Why didn’t you draw your saber?” Meng Yao asked, both because he was curious and because it was a better reaction than saying I forgot you could do that or I thought I’d be facing them all on my own again, or, even worse, thanks.

“I thought you’d want them alive to question them,” A-Jue said, blinking at him – he had the same expression of good-natured puzzlement as he did any time Meng Yao corrected him, whether as to his calculation of accounting errors or underestimating the malice inherent in mankind, which remained a subject of recurrent disagreement. “Was I wrong?”

“Not at all,” Meng Yao said, and felt once again the thrill of power when A-Jue nodded and called for other guards to enter and remove the bodies, although he crouched by each one first to check them over for any suicide pills or arrays that might interfere with an interrogation. His professional detachment and efficient resolution of events was truly suitable for a guard of the inner hall, the finest of Wen Ruohan’s soldiers; there could be no complaints.

There was something truly delightful about having a powerful man at your beck and call, Meng Yao reflected, and wondered briefly if A-Jue had been sent his way deliberately as a plant to infiltrate his confidence. It seemed unlikely, given the random nature of their meeting, and certainly A-Jue didn’t fit any of Meng Yao’s known pre-existing preferences, other than in terms of bedpartners. And yet he grew suspicious, if only because A-Jue suited him so very well, just right in every way…

Meng Yao spent the next three days conducting a series of covert tests to see if any information was being leaked from his office through A-Jue, but there was nothing. Ultimately, he was forced to conclude that A-Jue might actually just be – like that.

Straightforward and blunt, fearless in both speech and action, decisive and capable and yet willing to take orders from Meng Yao, never judging him for his birth but respecting him for his abilities…

Good help, he reminded his suddenly over-active libido. Hard to find. Don’t ruin a good thing.

It was hard to remember, though. A-Jue was just the sort of man Meng Yao liked when he went for men: handsome and powerfully built, well-born or rich or both, stern and unyielding in demeanor, the sort of man for whom life generally went the way they wanted. The sort could easily get a girl, even one of good breeding and appropriate lineage, merely by snapping his fingers. The type of man that might tempt even a practiced whore.

Meng Yao liked to break those types of men.

It was a trait he shared with Wen Ruohan, and one of the ways he had managed to get the Emperor’s attention – that first job he had taken had been in the Fire Palace, the Emperor’s torture chambers, and he had worked out a considerable portion of his anger and anxiety through the torment of his enemies, defined liberally as anyone who insulted his mother. He’d matured since then, growing calmer, but he still liked to put proud men on their knees and make them service him, to rub their faces in the fact that he was the one with the power, to make them crawl and plead and cry for him. Though he supposed for someone like A-Jue – he wouldn’t need to break him, really.

It’d be enough to see him bend. Willingly, for him.

And yet, if Meng Yao did that, wouldn’t A-Jue start to flinch from him and turn away from him – seek to preserve his injured pride by fleeing Meng Yao’s presence, the way so many others before him had? It would make working together much more annoying, and A-Jue was perfect the way he was.

Almost irritatingly so. If only A-Jue were more inclined to make errors, Meng Yao would feel freer to take advantage of him.

“Have you ever thought less of me because of my parentage?” Meng Yao asked one evening, apropos of nothing, when A-Jue was already exhausted and more than a little wild-eyed from having to review every single one of the reports on wheat yields in their northern provinces as part of Meng Yao’s random audit of the files.

“I mean, Jin Guangshan’s a waste of space, but you’re nothing like him, so not after the beginning,” A-Jue said automatically, then scowled at Meng Yao when he started laughing. “What? Give me a break, I didn’t know you then! How was I to guess that you’d actually be competent? Or – not awful?”

“I was,” Meng Yao said with dignity, even if his lips insisted on twitching, “referring to my mother.”

“But you hate it when people talk about your mother,” A-Jue said blankly, then shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, is this some sort of mind game? If so, can it wait until tomorrow? I’m going to dream in wheat prices.”

“It can wait until tomorrow,” Meng Yao agreed, pretending to be solemn. He wasn’t sure if he was more amused at A-Jue’s ridiculous perspective on things or the fact that he seemed to think Meng Yao was not awful simply because he’d indulged him a few times when he was being especially insistent on doing things the soft-hearted way.

“You’re making fun of me again,” A-Jue grumbled. “I don’t know why, but you are. Fuck you.”

The next day, Meng Yao asked A-Jue if he’d ever been to a whorehouse.

“Yes, while on campaign,” A-Jue said, blinking rapidly as if he were trying to hide something, or more likely not think of something. Either he’d had a bad experience or he thought Meng Yao was going to cut off his balls for admitting it.

Which he wouldn’t, of course. There was nothing wrong with the better sort of customer, and Meng Yao felt certain that A-Jue would have been that sort, could imagine him sitting in the corner with a jar of wine and a blush until he was coaxed upstairs and then paying too much for the privilege, after...but it was cute that A-Jue worried about such things.  

Meng Yao put a friendly hand on A-Jue’s shoulder – the man flinched, briefly, but quickly mastered himself, just as he did any time anyone touched him – and said in his best sugar-sweet sympathetic tone that he hadn’t had to use on anyone in ages, “Did she touch you in a bad place?”

“The honored viceroy can go fuck himself any time he damn well pleases,” A-Jue said, and he had no idea how much Meng Yao would like to ask him if he’d prefer to do the honors himself.

“Do you know any other curses, or is it just variations on the term ‘fuck’?” he asked instead, thinking good help, good help, good help. “I know at least three dozen involving farmyard animals, if you’d like to learn.”

A-Jue’s laugh was in no way like a braying donkey, no matter what Meng Yao pretended to insist.

-

“Have you considered the benefits of a regular routine of physical exercise?” A-Jue asked.

Meng Yao glared at him.

“I’m just saying,” A-Jue said. “It would make your life easier.”

“Shut up and help me get down from up here,” Meng Yao hissed – A-Jue had taken care of the vicious snarling creatures that had somehow gotten loose, an obvious follow-up assassination attempt now that the poisoning he thought he’d identified in a late-night dessert had been demonstrably unsuccessful, even if A-Jue had insisted that they were just “sweet little puppies” and Meng Yao was “overreacting”.

“I’d be happy to help train you, if you’d like.”

“I’m far too busy,” Meng Yao said with what little shreds of dignity he still possessed. “I do three times as much work as you do, I don’t have capacity to running off to go wave a stick in the air multiple times a day like some people.”

A-Jue grinned at him, utterly unmoved, and Meng Yao huffed, rolling his eyes at him.

“If I agree,” he said, with no intention whatsoever of agreeing, “will you finally show me your saber?”

If there was innuendo in there – well. He was only a man, after all.

“Perhaps one day,” A-Jue said. “It’s not a privileged I give to everyone.”

Meng Yao tried to parse whether that was flirting. He couldn’t quite tell.

“Well, your saber is very large,” he said, probing. “Maybe you should take it out more often.”

“When I take out my saber, someone dies,” A-Jue said, and – probably not flirting, then. “I wouldn’t want to accidentally skewer you.”

Possibly very strange flirting? Meng Yao wouldn’t put it past A-Jue.

“Yes, well,” he said, straightening his robes and settling back into professional mode. “You have fun with your exercise, but leave me out of it.”

A-Jue escorted him back to his office first, conscientious as always.

Once he was gone, Meng Yao rang a certain bell and summoned Sisi, whose freedom was probably the best investment he’d ever made – she’d merged into the palace staff without leaving so much as a trace behind, acting as though the other girls were her sisters and she’d been there forever, and she was more than willing to report on everything she learned.

Also, she’d retained enough of her looks that everyone thought that Meng Yao only summoned her for sex, making A-Jue’s occasional disappearances for training purposes the perfect time for Meng Yao to meet with her without suspicion – he’d given up most of his paranoia surrounding A-Jue, but that was no reason to share all of his tricks.

Besides, he wasn’t sure he actually wanted A-Jue and Sisi to meet.

“When you’re done fucking him, can you share?” Sisi asked after she put down the tray of snacks – buns and a pot of tea, all of which she sampled before his eyes in the name of sharing food. “Man like that deserves to be common property.”

“I’m not whoring him out,” Meng Yao said, a warning in his tone, and Sisi sighed dramatically.

“Tell me you’re at least having a good time with all those muscles,” she said. “Someone ought to be.”

Meng Yao rolled his eyes.

“Where’s the trouble coming from this time?” he asked, deciding to elide the issue entirely. “I keep hearing whispers and people look nervous, the way they do before some sort of trouble, but neither gentry nor merchant class seem to have produced anything out of the ordinary, and I can’t imagine it’s the farmers again after last time.”

“You’re looking out, you should be looking in,” she said.

“The Emperor’s court?”

That could be a serious problem. Any political turmoil that happened within the Nightless City would have ramifications well beyond it.

“His harem,” Sisi said, her face alight with the pleasure of gossip. “Word’s come back from the south – turns out that the Emperor took one of the Imperial Consorts with him for his trip.”

Even Meng Yao’s eyebrows raised.

“And with the Empress in seclusion, well…”

It wasn’t as though the Empress had a strong maternal family as a backing – no one even knew what her surname was – but she’d been there for years and years, practically part of the décor. Replacing her with one of the Consorts would be…a change.

The Nightless City hated change.

“Could you ask to see her?” Sisi asked. “Just as proof of life…”

“I could,” Meng Yao said, because technically he had authority over everyone, “but I won’t. Why would I invite trouble for myself? I’d have to explain to the Emperor why I interfered with his harem.”

“Good point,” Sisi said, although she looked disappointed.

“Which Consort?”

“The rumor says A-Sang,” she said. “The one that likes to carry scholarly fans.”

“A-Sang? Really?”

“I know! We all thought that the Emperor didn’t even like A-Sang – everyone agrees that A-Sang never got any imperial visits before this; the Emperor never spent a night in A-Sang’s rooms, never even shared a meal, nothing. But why else would he take A-Sang with him on a months-long journey?”

Why indeed. The Emperor remained as unfathomable as ever. Meng Yao wondered briefly if Wen Ruohan really had murdered the Empress in her seclusion, faking her presence with a note…still, it seemed implausible. Why would he bother?

“I heard a rumor once,” he said instead. “About A-Sang.”

Like all good spies and shit-stirrers, Sisi was immediately at full attention – she knew that Meng Yao was not inclined to gossip for the pleasure of it, the way she was, and therefore he would only volunteer information if he intended for her to spread it.

“A-Sang is the Empress’ family,” Meng Yao said, and Sisi’s eyes went wide. “Younger sibling.”

Younger brother, he thought, though he didn’t say anything – he didn’t actually know for sure. It was hard to tell. Wen Ruohan didn’t lock away his wives the way some men did; on the contrary, he enjoyed bringing them out for celebrations to show them off. But the Empress was invariably veiled, swathed in silks without a hint of skin showing, always seated in her chair as if she were kneeling in penance, never moving; Meng Yao, who only saw her from a distance during the celebrations, sometimes almost thought she might not have legs. In daily life, she sometimes attended the Emperor’s court, but always remained seated behind her veils and sometimes even a screen, little more than a silhouette from which, rarely, notes emerged but no voice ever did.

Naturally, if the Empress preferred to be veiled, that meant the other wives had to at least pretend to follow her lead. And that meant veils and concealing clothing, even if some of them interpreted the concept rather loosely, with sheer veils and even sheerer clothing, meant to entice – A-Sang fell somewhere in the middle of that spectrum, wearing a veil that revealed his eyes and clothing that allowed him flexibility of movement without too much restraint, and while he was slender and delicate, Meng Yao was moderately certain that he was indeed male.

Not that it mattered.

Wen Ruohan had never much cared about that.

“Amazing,” Sis breathed. “So all these years, the Emperor has been refraining from touching A-Sang out of respect for the Empress, and now the little sister wife has finally made her move…”

Meng Yao had said none of that, but it served him to muddle the waters a little, mostly to see who would try to clear it up. Not that it could be, as his information about their familial connection was accurate – gleaned from a careless comment by Wen Ruohan himself, no less – but it interested him to know who would try regardless.

“Go,” he said, and Sisi left, all but floating, and it wasn’t long before A-Jue returned, all shiny with sweat and exertion, looking incredibly fuckable.

“You worked near the harem, right?” Meng Yao asked him, mind still focused on the bubbling little scandal that he just knew would become an issue that could wreck his thus far successful regency. “Do you have any connections there?”

“Not really?” A-Jue said. “Most of the wives are scared of me.”

Typical.

“Is there something you’d like me to find out for you..?”

“No need,” Meng Yao said. He’d never met anyone less well suited to be a spy than A-Jue. “But it may be an avenue of future threats, so keep it in mind.”

“I’m not going to let anyone from the harem harm you,” A-Jue said, oddly fierce. “Not anyone. Don’t worry.”

[mbti-notes]

Anon wrote: Hi. I hope you had/are having a great summer break. I (INTP) am hoping for some perspective about an issue. Recently, my mother, whom I hadn’t seen in a while, became incredibly frustrated that I corrected her with an alleged “I know everything” attitude.

It’s an issue of concern because she revealed that I always do this. I guess this was the straw that broke it, especially given that what we were discussing was very trivial. (Maybe the frivolousness of the subject is precisely what made my correction seem more pedantic, unnecessary, arrogant.) She says that my attitude disregards her long life experience, and that if she were a stranger, she would think of me as a “snot-nosed brat who knows nothing about life” instead of as a “wise young person”, which is the viable alternative. She said that I am closed-minded and that I shoot everything down. (The problem of small-mindedness is what you addressed the only other time I wrote to you.)

I don’t know why I come off as arrogant. I’m sure that I’m not. I asked my mother what it was that made her think that, which she thought was a silly question because what she sensed was a general demeanor rather than specific behaviors. In the end we were only able to establish that my lack of eye contact was one of those factors. I can work on that, but surely that’s not determinant. What makes people think of others as arrogant? Should I stop correcting people? I don’t correct others in order to feel superior to them. I do it because I like to debate, in order to keep my thinking sharp, and because there is something painful about friends/family having false notions. I think it’s fair to say that my intention isn’t rooted in arrogant soils.

Granted, my suggestion of stopping correcting people is black-and-white, given that there is the grey option of changing the *way* I correct people. I’m just wondering if it’s an unhealthy habit in the first place. But given how prevalent a thought process it is (i.e. questioning people’s statements and finding faults), the process of getting rid of it may be akin to self-directed psychological violence. I mean, this is the same mode of being that makes me good at what I’m good at. (There’s also the option of keeping the thought process, but not correcting people aloud, but I don’t know what else there is to talk about other than analyzing ideas and their faults. Maybe I should analyze ideas for their strengths too, and express that side more than the faults.)

So anyway, let’s go with grey: So far I’ve tried thinking of an arrogant person that I know in order to understand my behavior, but I can’t think of anyone. Also, no matter how hard I try to put myself in someone else’s shoes in order to simulate an interaction with myself, it doesn’t really work, and I can’t see the arrogance, except if I were to just tell someone “that’s wrong” without any explanation. (I wonder if that’s what went wrong in the conversation with my mother.) Either way, this whole issue boils down to the fact that I’m not arrogant by any reasonable criteria that I found online, but that I come off as such. This was longer than intended. Thanks for your kindness and help.

-----------------------

Here are some questions for you to reflect on. They are meant to increase awareness of your underlying assumptions, beliefs, and values. Answer honestly:

Do you care about your mom? Do you care about how she's faring, what she's experiencing, what she's thinking or feeling, what she needs and desires, what she hopes for or aspires to, etc?

If you care, how do you SHOW your care to her?

If you don't care, how does that affect your behavior toward her?

Do you believe that the mother-child relationship only goes one-way? (Is it the mom's job to do for you but you owe her nothing?)

You say you like to debate to sharpen your mind. Innocent enough. I like to roller skate to keep myself physically fit. In an ideal world, I would never take my skates off. Does my enthusiasm for roller skating mean that I slap my skates on anywhere, any time? No. Surely it is inappropriate to skate around a hospital or the supermarket. Not only could I seriously harm myself, I would also be exhibiting flagrant disregard for the safety and well-being of others.

What you like to do for yourself sometimes comes into conflict with other people. If you care about people and hope to have healthy and happy relationships with them, you have to take their needs and wants into consideration in every interaction. You have to abide by ethical rules and principles that allow your needs to be met without neglecting the needs of others or interfering with their ability to get their needs met. Without ethics, society wouldn't be able to function, because it would just be a free-for-all.

You mention small-mindedness. It is quite small-minded to walk around the world only thinking about what you need/want. In the best case scenario, you are completely oblivious to others, and they will perceive you as clueless or self-absorbed. In the worst case scenario, you only interact with people for your own personal gain, and that would make you an exploitative or even abusive person. Is that the kind of person you want to be?

Do you basically treat people as though their sole purpose on earth is to debate you and help you sharpen your mind - to serve you? Do you launch into debates with people without asking for consent or checking to see if they want to be corrected? If you do, they will call you arrogant, not because you've put yourself on a pedestal and call yourself superior like an evil cartoon character, but because you are communicating to them that your needs/wants are most important AND you don't give a damn about theirs.

Webster's definition of arrogance: "an insulting way of thinking or behaving that comes from believing that you are better, smarter, or more important than other people". You believe that you know better, otherwise, you wouldn't grant yourself the social authority to intrude on people's boundaries, invalidate their experience, and correct them uninvited. You believe that you are smarter, otherwise, you wouldn't automatically assume the dominant social role of corrector. You behave as though you are the more important member of the relationship because your main priority is YOUR need to feel better (about your skills or about what others believe) while overlooking the other person's needs. Seems like you fit the definition quite well.

Despite that, I wouldn't call you arrogant because I understand that small-mindedness is a difficult problem to overcome. I see the effort that you're putting in to understand it. I'm charitable because I'm not the one who was hurt by your behavior. When people feel hurt, they often have difficulty expressing it. Maybe it comes out clumsily or they aren't able to explain their hurt without hurting you in return. Expressing one's true feelings is to make oneself vulnerable. If someone doesn't trust you to understand and validate their feelings or, worse, they believe that you will attack them for their feelings, they will not be completely honest with you. Your mom is trying her best to give you the benefit of the doubt by saying "if you were a stranger...", but she doesn't feel comfortable enough with you to express her hurt fully and explicitly as it happens. Why? Because the very reason she is hurt in the first place is that you have shown very little regard for her feelings. Following from the previous post of yours, the root of the problem is that you have such a poor understanding of feelings to begin with that you view them as inconsequential in yourself and others (very immature Fe).

I believe you have no ill-intent. I have said before that the typical Ti dom never sets out to hurt people on purpose. Rather, they hurt people unintentionally because their perspective is too small: 1) they don't grasp that other people's needs may be very different from their own and thereby fail to consider them, 2) they don't know how to empathize with different perspectives and validate them, and/or 3) they don't understand that SHOWING love and care is necessary for people to justify continued investment in the relationship.

In other words, Ti doms tend to hurt people out of negligence or acts of omission. Some of them get frustrated at not being able to solve their relationship problems. They might try to convince themselves that doing nothing means that no harm can be done, so they adopt a passive stance in the relationship and perhaps even train themselves to keep their mouth shut (self-violence). They fail to understand that there's more than one way to cause hurt. Instead of learning better relationship skills, they check out mentally and emotionally. Being checked out only makes it worse because you hurt yourself and you keep hurting others by being even less attentive to their needs.

The foundation of meaningful relationships is showing care. In a healthy relationship, people trust you to care for their emotional needs and not violate their personal boundaries. If you only attend to your own needs/wants in social interaction, you are signalling that you don't really care about the other person. This problem with your mom shows that you give little to no consideration for emotional needs and personal boundaries. If you don't want friends, it's entirely your choice to be alone for the rest of your life, pretending that you never leave any footprints behind you. If you want friends, you'll have to put out more effort to be a better friend, by paying more attention to the consequences of your behavior.

Doing things that violate trust and boundaries, even if unintentional, causes hurt. When people feel hurt and don't feel safe to express the hurt, they are liable to say/do negative things. To have good emotional intelligence is to see past the surface of their negative words/behavior and grasp the underlying emotional needs that were unmet and/or the personal boundaries that were violated. Only then can you be a morally responsible member of a relationship, in terms of owning all the ways that you impact people, both positively and negatively.

Arrogant people don't care about the social impact they produce. As long as they get what they want and don't lose anything, the existence of others is of little importance to them. If your mom is important to you, then learn how to show it better by listening to her when she tells you about her needs/wants. You hyperfocus on the literal meaning of the word "arrogant" and whether it is true/false of you, as though proving it false means that there's nothing wrong. You need to listen to the people you have hurt, if you want to understand why your behavior is hurtful. Alternatively, you need to educate yourself about emotional needs, interpersonal boundaries, and what constitutes un/ethical behavior and why.

[lalainajanes]

For klarosummer bingo, this completes my first row! The prompt was “swimsuit model.”

Fortune Favors

“Bekah, these are amazing,” Caroline gushes. She 100% means it, but she’s laying it on a little thick. She’s seen pictures, mock-ups, and was fitted with prototypes. Now, with the line entirely constructed, all the details finished, Caroline’s impressed.  

Rebekah, however, seems frazzled, her usual rock-solid confidence nowhere to be found. 

Totally understandable. It’s a big day for her.

Rebekah’s working on launching a swimwear line, is funding a big chunk of it herself. Caroline would have agreed to help out even if she didn’t owe Rebekah a favor. Caroline continues flipping through the garments until she finds the tag with her name on it.

She pulls the first hanger off the rack to look at the suit more closely. It’s a white one-piece with a deep-v neck, a belt slim black belt, and ruffled straps. Rebekah fidgets, “We’re styling this one with red lips and heels, a big hat. We’re going to try to shoot this one on the rocks.”

“Sounds good to me.” The shoot seems far more professional from the ones they’d managed to pull together for school projects. They’d done the best they could with the facilities available to students, but the house they’re using today is by far the nicest one Caroline’s ever been inside of. It backs onto a private beach which seems unnecessary considering the freaking gorgeous pool in the backyard. “Who’s the photographer?”

Rebekah grins, clearly pleased with herself. “I managed to convince my brother to donate his services.”

Well. Now Caroline’s nervous. “Your brother Klaus?” she asks, kind of hoping she’s wrong. Klaus Mikaelson is a big deal. He’s shot major covers, A-list celebrities, million-dollar international campaigns.

He’s used to models who know what they’re doing, and Caroline’s definitely an amateur.

“Yes, Klaus. I’ve forbidden Kol from coming within a five-mile radius. Can’t have him harassing the models. And Elijah’s been a gem, but his expertise lies more in negotiating with suppliers and nagging me to mind the expenses.”

Caroline takes a deep breath, tells herself it’ll be fine.

She studies her next look, a sleek black bikini and a sheer black robe covered in floral details. “Love the appliqués. Did you bead this yourself?”

“Till my fingers were bloody. But I think it’ll photograph well.”

Caroline hums in agreement. “Is this one on the beach too?”

“No, by the pool. Chaise lounge, martini glass, one of the male models in the background. Think rich divorcee seducing the help.”

Caroline hopes it’s a real martini. She might need it.

 She flips to the next hanger and has to bite back a distressed groan. Rebekah’s concept leans retro, so the yellow polka dot bikini in her hand is skimpier than Caroline had anticipated. 

“Probably should have skipped breakfast,” she mutters.

Rebekah scoffs, “None of that. You’ll look smashing in it. I have impeccable taste.”

Caroline’s distracted by male laughter, a new person slipping into the tent. “So you’ve insisted your whole life. I distinctly recall you sneaking into the family albums and burning most of the photographic evidence of the unfortunate style choices you made in years 7 through 9.”

Ordinarily, Caroline would exploit the opportunity to get a little dirt on Rebekah, but she’s annoyingly tongue-tied and intimidated. She’s pasted on a polite smile, more out of habit than anything. 

She may have google stalked Rebekah once upon a time, way back when they’d been rivals at school. And if during Caroline’s research, she’d read several articles and poured over dozens of pictures of Rebekah’s very talented and successful fashion photographer brother, that was her business.

Know thy enemy and all that, she couldn’t have known that rivalry would shift to friendly competition, then to actual friendship. 

She’d noted he was attractive, of course, as anyone with eyes and sense would have. Most people don’t manage to live up to photos taken by professionals.

Klaus Mikaelson does, and it’s not helping her insecurities.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Nik.”

He walks further in, offering Caroline his hand. “You must be Caroline. It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Klaus Mikaelson.

She swallows, is relieved when her voice sounds normal. “You too. I’m excited for today. I love your work.”

He nods, appearing pleased. “It’s been ages since I’ve done this kind of shoot, but you must know how Rebekah can be. Wouldn’t stop haranguing me until I agreed.”

Rebekah glares, piqued, and Caroline presses her lips together to hold in a laugh that threatens, knowing it would not be appreciated. “I can’t blame her for doing what needed to be done to ensure the desired outcome. It’s only good business.”

Rebekah nods firmly, “Exactly. Thank you, Caroline. At least someone here appreciates me.” She picks up the last hanger that had been in Caroline’s section and hands it over. “This one’s first since the set-up is the simplest. Bonnie should arrive while you’re shooting. We’ll do her first look while you go back into beauty, then rotate throughout the day. Put this on. I’ll send hair in first.”

She knocks into Klaus’ shoulder when she leaves, hard enough to have him swaying. “That’s why you’re not allowed in my house!” he calls to her retreating form. “Just had the floor redone,” he tells Caroline. “Can’t have her stomping all over them if she has a tantrum.”

“She’s stressed. You might want to be nicer.” Caroline regrets the words immediately, glances away under the pretense of studying the bikini in her hand. He’s donating his time and apparently his house. Their family squabbles really aren’t her business.

But Klaus isn’t offended, “Perhaps you have a point, though Rebekah’s never more productive than she is when she’s angry. Failure’s not an option when she’s fueled by spite.”

Hmm. Caroline has similar ideals. Maybe that’s why she and Rebekah came to understand each other.

She realizes she’s been twisting the bikini top’s strap, hurriedly straightens it out. “I feel like I should warn you, my modeling experience is limited to pitching in with other student’s shoots at school. So, I’m far from a professional.”

He shrugs. “You have nothing to be worried about.”

That startles a laugh from her. “You only say that because you don’t know me. I am a world-class worrier.”

He takes the suit away from her, setting it aside. His knees bend, until their eyes are level. “Caroline. You’re beautiful. Rebekah’s created lovely things. I’m very good at my job. I have every confidence the final product will be spectacular, and I’ll be able to enjoy reminding Rebekah that she owes me a favor down the line.”

Caroline blinks at him in surprise, some of her nerves having drifted away when faced with his absolute and unwavering confidence. “That’s… actually very reassuring.”

“Was it? I confess that’s not a strength of mine.”

She’s not sure if he’s joking or not, but she picks up her first outfit again. It’s another bikini, a tropical print on a pink background with a halter top and a high waisted bottom. “I should change,” she says. “Something tells me Rebekah won’t appreciate it if we fall behind schedule.”

Klaus nods, rocking back a step. “Of course. I just wanted to introduce myself. Please feel free to let me know if you need or want anything at all.”

She thanks him again, and he lets himself out of the tent. 

Caroline takes one more deep breath and then ducks behind the screen in the corner and strips out of her sundress.

Once she’s dressed in Rebekah’s design, she begins to feel like everything might just go okay. The suit fits like a dream, propping up her breasts and perfectly hugging the curve of her hips. By the time hair and makeup work their magic, leaving her curls full and her lips slicked bubblegum pink, she feels freaking fantastic.

When she steps out onto the set, Klaus’ eyes widen when he spots her, lingering in a way that’s slightly unprofessional but not at all unwelcome.

He walks over, paying not the slightest bit of attention to anyone on the crew, even when an assistant tries to wave him over. Klaus offers his arm to help steady her as she steps into the matching pink pumps, leans in close, and tells her she looks incredible, his lips brushing her ear and sending a pleasant shiver down her spine.

She might be in trouble.

Will Rebekah kill Caroline if she flirts with Klaus? Probably.

Caroline thinks she’s willing to risk it.

[shirophantomvox]

A Night on the Town- Hisoka x Illumi (Hisoillu)

What’s up y’all? Per an anon request, here is a Hisoillu story. Hisoka and Illumi go to dinner at a fancy restaurant to talk about a business contract when a single phrase or word causes them to change the subject. This story will see how they stand on their relationship. Are they only meant to be “friends” or more than? “A night on the town” is a British phrase that simply means someone going to a club or hanging out all night long. Boujee is an abbreviation of the French "bourgeois." A critical term used to describe people, things, and places that are definitively high-class. I am going to try my best to keep this in character. They feel comfortable to joke around each other only. I use places like Earth, Mars, and the US because I assume Yorknew is another name for New York. Yes, I mentioned some Voltron elements too. I love crossovers! Enjoy! Feel free to inbox me. FYI, there’s nothing wrong with eating chicken fingers as an adult. I hate steak and haven’t eaten it in over 15 years. Onto the story!

Rain fell from the sky hard as ever. The sound of the raindrops hitting multiple surfaces sounded like quarters hitting metal. Thunder clapped what seemed like every 60 seconds followed by an alarming amount of lightning. The white and red LED lights lit up the sidewalk in front, casting heavenly shadows on just about everyone that made their way in. “La Lune” is a 5 star restaurant located in the heart of Yorknew City. Tons of celebrities have had dinner there! Madonna, Rihanna, Beyonce, and so many more had taken funny photos with the chef and his wife, creating a memorable moment for everyone involved. Many take the atmosphere of this restaurant as something romantic. The lights were dimmed and the tables were lit by candle light. It seemed like everyone was being serenaded by their lover, except for these two of course. Their occasion was something far from being romantic. Both gentlemen agreed to talk about a mission that would require both of their efforts because if one did not agree, the other would parish. This mission drove them mad. Hisoka lost a few days of sleep just thinking about it!

You see, one of the country’s best space explorers has been running rampant through the streets. These students attended the Galaxy Garrison, a space college and were launched into space. While trying to bring back samples from Kerberos, they were attacked by aliens (known as the Galra), kept in another dimension, and once they returned they began to inflict pain on Earthlings just like how the Galra did to them. These students must have been experimented on because they possessed power that no Nen user could defeat.

Both gentlemen walked to the hostess desk and waited for their attention. Hisoka’s hair was covering part of his eyes. Many people found him attractive; so attractive that people would nudge him on the arm and mimic a “call me” motion with their fingers. What was it about him that people would just swoon over? Illumi stood behind Hisoka with his hands in his pants pocket, impatiently waiting to be seated. You can’t discuss aliens and brats on an empty stomach.

“How may I help you?’” The hostess smiled big as she cupped her hands waiting for his response. Her teeth were pearly white, almost appearing to be fake. But one thing was off about this woman. She stared mighty hard at his face and continued to smile. She seemed robotic. A smile appeared on his face as well; he swore she was undressing him with her eyes.

“Reservation for Gittarackur~♠?” Hisoka nearly said Illumi’s name instead.

“Right this way.”

She led them through a series of staircases and made her way to the rooftop. This building wasn’t too tall, but it was high enough. The roof was decorated with red table umbrellas, glass tables, candles, and hanging LED lights.

This is a little too romantic, Illumi. What gives?

She handed them the menu and walked away. Illumi looked to his right and left to ensure no one was close enough to hear what he was going to say. But before he could say anything, Hisoka opened his mouth and began to make unnecessary comments that got under Illumi’s skin.

“You tend to pick the restaurants with a noticeable romantic atmosphere. Care to tell~♥.?”

Illumi pressed his lips together.

“I do not pay attention to the atmosphere. I pay attention to good ratings and decent prices.”

“Oh! So, you’re a cheap date~♠!”

“This isn’t a date, Hisoka. We are talking about a mission that if it gets out of control, the whole human race will cease to exist as we know it.”

A waitress came over, introduced herself, and offered them a bottle of wine.

Did you plan this, Illumi?

Of course they accepted! Rosé was Hisoka’s go-to. The wine mellowed him out, made him more relaxed and bearable. He placed his thin fingers and sharp nails around the wide-mouth glass and sipped his drink. He smiled as Illumi disclosed more details of the mission.

“What are you saying, Illumi? I’m afraid I do not understand~♠.”

“Listen carefully. These groups of young adults have been experimented on by the Galra. Since their return, they've been stealing, beating, and even killing innocent people. Their excuse for this is by saying that “those people were bad people” based on rumors they’ve heard. They’re a menace to society, not to mention extremely dangerous. For the first time in 22 years, I’m a little worried.”

The waitress came back to take their order. Hisoka had never tried a streak before, so that is what he ordered. Illumi, the picky eater on the other hand, ordered an adult size of chicken fingers and fries. Hisoka gave him the shittiest look of the century. He placed his large hand over his face as he humiliatingly closed his eyes. Illumi squinted trying to ignore Hisoka’s stupid reactions.

“What’s the matter?”

“You embarrass me, Illumi~♠.”

“How?! What did I do?”

“We’re at a nice, romantic restaurant and all you order is chicken fingers, fries, and ranch?! Ma’am could you give us a moment~♠?”

“Absolutely.” Poor girl. Why did she have to witness that?

“What’s your problem, Hisoka?”

“You could have at least ordered the steak, salad, or both! Look around you! You’re going to be the laughing stock of this town! Try strawberry vinaigrette~♠!”

“Well, excuse me, Mr. Boujee! Chicken fingers are delicious and anyone can order them! Why would I order salad when I have lettuce at home?”

“Because it’s good for you~♠!”

“Salad doesn’t fill me up and neither does strawberry vinaigrette!”

They began to talk about the mission again. Illumi hid his fear behind his resting bitch face, but he didn’t know if he truly wanted to go through with this mission or not.

“I’m feeling cautious.”

“What for? I’m sure you can handle it~♣.”

“I can’t. I don't even think my grandfather can beat them.”

“Why so?” Hisoka drank from his glass again. Illumi did not disclose much info because he knew how Hisoka becomes when he’s tipsy. He begins to laugh and talk too much.

“They have an ability that can wipe out a Nen user within seconds.”

“Oh~♥?”

“Yes. They can disappear in the blink of an eye, they have this purple electricity shooting from their hands, and these specific men I see with gray masks that remind me of a plague doctor. They have no faces and they’re purple. Once that electricity hits you, it’s game over. They have the ability to determine if it's fatal or not.”

“Ouch. What’s the plan~♣?”

“Someone that I used to know will infiltrate the base that they’re hiding in. It will be difficult because they guard it but that is when my needles will come in handy.”

“But you didn’t have to cut me off…~♣” Hisoka sang.

“What? What was that, that you did just then?” Illumi was serious. This was no time to be joking around.

“What? I just finished what you started~♣.”

“What did I start?”

“You said ‘someone that I used to know’ and I responded ‘but you didn’t have to cut me off’. Don’t tell me you’re not aware of that song~♣.”

Hisoka smiled something softer than usual and laughed at Illumi’s clueless look. This was something he adored about him; the carelessness made him laugh so hard that he forgot about his troubles...if he had any.

“I understand why you brought me here to talk about stopping the Galra, but let’s enjoy this moment. Just you and I~♥.”

“Why? They are dangerous. They could be planning on destroying us as we speak.”

“You worry too much. Besides, everyone knows of your talent and even if they seem more powerful, I’m sure they’re keeping their distance from you.”

“I thought you’d be overjoyed at this opportunity. You can finally put those chrome cards to play.”

“Who said I wasn’t? I am but I’ve learned to hide my arousal rather well~♥.”

“You didn’t hide it well just a few seconds ago.”

“Touché’. But I was not talking about fighting then, I was talking about you~♥.”

“Hmm.” Illumi didn’t know what to say but one thing is for sure. Many, many feelings and thoughts clouded his mind and body but he didn’t know how to respond to them. He has known Hisoka for some time now and he knew of his ways; if he would just tell him how he felt, he might be surprised by his reaction. Hisoka has flirted and with him several times but for some reason he felt like if he responded he may not get a desired response.

Hisoka began to chuckle, more of a tipsy chuckle. He couldn’t hold back his laughter as he noticed how Illumi’s attitude began to change. Illumi immediately placed his wine glass on the table and squinted in confusion.

“What’s so funny, now?” He sounded a bit irritated but deep inside he was happy he asked.

“You’re blushing~♥.”

“What?”

Damn.

Was it that noticeable?

Sure was.

“I’m good! I never thought that I could make the oldest son of the Zoldyck family blush from my passes. That’s an achievement for me. So tell me Illu, do you dream about me too~♥?”

“Be quiet, would you?”

The magician couldn’t help but to release a hearty laugh so loud that people began to glance in their direction. Illumi frowned and crouched low towards the table.

“Stop it. People are staring.”

“What? I love it when people stare. That means I look good~♥.”

Hisoka continued to laugh. To add to Illumi’s social demise, he stood up from his chair, took a photo on his phone and captioned it: “Best date ever♦”.

“Don’t send that!”

“Oops. Sorry not sorry,” Hisoka gloated covering his mouth. “Guess you’ll have to catch me~♥.”

He continued to laugh but his laughter slowly began to come to a halt and wired down. Now he laid his head on the table, slightly drooling. Illumi decided that he had enough excitement for the night, so he threw three pins in his right leg, which was conveniently under the table. Hisoka had hinted earlier that he would be fine if Illumi ever made that decision. Following behind him for his entire life would be to die for. Illumi smiled as he looked at the man before him, finally silent.

“This might actually work,” he whispered to himself.

The moonlight casted a shadow on him as he admired the star on the sleeping magician’s face.

[johobi]

The Devil In His Details

Word count: 9.2k

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Warnings: alcohol consumption, drug mentions, dirty talk, oral sex (male receiving), assplay, prostate milking, edging

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18686617

A/N: So this was supposed to be 1k words long for an anon that requested bad boy!Jimin in a drabble prompt game. Clearly that didn’t happen. I hope you enjoy it more than I did editing lkfjwalkjf.

Evil comes in many forms. In this instance, it’s a 5′8″ pretty-boy with an even prettier dick. And you’re the form you want him to come in.

Park Jimin.

A slender, regal nose. Two sly eyes that mellow with laughter. A white smile with just the one, imperfect tooth. Cheeks you'd find on a cherub's face, but a jawline hewn with the devil's input.

Everything about his face is an infuriating dichotomy of soft and sharp. And, God, his lips. Full, unfairly alluring, and begging to be kissed. But this is not a man who does much of that. Begging, that is. Kissing? Oh, he does a lot of that. It doesn't extend to you, though, no matter how much you wish it did.

Jimin is the object of your latest fixation. Well. You may say latest, but in reality you've been harbouring something hot and nasty for this guy for most of the academic year. To the faces of your friends, you blame the heartbreak inflicted by your ex-boyfriend. The thing is, you've been over him for months. Without that as a plausible explanation for your misguided crush, though, you have little to offer in substitution. Jimin isn't the type of guy any sensible, law-abiding girl should be cranking her Rabbit up for. Sure, he's so beautiful that his face can cleanse troubled minds. But he’s flying so many red flags it's like swimming in shark-infested waters.

He manspreads across from you in the campus square, leather jacket and black jeans lacquering his body and a cigarette dwindling limply between his lips. A smile occupies his mouth and eyes, the latter until they're mere, charming slits. You find yourself smiling, too. Oh, God. Get yourself together, ____. Fucking infatuated idiot.

You should know better. Jimin is aposematic with his lurid, magenta hair. He's a beacon of rebellion amidst the drab of campus conformation. And, yeah, maybe he looks cool because of that.

But he’s nothing but trouble.

A criminal.

You don't know the extent of his many and varied illegal activities, but you do know that you'd be an idiot to ever involve yourself with him. The lesser of his crimes begin with him not even being enrolled at the very university he utilises as his base of operations. And nor is he shooed away for his overt disregard for campus rules - and, generally, the law - because security lives snugly in his weed-stuffed back pocket. Yep, he's a dealer. Street racer. Brawler. You don't know how many times you've been torn from sleep by his gang's maniacal laughter as they rough up a rival, less attractive one.

He's also a heartbreaker.

And as ridiculous as it is, that's the thing that gives you most reason for pause. Not the drug-peddling, not the violence, but because you're in so deep you want to be sharkbitten. Consumed, bone for bone.

But he never looks your way. Ever. You're not so much a Plain Jane, you don't think, but desperately shy. Especially where your heart's involved. It forgets its function when confronted with someone you like. You take care of your appearance. You've had a few, long-term boyfriends. But whenever you're dumped back at Square One: Single, you're as hopeless in romance as you are in cooking. And all the cuisine you can conjure involves a microwave.

Scenarios of seduction circulate your mind as you ogle him from afar, your thoroughly bitten lip again between your teeth. If only you possessed the confidence your best friend insisted lay latent within you. It would be nothing to strut up to him now and toss your phone into his lap, arms crossed and an expectant smirk curling your mouth. "Gonna give me your number, or what?" you'd sigh - exasperated for the sake of drama - his beautiful face wiped clean of its cocksure facade.

Yeah, that'd be real cool.

But you're still sitting here, legs bobbing out of habit. Jimin is still there, smug and sexy, imparting something hilarious enough, apparently, to wind the comparably attractive guys with him. It's then that your phone purrs between your hands, clutched and previously forgotten.

It's Jisoo, said best friend.

[13:56] slut #1: heyyyy

[13:56] slut #1: guess what

It'll be one of two things. Either she needs your notes because she slept-in in lieu of doing the set reading, or—

[13:56] slut# 1: our floor's having a party tonight

Party.

[13:56] slut #1: come or ill break your legs 

The severity of her threat comes down to your repeatedly declining her invitations. It's not that you don't enjoy parties, because you do. In fact, there’s rarely a time you feel more alive than getting smashed and exorcising your anxiety for those few hours. It's more the fact that it takes a month's worth of mental energy to prevent you flaking out in the lead-up.

Today, though, you're game. Your introversion has been well and truly catered to these last, barren weeks. You're at full charge.

[13:58] yeah, why not

Dots dance across the screen.

[13:58] slut #1: serious???? holy shit that was easy for once

[13:58] slut #1: come to my room at 9

[13:59] the party's in your room?

[13:59] slut #1: no dumbass it's like the whole floor, idek whose party it is but u gotta meet me somewhere right

[14:00] kk. see you then

However unlikely, a feeble hope tugs at your fragile, besotted heart. Maybe he'll go? The organ stutters in your chest when you raise your eyes to where Jimin sits. But he's gone. Suddenly, it all seems like a terrible idea. It's just not meant to be. The universe is communicating it to you as gently as it can.

I need a firm slap. Irked by your nonsensical infatuation, you shoot to your feet and make off in a storm, bag not so much slung but catapulted onto your back. I need to get the fuck over this.

The campus square is a sizeable, open space with the central fountain being its only obstacle. However, by how solid the object is that you suddenly collide with, it seems to have sprouted another.

"Shit!" you gasp, nose flattened sharply, painfully, against something immovable. As you rub it, brows sharp in offense, you peer up into eyes of the thing you've blindly marched into.

Fuck.

Jungkook.

One of Jimin's lackeys.

Before you can locate his magenta-headed leader, however, Jungkook fills the entirety of your field of view. His narrow lips draw tighter; eyes, too. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

“U-Uh—”

“Uh?” the musclehead mimics, stooping into your personal space. By instinct, you shrink. At odds with his adorably prominent front teeth, the sneer he wears is nasty. “Anything else?”

An errant glance over Jungkook’s shoulder finds you Jimin. He hangs back, hands in pockets, nonplussed by the confrontation. It’s likely pretty tame in comparison to their usual run-ins. But it frustrates you, nonetheless, that the boy won’t look at you, even now, when the spotlight is searing you.

Jungkook snaps his fingers at the end of your nose and you’re back in the room. “Well?”

“I’m sorry. It was an accident. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” You hack for breath when he exhales a plume of cigarette smoke directly into your face. “I-It won’t happen again.”

The other one with them - Seokjin, the half-ass in your business studies class - claps a hand on Jungkook’s seam-straining shoulder. “‘Roid rage. Sorry, sweetheart. You’re a finance major too, right?”

Before you can even process the unexpected civility of his question, Jungkook rounds on him in ire. “The fuck? You know I don’t take steroids.” His cigarette flares at the corner of his mouth. Like a showboating pidgeon, he puffs out his muscular chest. “This is all hard work.”

Seokjin is clearly unmoved. He blinks an unnecessary amount of times, like it’s a tic of his. His glasses ride up as he crinkles his nose. Then: “Okay. Didn’t know you were too stupid to get a joke though. ‘Roids must be shrinking your brain as well as your dick.”

“What—”

An Off-White jacket streaks across your vision.

“—the fuck—”

A white t-shirt follows it soon after.

“—did you just say?”

Jungkook ripples, shirtless, with such unabated fury he distorts the air surrounding. Or maybe it’s the heatwave.

It’s then, beholding this sudden, aggressive display, that your fear finally surfaces. “Oh my God, what the fuck is happening?” you whisper exclusively to yourself, because to attract attention is to court an ass-beating.

And it’s then, of course, that Jimin finally takes heed of your existence. With a quirk of his head, he stares you down. Well, not so much stare. What he does expresses far less effort. His eyes meander the length of you in their own, good time, before landing on your blanching face. The laziest of smirks possess his lips.

Your heart sprouts wings.

His smirk widens.

Fuck, your heart’s airborne. It’s gonna launch itself out your mouth.

Seokjin dispels Jimin’s sorcery with another, unwisely provocative comment. “Your dick’s shrivelled? Or your brain? I don’t know which one offended you.”

Jungkook pounds his chest once, like an oversexed silverback. “Why you always gotta do me like this, bro? Is it ‘cause I fucked your mom that one time? I thought you were over tha—”

“Fuck you!”

Just when you’d established Seokjin as the pacifist of the group, he begins throttling Jungkook double-handed. The pair slip into an awkward grapple while Jimin looks on.

Looks at you.

Doesn’t even spare a glance for the groups of hurried, whispering students migrating across campus.

Guttural grunts float up from the ground as Jungkook and Seokjin’s scuffle escalates, but their leader pays them no mind in that moment. It’s your opportunity to say something more, but you don’t. Your vocal chords never pull together.

Moment missed.

Jimin sweeps a lock of magenta from his eyes, finally animate. A testy sigh siphons from him. “Get up. You’re making me look bad. Put your fucking shirt on, Jungkook.” His voice, usually soft, strikes like a serpent. Venom coats his tongue. “You represent me, dickheads. Plus, you’re scaring this girl.”

The absurdity of the situation, the apprehension you feel, is muffled for a moment. All you can hear is the rush of blood and Jimin’s vocal acknowledgement of your existence ricocheting in your mind. Girl. You.

It’s stupid. Demeaning, even, snapping up these scraps like a slobbering mongrel.

But exciting.

Having captured Jimin’s attention, you bow to him the gratitude you can’t vocalise. The plan, as you rise, is to hit him with a seductive smile, but you're certain your mouth only stretches awkwardly. Nevertheless, his pretty lips purse for a moment before pulling up, too. “I’m going.” He addresses them, but his eyes are on you.

Jimin takes his leave without further ado. As he passes you his gaze lingers too long, demanding he turn his face. His body ghosts past without contact, but a chilly thrill descends upon you like he's drifting right through your bones. And then he struts away like he owns the place, because he does.

And, God, he owns you, too.

His in-fighting entourage scrabble to catch up with him. Jungkook's hastily gathered clothes scrape the floor as he runs, their expense forgotten. “‘Min-hyung! Wait! We’re sorry!”

"Bye then," you comment, quiet, to their retreating backs. It wasn't quite the first encounter you'd prophesied, but considering Jimin's reputation, it should've been.

Anyway.

Your eyes fall to your phone and this evening's plans.

Party.

---

Jisoo's generously highlighted features bob before you in the muted light. Parts of her face are so illuminescent it looks like scaffolding. "Anyway, I'll be back soon. Get some drinks, loosen up. I need to find Namjoon."

"Okay, but are you actually gonna come back?" Your first beaker of jungle juice is already souring your lips. "'Cause if you're gonna find Namjoon, I don't think you're gonna come back."

Her eyes are everywhere but on you, glossy mouth twisting. “I'll really try! But I also really wanna see him, now I know he's here." Suddenly, your free hand is in her meticulously manicured clutches. "I'm not saying I will disappear, but I might. Please understand! I need dick so bad. Please." And now her eyes are on yours, black as night and just as dangerous. Jisoo is never more serious than when cock is at stake.

You shake yourself free of her flimsy grasp and flimsier promises. "Do what you want, but I don't know anyone in your dorm. If you don't come back in an hour, I'm gonna go."

That was an hour ago.

Within that hour, you consumed three cups of awful booze, lingered awkwardly by the party lights, and recovered zero Jisoos. The only noteworthy happening was some plastered guy insisting you were his boyfriend. So insistent, in fact, that you doubted your own identity by the last of the 15 minutes he spent calling you Yoongi. He lamented endlessly about how difficult it would be to survive the evening without getting in your tight little ass. The only thing that convinced him of the truth to your identity was said, tight-assed man appearing and dragging the lightweight away. Yoongi did have a nice ass, you observed, as they fell back into the throng.

Oh.

And Jimin was here.

Skulking the fuchsia shadows like a perfect predator. Thing is, he's already top of the food chain. No hunting required. Very much evidenced by the girls that swarmed him all night like a shoal of pilotfish. The music was too loud and the light too dim, but for every instance he opened his mouth, his accompanying partygoers exploded into laughter. This seems a skill of his. He has dominion over men and women both.

And you're no exception.

Whenever he was in sight, he drew your eyes. When he was dancing, he drew them lower. And there they remained, never straying from his swivelling hips and straining thighs. The girls danced in circles around him like they were worshipping a pagan idol. Understandable. You coveted him, too, from afar.

But now he's gone. Your cup is empty. Jisoo is getting Namjoon'd.

It's been an hour. You're going home.

There’s enough trash at your feet and liquor loosening your morals that you feel no guilt in dropping your beaker onto the pile. Polished, black shoes with pointed toes enter view and crumple that which you’ve littered. You look up.

“Juh—”

Jimin. It’s Jimin. Neither your mouth nor brain can co-ordinate sufficiently enough to identify him verbally, though. Instead, you gawp, inches from his breathtaking face, bathed in romantic light. “Littering, huh? Kinda rude, don’t you think?” He taunts, tongue between teeth. When you don’t rebut him, he slides an arm up the wall behind you. Sinks closer, until your eyes meet on an intimate level. “What are you doing here, campus girl? Didn’t think this was your kind of thing.”

Righteous indignation roils in you. As for why, it’s unclear. As are most things when relatively tipsy. “How would you know what my kind of thing is? You don’t know me. Also, don’t call me campus girl.” At this proximity, you’re acutely aware of the alcohol on your breath. You dial it down a bit. Turn your head and snort. “That’s rude.”

The alcohol, apparently, has also robbed you of your self-preservation skills. Because never in the light of a sober day would you be slighting a delinquent like this. And not the one you’re besotted with, either. That, then, dawns on you. As does his closeness, and the sweet smell of his own poison of choice.

“Well, I don’t know your name, do I?” Charm inhabits his tone, his smile. God, it’s flustering. Jimin toys with you, thwarting your attempts to evade his eyes. His face follows yours, until it’s all you can do but stop and stare. Fall fully and deeply into him. “‘Cause you’re shy, aren’t you?” He wets his lips then, unfairly. They’re dewy and full and even rosier in this light.

“Let me suck your dick,” you blurt, hypothesizing it being just as juicy. Just as tasty. Your inhibitions are low, but not enough that this is a mistake. Jisoo is right. There’s confidence in you, somewhere. You tap it when you tap a keg.

Jimin looks scandalised. His eyebrows vanish into his hairline. Giddy laughter streams from him. “Pardon?”

“I said, let me suck your dick.” Power floods your bloodstream. Liquid courage mingles with. “I’m pretty good at it, and I really want to. Like, so bad. I think about it a lot.”

If he says no, you no longer have to wonder.

If he says no, you never have to look at him again.

If he says no, you can chase someone wholesome and virtuous.

If he says yes, you get to suck his dick.

“Yeah?” Interest kindles in Jimin’s keen, black eyes. He’s close enough, now, that his body heat feels akin to weight against you. His voice drops below the bass of the music. “What did you think about?”

Are you gonna dirty talk in public?

A quick glance around and they aren’t so much the public anymore as parading monkeys, high on lust and low on decency. Just over from you, there’s a girl getting the least discreet fingerbanging of her life.

So, yeah. You lose a little of your rigidity and tip back your head. Lick your lips with a deliberate tongue. “How pretty your cock probably is. How it’d feel on my tongue, in my throat.” Unconscious or not, Jimin’s pressing to your hip. The subject of your conversation starts soft in his pants, but stiffens with your salacious description. Fuck, you’re tingling, too. “How you’d taste, coming down my throat—”

“Are you for real, campus girl?” Jimin interrupts, breathy. Disbelieving. He almost sounds distressed. Like a donkey that doesn’t wanna walk miles for a dangling carrot. Jimin doesn’t seem to get it, though. He’s the carrot, and dear God you wanna chomp down.

“I told you not to call me that. Guess you’re not interested,” you bluff, because not only are you provocative on booze, you’re also an absolute fucking idiot. There’s a significant chance he’ll tire of your tsundere bullshit and find another open mouth. However, as you turn to leave, fate smiles on you. As does he, when he sandwiches you to the wall, his chest to your back and his mouth a ghost on the nape of your neck.

Chills.

Chills spread where his breath is hot and wet. But still, his lips don’t touch. You can, however, hear the smirk in his voice. “Tell me your name.”

The stutter sabotages you somewhat. You’re breathless. “I-It’s ____.”

"____," Jimin repeats with a flick of his tongue, wetting your nape with the slightest of saliva. "Are you for real, ____? Or are you drunk?"

His fingers spread like wildfire across the tops of your thighs, testing the give of your flesh. You exhale as if he's squeezing the soul from you. "I'm for real. I'm not drunk, I've just had enough to realise that if I don't say this now, I never will. How often do you talk to me, after all?"

Jimin's throat rumbles as he contemplates. His lips part by your ear, vocal fry caressing each, careful syllable. "How often do you talk to me?" he poses. The steady, rigid throbbing against your ass suggests that this could've happened sooner.

Reluctant as you are to disturb your clinch, you’re not here to stare at the plastering. It would be a crime to deny yourself the chance to ogle his beauty close-up. With this in mind, you twist against his body, bringing your fronts flush together. God, he throbs all the more potently like this, pressed to the crotch of your dress. Jimin's still smiling, of course, all illegal charm and zero reserve.

A nervous lick of lips. "You're terrifying. Especially when you're surrounded by those guys all the time. That's why I don't talk to you." It’s a half-truth. The other half is your incompetence in flirting.

"And here I was, thinking you were shy," is Jimin’s riposte. "But, clearly, I'm wrong." Those plush, pink lips descend on you before you can blink away the unreality of it. They're softer than any piss-poor imitation of a man's mouth that's come before them. Softer than silk, even. And when they open, syrupy. A mire of heat and wet tongue, caressing away all your prior fears, even if they're legit. It really doesn't matter. Not when you're tasting this sublime man. Not when he suckles at your mouth so sensually, so gently. He can't be that horrific a person when he's holding you with such careful attention. It's too soon when he unties your tongues. "You don't need to be afraid of me," Jimin murmurs thickly to your lips. The lop-sided smile he wears says otherwise. It's a little too close to a sneer. "Well, ____—" he steps back. Lures you with him. "Wanna make this a reality?"

You're giddy as fuck. So much so your legs feel like a Newton's cradle. "Y-Yeah. Take me somewhere—" to speak his name is to make it real— "Jimin."

People blur, merge shapelessly around you as he weaves through their mass, leading you by one, dainty hand. It's not the drink. You're dizzy - high, even - with anticipation so intense it renders all outside his svelte figure indistinct. All there is is him, and what you're about to do. It doesn't even feel like you're tripping up the stairs when you do. You're floating, actually, because he's pulling you up and smirking so salaciously that you're weightless. The only weight is the one nestled deep in your abdomen, punching at your cunt like it knows well what that smug mouth could do.

The two of you stagger into an unoccupied bathroom. It's as grim and grotty as you'd expect of student lodgings, but that matters very little right now. Even though you're painfully germaphobic. The priority is realising you're about to suck off Park fucking Jimin. It hits you so powerfully that, for a very long second, you want to reconsider. After all, he likely has expectations. Confidence flees from you.

"Okay, then. On your knees, ____."

And then it floods back. As does desire.

Jimin perches atop the toilet with poise, its seat flat beneath him. You briefly speculate its cleanliness, but he’s already slinking the denim down his legs and over his knees. They cling in a pool at his ankles, likely impossible to get any further. His visibly wilting cock lounges against the crotch of his CKs, waiting for your intervention. It'll have to wait a little longer, though, because there's nothing on God's awful earth that will hinder your leering at this visual feast. His muscle-strapped thighs are somehow all the thicker hugging the bowl of the toilet. And the tiny, toned waist they taper to is all the confirmation you require to understand that this man is way out of your league. Like, forget international league. You're 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. "Fuck."

The curse is all he needs to understand. Whether it's for the sake of wanking his ego or to titillate you further, Jimin tenses his quads until they're as hard and smooth as varnished oak. All you want is to ride them like a fucking rocking horse. "You making me wait?"

Hell no. Before he can even finish his taunt you're at his feet and kneading his thighs like dense dough. Jimin feels fit. He isn't pliable like lovers gone. He's zero body fat, all thew, all sex. He's everything.

And you're nothing to him.

Tonight, though, you’ll become something.

Your fingers continue upward. And as they do, inward. Where he's slightly fleshier, and by the twitch of his covered dick, more sensitive. "How do you like it?"

"I'm as predictable as any other guy," Jimin half-shrugs, reclining against the cistern. His fingers curl into your hair, though not in any pushy, possessive way. It's almost as though he's simply appreciating its texture. The curve of your scalp. Tingles spring from his touch and arrest your body. "Deep as possible. Don't neglect the shaft. Play with my balls a little," he reels off his litany shamelessly. "If you can take it, lemme fuck your face?"

Each of his suggestions make both your mouth and cunt salivate. You want all of those things and more. That other thing. "We'll see," you say as much to yourself as you do to him. "Let's see what we're working with." You lunge for his waistband with both hands, eager to steal them from his body. Jimin halts you once you peek pubes.

"I'm not sitting my bare ass on this toilet." The grunt he makes is indignant. Adamant.

But you have plans. And so you whip a towel from its rail and coax it beneath him, the makeshift mat feeling dubiously damp. "If you want me to do it good, let me have you without your underwear."

Jimin complies, shifting his weight. Then, with danger perverting his tone: "Then you better do it good, ____."

You perform well under pressure. The pressure that comes with academic deadlines and 10th grade theatre, at least. However, it doesn't extend to sucking the cock of, arguably, the most intimidating, most captivating man you've gawped at from afar. Your previous lovers were diffident and easy to please. It's only through your own, bored invention that you delved deeper into the art of oral with them. You hope it serves you well tonight. "I'll try my best," you challenge, brow cocked, Jimin's boxers successfully purloined. The front of them are tacky to the touch, and this alone incites you. God, you can taste his salt already.

To your dismay, he doesn't resume his careful caressing of your scalp. No, once his bottom half is nude, he splays his thighs obscenely and leans back, fingers curling around the towel-covered toilet seat. From here he peers down his nose at you, a smirk all the while. His torso is one rigid, smooth slope, and you wish selfishy to see it exposed. Asking for that, too, though, might be too much.

And now that your gaze plummets, it doesn't matter. His cock is enough. You'd think it impossible for such an awkward looking appendage to ever earn the term pretty. But, uniform with the rest of him, his is. What he lacks in length he makes up for generously in girth. His cock is chubby and blushing, and, yes, pretty. God, so pretty.

Yes, you'll let him face-fuck you.

The tinkle of Jimin's earrings disrupt your awed silence. He projects impatience: Chewed lips, raised eyebrows, a slight, inquisitive tilt to his head. "This your first time or something?" Magenta falls across his eyes as his focus slips down his own body. He cages his cock inside a delicate fist, nurturing it to its full, thickened capacity. As it grows, so does his filthy smile. "You don't need to lie to me. I can go easy on you."

"This isn't my first time." Your resentment is palpable. Apparently, he enjoys it. As he pumps himself harder, his tongue probes disrespectfully at the corner of his upturned mouth. That only inflames you. "Is it your first time? Are all the rumours false?" Your comeback is risky, but the mood suggests banter is welcome. Perhaps all this big, bad wolf wants is a little, red-faced riding hood to provoke him.

The dare pays off. With one last, long stroke, he lets loose his erection, the concrete appendage slapping his stomach with an admirable thud. Resting back on one hand, he gestures to his waiting cock with the other. "Totally. I'm a good boy, ____. Now stop talking and fucking spit on it."

Your clit jumps. As do you, right into action. With your palms canvassing his inner thighs, you take one last, unenlightened breath before you dive face-first into his musk, pulling aside his cock to nuzzle at its base. To fully savour his scent and warmth. Jimin fills your hand to the extent you're unable to form anything close to a closed fist. Your thoughts are possessed only by your imagination and how wide he could stretch you. How full he could make you. A fucking stampede thuds through your pussy.  "Mm, you have such a nice cock," you murmur around the root of him. It's not so much meant as a compliment, but a statement of pure fact that must be expressed. You're sure he's heard such professions many times.

Yep. "I know, sweetheart." The timbre of his voice is a little heavier. Breathier. As your tongue flicks lazily under the round of his balls, it quivers, too. Nevertheless, he maintains his stoicism. "Why you teasing me down there? You know what I want."

When you pull one of his testicles into your mouth, however, he emits a quiet noise. One that sounds a little like it's something he wants. "Yes, daddy," you mouth around him, full irony. Jimin reacts to it, though. Pushes into your slack grip, looking for friction you're not about to give. It's almost enough to make you roll your eyes. Still, you don't know where the limit to his patience lies. And so you relent and pull your mouth upwards, dragging his sac with your reluctant lips. Jimin tenses when finally you free him, wet, sticky, and back to hanging. And then you're ascending his fat, veiny shaft, lathering the underside with your tongue. Ekeing from him the most delicious gasps of air. His hands go back into your hair, though with far less care this time, grasping at your roots as though to earth him.

"Yeah, that's it, ____. Keep going." Jimin's encouragement is sweeter to the ears than any lauded music. And so is the stifled whine that streams from him when you glaze the tip of his cock with saliva, enough to dribble down its entire length. Once he’s sufficiently spat on, you follow with your mouth. Fuck, it’s a strain to accommodate him. A feat not to scrape him with your teeth. He's so thick you must look vulgar stuffing him between your lips like this. A wayward glance tells you he's enjoying the lewd visual, though. His mouth is parted and breath puffs quickly from him. His eyes, normally sharp with wit, are dull. Fully blown. Jimin devours the sight of your struggle, as you do his uncomfortably chubby dick. His nails imprint crescents of self-restraint into the skin of your scalp. "F-Fuck. Yeah. Suck me."

You do. More fervently than you have any mouth-watering candy. Your lips work the head of his cock with measured pressure, back-and-forth, to the tune of his increasingly whiny vocalisations. Instinct takes him, sometimes, and he jerks without thought into you. Your teeth graze him, then, but it seems like an ineffective deterrence. No, sometimes he moans when you catch him, and for that you reward him with tongue on his frenulum.

That gets him the most.

His thighs ripple, his back bends. His head of magenta hair falls back.

"You—mmmmh—like that?" is your an attempt at a taunt, dulled by the cock wedged in your cheek.

"You suck dick like a fucking slut." Jimin is panting now, a sheen of perspiration oiling his face. Fuck, he looks dewy and downright dirty. The crotch of your panties is saturated with want for him. "You pretend you're all innocent and shit, but, Jesus, you're a dirty bitch."

With an enthusiastic flex of his thighs, he struggles free from the jeans binding him and props up a foot, knee bent and accentuating just how shapely his calves are. Spread like this, he's sordid. Wanton. He's getting desperate, and, against all expectations, unafraid to show it. Men with his level of machismo are typically reserved. It turns you on, dials you into overdrive, just how unabashed his enjoyment is. "Deeper. Can you take it deeper, ____? P-Please," Jimin whimpers on cue, resolve thready.

Briefly, you alight from his cock. He whimpers about that, too. This man is the terror of your college campus. And now he’s a needy, sex-swollen mess. "Depends. Can I edge you?" You're actually decently sober at this point, but bravado still brews in you nevertheless.

Jimin, no longer basking, purses his lips. Glares with the fury of a thousand blue-balled men. "Don't you fucking dare. Try it and I'll take over. I’ll come all over your smug little face."

The threat, in actuality, is more a solemn hope of yours. "Okay, okay. I won't edge you." Your hands keep busy while your overtaxed mouth relishes its moment of emptiness. You funnel your energy, instead, into keeping his cock stiff, five fingers twisting along its lubed-up length. With the other hand, you return to your earlier fixation and palm tenderly at his distended balls. A delicate quivering radiates from his core muscles. "But I really wouldn't mind you coming all over my face."

Everything about him tenses, then releases. His eyelids, low, bear the weight of arousal. "For real?"

"Might as well, my knees are already gross. You can get me dirtier if you like, Jimin." And then you're pulling down the straps of your dress until your breasts spill out, already pebbled and desperate for a fondling they won't get tonight. "Or here. Or everywhere. Just go to town."

Jimin gulps down stuffy, humid air. Concentrates a little too hard on your uncovered tits. Rocks a little too enthusiastically into your undulating grip. "God, yeah. I wanna come all over you. Spit in your fucking mouth." Suddenly it's not just your sole fist grasping him. He's clutching you, clutching him. Squeezing your knuckles until they're white and his cock is very, very red. "I'll bend you over the bathtub and fuck you 'til I break your hips. 'Til your pussy's dripping cum."

“Jesus—”

You’re so luststruck by his vulgar fantasies that it’s almost too late when you come to your senses. Jimin fucks your hands so ferociously it’s clear that the beast has taken him. You snatch away your hands before he wastes himself all over them. His come away, too, hovering in the air and demanding answers.

"Okay, well you just edged yourself." A giggle slips out while you watch him heave breath like he's nearing death. In a way, it's cute. Jimin's cheeks are full and flushed, eyes rounder than moons. He himself seems taken aback by his lapse into unadultered lust. "Don't take away the only reason I came here."

Despite Jimin's earlier, emphatic disapproval of being edged, he sure seems appreciative now. He basks in the near-rush, mellower than before. Gently - perhaps affectionately? - he cradles the back of your head and draws you in, a thumb pressing caresses to your cheek. This sudden sweetness, it's abnormal. Harmful. You don't want it. You don't want to see his good side, nor fall for it.

But here he comes, eyes searching, lips begging.

"Then deepthroat me like I asked."

Nevermind.

The pompous smirk is back. He reclines, his one leg up like an ode to Michaelangelo, dick tall and looking just as self-important. You're decided. It's time to make him squeal. "Okay. No edging. But let me make it feel even better?"

Jimin drips scepticism. "How?"

Fully anticipating rejection, you're direct. "Lemme stick a finger up your ass."

Again, he surprises you. Insomuch that revulsion doesn’t immediately sour him. "The fuck?" A husky chuckle rattles in his chest, instead. "Is that your secret technique?"

"Kinda." Your shoulders draw inward as self-consciousness consumes you. "I totally get it if you don't want to. But the other guys I've been with enjoyed it."

"Then do it, whatever. Don't let me go soft, though, ____," Jimin warns with pouty lips. His cock leans demonstratively forward, threatening flaccidity. "I'm feeling neglected."

"Tragic," you coo, feigning empathy. Looking as petulant as he, you suckle softly around the head of his dick, enkindling his passion before it fades. Your tongue does work around its bulbous ridge, teasing where it makes him squirm most. Then, with his demands in mind, your mouth descends over his modest stretch of shaft, worshipping each, precious inch as you go.

“Yes, baby. That’s it, that’s it.”

You dip and rise, tug and suck in a tantalising advance toward his base, wringing the precum from him. It's salty and sticky and you love it on your tongue, love smearing him with his own mess. Want to smear him with your mess.

“Fuck, yeah. K-Keep—unh!—going!”

The more of him you gobble, the more erratic his body behaves. Beneath your hands, his sweat-tacked thighs are tremulous, tensing without rhyme or reason. Jimin has little control over  any of his extremities. His hands are uncomfortable fists in the back of your hair, like he's reining in a wilful mare. And then there's his beautiful, unstopped moaning, so sinful your clit thumps like a bass drum between your legs. You moan, too, slurping the end of his leaking cock to the back of your throat so he can better feel it. The reverberations must reach him, because Jimin bucks, then, wildly enough to trigger a gag. "Ugh, y-yes, fuck!"

You can't so much as master Savasana in yoga, but what you are adept at is gag control. And though you cough a little, slaver a little, nothing but sudden death will stop you now. Nose-deep in Jimin’s considerately trimmed pubic hair, you trap him momentarily there, the whole of his cock nestled deep in your throat's constraints.

Jimin looks half-way gone. His hands hover above your shoulders, fingers curling and twitching peculiarly, like he’s about to astral project. Indeed, all you can see through the sliver in his lightly-closed lids is the white of his eyes. Every so often Jimin rolls his pelvis towards you, but you stymy his attempts to face-fuck you until you're ready to see him over the finish line. Grasping his hips, your thumbs take the liberty of feeling the lines of his obliques, and, God, you've never hated an item of clothing more than the t-shirt he's wearing.

"More," he splutters, then, swivelling against your hold like he's compelled. "More, give me more. I'm so close, I—I wanna fucking drown you in cum—" an ungodly groan bursts forth as he whips himself into a frenzy of his own making— "Fuck, you suck cock so good—so good, baby."

Of all things, baby is what heats your cheeks. The endearment feels like long-coveted validation. "Bear with me," is what you try to communicate, but considering the weight of his cock is pinning your tongue, it comes out garbled. Jimin doesn't even notice, so rapt is he in your mouth's luxury. Occasionally, he rewards your efforts with globs of pre-ejaculate that slide smooth down your throat.

Not wanting to interrupt his well-earned crawl to orgasm, you bob on his cock hands-free, employing them instead to locate one of the condoms populating your purse. Keeping pace is difficult enough that it's not long before Jimin, unsteady on his perch, growls in caution.

"Don't you dare fucking stop," he grunts through gritted teeth, scrutinising your every, unrelated move. When he sees what it was you sought, the growl becomes a snarl. The disdain his eyes convey is almost comical. "Don't make me come in that. I'm not coming in that," he snorts, placated momentarily by your refocused efforts on his plump little dick. As you tear open the wrapper, you tongue his cock hole like a striking snake. "Oh, sh-shit!—H-Hey, if you don't want me to come on you I won't, but—"

Slobber splatters the towel in your haste to cut him off. "It's not for you."

Rather than court more questions, you demonstrate. Hastily, you unroll the condom over your longest finger. Then, with his unerring attention, you squat back on your heels and hike up your dress, allowing him a view onto your panty-wrapped cunt. Jimin doesn't even notice that your mouth is gone from him while he’s leching. It’s just long enough an opportunity to dip your rubber-sheathed digit deep into the wetness of your pussy. He makes noises as you do, quiet ones, ones that stress how much he wants to be inside it. When you withdraw, your lips lock back onto him, kissing his cock where it's most swollen and sensitive. "Try and relax, okay? It'll feel good quicker if you do," you offer in advice, your cunt-slick finger bypassing his balls and slithering along his perineum. Already he's reacting, even from this slight, external stimulation.

"I'm relaxed as fuck," Jimin puffs defiantly, despite his initial recoil. "Show me what you're all about, ____."

"Alright then." Ever so carefully, you wheedle the tip of your finger past his asshole, stopping when his body tells you to. "Jimin, if you can’t handle it—"

They're unextraordinary words, but, apparently, the magic ones. Immediately he loosens around you. "I can. Shut up."

You do. By engulfing his erection without warning. Drawing on it like you would a drinking straw, enough to fluster him into distraction. The result is an easy, sailing entry into his ass, right up to your knuckle. It's not difficult to locate his prostate from there, as deliciously swollen as it is. With a cursory couple of taps, Jimin's body responds in new, mesmerizing ways.

"W-What the fuck—ah!" he cries through his confusion, the unfamiliar feeling prying his eyes wide. Jimin can only watch, overwhelmed, as you manipulate him from within, his back arching clean from the cistern. He's suspended by sensation, a wobbling tension keeping him upright. As you slurp mercilessly at his cock, you fix him with a look. Jimin's not there to receive it, though. His expression says his brain short-circuited the moment you started stroking him internally. And then, with a choked gasp, he returns to the corporeal, yanking at your hair like a man possessed. Only, he's pulling you away. "Stop, oh fuck, I'm gonna piss in your mouth." Distress and arousal fight for his features. The latter is winning, if the stutter of his hips is anything to go by. He's caught between two worlds of pleasure; bookended by penetration and your softly nursing mouth. All he can do is thrust from one to the other.

You come away with his hands, just briefly. Kitten-lick his purpling cockhead. "It's okay. You won't pee, it's meant to feel like that. Just go with it, unless you don't like it."

The blush dusting his cheeks deepens. You can't imagine it's because he's embarrassed, but for a moment he looks vulnerable. Human. Beautiful. Your heart trips. "Whatever," he attempts nonchalance, but his needy fragility is fooling no-one. "I like it, so don't stop. As long as you're sure i won't piss in your mouth. I mean, I don't care if I do, but you might—ungh!"

Swallowing a man's cock is as good as gagging them. Jimin falls quieter than night when you welcome him back into your warmth, working his shaft as well as your aching jaw will allow. Your tongue, too, is tiring, and yet you only twist around him all the more ravenously. It's not just his body that’s contorting when you pound at his prostate, now. His mouth hangs open unchecked, all thought for appearances gone. Within, his tongue writhes, articulating nothing but bodiless sounds.

You rub harder. Suck harder. More insistent. Jimin's eyebrows knit so tightly his nose crinkles. And when he does, a flood of runny, salty liquid squirts into your mouth, catching you off guard and in-between breaths. It's a wonder you don't drown when it keeps coming, this thin, bountiful expulsion. "F-Fuck, God—what is that—" he whines between milkings. As it seeps from your stuffed mouth, Jimin is enraptured. With his focus on you, you regurgitate it noisily over his cock, dousing him in his own fluids. "Fuck, i-it feels so good. I want more." His hands are either side of your face, fingers at your temples, palms pressuring your cheeks. "More." With a grunt, he hoists his previously dangling leg onto the toilet seat with the other. He squats, open and obscene, the picture of aroused anguish. "More. Harder," he jerks, marionette-like, to fuck himself on your finger, to propel his cock further down your throat. You're prepared for this onslaught now, mouth wide and tongue laying dormant as he rams his tip to your tonsils. Each thrust pushes more of his leakage from your mouth until you're drooling like a starving dog. And he's transfixed by it, teeth grinding, gripped by a terrifying hunger. "Fuck. Take it, take me, oh, shit—t-ta—"  

Nothing much else comes from Jimin but discharge, his face contorting as his body does, locked and straining. The motion of his hips slows until it ceases. There, he floats, with unseeing eyes, his orgasm approaching in an unavoidable swell. The throbbing that radiates from his buried cock is the final tell you chance before you cough him from your mouth, kneeling tall before him, breasts and face a blank canvas. You don't push him that last step so much as hammer him, battering his prostate until his mouth twists in devastation. Jimin's eyes are so wide it's like you're fucking the fear of God into him. He rises from his squat, millimetre by millimetre, as you slap your palm to his taint; his bloated balls. "C-Coming, I'm coming—" is all he can rasp as his soul departs and streaks your face once, twice—your eyelids fall closed as thick, viscous white weights down your lashes. Robbed of your sight, his groans hit louder, deeper. They resonate with agony, almost. And still he paints you, your throat, your neglected tits. "Oh my God, I—"

“That’s it, Jimin. Empty yourself on me.”

As the deluge dies away, you wipe your eyes free of cum and slide yourself from his spasming asshole. You expect to see him sat there, clutching his softening cock, but instead he’s sat back, hands-free and seeing constellations on the ceiling. "You came without touching your dick? Damn. That's restraint," you chuckle, your mouth feeling oddly loose. Too big. Too empty. When Jimin doesn't respond: "You okay?"

He stirs briefly from catatonia, though he continues to stare spaceward. "I'm good. I'm good. I think." A laugh comes out, but it's like he's forgotten what they should sound like. "Well, that was fucking awesome." A few, dumbstruck seconds later, Jimin returns to earth with a shaky sigh and that damn smirk. Finally, he looks at you. "Whoa. I got you messy as fuck."

A deadpan blink is all you can spare him when most of your body is protesting some type of pain. Your jaw, particularly, feels unhinged. "Yeah. You didn't notice that before?" You slip the latex from your finger and lob it at the trashcan. You miss.

"I did, but I was, like, coming my brains out. I didn't know what the fuck I was seeing, other than it was good." With an unsteady hand, he flattens back his soaked bangs and stares at you, eyelids heavy. His cheeks are stained pink with exertion. "You look so hot like that. Fuck." And though his body must be leaden after satiation, he pulls you up to your knees, until your torsos nearly touch. Stops just short of smearing himself with his own ejaculate. Instead, he cups one of your soiled breasts with a small, soft hand, thumbing his cum across the nipple. Being touched here, now, after such deprivation, it's like a kiss of life to your cunt. It roars back to life with a bitter vengeance. But Jimin remains modest in his touches. Doesn't stray much from your one, sticky breast. No, he's more focused on you. Your face. Studying all there is to know about its shapes. And he's inscrutable as he does it. It makes you nervous. "Well." It's scarcely more than a whisper. "Thank you," he mumbles, soft and awkward, like he's never before expressed appreciation for anything. And then he kisses you again, though it feels like it's for the first time. It's slow, intimate, with lazy tongue and spent breaths in between. It makes your heart race for several, terrifying reasons. You break apart, then. "Can I do anything for you?"

"N-No, that's okay." The proposition is unexpected. And with the way you're feeling, dangerous. "I got what I came for. I had fun. Thank you, too." You rise to standing, weathering the crack of your joints as you go. "I'll just clean up quickly."

Jimin is already towelling down his own, comparatively unscathed body. He stands, too, though with far more grace. As he feeds himself back into his too-tight jeans, he extends the towel to you. "If you're sure." A tinge of something colours his tone. Disappointment? "Maybe next time."

Next time?

Jimin's semen begins to crust on your chin. The towel twists in your hands. "What?"

There's an indifference to his body language that doesn’t quite ring true. He shrugs on his jacket. "Yeah. Next time, right?"

For several seconds you both stand there, locked in an unsaid exchange. The air is pregnant with meaning.

The door flies open.

"There you are!" In Jungkook strolls, bleary-eyed and with no clear bearing on his surroundings. "Someone said they saw you come in here." His gaze is hazy as it lands on you and your poorly shielded tits. And then it’s on your face again, where Jimin's spunk is heaviest. "Holy shit."

What feels like a century of shame passes, but it's no more than a microsecond before Jimin is slamming the point of his boot into Jungkook's abdomen. "Get the fuck out!" He bellows, octaves deeper than all this past half hour. Masculinity oozes from his squared shoulders and jutted jaw. The hardness is in his eyes, too. They're like steel as they cut Jungkook down, unchanging even as the younger man claws at his gut and stumbles back. "Don't fucking barge in on me again. This ain’t for you to see."

"I-I'm sorry, 'min-hyung." Jungkook slurs his words past comprehension. "C-Call me wh-when yuh wha-wanna split."

Jimin folds his arms. Tucks balled fists inside. "Yeah, now go."

Unfortunately for Jungkook, the gang-leader catches that last, errant look at your naked breasts. And for that he is rewarded with another swift kick; to his retreating backside, this time. Though you can't see him behind the door, you hear the impact of his fall to all-fours and grimace. Jimin's line of sight tracks low. Jungkook must be crawling away. "Go and sober up, you stupid piece of shit. We're going soon."

The door slots back into its frame. Jimin lingers there a little longer than necessary, his head bowed to the panelling. "Uh." Again, he's different. Transformed. Someone more timid stands in Jimin's place. Ruffles the back of his well-tousled hair. "Sorry. He's a dipshit."

"It's okay," you laugh. You have to, because the entire scenario is astounding. "You didn't have to kick him, though. Twice."

Arms criss-crossing his chest, Jimin watches as you wipe away his residue. For some reason, you’re more self-conscious now than when he put it there. "He deserved it. He's an idiot. Idiots don't learn unless you kick them in the ass. I didn't kick him in the balls, at least. And for that, he should be thanking me."

Clearly, your views on appropriate punishment diverge. Jimin inhabits a different world to yours. It's unnerving. And a little exciting, even though it shouldn’t be. "I'll defer to your judgment in his case." Your straps come up and over your shoulders. On inspection, suspicious white stains dot your dress despite your attempts to prevent that. Hopefully everyone is so smashed by this point that they can’t distinguish it from any of their other surroundings. "Okay, I'm gonna go. My dorm's just across from this one."

"I'll walk you. It's not safe." There's a certainty to Jimin's words that speaks of his experience. Ironically, it's probably safer out there while he's tied up in here. "Lots of scumbags out there that will target girls who are alone."

Fully covered, now, you clutch your purse in front of the worst of the splattering. You want to say something, so you do. You feel like you've earned it. "Not you?"

So self-assured, Jimin is. For a moment, though, he isn't. His smile flickers. "Never. I'm not about that. And I'll thrash anyone who is."

The answer pleases you. Diminishes his other activities somewhat. Somewhat. Just enough that you can go home and fuck yourself into a guiltless coma. "Okay. Well, it was fun. Don't worry about walking me. It's literally just across from here and there are still people around. I gotta find my friend first, anyway.”

Another shrug. Then, with the same nonchalance, he offers up his phone to you. "'Kay."

Eyes on him rather than the device, you take it from him. "What's this?" The screen displays a newly created contact. The phone number is blank. The contact name, though?

Litterbug.

It's hard to scoff at it when you love it so much. "What the hell? That's me?"

"Yeah. Gimme your number?" Jimin grins, brazen-faced. The temptation to kiss him is almost insurmountable. "I wanna see you again, litterbug."

You smile, too. Until you don't. "I don't know. I don't think it's a good idea. I didn't plan on anything past this."

If Jimin's shaken by the snub, he hides it masterfully. His smile isn't quite so burnished, though. "Neither did I, but then this happened, and I want it to happen again, ____. Let me show you just what I can do for you."

God, it's tempting. A bite of that apple is worth being cast from Eden. But your heart is weak and liable to entwine far too easily. And he's not the type of man that should occupy space outside of your depraved fantasies. "How many girls with cute pseudonyms do you have on there?" you deflect, knowing well the answer. Hearing it might temper your hopes somewhat.

"I don't give out my actual number to anyone." Jimin doesn't miss a beat of breath. "Only those that matter to me. Or might do," he adds, quieter, losing his bullishness altogether. "But, do what you want." His palm lays flat in expectation of receiving his phone back empty, but you hesitate. Look down at the vacant space. You could fill that.

You want to.

"Okay, there I am." With a flourish of thumbs and a final tap, your name is input and the contract sealed.

The Devil smiles. "Cool." His fingers linger on yours when you return the device. They're soft like charmeuse, and just as expensive. Because this will cost you everything, you're sure. "Can I see you tomorrow? So you can explain to me exactly what it is you just did to my ass?"

Tomorrow? Jimin’s keen. And you’re smiling again. “Sure. I’ll give you a practical demonstration.”

[publisherfinds]

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[douchebagbrainwaves]

IT'S CHARISMA, 372

Certainly it can be launched. That's what you're addicted to.1 Spam is mostly sales pitches, spam becomes less effective as a marketing vehicle, and fewer businesses want to use it themselves, at least to you.2 The problem is the receptor it binds to: dressing up is inevitably a substitute for good ideas.3 I'll start by telling you something you don't have to explain why. But you know the ideas are out there.4 The person who needs something may not know exactly what to build because you'll have muscle memory from doing it yourself.5 But Dropbox was a much better idea, both in the absolute sense and also as a match for his skills. For coming up with startup ideas on demand. So you have two choices about the shape of hole you start with. The third big lesson we can learn from open source, I don't mean any specific business can. Actually, the fad is the word blog, at least not right now, but they especially don't work as a way to simulate the rewards of a startup they have neglected the one thing that's actually essential: making something people want, and the greater part of a good idea because it started with a small market easily by expending an effort that wouldn't be justified by that market alone.

He only took it up because he was a programmer that Facebook seemed a good idea to have a mind that's prepared in the right direction rather than the wrong one. I've described is near zero. Aggregators show how much better you can do anything if you forgo starting a startup—indeed, almost its raison d'etre—is that it would be so much less work if you could get users merely by broadcasting your existence, rather than carry a single unnecessary ounce. Was there some kind of salesperson. Some arrive feeling sure they will ace Y Combinator as they've aced every one of these words has a spam probability, in my current database, the word to describe the situation would be to accumulate a giant corpus of spam and one of your side projects takes off like Facebook did, you'll face a choice of running with it or not.6 Stripe is one of the keys to retaining their monopoly.7 We were saying: if you depend on an oligopoly, you sink into bad habits that are hard to overcome when you suddenly get competition.

I do before x? Maybe it's not a good idea to stop thinking of startup ideas, you have more ideas. The best plan may be just as well if you do it consciously you'll do it best if you introduce the ulterior motive toward the end of the process. Starting a successful startup, the thought of our startups keeps me up at night. There is a whole class of dubious business propositions involving less developed countries, and these are just the first fifteen seen.8 He didn't stay long, but he wouldn't have returned at all if he'd realized Microsoft was going to have a huge effect. And they know the same about spam, including the headers.9 That's what was killing them. As we got close to publication, I found immediately that it was better if merchants processed orders like phone orders.

Well, math will give you more options to choose your life's work from.10 Fouls happen. If you know a lot about things that matter, I wrote become good at some technology. 84421706 same 0. 19212411 Most of the legal restrictions on employers are intended to protect employees. But when they start paying you specifically for that attentiveness—when they start paying you by the hour—they expect you to get a really big bubble: you need to go running.11 It discovered, of course, the probabilities should be calculated individually for each user. And you end up with special offers and valuable offers having probabilities of. 06080265 prices 0. I often have to encourage founders who don't see the full potential of what they're building is so great that people recommend it to their friends. I think, is to step onto an orthogonal vector.12 A startup just starting out can't expect to excavate that much volume.13

And yet have you ever seen a Google ad? 9889 and. Think about what you have to do is give them a share of it. Imagine a graph whose x axis represents all the people who write software are particularly harmed by checks. Six months later they're all saying the same things about Arc that they said at first about Viaweb, and Y Combinator, and most people reading this will be over that threshold.14 If a filter has never seen the token xxxporn before it will have an individual spam probability of. As day jobs go, it's pretty sweet.15

If the present range of productivity is 0 to 100, introducing a multiple of 10 increases the range from 0 to 1000. We assumed his logo would deter any actual customers, but it did not. Even colocating servers seemed too risky, considering how often things went wrong with them. You build something, make it available, and if you can make it happen. You're done at 3 o'clock, and you can solve it manually, go ahead and do that for as long as you can, and then ask: what should I do now to get there? When one looks over these trends, is there any overall theme?16 Good ones, anyway. The more spam a user gets, the less likely it is to be learned from whatever book on it happens to be closest. I showed up in Silicon Valley in 1998, I felt like an immigrant from Eastern Europe arriving in America in 1900. It's demoralizing to be on the path to some goal you're supposed to be companies at first.

Yes and no. The malaise you feel is the same. Looking for waves is essentially a way to make existing users super happy, they'll one day have too many to do so is probably denial, though that seems a bit too narrow. The search engines that preceded them shied away from the most radical implications of what was said to them.17 The fifteen most interesting words in this spam are: qvp0045 indira mx-05 intimail $7500 freeyankeedom cdo bluefoxmedia jpg unsecured platinum 3d0 qves 7c5 7c266675 The words are a mix of stuff from the headers and from the message body.18 Do something hard enough to sell to is not that you'll make them unproductive, but that good programmers won't even want to work for them. Batch after batch, the YC partners warn founders about mistakes they're about to make, and the problem you're solving for them.19

Notes

I realize I'm going to kill. Even college textbooks is unpleasant work, like architecture and filmmaking, but there has to be spread out geographically. Most explicitly benevolent projects don't hold themselves sufficiently accountable. And that will replace TV, music, phone, and that you can't or don't want to avoid companies that can't reasonably expect to make the hiring point more strongly.

Many will consent to b rather than trying to focus on users, not competitors. Do College English 28 1966-67, pp. Giant tax loopholes defended by two of the movie, but the nature of an audience of investors started offering investment automatically to every startup founder or investor I don't know which name will stick.

If you try to go behind the rapacious one. Put rice in rice cooker.

Something similar happens with suburbs. Perhaps the most important factor in the mid 20th century.

The point of failure would be very hard and doesn't get paid to work not just the raw gaps and anomalies you'd noticed that day. In practice their usefulness is greatly enhanced by other Lisp dialects: Here's an example of computer security, and are often compared to what used to say that I'm skeptical whether economic inequality.

Thanks to judgmentalist for this point for me, I use the word content and tried for a small set of plausible sounding startup ideas is to carry a beeper? If Congress passes the founder visa in a time. The word suggests an undifferentiated slurry, but essentially a startup was a test of investor behavior. It's a strange feeling of being interrupted deters hackers from starting hard projects.

Which is not so good. If you're doing something that doesn't seem an impossible hope.

Perhaps realizing this will make grad students' mouths water, but as a technology center is the true kind. Not in New York the center of gravity of the 1929 crash.

They shut down a few months later Google paid 1. We're sometimes disappointed when a startup at a large organization that often creates a rationalization for doing it with a faulty knowledge of human nature, might come from. That can be done at a time.

E-Mail. But we invest in a domain is for sale. University Bloomington 1868-1970. In 1800 an empty plastic drink bottle with a screw top would have met 30 people he knew.

Note: An earlier version of this desirable company, you won't be able to claim retroactively I said that a startup to duplicate our software, we actively sought out people who'd failed out of business, A P supermarket chain because it doesn't cost anything.

Ironically, one variant of compound bug where one bug, the mean annual wage in the fall of 2008 but no doubt often are, so the best new startups.

Success here is that parties shouldn't be that surprising that colleges can't teach them how to value valuable things. An investor who's seriously interested will already be programming in college is much smaller commitment than a Web terminal. Yahoo was their customer. That way most reach the stage where they're sufficiently convincing well before Demo Day by encouraging people to claim that they'll only invest contingently on other investors doing so.

I swapped them to act. I have about thirty friends whose opinions I care about.

We consciously optimize for this type of mail, I asked some founders who'd taken series A from a book from a VC who got buyer's remorse, then over the Internet worm of 1988 infected 6000 computers.

Mueller, Friedrich M. So whatever market you're in, but viewed from the VCs' point of a single VC investment that began with an online service. 2%. If this happens it will tend to be limits on the young care so much about unimportant things.

Some introductions to other knowledge. You should probably be multiple blacklists. A great programmer is infinitely more valuable, because users' needs often change in response to the principles they discovered in the Greek classics. Which helps explain why there are some good proposals too.

Ed. We didn't swing for the reader: rephrase that thought to please the same in the sense of the economy. Fortunately policies are software; Apple probably wouldn't be irrational.

I was insane—they could bring no assets with them. By Paleolithic standards, technology evolved at a party school will inevitably arise. In fact, if you did.

Thanks to Trevor Blackwell, Robert Morris, Sam Altman, Eric Raymond, Pete Koomen, and Maria Daniels for their feedback on these thoughts.

[beetlebitchywitch]

Dissonant Notes, Part 2

Welp, here she is. Part 2 to the super soft Dewey fic I wrote waaaaaay too long ago. Will there be a Part 3? Maybe? We’ll see how this goes...

Part 1 

The minute you got back to your apartment after work, you flew into a whirlwind. You tossed discarded shirts into your hamper, dusted the coffee table, fluffed your throw pillows, and completed just about any other unnecessary chore you could think of to keep your mind off the fact that Dewey was coming over tonight. 

You saw him in the halls just after the bell rang, and for the first time in the history of your friendship with Dewey, you had difficulty stringing words together. God, you’re a fucking teacher and yet you feel like you’re in middle school again, your cheeks flushed and hands just barely trembling. 

“Hey, Dewey, you got a minute?” you asked, your heart pounding away in your chest. 

“Of course, Ms. L/N, what’s up?” he asked, fixing you with a steady gaze and a barely-there smirk. You were surrounded by students rushing to their buses or their parent’s cars, yet you couldn’t look away from him and the way he was looking at you. 

“Um, about tonight. I was thinking I could cook us dinner? It’s the least I could do for you being willing to help me with my musical ability...or lack thereof, rather,” you joked awkwardly. His smirk only grew, his knowing look agitating the butterflied that have recently made their residence in your stomach. 

“Text me your address and I’ll be there.” And with a simple wink, he was gone. You watched him walk down the hall and out the door, not once looking back in your direction. 

...You were so fucked. 

You had a little over an hour until Dewey arrived, so you set to work preparing a modest meal for the two of you. Given your overabundance of fresh produce, you decided to go with a stir fry, throwing every appropriate vegetable you could find into a large wok. You slowly fell into a groove, which cooking always helped you to do. You could simply zone out as you prepared the rice, chopped up some chicken, seasoned your vegetables, and threw it all together into something that looked and smelled delicious. You looked down at your work with pride...until, of course, the panic set in. 

God, you don’t even know if he liked stir fry! What if he was a vegetarian? What if he’s allergic to something you used? Oh God, your first...get together, because date feels presumptuous, with Dewey and you might just up and kill him! He was so put together and smooth this afternoon and here you were, putting together a meal that could poison him and sweating at the mere thought of being in the same room alone with him because you were so-

Before the voices in your brain could take you over, there was a loud knock on your door. Fuck. Fuck. No turning back now. 

You took a deep breath and made your way to the door, attempting to compose yourself before you opened it to reveal a smiling Dewey. 

“Hey Y/N!” he said cheerily, still in his work clothes with his guitar case in hand. “Sorry I’m a little late, I got a bit lost trying to find your place.”

“That’s alright! Come on in,” you said shyly, stepping back to give him room to enter your apartment. Frankly, you hadn’t even noticed he was late; anxiety tended to distract you from things like that. “I, uh, I made a stir fry with chicken and rice! I really should’ve asked what you’d like to eat, so I’m sorry if you don’t like it-”

“Y/N,” he said fondly, “it’s alright, it smells really good. I’m used to cold pizza and stale fries on Friday nights, so this is a nice change of pace.”

You returned his smile and walked him into the kitchen, dishing out servings of the meal for each of you. He took his plate happily, deeply inhaling the savory smell with a soft smile. God, he was adorable. You led him to the living room and plopped down on your couch, looking up at him expectantly. He slid down next to you, leaving a less-than-desirable gap between you as you readily dug into your food. 

“Y/N, this is really good,” he mumbled, his mouth stuffed full as he chewed. “I’m gonna start paying you to bring me lunch to school.”

“No can do, sadly. If I do it for you, then everyone’s gonna start wanting me to cook for them, and then I’m not gonna have any after-school time for you to try and teach me how not to suck at music,” you laughed, trailing the end of your fork nervously around your plate. 

“Come on, it can be our little secret,” he teased with a wink. You simply avoided his gaze and continued to eat, feeling like the blazing heat in his eyes might set you ablaze if you looked at them. 

“I’ll think about it,” you conceded quietly. “Hey, aren’t you a little uncomfortable in your work clothes? My bathroom’s down the hall if you brought anything to change into.” Dewey’s eyebrow quirked, a small smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

“Trying to get me out of my clothes already, huh? Come on, Y/N, we haven’t even finished eating yet!” he said slyly. You scoffed, trying to play off the heat rising to fill your cheeks by launching yourself off of the couch and stealing his near-empty plate, ignoring his complaining as you placed his dish in the fridge. 

“Oh come on, you deserved that,” you joked, closing the fridge behind you with finality. “You can have your food back when you learn to behave.”

“Oh, and you’re gonna teach me, are you?” he asked, mischief dripping from every word. God, you wanted to kiss that smirk off his stupid face, damn him.  

“Last I recall, you’re the one that’s supposed to be doing the teaching,” you pointed out, grabbing his guitar case from the end table next to the couch. “That is what you’re here for, remember?”

“Y-yeah, right,” he stammered, the bravado in his voice making way for a shaky shyness. “Let’s get to work, then! Could I, uh...I think I could help you better if I was sitting sort of behind you?” 

It took everything in you not to flash him the biggest shit-eating grin imaginable. His “Mr. Smooth” persona was gone, replaced with a blushing, stuttering mess that suddenly made you feel much better about your inability to speak around him- clearly, your feelings were not one sided, but you chose to let that discussion come about naturally. Resisting the urge to tease him, you sat yourself between his legs on the couch, leaning back into his chest slightly as he placed his guitar into your lap. He began walking you through the most basic chords he could teach you, his arms wrapping around you to help guide your fingers to their proper positions. He was perfectly warm, and his hands were gentle, with rough fingertips calloused from years of guitar playing. The hard skin pressed wonderfully into your hands as he guided you, explaining each chord in as much detail as he could. You couldn’t have paid attention to what he was saying if he tried- his breath was rushing hotly over your skin, sending shivers down your spine that you’re sure he could feel. He was soft and warm and wonderful and you’re not sure you could take it much longer.

“D-Dew,” you murmured, feeling him still behind you. You’re sure you’d just cut off some explanation of the importance of the G chord, but honestly, you weren’t quite sure. “If you want me to be able to pay attention, you’re gonna want me to move.” 

He remained still for a moment, his breath coming steadily as it puffed onto the bare skin of your shoulder. You held your own breath, eyes sliding shut as you waited for his response. 

“I...I don’t want you to move.”

Those hushed words sent heat pooling in the pit of your stomach. Slowly, you turned slightly in his arms, finally getting a good look at his face- his cheeks were flushed, his lips just barely touching and his eyes were trained solely on you. You placed his guitar to the side, giving his arms room to curl around you as you stared into his eyes. 

“...Show me.”

Your murmured words snapped him out of his reverie, and with a small sigh he pulled you in, pressing his lips to yours. Your hands drifted up to wrap around his neck, kissing him back as sweetly as you could manage. His hands rested on your hips, grounding you to the moment, this beautiful moment you finally got to share with him. 

When he pulled away, he took a whine with him, your body involuntarily voicing its disagreement. He chuckled, lifting one hand to rest it on your cheek. 

“Sorry it took a fucking guitar lesson to get me to finally kiss you,” he murmured, his signature smirk returning to his lips. You chuckled, leaning into the warmth of his touch. 

“Oh, that was your plan all along, was it?” you joked. “I should’ve guessed, you were quite the smooth operator this afternoon.” 

“Oh, in the hallway? Yeah, I kinda walked out to my car after that and screamed into my steering wheel, so...” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. “I wanted to...impress you, I guess? Though when it came down to it, I couldn’t keep it up for very long.” You snickered, turning your head to press a delicate kiss into the center of his palm.

 “You impressed me a long time ago, Mr. Finn,” you said with a soft smile. “Truth is, I was so worried about impressing you that I could barely think straight. Guess we both worried for nothing, hmm?” He chuckled, letting his thumb stroke over your cheek.

“I mean, your guitar skills could still use a little work, but-”

“Oh, you’re one to talk! My chord progression was smoother than you by the end of tonight!”

“Oh no, why must you hurt me this way? Attacking my flawless flirting technique with music?!”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

“No, yup, OK, that works too.”

He pulled you snugly into his arms once more, pressing sweet kiss after sweet kiss against your lips. You’d talk about what it all really meant later- for now, you were content to enjoy this moment with the man you cared about the most. 

I feel like I could do a Part 3, but I’ll gauge it by reader interest I suppose? Let me know what you guys think!

[mandy23bwrites]

I Don’t Wanna Be Your Friend (I Wanna Kiss Your Lips)

It came to my attention recently that there are no Iden Versio x Reader fics. So here’s my little attempt to rectify that because as cute as she is with Del, sometimes I want this badass lady all to myself.

Fandom: Star Wars, Battlefront II

Character/Pairing: Iden Versio (Imperial) x Reader

Tags/Warnings: Gender Neutral Reader, Swooning, Kissing

Disclaimer: 1) Title is lyrics from the song “i wanna be your girlfriend” by girl in red. 2) I have not read “Battlefront II: Inferno Squad” yet. This is based solely on the campaign of “Star Wars: Battlefront II”

Word Count: 1551

Summary: No one can get you to melt like Iden Versio. Being around her in the presence of others is hard enough but alone? It’s even worse. And then she does something unexpected...

Readable on AO3 here

“Officer!”

You look up to see a black helmet hurtling at you. You gasp and squeeze your eyes shut, your arms instinctually flying up to lessen the blow. There’s a ‘thump’ but no impact and after a moment, you peer around your hands to find the helmet has stopped mere inches from hitting you. Your stomach drops to see that it was caught by none other than Commander Iden Versio, the very woman you’ve been crushing on for months now. She’s glaring in the direction of Agent Hask who pays no notice to what he’s done, quickly stripping off his armor and throwing it on your work table.

“I’ll be back to pick these up later,” he says offhandedly, not even bothering to look in your direction. You reach out and take the helmet from Iden’s hand as you both watch Hask retreat.

“Thank you, Commander,” you murmur, glancing at her. 

She gives you a curt nod. “You’re welcome.” Turning away, she walks over to one of your cabinets and pulls out your polishing equipment as Agent Meeko joins you.

Occupying a small room off the ship's armory, you’re part of the uniform and armor division, tasked with making sure the officers are presentable and the troopers are ready for battle. However, your acute attention to detail meant you had been promoted to the status of a specialist, focusing on the uniforms and armor of the elite. And some of those elite are the Inferno Squad. 

Troopers almost always polished their own armor, very particular about how it was done. Unfortunately, when you had offered to polish Iden’s armor after a particularly brutal mission where she had broken her arm, Agent Hask had been in earshot and decided it was a generalized, long term offer. Now, every time they returned from a mission, Hask dumped his armor on you to repair and polish, not to be bothered to do it himself. So what had started as trying to do a favor for the woman you liked had turned into an unnecessary chore. 

It wasn’t too bad though. Agent Meeko had been around a couple of times when Hask dropped his armor off and began sticking around to polish his armor while you worked on his squadmate’s. You hadn’t realized how lonely your work could be until you befriended Del. It was nice to have someone to talk to. Whether it was venting, joking, or gossiping, you and Del had spent several hours bonding over swapped stories. And then Iden began to join you. Apparently, Del had mentioned you enough times that she was curious to see who he was spending time with.

Now you were almost never alone when tasked with after-mission polishing and repairs. Del was a comforting presence but Iden… she could put your stomach in knots with the mere sound of her voice. She wasn’t much to talk but when she did, you hung onto every word. Her tone deep and rich, sending shivers down your spine. You may have been captured by her attractiveness at first but learning how persistent, brave, and intelligent she was had you swooning even harder. 

You were absolutely certain that the entire damn Empire knew about your crush, especially the commander herself (which was mortifying in itself), due to the way you frequently stumbled over your words or blushed vibrant red in her presence. It got even worse when it was just the two of you, and it looked like that’s how today was going to be.

Del is somber as he enters, barely able to meet your eyes; it’s a sure sign that he needs to process the latest mission alone. You give him a gentle smile that he tries to return. He trudges over to where Iden is, grabs a couple of things, and gives a small wave as he too exits.

And so you’re left alone with Iden. You watch as she finishes grabbing equipment. It’s hard to decipher what’s going on in her head; her stoicism made her hard to read but something seems off about her too. You know you aren’t going to get much conversation out of her today.

She settles on the opposite side of your work table and you both begin to work in silence. Awkwardness hangs in the air like a thick smog but you didn’t know what to say without embarrassing yourself. When you’re wiping down the helmet’s visor, Iden sets her own helmet down with a ‘thud’ and looks up at you. Your stomach twists as you meet her piercing gaze. She looks almost... vulnerable... as you take her in up close.

“Can you talk about something? Anything.”

You nod and after a fair bit of stuttering, you decide to tell her how Ensign Roe had completely mixed up an order of rank insignia plaques and now you have the painstaking job of trying to sort it out. And how you need to make Director Krennic a new cape because he insisted he couldn’t go another rotation in a cape that was beginning to fray. After that, you catch her up on the newest gossip circulating, especially the latest scandal where Lieutenant Inji’s two girlfriends had not only found out about each other and dumped him but then started dating each other.

All the while she listens intently; buffing, painting, sealing her armor. Then you tell her how some of the officers thought it would be funny to send a poor new transfer down a garbage chute and you’re seriously considering just launching the uniform out of an airlock if you aren’t able to get the smell out. 

She rewards you with a laugh and you beam. By then you’re both finished and Iden doesn’t look as wary as she had before. You simultaneously push back your chairs and begin to pack up the kits in a silence that’s much more comfortable than it was before. It’s a routine you’re both familiar with, taking only a couple moments to clear the table. When a couple bottles remain on the table, you break the quiet air.

“I can handle the rest from here, Commander; why don’t you go rest while you have some time off? I’m sure they’ll be assigning you to a new mission soon enough.” She gives you a half-smile and nods, turning back to her armor. Grabbing the last few polish bottles, you walk over to the cabinets and tuck them into their spots. You hear shuffling behind you and assume Iden’s grabbed her gear and snuck out. But when you turn around, she’s right there, inches away.

You gasp and take a step back, directly into the cabinets. You back presses into cool metal, heart pounding. Before you get a chance to wonder if she’s a threat to you, she takes a slow step into your space and places her hands on either side of your head. 

“C-commander?” She leans in close, a smirk playing across her lips. Her eyes are locked with yours until they slowly drift downwards. She tilts her head and it feels like your fantasies are becoming reality as Iden Versio kisses you.

You’re shocked, unable to move as a deep blush sets in. She pulls away, brown eyes gauging your reaction.

“Iden…” you breathe her name and surge forward, capturing her lips with yours. 

She hesitates, as if to collect herself, then quickly regains control over you (which you’re more than happy to allow). She moves her hands to grip your waist and pulls your body into hers as your kisses grow in enthusiasm. You grab fistfuls of her flight suit sleeves, trying not to shake under her touch. 

You had often wondered what kissing Iden would be like; would she be aggressive or gentle? Every stroke of her tongue erases the word ‘gentle’ from your mind. Forcing her knee between your thighs, you gasp and she takes the opportunity to kiss down your jaw, pulling an involuntary whimper from you. 

It’s when she moves her attention to your neck that you hear the steady thump of approaching boots and you tear yourselves apart. She bolts towards her armor and you whip open a cabinet behind you to try and look busy.

Agent Hask walks in, oblivious to what he’s just interrupted.

“These good to go?” He asks, gesturing to his armor. You’re doing your best to hide behind the cabinet door so you’re mostly obscured, quite sure you’re once again completely red in the face. 

“Yep, it’s all ready!” You manage to choke out. He raises an eyebrow at your strained response but says nothing as he collects his things and begins to walk away. Stopping in the doorway, he turns back momentarily.

“Oh, Iden; the Admiral wants to do a mission recap with you ASAP.”

“Understood.” She begins to gather her own armor and you’re left watching them leave, still reeling from what just happened. How can she be so composed after that?! You suppose that’s why she’s special forces and you’re not, especially since your legs now feel like they’re made of gelatin.

Before she leaves your sight, Iden looks over her shoulder and flashes you with a smirk, leaving you to wonder what the hell the future is going to hold the next time she pays you a visit...

[unwiltingblossom]

The Next Dimension Over (Chapter Twenty-One)

She'd been hired quite a few times to eliminate armies like this one.

When Goku and Krillin are sent to find Roshi a ‘Pichi Pichi girl’, a woman falling through the sky interferes with the destiny that had previously been laid out for them. When Sakura’s strength wavers at a critical moment, she falls through dimensions and the destiny she worked so hard for vanishes into dreams. Things get worse from there.

Chapter Twenty-One ​

As it turned out, the tower wasn't all that far from the village, following the actual roads. She tugged the warm scarf over her head a bit tighter as they ran, as the chill wind threatened to blow it away. With proper attire, the snow was much easier to handle, and she saw no reason why they couldn't go by foot to the tower. It reduced the chances of being attacked on sight, and gave them more time to see where exactly the dragonball happened to be. Although...the device in his hand didn't seem to have any sort of height indicator. "Sakura?" Goku glanced up at her as they ran. "Goku." "What's all this cold, white stuff?" ...Just what did the civilian schools teach the children of this other dimension? Clearly the southern part of the world rarely saw snow, but he should have been aware of what it was by his age. "It's snow." He blinked. "Oh." Ahead, a small group of soldiers stood in the snow. The taller one spotted them first, and held out a hand. "Hold!" She glanced down at her companion a moment. He flashed an excited grin, and then charged on ahead. There were certain advantages to cooperating with enemies, or potential enemies, for a short time. None would be all that necessary under the circumstances. She jumped through the air (rather impressively high, she had to say) as explosions rang out through the crisp morning, and threw a hail of kunai down at the group below. When she'd arrived in the world she only had one left, but the resources available to her while she stayed with Bulma allowed her to create many more for herself again. It felt good, even if she hadn't been in a real battle where she needed one since she'd arrived. Below, Goku's shout rang out over the din. "Power pole extend!" Red flashed across white, and the remaining soldiers standing in the snow were swept away. She spun in the air, and landed in the snow next to Goku with a soft thud. White snow slowly stained red where her men had fallen. A cursory glance didn't indicate any fatal injuries on the ones Goku defeated, but without proper care in the frozen north, they wouldn't be getting back up to trouble the village further. Ahead of them loomed the massive wooden doors of Muscle Tower. She glanced over at Goku with a small smile. "Think we should knock and see if anyone's home?" He glanced up at her and gave a short nod. "Okay!" She clenched her hand into a fist and sprinted toward the tower, keeping pace with Goku as they ran. Fists slammed into twin doors with matching shouts. Wood splintered, and then exploded inward. His door cracked in half, and the halves flipped wildly into the darkness. Hers shattered into spinning pieces in the air. "Yeah!" He cheered. His voice echoed back out of the darkness, but no other sounds followed it, save for the crashing of wood and metal caused by the doors. Her smile faded to a frown, and she walked into the dark, cautious. No movement came from the inside, and...as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, there didn't seem to be anyone in there at all. Goku walked in after her, eyes sweeping the room. "There's nobody here." She pursed her lips, and propped her hands on her hips. "Cold welcome." On closer look, it seemed like the room was nothing more than a storage floor for...vehicles? Or other large devices that looked similar to those. Either they were entirely unprepared for the sudden assault on their tower (which was possible), or they'd already retreated to better fortified upper levels. She rolled her shoulders and walked up the stairs at the back of the room. "Is the dragonball near here?" Goku frowned down at it. "It's close..." Could it be that it was just outside the building? Or was a portion of the building sticking out further? If it were just about getting the dragonball, she'd investigate that immediately. At the moment, though, she also wanted to get rid of the army itself. It would be trouble for them if a military force also happened to be collecting dragonballs...and she had never been a fan of oppressive forces. She'd been hired quite a few times to eliminate armies like this one. As she walked into the second floor, well lit and warm, the group of men lounging at chairs and tables around the room looked up in surprise. "What...?" A large bearded man looked between the others on the floor. "Were we gonna get company?" "Oh, there's people here!" Goku chirped, as he appeared behind her. "They must have been up here because it's too cold down there." "Eh?" A blond man blinked, and then laughed. "A little twerp and a girl? Did you two get lost?" A voice crackled through the air. "Don't fool around! These two just forced their way inside the building!" The first man stood, a look of surprise on his face. "What...these two got past the guards outside?" Laughter rippled through the room, and the second spoke. "Damn, I knew they were startin' to slack off, but this is hilarious." "Eliminate them immediately." "Ahh, what a disappointment. Finally get a girl in here, and we've gotta kill her already?" The blond sighed, and drew out a knife from his pocket. "I don't get paid enough to go and do that without getting to play around a little bit first." ...She really wouldn't mind destroying these people. She sprinted forward, and Goku launched into the room right after her. She flicked her hand and knocked the knife across the room, burying it into the wall, as Goku kicked the other talker into the brick stairs. "You're right..." The man stumbled back a step in surprise, then recovered, swinging wildly at her face. One finger halted his strike. Her lips twitched up into a faint smirk. "You should have asked for S rank pay." Her punch connected with his gut for only a moment, and he slammed through the far wall, vanishing into the snow in the distance. The two men stood in shock, looking between the hole in the wall and the crumpled soldier on the ground. Whether they were about to run, or whether they were about to make a fool's rush, neither of them got the chance. An elbow to the throat of one, and a flip kick to the chin of the other put the two of them on the ground before they could do anything at all. She sighed as she looked over the room. With the open wall, cold was already starting to blow in and chill her through her clothes. "...Perhaps we should try not to break any of the walls one the other floors." "...I guess not." She nodded. "Come on, before we go looking for the Dragonball, let's see what the rest of this tower has for us." "Yeah!" He cheered, no doubt excited just by the prospect of fighting more people than he would otherwise, and sprinted up the stairs. She followed after him only a step behind, glancing around the room and the structure of the floor as they moved up the layered staircase. The floor above them was dimly lit, devoid of windows, and echoed with a soft whirring sound. "Welcome." A deep voice echoed from the darkness of the room as they stepped off of the stairs, and a heavy thudding sound echoed off of the floor and walls. "This will be the last room you ever see." From the room, a huge, hulking figure slowly appeared. She'd never seen anyone so...musclebound. She'd seen almost no one so large, without an Akimichi growing jutsu. Goku stared up at him wide eyed for a few moments, before turning his attention to her, expression bright and expectant. "Sakura! Can I fight this one? I wanna try my new tail!" She sighed. That was an awful way to plan out a strategy. Honestly. She waved her hand and shook her head. "Then I'll be annoyed if you change your mind and make me finish him after all." "Not a chance!" He grinned and marched toward the giant. "You wanna fight?!" "Incorrect." The giant lifted its fist. "You shall simply die." For his size and weight, his movements were impressively fast. In a blink, the gigantic gloved fist slammed into the ground, sending shards of tile flying through the air. Goku, who stood on those tiles only a moment before, fell through the air from where he'd leaped to escape the strike. While the two fought, she turned her attention away from the battle. For being a military base, the floors had been...simple. The ring of the tournament had a less open and easily maneuverable area than this. Supplies didn't seem to be in any obvious place, and the walls of the room seemed to lead only to outside, not to winding corridors and hallways as she'd usually expect from a tower. As she walked a circle around the room, a piercing scream from Goku immediately arrested her attention. Somehow (she really didn't know how), the soldier had clamped his hands around Goku's small form and begun to squeeze, attempting to crush the life out of him. Despite her claim, as soon as she saw the danger, she tensed, and readied herself to leap in. The concern was, ultimately, unnecessary. With a shout of supreme effort, the small boy prized the oversized hands apart, and shoved himself free of their grip. His expression was more than a little peeved when he glared up at the giant. "That hurt! Now I'm really gonna beat you up!" He dashed forward, and than lunged into the air, springing himself forward on his tail. His foot caught the large man square in his chest, and the brute slid, then flew backward through the air. As his body collided with the far wall, the crash that rang out through the room was almost deafening. "Yeah!" Goku shouted, fist clenched. "Take that!" "Not...necessary." The figure stumbled to its feet, and slowly, determinedly, straightened itself again. "You will 'take....that'." She frowned, crossing her arms. It didn't take a genius to be able to tell just how much force Goku had connected with, let alone how much the man had collided into the wall with. Standing again so quickly, so easily, and without any apparent sign of strain or actual damage... The guy was more impressive than everyone they'd seen at the tower so far put together. Goku leaped into the air, flying at the man with a kick. "Goku don't--!" Lightning fast, the huge fist lanced out again, and sent Goku slamming into the far wall. The small boy hung there for a moment, and then fell to the ground with a soft thump. "Goku!" She sprinted toward the small form of the boy. Perhaps it had been a mistake to allow him to fight a stranger before she'd had a chance to evaluate its strength, no matter how excited he was to fight. She rolled under a wide swing as she ran, and then kicked up into the air, heel colliding with the man's forearm with a resounding crack. The huge being stumbled backward, struggling to remain on its feet, and its arm hung limp from the point of contact, split fully in half, hanging by skin alone. Despite her concern for Goku, she froze, staring at the broken arm. Blood and bone and severed muscle were commonplace, she'd seen them almost constantly in the medical tent during the war. The sparking metal and hanging cords that spilled out of his arm...were anything but normal. At all. "W...what..." The creature (surely not a human) stared down at its arm, and then snapped it free before flinging it at her. She jumped backward and slid along the ground, as the heavy arm buried itself into the floor. "Goku..." She turned her gaze to the small child lying on the floor, bruised and dazed. As she reached out toward him, summoning up chakra to heal him of whatever concussion or broken bones he'd suffered, he blinked and shook his head, before hopping back up to his feet. "...Hey!" He frowned, looking between she and the approaching beast. "You attacked him didn't you?  No fair, I'm fighting him!" "Incorrect." The man leaned forward, "You are both about to die." His jaw fell open, much wider than should be possible, and a brilliant, fiery flash exploded outward toward them.

[spirit-of-the-void]

Ebony and Ivory (V x Reader Fanfic) Chapter 19

Author’s notes: I’m back again, sluts, with a more Dante-filled chapter. Dont worry, V will be back soon

Chapter 19

(Your POV)

Chasing after Dante was, shockingly, easier than expected.

He left a convenient trail of dead demons in his wake on top of motorcycle track marks. You were moving at high speeds now, your tendrils carrying you in a blur around broken buildings and roots. You remembered now, just how fast you truly were. The power of the Void was precise and calculated, it was like having several sets of arms and hands to stabilize you and launch your body towards your destinations.

Things were definitely more chaotic here, walls of flesh and tunnels of debris weaving between the tree’s roots. Where the hell was Dante headed? He wasn’t going directly toward the tree, but more off to the side. You wracked your brain, trying to imagine what was on this half of the craters but unsure of what he was going for.

The only thing you could imagine that way was the very same house V had pointed out to you, his childhood home. But why would Dante be going there? It didn’t really make any sense. The landscape was so trash, and you literally knew nothing about Dante to even try and discern his motives.

Still, you gave chase, keeping your eyes peeled for Griffon along the way. You had no idea how far along the bird was, but you would feel better if you at least had him near you. This area was definitely not the safest to be traveling in, not that there was a single demon to be had. Lucky for you, because you didn’t want to waste any unnecessary time. 

Other things were still rattling in your skull.

Your mind was still racing, heart hurting as you thought of V back with Trish. You had said something so deeply personally to him, then bounced before having to face his reaction. It was...both exhilarating and terrifying. You most certainly didn’t regret saying it to him...it needed to be said at some point. Nor did you blame him for not saying it back, especially since you never gave him the chance to. You were more easily attached than he, more prone to deep emotion. Mind you...V’s feelings toward you were never doubted, but he deserved time to think about it without you there clouding his thought. But his well-being never left your mind, worry clawing at you deep in your skin with each passing minute.

You prayed he would be alright. You wouldn’t be gone from him too long, that you were certain of.

It was unfortunate that you were already traveling alone for an hour, practically bouncing your way over each hurdle and area as fast as you could. Through a cavern under a statue, through areas Dante had already opened. This was getting ridiculous. Why was every path painstakingly extra? All of this foolery wasn't need at the bottom of a god damn tree, that was for sure. But it made sense that things would be far more fucked up at the Qliphoth base where it had been the longest, festering like a disease. You just didn’t have to like it, that was all.

More traveling, more panic, more worrying. But you were getting closer, you were sure. Especially so when you saw Griffon’s familiar blue feathers in the air ahead of you.

Thank god. Traveling by yourself was going to make you go absolutely insane.

“Griffon...!” You yelled, making the bird halt a bit and whip his head around to look at you. He looked shocked, his beak popping open when you extended your tendrils, gently wrapping them around him and pulling him to your chest as you leap into the air. You were faster than he was anyway.

“Toots?!” He squawked, tucked against you kind of how a child would be, “What the hell are you doing here?! Why aren’t you with Shakespeare?!”

Just the mention of it made you wince, flinching a bit as you recalled the poet left alone, his assistance cut in half now that you and Griffon were gone.

“He told me to go after Dante...!” You said in a clearly worried tone, unhappiness in your expression as you maneuvered him and yourself around more broken building pieces, “And he wouldn’t take no for an answer!”

Griffon let out an annoyed huff at that, his feathers puffing out against your chest, “What a fucking dumbass. He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

He was most certainly preaching to the choir.

“I tried to tell him...he wouldn’t listen to me,” You mumbled, pressing your chin to the top of Griffon’s head as you finally entered open air. Thank god, no more tunnels, “I didn’t want to go in the first place, I’m worried about him.”

Griffon went a bit quiet at that, which was unusual for him. You tried to steady your eyes forward, keeping track of the small amounts of energy you were exerting. Not much, nothing that impacted your ability to heal. Moving with the tendrils required practically nothing, something your body stayed accustomed to. Like riding a bike.

Though traveling without V felt...bad, lonely despite the fact that Griffon was with you. As much as you loved and adored the bird, there was a Void he couldn’t fill, so to speak. One shaped like a tall, lanky poet in sandals. You knew it sounded silly; you had been away for just an hour. But it was less of missing him and more than painful, overwhelming fear that something bad would happen to him. Your protective streak would never leave, and it was practically clinging to your back now.

You traveled a couple moments in silence still, Griffon's lack of speech only a small worry in the back of your mind.

When he spoke, it seemed heavily reluctant.

“Ahh, fuck,” He muttered, beak tilted down and talons flexing a bit as he struggled with his words, “I think I need to apologize to you, and I’m really shitty at apologies.”

You blinked in surprise at that, wrapping an arm around him to brace him as you skidding over the ground, narrowly missing some shattered trees and debris. The terrain was hard to get through here.

“For what?” You asked quietly, landing on your feet and settling on a brisk jog as you made your way up a hill.

He paused again, making confusion prickle at the back of your mind as he took another moment to gather his words.

“F...for not warning you about Shakespeare,” He mumbled, unable to meet your eyes as his feathers puffed out a bit more. Like he wanted to hide, “You didn’t deserve to find out that way, like that and shit. I knew he was going to start falling apart but I half hoped his dumb ass would make it up the tree before that.”

That made your feet falter, heart thudding painfully once it clicked what Griffon was apologizing about. You had forgotten the look Griffon had worn those few times you had spoken, that knowing expression. You realized pretty quick that he knew, so that wasn’t a shock. But...his guilt was. He sounded unhappy with himself, unhappy with his choice of omission to you. What were you supposed to say? Part of you felt like you should be upset, but...there was too much at stake, too much to worry about other than that.

“It’s...okay.” You replied hesitantly, unable to formulate your own feelings.

“The fuck it is...!” Griffon squawked angrily, whipping around to snap his beak by your ear, “You need to start standing up for yourself, girlie...! I knew how you felt but I still didn’t say shit! You should be mad about that, damn it!”

He...had a point in there, somewhere. But you had the feeling he wanted you to be mad just to help ease his guilt

“I...I know...” You mumbled, leaning your head back to avoid his angry snapping, “But you’re my friend...and I don’t like being upset with you about something that doesn’t matter, not now.”

Griffon let out a pained groan at that, leaning his head back dramatically and exposing the lighter colored feathers on his throat.

“Fuck, now I feel worse,” He hissed, sounding half way exasperated and half was frustrated, “I tell you I withheld shit from you and you say we’re friends and wanna smooch and make up...!”

That kind of made you smile, just seeing his over-dramatic display of suffering. You could tell Griffon was trying, in his own asshole-ish way. You doubted the bird had to ever apologize for anything before in his life, nor did you think he ever wanted to. It made you feel a bit better about everything, as if it somehow confirmed Griffon actually did care.

So you leaned forward, giving him a small kiss on his head and making him scrunch up a bit. Huffy as always, but you didn’t care.

“There,” You replied, starting forward again and setting his grumbling form on your shoulders, “I kissed, we made up. Deal?”

He let out another annoyed sound, but he looked secretly pleased. He was a lot easier to read than V was, that was for sure.

“Still,” He muttered, tone sounding hesitant and quiet as he continued hurriedly, “You should know toots, about Shakespeare—”

But you weren’t paying attention.

You spotted Dante’s form as soon as you crested the hill. With that silvery-white hair he was easy to see, along with his red jacket and giant god damn sword. He didn’t seem to notice you or the bird, strolling leisurely toward...the house. The one V had shown you before, his childhood home. You had been correct in your assumptions, this was indeed Dante’s destination, but...why? There of all places, a crumbling mansion now that you were seeing it up close. A portrait was hanging in the crumbling foyer still, dirtied and sullied by time.  

You could barely make out the face of a woman, who you assumed to be V’s mother. Maybe? There looked to be a man in the photo, sitting with the family but his face was blackened by a past fire. With the woman was...two children? At least what you could make out—the portrait seemed so old, especially for a day and age of photography and technology. Maybe their mother had it done custom? Or maybe the portrait wasn’t of them at all, maybe it was some random painting the family kept hanging in their foyer because it looked nice. But that didn’t feel right either, especially since both boys had white hair.  

Two boys with white hair. Did V have a brother? He never admitted it, never mentioned it. But you looked at Dante, eyeing his own white locks as about a thousand questions traveled through you. Were...Dante and V related? Hell, Nero had white hair too. And that seemed like a pretty unique genetic trait. The more you thought about it, the less it made sense. V was super young still, like around the same age as Nero, whereas Dante looked to be in his forties at most. The boys in the portrait seemed to be twins, at least they looked pretty similar in age.

Ancestors maybe? This was a mess.  

Regardless, you had something to do here.

“Dante...!” You yelled, cutting off whatever Griffon was going to say as you started running closer, “Wait...!”

The Devil hunter paused at the sound of your voice, turning slightly so side eye you and the bird as you caught up to him. He looked bemused, albeit exasperated to see you. Despite all the demons he obviously had to fight to get here, he was free of scratches or wounds of any kind. Either he was a great fighter, or he had some seriously great healing skill. Or both.  

“You just don’t give up the chase, do you?” He commented, turning and crossing his arms over his chest.

He definitely didn't seem happy that you and V were prone to not listening to him, that was for sure. It was hard for you to care in that moment, especially after following his trail for so long.

You mimicked the pose, letting out a heavy sigh as you replied, “No I don’t, not after chasing you for this damn long.”  

It was about to hit the two-hour mark, and you weren’t happy about it in the slightest bit. Giving chase definitely wasn’t your favorite thing, and it was beginning to rain again to top it all off. You were willing to drag Dante back kicking and screaming if you had to. But...your Foresight did not like that. At all.

The moment the thought entered your head, it sent a warning jolt through your body, making you grunt a bit and touch your abdomen. What the hell, you weren’t supposed to stop Dante from leaving? Then why had your Foresight not told you that before you came all the way here? It made no sense. It made no sense. You couldn’t remember a mission where the power had been this indecisive, this inconsistent.

It was starting to piss you off.

Dante’s voice jarred you from the cascading anger at your own body, the man seeming oblivious to your internal conflict.

“Why are you following me anyway?” He asked, shaking some of the water droplets from his hair and turning his gaze away. He sounded overly nonchalant, tone ever lazy and bemused, “You seemed pretty friendly with that poet back there, so why come after me?”

You let out a low sigh, feeling incredibly strung out as you replied, “Because V asked me to. You shouldn’t be going up the tree alone anyway, not with how dangerous it is.”

You were trying really hard to figure out Dante, what kind of person he was. What made him tick. He seemingly showed no reaction to your words, other than tilting his head back to look at you again. His eyes confused you—they were wise somehow, on a face that seemed anything but. You felt like the Devil hunter was searching your face, sizing you up with a single glance. It made you a bit uncomfortable, that sensation of your secrets hiding on your spine returning once more.

“Someone has to stop the kid from killing himself,” He replied simply, turning to walk forward into the derelict mansion again, “Dontcha think?”

You reached out a hand, grabbing his arm to halt him as you protested, “Yeah but these things would be easier if we all stayed together...!” You were willing to bet Dante was the reason the group split up so damn much, it was driving you up a wall. Why was it so hard for everyone to just work together to reach a common goal?

Your Foresight didn’t like you touching Dante, not one bit. Or maybe it didn’t like you stopping him? Either way, it made a jolt of pain shoot up your abdomen to your chest, making you wince. Dante seemed to not notice, either that or he didn’t show any sign of it. Instead, he sighed, looking somewhat annoyed now as he looked at you. Impertinence was there behind that smirk, his brow slightly furrowed.

“And just what do you gain out of this, Miss Priestess?” He asked, raising a brow in your direction. The name made you jolt, remembering that Dante was not as oblivious as he seemed.

He knew what you were, and that was another concern you had.

“What do you mean?” You asked warily, frowning at the overly chipper tone he used. It definitely sounded close to taunting, at least to your ears.

Dante put his hands on his hips, rain water dripping over those white locks and causing them to stick to his rugged face.  

“I know your kind,” He said simply, shrugging his shoulders and eyeing you with a bit of a smirk in his expression. That tone was condescending, taunting as he let out a light laugh, “What does the boss upstairs want out of this world? To lay a claim if everything falls apart? To snatch the fruit that tree is gonna grow?”

The boss upstairs...he must have meant the Deity. Who was less “upstairs” and more in between everything. Still, what he was saying struck a chord of annoyance with you, especially since it sounded pretty damn accusatory.

You blinked in confusion, holding up your hands as you replied indignantly, “I  don't know what you're implying, but my Deity doesn’t want anything...!”

Dante scoffed lightly at that, inclining his head as he replied, “Every ‘Deity’ wants somethin’.”

He wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t right either. And worse, he was bringing all your doubting back, all the horrible thoughts that refused to leave you. Anxiety was bubbling up again, threatening to choke you like bile rising in your throat. Already volatile, you felt like a bomb getting ready to tick off. You definitly had your doubts about your Deity, questions that were going unanswered and no sign of your master at all to guide you. It was already maddening and breaking you down, so Dante’s implications were both unneeded and unwanted.

Griffon had been with you long enough to sense your moods, eyes darting between you and Dante as he said in a warning tone, “Dante, you’d better lay off.”

Dante turned, pointing a single, warning finger at Griffon’s avian features as he replied, "Flock off, feather face.”

You fought another sigh. Things were only getting more out of hand, but it was under your skin now. An itch you couldn’t ignore.

“You don’t know a damn thing about what my Deity wants," You told him, feeling even more unhappy that you had come to find him. What the hell was even the point, wasting time like this? "I have better things to do than sitting here arguing with you...!”

V was still alone, and he was crumbling. Your Foresight was telling you not to stop Dante, or else. So why bother staying here letting him shit talk things he didn’t understand? You half turned your body again, ready to summon your tendrils outward to bounce away. If Dante wanted to do things on his own and get himself killed, he could be stubborn all he wanted. You would focus on the people that mattered. Like V, Nero, Lady, Nico.  

But the devil hunter wasn’t done.

He let out a low hum, his tone almost pleasant and conversational as he added, “So tell me. What do you serve to gain by using Mister Poet back there?”

Your blood ran cold. Very very cold.

“...Excuse me?” You whispered, blinking in shock and not understanding exactly what he was implying as you turned back to look at his face.

He shrugged his shoulders again, crossing his arms as his blue eyes locked with yours.

“You heard me,” He replied, his expression taking on a more serious look as he continued, “You seem chummy with V, but I know your type. You’d do the same for anyone if it meant getting what your big bad God wants.”

Your mouth popped open in shock.

Indignation, anger, and pain all ripped through you. It became pretty god damn clear what he was implying, and it stung like nothing else. He thought you were using V, pretending to care about him just to succeed in your mission. You were determined to get close to people at first, but romance was never something you would fake for results. Hell, you didn’t fake liking anyone if it wasn’t genuine. To have him look you in the face and accuse you of such a thing made your blood boil and eyes burn.

You could not cry, not now.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me...!” You replied, tone low and promising violence as you balled up your fists, “I’m not using V for anything...!”

“’Ya see, that’s where I don’t believe you,” Dante clicked his tongue, turning away from you and starting for the house again, “You priestess types are all the same. Though screwing a dying man to get what you want is pretty harsh, all things considered. Gotta give him something in return for using him, right?”

You had enough.

Your tendrils whipped out in the next instant, grabbing every part of Dante you could reach and slamming him to the ground. You were shocked, he put up no resistance at all in the face of your rage. He didn’t even look surprised when you whipped him around, your own face filled with so many emotions you weren’t sure what to focus on. Anger, pain, fear, more anger.

Your day had been an avalanche of misery after a night of some of the only happiness you had tasted in such a long time. The man you cared about was dying, and you sure didn’t fucking appreciate Dante’s harsh words when things were so dire. How he even knew about you having sex with V, you didn’t know. Maybe he guessed. But his guesses were unwanted.

Your hand cracked against his face in a fluid motion, making him let out a grunt but he was still smirking lightly. It all happened so fast. Grabbing him, flipping him, hitting him. It felt less than a second. But you didn’t care.

How dare he. How dare he imply that you would give yourself to V for the sake of doing what your Deity wanted? You weren’t a whore to sell yourself to people at a God’s bidding. V was everything, and he mattered to you more than the mission itself. Hell, you didn’t know there was something wrong with him at the time, something that would mean his death. And knowing so now was agonizing, breaking you down and leaving you in a state of non-stop dread. V made you happy, and things that made you happy always ended up snatched away.

Your eyes turned black with your rage, hair raising slightly and tendrils twitching sporadically. Your Foresight was screaming at you, telling you to stop and let him go. Agonizing, making your limbs weak and tendrils uncontrollable. That tipped you off pretty fast that Dante wasn’t fighting back on purpose--he could easily escape in the state you were in right at that moment. You were fighting your own body, your own rage just to be able to make a point to the Devil Hunter.

You hated how emotional you were, but that was only par for the course as you gripped Dante’s coat and yanked him up.

“Don’t you presume to know a damn thing about me...!” You hissed, eyes burning with tears that slid down your cheeks against your will. God damn it. God damn it, “You don’t know anything about what I feel about him, or how much he means to me...!”

Dante stayed quiet, staring at you with a neutral expression as your aching hands began to shake.  

Griffon was squawking in alarm, his talons gripping your shoulders and trying to haul you back as he screeched, “Not a good idea, toots...! Back off, he isn’t worth it...!”

You didn’t care. And you wouldn’t be swayed.

“If I had my way I wouldn’t even be here talking to you...!” Your voice was growing hoarse now with your tears, panting breaths leaving you as the pain continued, “He has no one else but me in this fucking hell, no one else who cares! Yet I came after you because he asked me to and you...you...”

To disregard what you felt so heavily, what tore you up inside. Brush it off like it was dust settling on his shoulders. It stung far too much.

How were you expected to change anything when it felt like everything wanted to stop you?

“I love him.” You whispered, head slumping on your shoulders as you finally released Dante, sitting back on your legs as the pain finally subsided. You couldn’t see his expression, couldn’t see anything but rain dripping from your locks. But it didn’t matter, you didn’t feel like you were talking to him now anyway. He was of little consequence, all things considered.

“I love him and he’s dying. And that’s not fair.”

Nothing ever is. That’s why you sold your soul, isn’t it?

Dante was quiet for a couple more seconds, letting out a hefty sigh as he sat up. Your tendrils dropped away from him, returning back to your body as the Void power simmered to a dull roar. You didn’t know what to say now, what to feel after such an outburst. You weren’t used to losing your cool and lashing out like that.

Perhaps you were learning a lot of new things about yourself with everything that was going on. That feeling came back, the feeling of wanting to go home but having no home to go to. V felt like home to you, and losing him would break you more than you realized. What were you supposed to do? You could barely handle things now, when he wasn’t even gone. Holding onto hope was hard, but you were trying.

Much to your shock, you felt Dante place a hand on your hair, giving you a comforting pat on the head. You blinked, breath catching at the action. It felt like something a dad should do, something you certainly didn’t expect from the demon hunter.

“I’ve learned all I needed to know,” He said simply, rising to his feet and extending a hand to you, “Sorry about how harsh I was, but sometimes that’s the best way to learn someone’s true intentions.”

You blinked more, looking at his hand then up at him. He was smiling again, but there was a concerned look in his eyes once they met yours. You were so confused, and it definitely showed on your face.

“You...were trying to get a reaction from me?” You whispered, tone still raw and eyes going back to normal now that your power was settling, “But...why?”

Dante let out a light sigh, scratching the back of his head with his free hand.

“Some servants of higher ups can be skeevy,” He huffed, rubbing his cheek you had struck and wearing a bit of a bemused smile, “Hard to disbelieve you when you react like that. You’ve got a mean right hook on you, kid.”

So...all that was a test to see if you felt how you truly said you did? You hesitantly took his free hand, wiping your eyes with your other. You were settling down now, but you still weren’t happy with how Dante went about doing it. But...he was right to mistrust the servants of gods—you had met a few less than savory ones yourself. They tended not to like people like you, who obeyed the beings that existed in between spaces. Trickery and deceit was at its finest when it came to working alongside priests and priestesses from other pantheons, especially ones specifically aligned with the notorious “good” and “evil” gods. Such alignments were bullshit, both sides would throw you under the bus to reach their goal.

You weren’t like that.

“Sorry...” You muttered to Dante, releasing his hand once he helped you up, “But...I haven’t had the best day today, and you really didn’t help.” You weren’t having the best existence, to be honest.  

“People show their true colors when pressed to a wall,” Dante rolled his shoulders a bit, testing his muscles after you had flung him around. You knew damn well he held back on purpose. Had he actually retaliated against you when you attacked...He would have wiped the floor with you, “Consider us even now. No hard feelings.”

You nodded, but you weren’t sure how else to reply. Griffon landed on your shoulders again, letting out a relieved sigh as he looked between you and the demon hunter. You were willing to bet that little situation had certainly ruffled his feathers, that was for sure.

Dante seemed a tad bit amused by how the bird acted around you, but that amusement faded when he let out another hefty sigh.

“This isn’t your fight, kid,” Dante told you, face turning a bit serious before he went to turn away, “Go back to the poet and make sure he's alright. Shit still has time to work out—I've been surprised before.”

You blinked at that, taking a few steps after him as he entered the house. It was crumbling apart, decaying around the edges where it looked like fire struck. What the hell had happened that day, when V was a child? You could see just hints of a happy life here, beneath the soot and decay. It made you ache, seeing something so lived in now an empty husk resting on the edge of the world. Dante didn’t seem oblivious to it, staring around at the mansion's remains with something akin to wistfulness. Like he was remembering something. But...why? Especially when V had said this was his childhood home?

There were so many things you didn’t know.

“Dante...?” You said hesitantly, hanging back as he turned and gazed at the former home, “What are you going to do?”

He didn’t answer your question, turning back and looking at the portrait you saw earlier.

“A demonic power was activated in me once,” He said, pulling out what looked to be a broken sword from behind his coat. It seemed to be demonic in origin too, the blade snapped off and leaving only jagged edges behind, “When Vergil lovingly jammed this through my chest.”

...Vergil?

Who was Vergil?

You blinked in confusion, looking at Griffon with a questioning stare. That name felt...strange. It elicited a strange twinge up your spine. Familiar, but also not. Had someone mentioned the name before this? You...couldn’t remember. You had hoped Griffon would bring some clarity. But the bird was staring at Dante, water dripping from his sapphire feathers.

“I always wondered...why did my father give me the Rebellion?” Dante muttered, his voice barely audible to you as he palmed the sword in hand.

Was it named the Rebellion...? People in this word seemed big on naming swords, and it was confusing for you to keep up with. And better yet, who was Dante’s father? It seemed heavily relevant, at least to him in his own little world.

Griffon let out a confused sound too, hopping off your shoulders so he could fly over to Dante and circle him, “Okay, what are you muttering?” He asked, eyeing the demon hunter warily. He kept further than an arms length, making sure he wasn’t grabbed again.

Dante let out a light, breathy chuckle, sounding pretty rueful as he looked at Griffon. Completely ignoring his question, mind you.

“Over the years I’ve been stabbed and jabbed by a number of things,” He commented, lifting the hilt of the broken blade and staring at it with a faraway look, “But who would have guessed...”

You were completely unprepared when he flipped it around, stabbing the remainder of the blade hard into his abdomen.

Shock and panic filled you, eyes wide as the Demon hunter stumbled back, letting out a pained grunt as some of his own blood pattered onto the wet floor. What in the world was he doing?! You couldn’t even open your mouth to ask, absolutely stunned into silence as Dante panted, obviously in pain from stabbing himself. Just when you thought you had the demon hunter figured out, he completely scrambled your opinions of him all over again. Dante was an enigma, one you were afraid had just mortally fucking wounded himself when you all needed him the most. What the hell was going on?

Things were getting way too insane.

Griffon was, luckily, more composed than you. He echoed exactly what you were thinking...with his own flare.

“Have you lost your mind?!” He shrieked, flapping wildly as he hovered around the bent-over demon hunter, “There’s a demon to destroy...! Kill yourself later—I'll help...!”

Your mouth opened as well, letting out a shocked whisper of, “Dante...!”

But something was happening.

Dante was panting, teeth grinding in agony as he lifted his head. His hands were still clutching the sword, impaled into his body like it was nothing.

“If the Yamato can separate man from devil,” He gritted out, seeming oblivious to both of you, “Then what about the Rebellion?”

He twisted the blade harder into his flesh, letting out an agonized grunt as the sword began to glow. Brighter and brighter like fire, disintegrating into his body. Absorbed into it. That fire spread out in spider-webbing energy trails over him, all the way to his back where the Devil Sword Sparda rested. You stared in shock and awe, taking a few steps back while Dante stood, panting as his energy grew and grew, until the air was crackling with it.

What the hell was happening? The Devil sword began to disintegrate too, sucked into Dante’s glowing form until it was gone completely. Your Void sense rolled and toiled in warning, signaling you to get the fuck out of the way before something bad happened.  

Signaling to you that Dante was doing something downright fucking amazing. Dangerously amazing.

But Griffon wasn’t aware, staring at Dante with the same shock and awe you felt.

“Wow...” He said in a low tone, flapping his wings to keep him hovering in air as he rasped, “You are...absorbing the Sparda...!”

You felt the energy cultivate around Dante’s form, telling you plain and clear it was time to move. Your tendrils shot out, grabbing Griffon and yanking him to your chest just as you dipped behind a wall to shield you both.  Energy crackled out in the next instant, sending out a shock wave that rumbled through the Earth and the structure still standing against the rain. The Void power spiked, hating the sensation of an opposing energy type as it practically wrapped around the entire area. You panted lightly, rain dripping down your face and hair as you held a startled bird against you, both of you peeking out to see what happened.

Boy, were you absolutely stunned.

In the place of Dante was what could only equate to a demon. Sharp claws, fire licking parts of his glowing body with spikes and horns. It looked like he was armored, any trace of the familiar demon-hunters face now gone. You blinked, staring in shock as he turned slightly to look at you, his face completely different. Sharp teeth, flaming eyes...it was terrifying and incredible, you weren’t sure what to think, what to say, what to do. Dante was a half demon, that had already been explained to you. But no one had mentioned Dante being able to take on a demonic form, not unless this was new and unique to him stabbing himself and absorbing the Devil Sword Sparda?

At least you knew not to touch Dante in this form. Your Void power was pretty firm on that, and the power of Sparda certainly didn’t like you either.

Regardless, you stared at Dante’s panting, growling for. Unable to move an inch as he turned away. He bent his knees, leathery wings stretching out in a telltale sign of him getting ready to fly. You ducked back behind the debris to avoid the shock wave from that, wood and rocks flying out when he shot off from the ground, into the sky. You gasped, stepping out with water dripping into your eyes as you stared at him spiraling up toward the top of the Qliphoth. Holy shit. There was no way you could follow that, not now after running all the way here.

But Griffon could.

You released the bird, feeling him push off against you and shoot into the sky after Dante. Slower, panting in annoyance as he did so.

“Go back to Shakespeare!” He yelled down to you, not stopping as he arced into the sky. Pretty gracefully, in your opinion, “You get his sorry ass to the tree! We’ll meet you there...!”  

You nodded once, activating your tendrils again as you yelled back at him, “Be safe, Griffon...!”

He didn’t respond, but then again you weren’t sticking around to hear it anyway.  

You had a bad feeling that shit was about to go down, energy bursting out of you as your tendrils whipped out again, bringing you in the direction of V. You activated your senses, eyes turning black to search out the whale oil you knew he had. Everything was swirling in your head now, the day’s events certainly startling and a lot to handle. But you kept moving, able to tell where V was right away and making haste to get there. He wasn’t where you left him, probably moving forward with Trish once she woke up. You hoped the poor woman could find clothes; nothing would suck more than walking around in just a blanket.

You also prayed she would be able to help V in your absence. It would take less time to get to them than it did Dante, so there was that at least. They were headed for the base of the tree, and those paths intersected at some point.  

You gritted your teeth, feeling the energy inside toil harder and faster now that you were free from having to chase Dante. You felt like you were exceeding your limits more, still growing now that things were so dire. Ready for anything, at least. You wanted to return to V, wanted to make sure he was safe and not crumbling again. Griffon was a smart bird, but you worried for him too, heading up the Qliphoth to chase after Dante. What were you supposed to feel in that moment? You didn’t want to go numb to it all, but you felt like you had no choice.

There was so much going on. So much to do. So much at stake. But still, you pressed onward, heart-pounding as you sought to be reunited with your poet once more.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136193/chapters/43974313

Like what you see? Consider buying me a coffee <3: https://ko-fi.com/E1E7GCMU

Tagged: @nightshadow4713 @slightlylunatic @silentwhispofhope @just-call-me-no-name @efiicitia @raveninthevoid

[marinaloxely]

Week 1 - 12/26 to 1/2

Word Count: 2,388

“Basil Myles Hale!  Get down here this instant!  You’re going to be late for school!” my mother calls.  My backpack bangs against my back as I race down the stairs.  I hurriedly adjust the bright red tie around my neck. Mother stuffs my schedule and a marble rosary into my hand before pushing me out the door.

I start down the street at a brisk pace.  It’s a decent walk to school, and I only have about 20 minutes to get there.  And I have to put away my books before homeroom starts.

About halfway there, a blur of pink and navy crashes into my side.  I laugh and hug my best friend. “Hey, Dobby.” She detaches herself from my side, and I can get a good look at her as we walk.  Her curly hair is dyed pink today - as opposed to last week’s lavender shade - and her school uniform is off kilter.

She grins at me.  “Hellooooo Baz! Are you ready for senior year?”

“Ugh.  No! I just want it to be over but then we have to go to college and I’m not ready for that and I’m just stressing.”

“Well, stop that!  We’ve got a whole year to finish everything we’ve got to do here, and then we’re off to Colorado!  It’s going to be a breeze.”

“I’m not so sure, but whatever.  It’s just another school year.”

We arrive at the boring office building that is our school.  Saint Augustine Academy, a Catholic school nestled in a miniature office park in little old Pflugerville, Texas.  A few students mill about the parking lot in matching clothing, talking and laughing and generally being students.  A teacher stands at the double doors, making sure nothing too terrible happens.

Dobby and I rush into the building, splitting up to go to our lockers.  “See you in first!” I dash to my locker, which I’ve had for the past three years, and dump my stuff into it.  There’s a minute or so left to the bell, so I sprint to homeroom, managing to cross the threshold before it rings.  I can’t be counted tardy, even if Ms. Astley were here. Which she’s not. Of course. I could have taken my sweet time getting here.

I scoot to the back of the classroom, lowering myself into the back-most seat.  Once I’m settled in with a pencil out - just in case she forces us into a word search - I scan the classroom for friendly faces.  None float out of the sea of idiots. It’s going to be a long year of homeroom. I finally register the guy standing at the front of the classroom.  He’s tall and standing with a sense of boredom with the world. His dark brown hair is carefully tousled.

Ms. Astley teeters into the room.  Hunched over and using a cane, the woman is ancient.  Even the teachers can't remember a time without the crone.  She limps over to her desk, dumping her bag there, fully ignoring the hot guy standing there.

After a few moments, some brave and foolish soul pipes up.  "Uh- Ms. Astley?"

She wheels around, cataract-glazed eyes searching the crowd of fearful faces.  "What?" she screeches.

The guy saves the day.  He clears his throat. "I'm your new student."  His voice is soft but commands attention, with a slight rasp at the tail end of each word.

The crone does a complete 180° turn in her manner.  From evil gorgon, ready to eat you for breakfast, to sweet old grandma that bakes you cookies.  She even croons at him. "Why, hello, dear. What is your name?"

"Malakai Connelly."

"Well, Malakai.  It's a pleasure to have you in our class.  Why don't you take a seat? We're not doing anything today."  The rest of the class lets out a sigh of relief.

Once again, Malakai's eyes scan the classroom.  They fall on me, and the empty seat next to me. He smiles and makes his way towards me.  His stride is so smooth, it's as if he floats across the scuffed linoleum. The rest of the class watches him, rapt.  He dumps a blue messenger bag next to the chair and settles in. As if on cue, the rest of the class turns away and launches into their own conversations.  A couple of pieces of paper fly across the room. Ms. Astley ignores them and flops into her own chair, pulling out a crossword to work on. I cross my arms on the desk.

"Hi…  I'm Malakai."

I start, glancing up into his eyes.  "Hi. I'm Basil - Baz."

He smiles.  My heart flutters, and something prickles beneath my skin.  "Nice to meet you, Baz. Do you think you could help me with my schedule?"  He holds a piece of paper out to me.

I return the smile and take his schedule, pulling mine out as well.  I scan down the papers, realizing that our classes line up pretty well.  If we aren't in the same class, we're nearby. I relate this information to Malakai.  "I can help you out for the first few days while you get used to the school. If you want, that is…?"

"That would be nice."

"Cool."  I pull out a piece of paper and sketch out a map of the school.  "So we're here…" We spend the rest of the period going over where our classes are.

When the bell rings, we grab our bags and rush out the door.  As always, the hallways are crowded almost wall-to-wall. We slip through and make our way from M (Michael) hall to J (Jesus) hall.  I deposit him in front of his classroom. "There you go… your class…" The hall is starting to clear out as the bell nears. I inch backwards, towards my class.  "I'll see you when the bell rings?" He nods. I turn around.

As soon as I enter the room, a hand is waving and my name is being called.  There's Dobby. I scoot across the room and plop down in the seat next to her.  She wiggles her eyebrows at me. "So…?"

"So what?"

"Who's the guy?"

"What guy?"

"The guy you were flirting with in the hallway."

"I wasn't flirting!"

"You were totally flirting."

 Mr. Burbank, our history teacher this year, calls the class to something-resembling-order before I can respond.  He’s a tall, fairly attractive man that commands your attention, even if he doesn’t want it, which is pretty cool.  Watch this. Dobby will revert to Crush Mode in three, two, one. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her mouth ‘Hot Damn.’  What did I tell you?  Luckily for me, Mr. Burbank doesn’t notice her and starts to call attendance.  “Jackson Caylic? Nice to see you, sir. “Melissa? Welcome back. Dorothea?” Dobby refuses to raise her hand.  “Dorothea Lambe?” Burbank stares her down, but she won’t do it. “Dorothea, if you don’t give me an indication that you’re here, I will mark you absent and be forced to call your parents.”  Dobby huffs and raises her hand grudgingly. “Thank you very much, Miss Lambe.  We’ll make you into a proper young lady yet.” He gives her a sardonic smile. She scrunches her nose at him.  Dobby may be hardcore crushing on him, but she hates her real name much more than she loves him, which is often surprising to the casual onlooker.

“Damn that handsome mother-” she starts to whisper out of the corner of her mouth.  I fake-cough, trying to cover it up in the almost silent room. We squint at each other, being a lot more obvious than we mean to be.  But Burbank is wearing a small smile and a tighter-than-necessary shirt, and she immediately turns back to the show.

“Basil?”  I raise my hand.  He nods at me, finally (after two weeks) understanding that I don’t like to draw unnecessary attention to myself.  Then, he continues with attendance.

Dobby slides a scrap of paper onto my desk.  I didn’t even realize she’d gotten a pen out, let alone paper.  Dish.  Now.

I grab my pencil and scrawl.

 No dish.

Seriously!!!  I want to knoooooooow!

There’s nothing to know.

A low growl rumbles in her throat, thankfully too quiet to draw too much attention.  

THERE’S EVERYTHING TO KNOW!!!!!  

A shadow falls over the paper.  “Miss Lambe? Mr. Hale? Do you have something to share with the class?”

“No, sir!” I squeak, my cheeks burning.

Dobby leans back in her chair, tilting the front two legs of her chair off of the floor.  Her skirt slips a little up her leg. The guy in front of us darts his eyes to her thigh. Gross.  “Nope. We’re just trading secrets. Gossiping. Y’know, the usual.” she drawls. Good-ness. Isn’t she just the poster girl for casual?  I can’t help but notice that the guy is still staring, and his buddy has joined in. I debate throwing my blazer in her lap.

“Nice to know.  Focus on my teaching, if you please, madame.”  He makes it sound like a suggestion, but I’ve seen many an unwary student fall into that devastating trap.

“Oh, no, Mr. Burbank.  But thank you. I really do appreciate the offer.”  How in the world does she manage to do that? One second, she’s madly in love with the guy, and the next, she’s the coolest little cucumber, giving Burbank all the attitude she has ever mustered.  I highly doubt I’ll ever be able to do that.

“Miss Lambe.  If you aren’t going to pay attention, go sit in the hallway.” he announces, pointing to the door.

Dobby gives him her most regal smile, slams the legs of her chair back to the floor, and forces a squeal out of the linoleum.  “As you wish.” She struts across the room, her school-issued pumps tapping against the tiles in time with the swaying of her hips.  The guys are practically salivating. Disgusting pigs.

Just before she grabs the door handle, Mr. Burbank calls, “Sit only in the hallway outside the door, Miss Lambe!”

Dobby swivels on her heel and executes a perfect curtsy - a result of years of cotillion classes.  “Yes, Your Highness.” she croons in a voice as sweet as sugar and sharp as a blade. The class bursts into laughter as she throws the door open hard enough for it to slam into the wall and leaves with a grand flourish of her arms and a swish of her hips.  If there’s one thing Dorothea Lambe knows how to do, it’s make a grand exit: she’s had lots of practice over the years.

I can just feel the dread that must be washing through Ms. Minchin, our school counselor, right now.  Dobby is in to see her daily, usually more than once, and every visit is prefaced by at least one such slamming door.  Dobby will probably go stalking down to her office in one second, after kicking off her shoes. (She really hates the school uniforms, and has made it her mission to be as rebellious as possible.)

As soon as the bell rings for lunch, my phone will veritably blow up with texts from her.  It always does. Her phone only lets her text in 100 characters at a time, so every time she decides goes on a rant, I end up with at least 10 messages within the same minute.  That woman can text faster than anyone else I know.

“Now, let’s get back to class, shall we?” Burbank strides back to the blackboard where, I now see, he’s pulled up a powerpoint.  THE AGE OF ENLIGHTENMENT is scrawled across the board in bold lettering.  

I quickly pull out a notebook and pen.  My notes need to be thorough if I'm going to help Dobby pass this class.  Not that it's my problem, but I kind of consider her my problem.

We've been friends since we were children.  In the middle of a Relay for Life, there was a tornado warning, and our moms couldn't find us.  We had apparently been playing and fell asleep in a random person's tent. We were perfectly fine and content, but, boy, did we get in trouble for running off.  I smile at the memory and scribble down the notes.

Before I know it, the bell rings.  I gather up my stuff and dart out of the classroom.  Dobby strides up to me, cool as can be, and links arms with me.  "Hello, my darling herb." I lead her over to Lucas's classroom.

"Hello, dear.  How was Ms. Minchin?"

"Just dandy.  She says ‘hello’."

"Oh, how quaint."

"What are we waiting on?  I want lunch."

"I made a new friend, remember?  He's coming to lunch with us." Just as I say that, Malakai comes out of the classroom.  "Hey, Malakai! Ready to eat?" He doesn't seem to hear me, looking around for something.  I put my hand on his shoulder.  

He starts.  "Huh? Oh. Hey, Baz."

Dobby links her arm with his.  "Hey, handsome. I'm Dobby, Baz's best friend."  My dork grins her unconquerable grin, and I can almost see Malakai falling under her spell.

"Malakai.  Pleasure to meet you."

"Come on, come on.  Stop flirting," I interject.  "We've got to get to lunch."

The rest of the day, and the rest of the week, pass by uneventfully.  We get to know each other pretty well. I find out that Malakai lives alone in an apartment, having emancipated himself several years before.  The three of us are assigned to a semester-long research project together in our Seminar class.  

Friday night, Malakai and I meet up outside Dobby's house.  He's got his tie loosened and blazer draped over his shoulder.  Through the undone button at his throat, I can barely see a necklace laying there.  I flash a smile at him. "Hey, stranger."

He grins at me.  "Hey. Glad I managed to find the right place."

"You ready to go in?"

"I guess.  Ready as I'll ever be."  

We step up to the porch.  I knock on the door. As we wait for the door to be answered, I notice Malakai wringing his hands and shifting his weight.  "Don't be nervous. Mama Lambe is super sweet."

"Nervous?  Me? I'm not nervous."

"Of course you are.  Just take a deep breath and stop wringing your hands like that."

[imageoftumult]

Villaneve MBTI Personality Types

Let’s start with Villanelle. She was kind of difficult because she also has the psychopath thing going for her but I think she’s ISTP, the Virtuoso. I don’t want to make this post too long so I’m just going to pull some quotes from various sites and let you guys infer for yourselves.

“I wanted to live the life, a different life. I didn’t want to go to the same place every day and see the same people and do the same job. I wanted interesting challenges.” - Harrison Ford (a fellow ISTP)

“ISTPs are mysterious people who are usually very rational and logical, but also quite spontaneous and enthusiastic. They are often capable of humorously insightful observations about the world around them.”

“ISTPs are attentive to details and responsive to the demands of the world around them. Because of their astute sense of their environment, they are good at moving quickly and responding to emergencies. ISTPs are reserved, but not withdrawn: the ISTP enjoys taking action, and approaches the world with a keen appreciation for the physical and sensory experiences it has to offer.”

“ISTP traits include a penchant for problem-solving, cool pragmatism, and eager curiosity.”

“ISTPs are adventurous and independent. They are fearless and thrive on challenging situations. They are gifted problem solvers. Their mechanical and technical nature enables them to operate many kinds of tools and instruments. They are proud of their relatively effortless ability to acquire many skills. They seek freedom and are typically unemotional.”

“Easily bored, they’re always looking for something new and exciting to do. Sometimes this means they’re drawn to high-risk situations that give them a thrill. Because they react quickly and are tuned into their surroundings, they likely have a better chance than some others of beating the odds.”

“They enjoy when someone takes an interest in their projects, because it creates a shared experience.”

“At times, they’re steady and consistent, plodding along the path they’ve laid out for themselves. But other times, they’re completely spontaneous, making them a bit unpredictable. It’s like an energy builds up within them, and when it hits its tipping point, it explodes without warning — often launching them fearlessly in new directions.”

“An adventurous romantic partner, they’ll never “grow stale” — they’re always surprising their beloved with new experiences, especially sensual ones that invite fun and pleasure.”

“When it comes to relationships, they may be a bit hard to nail down, alternating between detachment and passion.”

“ISTPs enjoy working with their hands and having a day that’s full of variety and action.”

“ ISTPs are very direct and say what they mean. They sometimes have difficulty with emotionally charged situations or conversations. They do not read between the lines and do not understand why others do.”

“They enjoy having other people take an interest in their projects and sometimes don’t even mind them getting into their space. Of course, that’s on the condition that those people don’t interfere with their principles and freedom, and they’ll need to be open to the ISTP returning the interest in kind.”

“Friendly but very private, calm but suddenly spontaneous, extremely curious but unable to stay focused on formal studies, ISTP personalities can be a challenge to predict, even by their friends and loved ones. They can seem very loyal and steady for a while, but they tend to build up a store of impulsive energy that explodes without warning, taking their interests in bold new directions.”

“Their decisions stem from a sense of practical realism, and at their heart is a strong sense of direct fairness, a “do unto others” attitude, which really helps to explain many of their puzzling traits. Instead of being overly cautious though, avoiding stepping on toes in order to avoid having their toes stepped on, they are likely to go too far, accepting likewise retaliation, good or bad, as fair play.”

“The biggest issue ISTPs are likely to face is that they often act too soon, taking for granted their permissive nature and assuming that others are the same. They’ll be the first to tell an insensitive joke, get overly involved in someone else’s project, roughhouse and play around, or suddenly change their plans because something more interesting came up.”

“Combining spontaneity with logic, they can switch mindsets to fit new situations with little effort, making them flexible and versatile individuals.”

“This flexibility comes with some unpredictability, but ISTP personalities are able to store their spontaneity for a rainy day, releasing their energy just when it’s needed most.”

“With all this hands-on creativity and spontaneity, it’s no wonder that they are naturals in crisis situations. People with this personality type usually enjoy a little physical risk, and they aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty when the situation calls for it.”

“Through all this, they are able to stay quite relaxed. They live in the moment and go with the flow, refusing to worry too much about the future.”

“As easily as they go with the flow, they can also ignore it entirely, and usually move in another direction with little apology or sensitivity. If someone tries to change their habits, lifestyle or ideas through criticism, they can become quite blunt in their irritation.”

“They use logic, and even when they try to meet others halfway with empathy and emotional sensitivity, it rarely seems to quite come out right, if anything is even said at all.”

“This stubbornness, difficulty with others’ emotions, focus on the moment, and easy boredom can lead to unnecessary and unhelpful boundary-pushing, just for fun. ISTPs have been known to escalate conflict and danger just to see where it goes, something that can have disastrous consequences for everyone around if they lose control of the situation.”

Characteristic of an ISTP

Adaptable

Logical

Independent

Active

Adventurous

Problem solver

Self-reliant

Analytical

Technical

Practical

Unemotional

Flexible

Impersonal

Logical

Concrete

Realistic

Direct

Fearless

Positive

Handy

Objective

Hands-on

Damn, that’s long. Oh well, to Eve. Eve is an INTJ, or The Mastermind.

“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”– Friedrich Nietzsche (a fellow INTJ)

“The INTJ is logic-driven personality type with a talent for solving problems and a focus on accomplishing goals. INTJs are capable of forecasting far out into the future with an astonishing level of accuracy. Perhaps the only area where an INTJ doesn’t seem to be able to predict the future is in their own personal lives; INTJs rarely factor their emotions or happiness into a plan, and can find themselves locked into careers, relationships, or patterns that they no longer enjoy.”

“INTJs tend to be critical-minded, blunt, and focused on getting results.”

“You’ve always known you’re meant for something bigger than punching in at a 9-to-5 job to pay the bills. You want to use your capabilities to do something that matters—and to have real accomplishments.”

“You’re a completely different person when you’re with close friends than you are with everyone else. You can be goofy, charismatic and outrageously funny, but remain very reserved with people who aren’t in your “inner circle.””

“When you’re feeling down, and a loved one tries to soothe you with comforting words, you pull away like they’re offering you a poisonous snake.”

“When someone asks which is more important to you, having an interesting job or having a meaningful job, you’re like, wait, I thought those were the same thing.”

“ You’re great at making life plans, but somehow you always manage to overlook how your emotional state will affect those life plans—or why that’s even important. Getting even a kindergarten-level education in your own emotions feels like you discovered profound truths about the world.”

“No matter what you do, you never feel like you’ve accomplished enough. This is what propels you toward great things, but it also leaves you feeling perpetually critical of yourself and your achievements. There’s always something bigger you feel like you should be on top of.”

“Few things will make an INTJ angrier than a boss or authority figure that seems undeserving of their position. If they see a person in charge that does not appear to think through their actions, avoids making decisions, or only seems to have gotten where they are through blatant self-promotion, it will be very difficult for an INTJ to keep their mouth shut. Above all else, these thinkers value brilliance, self-confidence, and the ability to make firm, effective decisions.”

“It’s not that INTJs don’t care. If you’re in their life, they definitely care about what you’re going through. Feelings just make them nervous, and the more they try to take emotions into account, usually the worse they do at pleasing other people. INTJs do feel, but they tend to take a pragmatic approach to their emotions, trying to optimize their lives and relationships based on what they can immediately control. They also expect the people in their lives to try to behave rationally.”

“Playing by the rules is not very important to INTJs. Give them a list of rules and they may endlessly question you, bend the rules, and even break them if they see a better way. INTJs are always innovating and tweaking. If they don’t have the opportunity to do that, they’ll be very, very, unhappy — and you’ll probably hear about it.”

“Obviously, routine tasks are not looking good for this personality type. INTJs are easily bored with process work and are not good at paper-pushing. They might, say, go to the gym, but only after they’ve created the best, most research-backed and efficient way of working out. Groceries, clothing, cooking, anything routine, will never be done the same way every day — if at all. Or they’ll delegate these tasks.”

“INTJs are private, independent and self-confident. They strive for perfection and achievement. They are gifted strategists with analytical, conceptual and objective minds. They are flexible and like to formulate contingency plans. Strategists are able to see the reasons behind things.”

“The INTJ personality type’s signature strength is deep perception. Otherwise known as “the mastermind,” the INTJ is naturally attuned to “the big picture” and cannot help but see how everything is interconnected. Their ability to perceive deep patterns and causal relationships has helped many achieve eminence.”

“They are typically independent and selective about their relationships, preferring to associate with people who they find intellectually stimulating.”

“People with this personality type are imaginative yet decisive, ambitious yet private, amazingly curious, but they do not squander their energy.”

“A paradox to most observers, INTJs are able to live by glaring contradictions that nonetheless make perfect sense – at least from a purely rational perspective. For example, they are simultaneously the most starry-eyed idealists and the bitterest of cynics, a seemingly impossible conflict. But this is because INTJ personalities tend to believe that with effort, intelligence and consideration, nothing is impossible, while at the same time they believe that people are too lazy, short-sighted or self-serving to actually achieve those fantastic results. Yet that cynical view of reality is unlikely to stop an interested INTJ from achieving a result they believe to be relevant.”

“INTJs radiate self-confidence and an aura of mystery, and their insightful observations, original ideas and formidable logic enable them to push change through with sheer willpower and force of personality.”

“Rules, limitations and traditions are anathema to the INTJ personality type – everything should be open to questioning and reevaluation, and if they see a way, they will often act unilaterally to enact their technically superior, sometimes insensitive, and almost always unorthodox methods and ideas.”

“They are brilliant and confident in bodies of knowledge they have taken the time to understand, but unfortunately the social contract is unlikely to be one of those subjects.”

“They are defined by their tendency to move through life as though it were a giant chess board, pieces constantly shifting with consideration and intelligence, always assessing new tactics, strategies and contingency plans, constantly outmaneuvering their peers in order to maintain control of a situation while maximizing their freedom to move about.”

“If something piques their interest, INTJ personalities can be astonishingly dedicated to their work, putting in long hours and intense effort to see an idea through.”

“INTJ personalities are perfectly capable of carrying their confidence too far, falsely believing that they’ve resolved all the pertinent issues of a matter and closing themselves off to the opinions of those they believe to be intellectually inferior. Combined with their irreverence for social conventions, they can be brutally insensitive in making their opinions of others all too clear.”

“They tend to have complete confidence in their thought process, because rational arguments are almost by definition correct – at least in theory. In practice, emotional considerations and history are hugely influential, and a weak point for people with the INTJ personality type is that they brand these factors and those who embrace them as illogical, dismissing them and considering their proponents to be stuck in some baser mode of thought, making it all but impossible to be heard.”

“Above all else, INTJs want to be able to tackle intellectually interesting work with minimal outside interference, no more, no less.”

Characteristic of an INTJ

Analytical

Structured

Objective

Introspective

Perfectionist

Attentive

Controlled

Private

Responsible

Self-confident

Thick-skinned

Quiet

Determined

Independent

Impersonal

Theoretical

Intense

Strategic

Adaptable

Complex

Conceptual

Disciplined

Deliberate

Abstract

What do you guys think? Agree? Disagree? Praise me or fight me, idc. Just join the conversation. 

Cheers,

An INTP. Part 2 & Part 3

[fangirlshrewt97]

Venom Meets Goose

For: @lurkerviolin. Chancy I wanted to have this done by midnight but obviously I missed the deadline by a long shot, but I hope you like this!

Author(s): Fangirlshrewt97

Fandom: Venom (2018); Captain Marvel (2019)

Pairing: Venom/Eddie (can be romantic or platonic)

Characters:  Venom, Eddie Brock, Goose (Captain Marvel)

Rating: Teens and Up

Warnings: Lots of swearing

Additional Tags:  Attempt at humor, Crossover, Crack-fic (ish)

Summary: What would happen if/when Eddie and Venom met Goose? My 3k take on it.  

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18429209

“Stop being grumpy. It’s lame.”

“I am not being grumpy, I am angry with you V.”

“Stop being grouchy then.”

“Venom!”

“Eddie, I already apologized for eating all the chocolate Anne got us.”

“Venom, sorry is not enough. It was my favorite kind of chocolate. And you said that even if I eat it, you can still use the calories and taste the chocolate. You also know that that brand of chocolate is my favorite and it is imported. So in conclusion, fuck you.”

“I didn’t know!”

“Bullshit! You live inside my freaking brain. How the hell am I supposed to believe you.”

“...I’m not a mind-reader?”

Eddie growled out loud with enough anger to have Venom doing the equivalent of curling into himself and sending a wave of shame through their bond. Eddie hunched in tighter into his coat as a cool breeze passed through the street. He knew rationally he was acting childish, but could you blame him? He was finally getting his life back together, and after a full year with his stupid symbiote, they had finally figured out they were it for each other. He was happier than he had been in a long while. But he was also more petty than ever. And bloodthirsty, but at least the latter could be wholly attributed to the Symbiote.

“So where are we going?”

“Why don’t you just read my mind?” Eddie bit back.

“Eddie…” Venom whined. And god, how disconcerting was it to have an alien who lived inside him whine. Venom didn’t even have proper eyes, but somehow managed to convey the feeling of puppy dog eyes. Eddie hated him.

“Fuck off parasite.”

“Eddie!” Venom yelled, hurt and pouting. Pouting. His 10,000+ year old alien significant other was pouting at him because he was scolded for eating Eddie’s chocolate. God, when had his life become so fucking weird?

“I’m not apologizing.”

“Apologize.”

“No.”

“APOLOGIZE!”

“Ok, jeez, fine. I’m sorry. Quit yelling, someone is going to notice.”

“Who will notice? It is past midnight on a Wednesday. Everybody who is sane is already in bed. And if someone insane catches us, what is the difference?”

“I….” The more Eddie thought about it though, there was a weird logic to Venom’s point. “Fine, even if there is no difference, I’d rather avoid drawing unnecessary attention. Neither of us have a great history with good luck.”

“Are you going to tell me where we are going?”

“No.”

“Eddie.”

“You are getting repetetive.”

“You are being stubborn.”

“Wow, great observation there V.”

 “What do you mean, no?

“I mean no, wanna hear it in Spanish? No!”

“Eddie!”

“Venom relax. We’ve been cooped up in the apartment for the past week so that I could finalize my article, and we just finished. So I thought we could celebrate by splitting open a certain box of chocolate. But since you already took care of that bit by yourself, we are just doing the second part of this celebration: going to the park for some fresh air.”

“Why are we doing this at midnight?”

“Because I finished the final edits past midnight.”

“Couldn’t the celebration have waited till tomorrow? You need sleep. Your seratonin levels are seriously low.”

“Low seratonin huh? Explains the depression.”

“Not funny.”

“I disagree. But anyways, do you really want to this tomorrow in the morning. In the sun. With a lot of other people?”

“It’d be a Thursday morning. There would not be a lot of people.”

“Still more than now.”

“Why the park?”

“Why not?”

“Because frsh air and going to the park are good for your health. And your history has been a tendency to often do the opposite of what is good for your health?”

“Oh you mean like accept an alien parasite into my body that tried to eat me from the inside out?”

“Eddie!”

Eddie just chuckled, sometimes Venom was just too easy to rile up. He started whistling as the two of them made their way to the lake in the center of the park, Venom liked to see the ducks. Well technically he liked to comment on all the different ways he’d like to eat them, but who’s paying attention to those details?

Eddie made his way to one of the benches on the edge of the lake, just before the bike path and sprawled onto it, spreading his legs and resting his head against the back of the bench.

It really was a quiet night for the city, if he concentrated he could hear faint sirens in the distance, and a screech from where a car skidded on the roads which were still slightly wet from the rain they had had that evening.

Of course, when does quiet ever last when you were part-time hero/part time human magnet for bad luck? Though in hindsight, no one could have predicted the shape this particular disaster was going to take.

Eddie was close to straight up dozing in the bench when Venom startled so bad Eddie spasmed off the bench and braced himself on the ground to ease the fall.

“V, what the fuck?”

“Eddie, Danger!”

Eddie tensed, eyes scanning the area for anything out of the ordinary. “Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“What? What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I just. Damn it, there is something strange in the park Eddie. I don’t like it, but I can’t … find it.”

Eddie took a calm breath to calm down because this was Venom we are talking about, he could feel everything. If something was able to avoid him, they were in such big shit. Damn it, Ann was going to kill him if he died in the park to an alien at 1 in the morning.

But before either could think of a plan, a meow sounded behind them. Venom covered Eddie and launched himself over the bench, mouth pulled back to reveal all his teeth, expanding to make himself look as big as possible.

There on the bench they had just been sitting on was a cat. Just a normal orange cat. It tilted it’s head at the sight of them, but otherwise showed no other reaction. Huh, most cats tended to flee from him when he was masked by Venom. They also had been avoiding him in general since he had bonded with Venom.

“Venom?”

“Yeah?”

“Please tell me that you are also sleep deprived. Because what other possible reason could you have for being so terrified of. A. FREAKING. CAT?”

“Eddie. That is not a cat.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That is not a cat.”

“Yes it is. Look at it. It is orange, it is feline shaped, and it is just sitting there.”

“That doesn’t make it not a cat.”

“What the hell else is it?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t like it. Can we please leave?”

“Are you telling me you’re scared of a stray cat?”

“Eddie shut up. Can we leave?”

“But…”

“Now.”

Eddie debated whether it was worth it to argue, but his exhaustion won out over his curiosity and he agreed. “Fine, let’s go home.”

---

It was almost 2 weeks before they saw the cat again, and Eddie was aware of each day of those two weeks because Venom was doing the equivalent of pacing a hole in the floor in his brain and Eddie was getting a stronger urge by the second to find a way to strangle his symbiote.

“Venom stop that!”

“Eddie I can still feel that strange presence around us. Something is following us.”

“Where? Even in the park all there was was a normal cat.”

“It wasn’t a cat!”

“What was it then?!” Eddie bit back, tired of arguing this point.

“Can we go patrolling tonight?”

“No, I have an assignment due soon.”

“But, please. Eddie. We will be fast.”

“No.”

Venom whined and then started doing his stupid ‘puppy-dog-eyes’ emotion vibe again and Eddie growled because as much as he did have to complete this assignment, he hated to disappoint his symbiote. Venom truly asked for very little. Didn’t mean he was going to go without a fight.

“Why do I keep you around?”

Without missing a beat, Venom replied “Because the alternative would be developing a conscience of your own.”

“Fuck you.”

“I love you too Eddie!”

---

Their patrol that night was a bust, but Eddie knew it would be better to let Venom burn off that energy now rather risk Venom becoming restless again.

“V, stop complaining, it is a good thing that there are less bad guys!”

“You didn’t even let me eat one bad guy tonight.”

“That’s because the only ‘bad guy’ we saw today was a teenager trying to sell weed who pissed his pants the moment he saw you.”

Venom continued to grumble as they made their way to their apartment. He stopped when they reached their landing though, stopped abruptly enough that Eddie froze where he stood.

“What?”

“It’s in our house.”

“What?!”

“The same weird vibe from the park. I can feel that same energy again. Coming from beyond our door.”

Eddie swallowed before he nodded, tightening his hold on his keys and slowly turning the lock.

“Venom, mask.” Eddie ordered quietly. Venom slid over him slowly but completely covered him by the time their door closed behind him.

The two of them looked around the house for the intruder, moving cautiously though the apartment trying to identify the threat. Which was why they startled so hard they almost broke the coffee table they fell on when they heard a familiar meow.

“Ow, what the hell?”

“Eddie it is here?”

“V, how is that even possible?”

“It came in through a window!”

“None of our windows are open. Also we are on the third floor!”

“It’s a cat!”

“You just said it wasn’t.”

“It’s a cat that isn’t a cat.”

Eddie growled as he stood up, Venom having retreated back into him, and made his way over to the wall to flip the light switch. There on top of his kitchen counter, laying as though on its throne was the cat from the park.

Eddie approached the cat which was watching him lazily, one eye open as it swished it’s tail gently through the air. Venom was trying to metaphorically hold him back by the back of his hoodie, but Eddie just shut him down and kept walking till he was right next to the cat. The only acknowledgement he received was the cat turning its head to look at him with both eyes.

And yeah ok, this was definitely not a normal cat. Normal cats did not have eyes that looked 100 years old. Normal cats did not look like they could see into his very soul. Normal cats definitely did not have eyes that seemed to flash a different color. Eddie shook his head to make sure he had just imagined that.

Tentatively he reached out a hand and in full view of the eyes that were tracking his every movement, he laid it on the furry back. Venom had gone oddly quiet now, and Eddie didn’t want to think about it but it almost felt like the quiet someone has in a horror movie where they are quiet because they are about to scream.

Eddie started to pet the cat gently while Venom started doing weird high pitched keening noises in head.

“V, I don’t think she is too bad.”

“We need to give it back to it’s owner!” Venom said, voice higher than Eddie had ever heard it.

“Owner?”

“Yes! Look it is wearing one of those trackers.”

“Tra- Oh.” Hidden under admittedly magnificent fur was a thin collar with a round tag. Tugging it a little forward Eddie saw the word “GOOSE” emblazoned on it. He flipped the tag but the flip side was bare.

“Well so much for that idea. Is you name Goose kitty?” The cat started to swish it’s tail a little faster at the name. “Oh yes you are Goose are you. What a good kitty. How did you get up here though?” Eddie cooed as he started to pet Goose freely. Goose started to purr when Venom lashed out, a flash of inky black tendrils the only warning Eddie had before Goose was sent flying to the opposite end of the apartment and onto a wall.

“VENOM WHAT THE HELL?”

“Eddie that thing was preparing to eat you!”

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

“I JUST SAVED YOU!”

“FROM A HOUSE CAT?”

“FROM A FLERKEN!”

“A what?”

“That thing is not a cat, it’s a Flerken.”

“What is that?”

“An alien capable of taking any form and swallowing anything it wants to.”

“...Repeat that last part?”

“There have been rumors of a Flerken that once swallowed a small universe.”

“That is impossible.”

“Like having an alien symbiote live inside you that can heal any injury you have and which extends your lifespan considerably by virtue of being a compatible host?”

“...Fuck. Fine. We have a Flerken in the house. That could swallow us if it wanted.”

“It could swallow this whole building if it wanted.”

“That could swallow this building if it wanted. That you just threw into a wall. You knew what that thing was and you threw it into a wall. What if it is dead? What if it’s not. God Venom, you’re a dumbass for doing that.”

“Is that your way of thanking me?”

“No, that’s my way of calling you a dumbass.”

“I panicked.”

Eddie swallowed before approaching the corner of the room which boasted of a new dent in the wall. That was going to be a bitch to explain to his landlord. When he crossed the sofa that had been blocking his view, the cat was sitting on its hind paws, lickling one of its front paws without a care in the world.

“Good kitty, I am so sorry for my … Venom. He didn’t mean it. You didn’t mean it right V. V? Come on out. Tell the cat we are both very sorry.”

“No way!”

“V!” Eddie bit out.

Slowly, Venom’s head emerged over Eddie’s shoulder, looking as remorseful as it could. The cat- sorry Flerken had put down it’s paw and was now watching them intently.

“I’m sorry Flerken.” Venom said, tone filled with regret. Eddie wondered if the regret was for the action or for being stuck in this situation.

The Flerken tilted its head again before standing up and making its way to them. Both human and symbiote were rooted to the spot as the alien circled their feet before standing and bracing itself against Eddie’s legs.

Exhaling calmly, Eddie bent down to pick up the cat, trying to hold it as far as it could from him. The Flerken let itself be picked up, seemingly aware of how much they were afraid of it.

Once Eddie was standing straight again, the cat - well it grinned. Eddie didn’t really know what else to call it, but it’s eyes looked almost pleased, as if it had been testing the two of them and they had passed. Whatever the reason, he almost felt like collapsing from the relief that coursed through him.

The cat then lifted a paw and gently swatted at Venom’s disembodied floating head, causing the symbiote to yell and try to back away, knocking Eddie off his feet and sending then all falling and landing in a pile on the floor.

“Owwww.” Eddie exclaimed as he sat up, rubbing a sore spot on his back where he had landed. So much for a symbiote cushion.

“Sorry Eddie.”

“Venom can you just come out. This cat is not going to hurt us.”

“Yes it will.”

“I think you’re wrong.” Eddie shifted to look at the cat on his chest that was still looking at them and not moving. “You’re not going to hurt us right?”

Well, Eddie could officially say he knew what a cat would look like with an exasperated look on its face.

“See, it’s not going to hurt us.”

Venom carefully emerged again, still hovering. The Flerken hopped off Eddie’s chest onto a distance about 5 feet from them before opening its mouth and -

 “OHMYGOD WE ARE GOINGTOBE EATEN BYANALIEN CAT!” Eddie screamed as he scrambled to back away from the TENTACLES that were coming out of the Flerken’s mouth.

“No wait, Eddie. Stop.” Venom said, sounding reasonable. Which what the hell, up until this point Venom is convinced they are going to be killed by this cat and the moment when it seems like that act is going to happen, he is suddenly chill? What gives?

Without waiting for a reply, Venom masked Eddie, and leisurely put out tendrils of his own. Then the two met in the middle and did this almost weird dance thing before they came back to normal.

“What the fuck?”

“We are cool now Eddie.”

“What. The. Fuck?”

“Me and the Flerken made an agreement.”

“What?”

“You are being repetitive again.”

“Venom, I am confused. Explain.”

“The Flerken asked if it could stay with us for a while. I said ok.”

“That is not an explanation.”

“It doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that it will be staying with us a couple weeks until its friend comes back for it. And it wants us to call it Goose.”

“When did all this communication happen?”

“During our tentable handshake.”

“Tenta- you know what. I’m too tired for this. Just tell it to stay out of the bedroom. I am going to bed.

“Goodnight Goose!” Venom called back, sounding stupidly cheery.

Eddie wanted this all to be over.

---

The weeks they had with Goose were surprisingly normal, the cat stayed out of their way for the most part, just following them out when they went on patrols, and on one memorable occasion when it ate a drug dealer that had kept shooting at Venom.

Venom had been annoyed at the missed meal.

The other memorable occasion was when Anne came by and found out the cat wasn’t a cat.

She had been rightfully angry. And scared. She had forgiven them eventually though. Thank god. They would be lost without her.

---

Eddie was almost sad when they came back from the apartment at the end of three weeks of cohabiting with a Flerken to an open window and a note thanking them for taking care of Goose, signed on the bottom by a M. Rambeau and an orange cat paw print.

Eddie had to buy a large chocolate box to console Venom who had grown surprisingly attached to the Flerken he had been terrified of. Eddie hoped they got to see Goose again. He had grown fond of the cat too, damn it.

… What even was his life that he was missing an alien with the ability to swallow universeres that almost tried to eat him too.

Maybe he should go visit that therapist friend of Anne’s…

 THE END