#i am no longer held at gunpoint

[blucoded]

colored an old mfen scribble to make up for no art lately >_<

[amodernpersephone]

YOU?????? WROTE WHAT

welp. it was a good run boys. (BOLTS OUT THE DOOR AS FAST AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE)

[crystallinestars]

NSFW Alphabet - Moze

I didn't expect to like Moze so much, but his backstory and gameplay got me, so here I am. Hope Moze lovers enjoy these silly headcanons of mine. Despite his serious demeanor, I'm a strong believer that Moze gets flustered when faced with sexual situations. Also, in case someone is not aware, girth is circumference not diameter.

Moze x Fem!Reader

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Moze feels awkward about what to do after sex because he’s not used to being affectionate. You’ll have to guide him on how to proceed, such as pulling him into a cuddle or engaging in pillow talk (though he’ll be mostly silent).

Due to his love for cleanliness, as soon as you’re able to stand, Moze ushers you into the shower. If you convince him to bathe together, Moze will join you in the tub and help lather your body until you’re squeaky clean. If you offer to wash him in return, Moze will say that he can wash himself, but he won’t stop you if you do it anyway. He grows flustered if you wash him because he’s not used to being cared for in such a manner, but he secretly enjoys the attention.

After a bath, Moze always changes the bedsheets if you did it on the bed. If you did it on other surfaces, he cleans up whatever mess you two made.

If he sees any bruising on your skin or if you complain about feeling sore, Moze will bring you to Jiaoqiu for treatment. The assassin is not used to physical intimacy, so he worries he might have hurt you, and will feel guilty about it until told it’s nothing serious.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On himself, Moze likes very little. He was seldom shown affection as a child, so he never quite learned to love himself. Whatever body part of his you shower in praise is one he will grow to think slightly better of. You think he’s got a handsome face? Your words will float into his mind every time he looks in a mirror, and a little warm spark ignites in his heart when he remembers you like how he looks. You like his muscles? He’ll try a little harder and train for a little longer to keep himself in shape. You like his hair? He’ll keep that haircut forever. Your praise means a lot to him even if he doesn’t outwardly show it.

On you, he loves everything. Moze is generally not picky about physical appearance of his partners. Every part of you looks pretty to him because he loves all of you. Though if you held him at gunpoint and forced him to confess, Moze would reluctantly admit that he loves the shape of your legs. He likes admiring them when you wear shorts or short skirts, and seeing you in thigh-highs makes him weak.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

His cum has a mild salty flavor and is a bit thick.

Moze prefers to use a condom to avoid making a mess and generally avoids pouring his seed on your face or other body parts, though if you’re really into being covered in his cum, he’ll entertain you. He makes sure you’re properly cleaned up afterwards.

As for your slick, Moze doesn’t mind getting it on himself since it’s yours. He’ll let himself get as dirty as necessary if it means making you feel good.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Before you became a couple, there was a time when Moze walked into your room to ask for an important document. Unfortunately for him, you were in the shower at the time so he was left to search for it on his own.

However, the bathroom door opened before he could find it, and you walked out wrapped in a towel. Out of instinct, Moze quickly turned invisible and slinked off to an inconspicuous corner of the room, heart pounding quickly in his chest. He didn’t know why he felt the need to hide because it’s not like he was doing something nefarious in your room, but a part of him worried you would get the wrong impression if you saw him there, and he really didn’t want you to think badly of him.

The assassin didn’t look in your direction while you waltzed around the room, gathering a change of clothes but his face was flushed scarlet simply from knowing what you were doing. He respected your privacy and remained looking at the wall, not wanting to stare at you like some kind of pervert while praying you wouldn’t discover him. Thankfully, you remained unaware of his presence up until you left the room, and Moze used the first opportunity he could to escape.

He tried really hard to put the event out of his memory because it was a huge source of embarrassment for him and will never admit it happened (unless you somehow find out and press him, to which he will confess to everything while dying inside).

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Moze has no experience whatsoever. Absolutely none. The man hasn’t even kissed anyone before. He’s got a general idea of how sex works, but up until getting together with you, he used to view it in a very scientific way. In his mind, it was just a process that led to the creation of children instead of something that a couple could do purely for the sake of fun and pleasure.

He didn’t even imagine having sex with someone one day, so when the possibility of being that intimate with you surfaced, Moze was at a loss. The first time you have sex might be a bit awkward and full of little hiccups because he isn’t too sure about what to do. He knows the general process, but it’s the details and intimacy that he struggles with.

After your first time, Moze does research on bedroom skills so he can improve for next time and pays rapt attention to any directions you give him. He’s invested in making the experience a good one for you and becomes intimately familiar with all the ways you like being pleased.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Moze enjoys sex against the wall. Pinning you against the wall with his body with one of your legs hooked around his waist is usually his go-to position, though he also enjoys lifting you by the hips so you can wrap both legs around him. He’s strong enough to support your weight for the entire duration of the lovemaking.

Despite his shyness at showing his face to you during coupling, Moze really likes positions where he can easily see your face. Cowgirl and missionary are some of his favorites for this reason. He likes seeing your face because it makes sex more intimate for him, plus it helps him gauge how good he’s making you feel. He also does variations of missionary, such as hiking one or both of your legs onto his shoulders or pressing your knees to your chest for a deeper penetration.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Despite his serious demeanor, Moze is unintentionally goofy. He might recite a sex fact or a lame joke he read online with the most serious tone of voice and expression all while trying to please you and ruin the mood. He means well, but some of the things he says are so unexpected that they can be unintentionally funny (or cringy).

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He clean shaves to keep that area orderly. If he did keep hair, then it would be regularly trimmed short and the same shade of gray as his hair.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Due to his upbringing, Moze never learned how to be open with his feelings or how to accept love and care, so he struggles with this in his life. Sex is no different.

Being expressive and affectionate is foreign to him because he learned to restrain his emotions, so he doesn’t shower you with odes of love and flowery compliments. He expresses his love for you in a different way. It manifests in eye contact during sex, pressing his body closer to yours until you’re practically flush together, holding your hand, and leaving a simple but lingering kiss on your lips after the act. Once he learns to open up more, Moze incorporates long and deep kisses into your lovemaking and holds you tighter to him, as if he is a man starved for you.

Even without the physical cues, the fact you are allowed to see him at his most vulnerable speaks volumes to how much he trusts and loves you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

If he needs to de-stress, Moze usually cleans to clear his mind, but on rare occasions, he masturbates to relieve tension. He feels a bit dirty afterwards, especially due to how messy masturbating can be, so he doesn’t do it often. However, after he fell in love with you, he was embarrassed to discover his thoughts strayed to you when he masturbated. It was never anything too lewd, mostly images of how flattering your body looked in that nice top you once wore, or the way your pants hugged your legs, or imagining it was your hand instead of his pumping along his hardness. Moze is usually good at being very quiet when masturbating, but when his thoughts stray to you, he lets out breathy gasps and even a moan when he climaxes.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Moze is pretty vanilla. Even if he had a wealth of sexual experience, his kinks would still be tame. He likes your legs, so anything that highlights their shape would appeal to him. Short skirts, shorts, and thigh-highs are just some of the things he likes seeing you in. He’s also a fan of seeing you dress up in flattering lingerie. It doesn’t even have to be sexy, just something cute that flatters your figure will have him thinking you’re beautiful and make him eager to feel your body.

Adding on his love for your legs, Moze is into thigh sex. If you’re okay with it, he would like to bury his cock between the flesh of your thighs. The squeeze of your soft thighs around him is both an erotic sight and sensation for him.

Moze also enjoys cosplay. He likes it when you wear something both sexy and cute, like a maid outfit or cat ears. He thinks you look tantalizing dressed up like that. If you ask, he’s willing to dress up for you as well. Stuff like formal/business wear, butler suits, glasses, a doctor coat, etc… are alright with him, though more provocative outfits like bunny suits would be too embarrassing for him to wear. Don’t ask Moze to roleplay, though. He’s not good at it.

Other kinks he’s into are body worship and praise. Once he grows comfortable with sex, Moze worships your body with his hands and lips, kissing and caressing every part of you because he genuinely appreciates your figure and the fact he’s lucky enough to call you his. Receiving the same affection on his own body will make him feel conflicted at first. As mentioned previously, Moze was deprived of love and affection when he was young, so receiving it feels foreign to him. If you take it slow and ease him into the experience, he will let you pamper his body and find a strange sense of enjoyment from it. If you combine your reverent touches with some praise, he will be deeply touched (more on this in Wild Card).

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Strictly at home. Moze doesn’t feel comfortable having sex anywhere else. In terms of locations in the house, he’s fine with almost anywhere, though he does favor the bathtub and bed.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Moze is a simple man. If he sees you in revealing clothing or things like swimsuits/lingerie, he grows flustered and pops a boner. Teasing or directly expressing your interest in having sex with him is another thing that easily gets Moze going. Feeling desired by you in an instant turn-on for him.

One other thing that gets him going is seeing you pleasure yourself. Whether he stumbles upon you by accident, or you purposely play with yourself to seduce him, Moze won’t be able to resist such an erotic sight. He’ll want to join in and help you get off, but only if you allow him. Seeing you feel good makes him feel good in turn.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Sharing is a no-no. You’re very special to Moze, and he hopes he’s equally as special to you as you are to him, so having sex with a third party ruins the illusion of your special relationship. Plus, he doesn’t want anyone other than you to see him in such a vulnerable state. He also doesn’t like the idea of sex in public places because he’s a very private person by nature.

Losing control over his body scares him, so Moze dislikes things like bondage and blindfolding. He’ll entertain you if you want that done to you, but he’s not comfortable with having it done to him. He also finds watersports gross.

Moze also refuses to get rough with or degrade you. He doesn’t want to hurt you and won’t find it enjoyable to do so. Another thing he doesn’t do is roleplay, but it’s less because he dislikes it and more because he sucks at it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

The first time you gave Moze a blowjob, he was caught by surprise due to how good it felt. His knees felt weak, and he had to fight to reign in his desire to orgasm right then and there. It was probably one of the few times when you heard him let out a loud, strangled moan and saw his reserved expression crumble into a pleasured one. The sensation of having his dick sucked for the first time was new and intense, which is why it had such a strong impact on him. Moze comes to love receiving blowjobs even though he’s too awkward to openly ask for them. There’s something erotic about watching you work your mouth over him, though he tends to avert his gaze out of fear of cumming too quickly from the sight.

When it comes to eating you out, Moze may lack experience, but he makes up for it with enthusiasm. He desires to make you feel good, so he gives it his all in learning all the spots that drive you wild. He pays rapt attention to your guidance in how you like to be eaten out and relies on your feedback and moans to tell him which pressure and speed you enjoy most. Moze quickly memorizes how you best like to feel his tongue in your pussy, which speed and pressure of flicks you enjoy against your clit, and the suction which makes you moan loudest.

If you squirm a lot due to his ministrations, Moze will pin your hips down, so you won’t interfere with his task. He won’t stop until he makes you orgasm, though if you tug at his hair and say it’s too much for you, he’ll stop. When he eats you out, your sounds and reactions can cause Moze to pop a boner and unconsciously grinds his hardness against the mattress.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

His go-to pace is slow, especially when he first starts having sex. Since everything is so new to him, Moze wants to take it slow so he can get used to the act of sex and learn what you’re both comfortable with. If you’re comfortable with a moderate or even fast pace, Moze can adjust and go faster to meet your needs.

Whether he wants it fast or slow depends on his mood. If he���s horny, he’ll want to go faster to chase after his release, but if the mood between you is intimate and sensual, he’ll opt for slower thrusts. At the end of the day, he will always go at the pace you want instead of what he wants because his goal is to make you happy.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Moze can go for quickies. If either of you get horny but there’s not enough time for a proper session of sex, then he is willing to indulge in oral sex, thigh jobs, or a quick fuck to satisfy the lustful cravings. He loves the emotional intimacy that comes with your regular lovemaking, so he does prefer longer sessions.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Moze is highly cautious by nature, so he is reluctant to take serious risks like exhibitionism or doing things that could result in injury. However, due to his inexperience, he’s also open to trying new things, especially if they’re something you’re interested in. He’s willing to try most things at least once as long as they don’t endanger either of you.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Moze trains a lot, so his stamina is quite high. He can last for a long time, outlasting you by a long shot, but he stops if he senses you’re tired. He can easily last for 3 rounds, but rarely goes for more than that since you can’t keep up with his stamina.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Moze doesn’t own any toys. He’s embarrassed by the thought of using one and thinks they’re not necessary for him to feel good.

If there are toys you like using on yourself, Moze will learn how they work and will incorporate them into your sessions. As long as it makes you feel good, he’s willing to do almost anything to indulge you.

If you want to use sex toys on him, Moze will be hesitant and wary at first, but with some coaxing, you can convince him to give them a try. Moze prefers to keep things simple, so BDSM gear and whips are not toys he enjoys, though he ends up enjoying vibrators more than he thought he would. Still, sex toys are not really his thing, and he prefers to have sex without them (unless you’re super into them).

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Moze is straightforward by nature, so he doesn’t tease you in the bedroom. Edging isn’t something he considers because his mission is to make you feel good and bring you to orgasm, and that’s exactly what he sets out to do. He’s also terrible at dirty talk and verbal teasing (he doesn’t know what to say, or if he does say something, it sounds cringe), though he might make an amused remark if he sees you’re very eager for him.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Having lived most of his life mastering the skills of being imperceptible, Moze became skilled at keeping his voice and breathing very quiet. The most you hear from him during sex are ragged breaths, muffled moans, and questions if you’re feeling good. With some encouragement, he can be convinced to let his voice out more, but it feels more natural for him to suppress his noises. If you can get Moze to lower his guard and just enjoy the moment, he might let out low moans. They’ll still be quiet, but at least more audible.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

The first time you had sex, Moze almost cried. Ever since he could remember, he was deprived of love and affection. Being orphaned and then tortured and treated like a tool by his “family” at the Sanctus Medicus had taught him to suppress his needs and emotions. When Feixiao rescued him and gave him a second chance at life, he grew used to being called a weirdo and feared by people.

But here you were, touching him so tenderly as if he were something precious instead of a terrifying tool of murder. You marveled at his physique in a way nobody ever had before and whispered how handsome he looked despite all the scars. You kissed his skin so softly, seeking out with your lips and hands all the spots on his body that sent jolts of pleasure through him.

Moze had never been treated with such gentleness and care before, and the attention overwhelmed him. The tender touches and sweet compliments felt foreign yet so good, and when you said you loved him, his eyes involuntarily teared up, though he suppressed the urge to cry. Your affection touched him deeply, and it was scary how vulnerable you made him feel, so Moze asked you to stop.

However, afterward, he caught himself wanting to be touched and praised like that again. It had felt scary at first, but a part of him craved to feel that loved and cherished again. In the subsequent times when you worshipped his body, little by little, Moze learned to relax and enjoy being pampered. It still overwhelms him sometimes, and the vulnerability makes him uneasy, but he also trusts and loves you, so he feels safe exploring this part of himself with you.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

13cm (5.1 inch) in length and 9.5cm (3.7 inch) in girth.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Prior to getting with you, Moze’s sex drive was low. Once you became a couple, Moze’s drive rose, so he now craves sexual intimacy about 2 times a week. He can go for more frequent sessions if your sex drive is higher than his because he’s just that eager to please you. His self-control is high, so if you’re not able to have sex for whatever reason, he can easily suppress his urges.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

It’s rare for Moze to immediately fall asleep after sex. Usually, he waits until you fall asleep first before allowing himself to rest. There are also times when he has to leave for business reasons, so he doesn’t have the luxury to sleep or relax.

For the first while, Moze will be uncertain and hesitant about cuddling and hugging, so you will have to initiate if it’s something you want. Once he gets used to it, he will drape an arm around you and pull you close to his side or spoon you from behind. He’s a light sleeper and tends to stay in one position throughout the night, so if you move in your sleep, he’ll instantly wake up.

Moze enjoys it when you hug him and rest your head on his chest or shoulder and fall asleep in that position. He finds it comforting to be held by you, and think you look cute cuddling him like that.

[nvuy]

confiteor (WILL YOU EVER LOOK UP AGAIN?) — sunday

summary. the bronze melodia is a position that requires weariness, empathy, and patience. unfortunately for sunday, he receives far more than he expects through the voice in the window.

notes. i’m ashamed. this is dedicated to the anon that held me at gunpoint and forced me to post this to tumblr. otherwise, you can read it here.

you can read part 2 here !

warnings. mdni. this is LONGGG it’s about 7k words. religious themes, religious guilt, explicit sexual content, very inappropriate use of a confessional, mild degradation but in a religious way, reader is AFAB i fear and uhh. indecent and guided mutual tug sessions, if you catch my drift.

“Next. Please, step forward.”

Sunday had heard it all before. Timid footsteps, hushed whispers, skin stretching as the person trembled and fidgeted. It was always confronting to sinners, to step close to his voice and absolve.

Nothing truly shocked him anymore. He’d fallen in a state of numbness, in taking this position. A Bronze Melodia, as it was called.

He’d heard murder confessions, perjury, disloyalty, misconduct, everything. He had to grow used to it; this was his job. To forgive, to press his fists into palms beyond the confessors' sight line, and pretend he was as all-forgiving as he appeared to be.

He had learned to hold his voice steady.

Sunday found himself absentmindedly fixing his sleeves, though they already sat perfectly on his wrists.

What he could never predict was whether the person behind the window was here to absolve, or to mock the Aeons. It was always a guessing game for him; perhaps that’s what kept him from straying too far from the path.

The position was tedious, though patience was a virtue of his. He liked to akin himself to an adaptable man, warping his words and honeying his rather monotonous tone to that of reassurance. A false promise of hope, if you will.

He was good at that. Humans were exceedingly predictable in most of their actions; he had learned as such and had tried to drill the knowledge and dangers of the species into his dear sister, too.

Humans were cruel. Robin had never believed him, even in the feats of his struggles as a child, how one of the wings below his ear was mercilessly snapped in an act of child’s play. Child curiosity, it was dubbed as, though to him, it felt more like hatred.

He remembered crying that night, with his right-wing bandaged by his caregiver, and Robin had to remain in his room and sing him to sleep.

Now, it was different.

Quiet shuffles of footsteps were heard. He could tell they were the last recipient remaining, for the muted idle chatter of attendants had faded, and the sun was beginning to set. Members of kinship and the like would return home and sin, and then enter the church begging for forgiveness tomorrow. A never-ending, boorish and lonely cycle.

How shy. He listened to apprehensive slow steps until he heard the click of sharp heels stop just short of the window.

“Come to me, my devotee. I have sought THEIR presence within us.” Sweet words, peppered with powdered sugar poured from his tongue. “Tell me… what ails you such?”

The quiet intake of a breath, sharp and hushed.

Curious, Sunday leaned against the interior wall, just barely closer.

When there was no answer, he added, “do not be afraid. I am here to forgive. I cannot judge you.”

Another harsh inhale.

And then, “I apologise, Reverend.”

“Not at all.” A small, gentle smile pulled onto his lips. You could not see him through the box, and he made sure to stay clear of the iron bars of the window, but he hoped you heard the warmth and comforting sweetness in his tone. “Are you new to the congregation? Your voice is unfamiliar.”

He heard the shuffling of clothes. A pause, and then a wilting, “yes– no, sir.” Another pause, longer than the last. “I have not visited the confessional, but I do sometimes attend service.”

Sunday hummed curiously. “And what has prompted your change of heart?”

He heard the tapping of nails against the exterior of the box, pensive and thoughtful. Rhythmic, like in time to a tune he couldn’t quite place his finger on.

The setting, orange glow of the sunlight, partially tinted a deep bloodied colour through the stained glass windows of the church, crept further through the bars of the confessional as it drew closer to the horizon. The light was warm on the lick of his fingertips that rested close to the frame.

The persistent tap, tap, tap sounded like an agitated display of impatience. Like a song of trepidation and dread, yet much too quick to be sorrowful. Excitement, perhaps?

Then, there was the hard swallow of a lump in their throat. He heard it through the wall.

“I fell in love with a man.”

Their voice, your voice, rang clear as if you were standing next to him without the muffle of the confessional in between his body and yours.

Sunday’s eyes flitted to the wall by his head as if he could see you through the wood.

He said nothing.

Speckles of dust caught in the setting orange sun from the stained glass windows.

“A beautiful man,” you continued softly. “Generous, kind, considerate…” Your voice tapered off like a votive candle flickering in the breeze.

Sunday remained quiet, choosing instead to focus on the soft beating of his heart in his ears, and the sound of your breathing.

There was another ruffle of clothes—a blazer perhaps? It sounded like stiffened cotton or something as luxurious as pure wool. He wondered if such a material could be purchased by someone so common. Wool was a fleeting thought; an easy purchase with the wave of a credit card.

There was a pregnant pause, as if you, too, did not know what to say.

“Is he a bad man?” Sunday inquired encouragingly, still soft and eloquent.

A hiss of an inhale.

“No, not at all.”

Still, nothing.

Sunday watched the wall for a moment, imagining a figure on the other side fidgeting nervously. He could hear the tussle of form-fitted clothes shifting back and forth as if the devotee had been unable to stand still.

“I offer my sincerest apologies,” he started gently. “But I fail to understand any wrongdoings in your confession.” He prompted his voice to remain even. Patience. All in due time. “If he is as truly good a man as you put it, then there is nothing I see to absolve.”

“It’s not him,” you tried. There was a drone in your tone, as if you were trying to defend yourself. “It’s who he is.”

“An unattainable man, I presume? Or, is he perhaps forbidden?” The pressure was light. He was not so much forcing or coaxing words from your throat, but to embolden you instead.

He heard you hum nervously in agreement. He thought it to be a reply to both of his questions.

“Is it his status?”

Another uncomfortable tussle of clothing.

“Yes, sir.” He heard you lean against the confessional through the strain of the wall. “He is a holy man.”

“Ah… a man of the church?”

“I cannot want what I cannot have,” you dwelled softly. “I know the answer is to let go, but it has been months, and I have grown worse.”

Sunday hummed. Quite the predicament indeed. Such a precious scenario, though. Somebody ordinary in love with the unordinary. So sweet, like fruit growing on a tree in a sacred garden.

The tragedy of unattainable romance was fleeting for the congregation. Even Robin, his dear sister, a truly devoted romantic at heart, could never commit herself to a person. To worship another, and to take eyes from Xipe, would be worth a painful, slow and torturous death unlike no other.

Grotesque and twisted, like the many priests before him, who had been slashed and severed for their transgressions.

To turn your back on The Family–

He willed the thoughts away.

“I do hear you. I pray for your struggles.” His gloves pressed to the window. “But, it is not unreasonable, nor a defiance of the Holy, to be in love with a man of the church.”

“That’s the thing. It’s beyond love, Reverend,” you said, hoarse and strained, like you’d raked a hand down your jugular. “It’s everything.”

The shift of clothes again. This time, a hand brushed against a zipper, though there was no tug at the clip. He listened attentively, like a song he’d never heard before.

The stretch of clothes around skin, the glimpse of an expensive leather shoe from the corner of his eye, and attire inappropriate for the church. Exposed legs, too much skin, a low neckline of a shirt. Patterned stockings following black embroidered flowers and thorny stems travelled up bare legs like serpents.

“I want to ruin him.”

There it was.

“I want it so he thinks no more of the Aeon he worships, and only of me.”

His lips only barely parted at what he was hearing. A startled quiet breath escaped him.

He heard the skin of your knuckles pull taught into fists. They tapped against the wood.

“But it’s wrong of me to think this way, so I humbly request your blessings, Reverend, even if I–” You paused. Sunday flinched when a hand pressed against the iron bars, dreadfully close to the feathered wings beneath his ears. “There’s something bad inside of me. I need your help.”

Never had he heard something like this. A sinner be so outwardly humble and honest in their speech; to admit that you were wrong. To admit that your behaviour was treacherous and ghastly.

And to pine after a man of worship and unbreaking devotion.

To defy the Lord. To fight teachings, to fight him and his words. A stubbornness like no other, and one so incredibly shameful and distasteful, and yet, you still carried a weight of guilt heavy on your chest.

Another shudder of a breath. Another pitiful, desperate noise. All to receive his good graces.

“I don’t ask for forgiveness anymore. I don’t think I even deserve your blessings, sire. I don’t think anybody does.” Maybe he would agree with you, and maybe he wouldn’t. Instead, he leaned against the wall and stared up towards the ceiling of the confessional. “I only ask to hear your voice.”

Sunday’s breath hitched at the suspicious sound of a zipper being tugged, roaming hands, far too purposeful in their placement. He didn’t wish to imagine where your fingers travelled.

Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut.

“If you have convinced yourself that nothing can be done, then why would you seek me?” he asked, a waver in his tone. His ear pressed to the wall again, cold against his warm skin. “…If you think you cannot be absolved, then I am unable to help you.”

“I want relief,” was all you said. You pressed against the confessional. “Blessed Reverend, I want you to relieve me.”

Sunday was at a loss for words. He was listening attentively again.

You did not ask for forgiveness, peaceful solitude, or punishment. He did not understand what you were referring to specifically, choosing instead to pull delicately at the tips of his gloves. They suddenly felt constricting, like they’d grown a size too small for his hands.

Usually, he’d refrain from mindless fiddling and fidgeting. Something was different now.

Something warm ran from the pit of his stomach up to his neck.

It was vile. Like a serpent’s tongue following the rigid bone of his spine towards the nape of his neck. Warm and forked, like a pitchfork wielded in the hands of the irreverent.

The slimy body of the snake would twist and coil around his neck, squeezing the delicate flesh, marring it, coercing more sweet honey from his tongue until you were writhing.

The localised swelling heat curling in his stomach burned hotter when your breathing faltered and strayed from its natural rhythm.

It faltered too immorally to be mistaken for a simple hitch, or an error in your presentation. It was not a reflection of apprehension, nor fear.

It was–

“Would you be honest with me?” Sunday asked gently. His trembling hands curled into fists, still pressed against the wall and out of view of the window. “I only ask one answer of you.”

“Of course.” Strained, weak, unsure. Another pathetic attempt of an even breath left your lips. The aroma of something rich and sweet wavered through the bars of the window. “Anything for you.”

How depraved. Indecent, perverse. Your tone was repulsive, and so incredibly honest.

He heard the sound of something slippery, like the swallowing of spit in your mouth, or perhaps something far far more obscene.

He was tempted to move closer, to bite at the hand that fed him.

Your devotion was corrupt, focused solely on the sound of his breathing from inside the confessional. You were not here for redemption.

The box grew warm with his shaken breaths.

“Then, pray tell…” His temple rested against the interior of the confessional, and something hot and vile stirred in his stomach, like fiery pits of devastation. Like claws from a being unforeseen by Aeons above. “Are your hands between your thighs?”

You let out a stuttered gasp.

Sunday closed his eyes and tried to control his shaken breathing. His perfectly fitted clothes suddenly felt too tight, too restricting, every crease and fold tattering and ruined heating skin.

He swallowed thickly, wings barely catching on the window of the confessional.

“I’m not–” Your hands abandoned their position and pressed to the window, the diagonal frames digging into your soft flesh. The pad of your longest finger shimmered in the setting sunlight. “–I’m wrong. There’s something wrong with me.”

His gloved nails dug into his thighs. The dove white trousers stretched with the pressure.

He could not see you fully, no, for if he could, he was afraid he’d throw the door open, drag you into his lap and satisfy that burning ache that ricocheted in his stomach.

“To think of you this way,” you continued meekly. “It’s disgusting and vile and I need you to help me.”

He had to agree with you, though his fingers pressed just shy of the borders of the window. He almost grabbed your hand and dragged his tongue up your finger.

He felt the same. Hot and sticky, clothes clinging to him like they’d been doused in glue. The feeling pressed into his burning skin like a fragrance of saffron and black peppers.

That seductively enticing aroma of your perfume that lingered through the gaps in the windows. Honey and dessert, and the salty smell of your sweat. He did not eat sweets anymore; that sweet tooth was long left to dust and decay, and yet his mouth watered.

He felt as though he was being tempted to bite into something that held dire consequences.

Desperate to relieve the burning below his skin, Sunday unbuttoned his blazer. “Do you wish to be absolved?”

“I–” He heard you shuffle. The telltale swish of cloth. The click of heels. You’d dressed up for him, even if he couldn’t see you, and you couldn’t see him. Even your painted nails he peered at; a dark navy blue, like the wings at his waist that stretched in relief when he freed them from the confines of his jacket. “I don’t deserve it.”

“So, why did you come?” he asked. The larger, navy blue wings were much too big for the small perimeter of the confessional, but anything was better than to feel as restricted as he was.

His gloved hands pressed to the window now.

He wanted to touch you.

God, no. He couldn’t think like this.

He wanted his fingerprints branded into your skin, to stain every inch of your flesh like cigarette burns, forever marring the perfection.

“To relieve myself.”

Sunday smiled, and it was pained. You heard it in his tone. “How honest.” His temple pressed onto the cool wooden box again, leaning as close as he could to your voice. “Aren’t you ashamed?”

His forehead pressed to the wood beside the window, out of view. The orange rays of the sun setting outside licked upon his fingertips that curled over the iron bars. The warmth felt cold.

“Very,” was all you said.

Sunday fought the urge to moan, pressing his teeth into his tongue and hissing at the pain.

This was wrong.

He couldn’t stop himself.

“Go on, then. One hand. Relieve yourself.”

He heard a muffled sigh of relief. Perhaps you, too, had pressed yourself against the exterior of the confessional. The only thing parting you from his body was a thin slide of wood.

A sacred sanctuary that you would reform from pure selfishness.

One of the hands on the window abandoned its firm grip around the frames, and he heard a quiet gasp.

It was quickly cut off.

“Let me hear you,” Sunday whispered through the window. A gloved hand raked down the side of the window, and his head knocked against the corner of the confessional. His halo suddenly felt like a crown of thorns, weighted and punishing.

He would indulge.

If you were here to ruin him, then he would indulge.

He heard a wet squelch that made him shiver. His other hand had absentmindedly crawled up his thigh, trembling to remain flat on the seat. The skin below his trousers was pulled taught and had grown sensitive.

You moaned, and it was so close to his ear that his spine snapped straight. His fingers brushed over his straining cock beneath his belt.

The awful, awful, yet so beautiful sounds that tore from your throat left him reeling for more. For his mind to fill in the blanks, squeezing his eyes shut tight until even the light from the window was shunned out of his eyelids.

“Slow your hand,” he whispered. “Enjoy yourself properly.”

The squelching slowed significantly after only a moment of hesitation. He heard you continuously pant like a helpless mutt, confused, perhaps frustrated, too.

The other hand still curled as tight as it could around the iron diagonal bars of the window shook with reckless abandon.

Debauch sin felt good. Like a drug. Like alcohol washing down his throat and filling his stomach. So, so good, like the slide of his hand up his shirt. His other hand, much less secure, fumbled with the golden buckle of his belt.

He wondered if you felt the same. “How will you sleep tonight?”

“I won’t,” you whispered hoarsely. He was sure your appearance was something to match the rasp of your voice. “I will toss and turn.”

As will he. He’ll lay on his side, tangled between freshly washed white sheets and feathered pillows, and touch himself. He knows it so. He feels the strain of his palm tracing along the hot skin, thumbing the beading slit while he thinks of your perfume.

His cock twitched in the confines of his pants when the heel of his palm knocked against his tip. So hot, and so difficult to breathe. This box was not made to entertain whores, nor himself.

Sunday managed to unbuckle his belt. The leather straps smack against the side of the box.

You’re so wet. He can hear you through the confessional, and a dreamy sigh escapes his nose.

“How many fingers are inside of you?” He couldn’t quite tell. His hands curled into fists.

“Just one, sire.”

Sunday huffed, thumbing the button of his trousers around his waist. The claws in the pit of his stomach had returned, scratching and marring the inner walls and slicing through the bubbles of acid, desperate to be set free. It hurt.

He could imagine how you felt. He could imagine everything; the rhythmic sound of a single finger sliding in and out of the pretty wet hole between your legs. Pressing your body against the exterior of the box, desperate to feel the cold wood against your burning skin.

Your finger being hugged tight inside of you, pressing and dragging along sensitive nerves deep near your womb.

He was a mess.

Hair frazzled, halo dimming and fading when the light angled into the box just right, wings twitching, battling a game of whether he was to wrap them around himself or spread out as wide as they could.

You must’ve heard the zip of his fly undone, for you gasped, and your finger sped up accordingly. That same wet squishing of your poor poor limbs trying to accommodate how shameful you’d become.

His teeth caught on the tip of his glove and pulled the material off. The white cotton fell to the floor uselessly.

“You must be so lonely,” you said to him through the window. “So deprived.” He felt the fanning of warm breath against his ear. “I can fix that.”

Sunday, attentively listening with glowing cheeks, slowly freed his cock from his pants. A sigh slipped past his wet lips.

A different sound echoed from between your legs, and you groaned as close to his ear as you could.

“I want to hear you, Reverend.”

His hand dragged up his cock and he moaned. It was a shameful display of sincerity, and he wished he had bit his tongue again. Instead, he panted against the wood of the confessional, and muttered, “touch yourself.”

A wet noise that made his hips shift forward into his hand told him your finger had abandoned your insides, instead dragging up to play with that precious bundle of nerves.

He heard the stretch of skin, the shift of whatever clothes you had kept on yourself, and what you had thrown to the side. You were leaning against the box; your scent was stronger, that perfume and something sweeter, mixed with the salt and sweat of your skin.

He only hoped your thighs were as parted as his were. One of the sides of his knees knocked gently against the wall of the confessional.

So wrong. So shameful, so blasphemous, to do this, to please you and please himself to the thought of you, and then exit the church as if it had never happened. As if he wasn’t trapped fucking his palm like a mutt in heat, unable to control the panting and the incessant whispers of groans that escaped his lips.

Cum beaded at his slit, sticky and dribbling down to the base of his tip.

He wanted nothing more than to heave the door open, taste the slick that ran down your legs, and then bend you over the nearby podium and–

“So wet,” he murmured through the window. The only response you formed was a whimper. “So shameless. Do you feel guilty?”

“O-of course,” you tried. It was pathetic between the hot coiling in your stomach, like a deadly serpent curling around its prey and squeezing. “Do you?”

Sunday tried to imagine a hot tongue cleaning the mess of his cock, tracing the cum pooling at the base and flattening against his tip, angling just right to press into his slit flushed an angry scarlet, like wine and blood.

He could imagine ruining you for any other man. To slam his hips up against yours, to drag the head of his cock along those plush velvety insides until you were sobbing, struggling to accommodate him. He imagined you’d be perfect.

If only he could do all of those things without repercussions.

Tracing the swollen veins of his cock while you played with yourself with wet fingers was already too far. He could foresee punishment on his behalf and yours. Perhaps death, though neither of you deserved such luxury.

He did not answer.

Instead, he asked, “will you return?” His voice was shaky at best, and filthy at worst.

There was a hopeful twinge to his tone. He prayed you did not hear it.

You hesitated. There was a waver in your tone. “I shouldn’t.”

Your voice sent his mind reeling. He was thumbing at his slit while his thighs trembled. When his palm was coated in enough of his cum, he continued dragging his hand up and down the head of his cock.

He was growing dizzy. “But?”

“But I will.”

“This shouldn’t happen again,” Sunday heaved. His hand grew desperate, wetter, and the urge to pull the door of the confessional off its hinges and take you on the floor and away from the stained glass windows where the sun peered through was filling his senses. He yearned to know what you felt like squeezing around him. “You should not let this happen again.”

“I need you, Reverend,” you confessed. “If I am honest, my sins will be atoned for. As will yours.”

“You will not touch me tonight, and I will not touch you.” It was final. Without room for argument, though he sounded somewhat disappointed.

“But what about tomorrow night?”

Sunday breathed against the wood, tugging at his collar and rolling his hips into his hand. “If you return, I will punish you for it.”

“You tempt me, Reverend,” you said through a moan. “I will think of you tonight.” Your fingers had returned to your hole. He’d recognised the noise, somehow more obscene than it had been before.

His cock ached with hatred. How you would feel dripping down him like an unsatiated whore, trying so desperately to ask for his forgiveness, to try and seduce Godhood.

He hoped you felt empty. He hoped you hungered for his cock through the wall, breathing erratic and loud as his palm dragged along the length of hot skin over and over again.

Ecstasy filled his throat and every vein in his body. Goodness, the edge was glorious. He pilfered off the side for a moment before he stopped his hand.

His cock twitched in agony and he let out a groan that tapered off.

“Don’t you dare cum,” he snapped through the box.

You whined, but your hand obediently stilled

“I would imagine you’re filthy now.” He pressed his forehead to the cool wood. The surface heated up along with his skin almost instantly. It was so hot here. “Use your fingers again.”

“How many?”

So obedient. He almost purred at your behaviour. “Two.”

Oh, he spoiled you. That familiar sound again, so wet and warm and inviting, and you were moaning and shivering around your own hand. He could imagine slippery slick pooling along your palm now, lathering your fingers like a thin paste.

His own fingers found the flushed swollen tip of his cock again. It twitched in his palm. There was a greedy puddle of cum forming at the base of his cock now, and he quickly wiped drool from his lip.

Already frazzled from the orgasm he’d denied just mere minutes ago, your breathing grew louder and louder, though not alarming enough.

“Touch yourself again,” he rasped out. His halo was now a liability, too ironic. His wings were cramped against the interior walls, desperate to be let out. Wet fingers rubbed along his tip in rhythm with the sound of your own moving against yourself, drawing wet slippery rings around that adorable swollen bundle of nerves between your legs.

He hopes you struggle to cum tonight without his guidance. It’s a fleeting thought, but it makes his thighs lock and freeze against the seat.

He hopes you never find any satisfaction in another man. Wouldn’t that be a spectacle? A mindless bumbling whore stumbling after a High Priest, another Bronze Melodia.

You were murmuring his name now in a never ending chant of prayer.

Saliva caught in his throat as he breathed.

“Rub that pretty clit harder, will you?” Still in tune with your second hand that had finally pulled off of the bars to trace around the rim of your hole. He tried his best to keep up with the noise, eyes still wound shut.

You were hopeless. Struggling at the ministrations like a squirming worm caught on a hook. Your knuckles knocked against the confessional before your fingers slid into yourself.

This was heaven.

He knew it so, no matter how wrong it felt. It was a feeling, not the real thing; never the real thing. Not after tonight, but he could live with himself, if he ended up buried inside of you.

His tip bubbled and drooled at the thought of it.

You taught him self indulgence. And as sinful as it was, as wicked as it felt to buck his hips into his own palm, slick with need and sweat and dribbles of saliva that had fallen from his lips, he loved every pull of his skin.

Oh, it was awful. And it was so good. So treacherous, so disgustingly unholy, so blasphemous and insulting to do this in the very place he’d learned to be sacrificial and sanctified. Where he’d sit on the confessional with a heavy halo and a light heart and try to feel for the heathen on the other side of the window.

Spills of moans and moans left your lips, fingers working at that pace he had commanded of you. Your palms must have been soaked in your own slick now, the delicate flesh between your legs swollen and dark with blood.

He wanted to touch you.

It took everything at this point to keep the door shut. Like a woman being tempted by a serpent to bite into a forbidden fruit off of a large tree. He was sure you would have also indulged, had he offered you a slice of the fruit.

“I’m–” You couldn’t finish the sentence. The wood of the box groaned beneath the shared weight. “I need to–”

Oh. The scent was delicious. The hissing of a snake in his ears, the watchful eyes of a nightingale from somewhere far away, the taste of a sweet fruit running along his tongue.

He hoped you returned.

“Go on. Isn’t that what you came for?” He dared to say more, but instead bit down on his lip.

You bit down first on the fruit.

You came much more broken than he would have expected, and his hands paused around his cock to listen to that gorgeous melody. The drawn out whine came out more as a sob, fingers still drawing tight and hard circles around your clit as your hole clenched around weakened fingers.

Such a beautiful noise. You sounded as though you were struggling through wet heaves, filthy soaked fleshed between your thighs, skin tattered in sweat and bathed in the sunlight just barely peeking above the horizon from out of the window.

You whispered his name like a prayer. A pitiful drone, as if you’d become fully aware of your transgressions.

Wet fingers returned to the window.

His hot breath cooled the slick stuck to your skin, but Sunday kept his tongue pulled behind his teeth. Did you feel empty? Did you want more? Did you also want to pull open the door to the confessional and take him in the seat?

Your voice was weak. “Sire…”

Your tone rippled beneath his skin. His face was on fire. His hand sped up.

“How close are you?”

A whine ripped from his throat. “So close.”

He heard you breathe a hoarse laugh and his feathers raised behind his ears, and it was still one of the most ethereal tunes he’d ever had the honour to listen to.

His wrist grew tired, but he pressed on, thumbing at the overtly sensitive tip and his bubbling slit that wept in tandem. He watched your fingers against the window closely, imagining the heat of your flesh curled around his cock instead.

His cock twitched and twitched in his palm, and his hips raised off the seat for a moment.

Sunday heard you swallow. A hum rumbled in your throat, low and pretty.

He was sure you could hear how slick he was. It was humiliating how hard he’d grown just from the sound of you.

The wings below his ears were crushed against the wooden wall. The bones ached, but he ignored everything in favour of the sound of your breathing so close to his ear.

The sun had now drowned below the horizon.

“Cum, sir.” What a pretty plea. Your fingers tightened around the bars of the window. “Please.”

Sunday gasped, his own knuckles pulling back and knocking the other wall of the confessional as his hips twitched and twitched and he squirmed and his cock felt as though it was going to burst.

He came then, almost weeping as his teeth sunk into his sore knuckles. The sharp vertices of his halo felt weightless and warm, and his shirt felt just as constricting as it had before he’d come undone.

It was like fire oozing from him. Cum dribbled from his tip and painted his palms impossibly stickier than before. What fell from his hands pooled into a puddle on the seat and he grimaced.

An angry and raw garble escaped his throat at your words; who were you to do this to him? How could you do this to him—his cock twitched again, this time violently, as if aching for another round. His palm pressed heavy to his tip, still flushed that beautiful scarlet, and fattened with blood, experimentally giving it another drag along his palm.

Sunday’s hips jutted forward into his hand again. A discomforting chill ran up his spine and remained at the nape of his neck.

Viciously, he tore his hand away from his cock, staring at his sullied hand as if it had betrayed him. Maybe it had, you see, for he had no foresight his body would succumb to such temptations.

His body should not have succumbed. He should not have succumbed.

This was beyond his teachings; cardinal sin and disloyalty to Xipe, whom he praised every night with withering and wavering hands.

And now they were tainted.

“Just a taste, Reverend.”

Sunday’s spine stiffened as if a hot metal rod had replaced the bone.

His skin ached and his teeth vibrated with disgust. Sacrilege. That’s what it was. Vengeful and spiteful, much unlike sweetened delectable fruits off of a tree in the Garden of Eden. This should not have happened. You shouldn’t have ever come here.

He had an inkling of a feeling, as fleeting and dull as it was, that you did not feel guilty for your actions.

His teeth gritted, and his jaw ached in accordance.

Wretched thing.

Sunday, disgusted in his actions, ignoring the beads of sweat pooling down his neck like pearls, held out the degloved hand tainted in his cum through the gap in the window.

A tongue curled around his fingers, hot and heavy, and dragged up from the tip of his nails to his knuckles.

He resisted the urge to make a noise, instead catching his tongue in his teeth and biting down enough to draw blood.

His cock was swelling with blood again, tip flushed and leaking once more. He refused to touch himself again. He had already ruined the tranquillity of the church. He had already ruined you.

Sunday’s fingers twitched in your mouth before they dragged down your tongue.

When he was sure you were done, and his hand was covered in your spit, he grabbed your chin and drew you as close to the window as he could.

There, he managed to catch a glimpse of your face.

Sweaty, mangled, ruined, and so imperfect that his cheeks fill with blood at the sight of you. Your image is ruined by the light from the still burning votive candles from the completed service hours ago that shines behind you, branding the crown of your head like a halo.

Sunday assumed he looked worse.

“You will speak of this to no one,” he rasped. “Not ever.”

“No, sir,” you whispered. There was an impervious grin stretched into your lips. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“The second I hear wind that you’ve been sharing this night with those undeserving, I’ll rip your tongue from your filthy throat.”

You exhaled shakily. There were stars in your eyes.

Sunday’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Of course.”

He let go of your chin and tossed you as far as he could backwards through the window of the confessional. You teetered, wobbly in your position of kneeling, before you briskly stood up.

He couldn’t bear the sight of bare legs, so he looked away and shrunk down into the corner of the box, out of view of the sunlight, and the barred window.

Sunday did catch a glimpse of those expensive shoes. Too expensive, too fancy for a church setting. Your clothes were the same, too form fitting to be dubbed appropriate in such a sacred place.

How could you appease to THEM if you were dressed to seduce their messengers?

He said nothing, did nothing, silently wallowing in pitiful hatred as white hot pin pricks of one thousand needles formed behind his eyes. His wings curled around his waist.

He let out a breath that caught in his throat.

“Goodnight, Reverend,” was all you murmured to him.

Your fingers retreated from the window.

Sunday attentively listened to the sound of your footsteps. He hoped he could be forgiven for this. He watched the ceiling with disdain.

When he heard you leave, and the telltale slam of the door shutting behind you, he retracted his hand still coated in your saliva and thumbed at the tip of his cock.

Your spit slid so easily against him.

He shuddered, and then he moaned. It echoed along the walls.

Silently praying for forgiveness, and covering his eyes with his other hand in the process, he drowned once more in solitude.

[writeforfandoms]

Run Wild 5

Find the series masterlist

Your pack insists on making your life both easier and harder, and you're not entirely sure how to feel about things. The situation doesn't improve when you and Horangi go on an op together.

Warnings: Swearing, allusions to animal cruelty, Mink is having a hard time with her emotions, pack dynamics, shifter dynamics, flirting.

Word count: 2.8k

The next few days passed in a blur. You couldn't have recited what you did if someone held you at gunpoint. 

But you didn't spend a lot of time with your pack. The two men. 

You weren't avoiding them, really. Not intentionally. Not really. 

You just…

Your cheeks puffed out as you dropped to the dirt, going through a training exercise with a squad. No König today. No Horangi today. 

Just training exercises.

You just needed to clear your head, that was all. 

Breathing slowly, you focused on your task. Just a little longer and you'd be done for the day. 

At least, that was the plan. 

Until Horangi met you at the end of your exercise, arms crossed loosely over his chest, sunglasses as impenetrable as ever. You blinked at him. 

“Come with me.” He uncrossed his arms, fingers twitching briefly. You nodded, falling in behind him, absently brushing yourself off. 

He led you inside to the offices, though he didn't slow down even as your nose twitched in curiosity. You hadn't been in here often, and you wanted to explore. But Horangi didn't give you any time, just turning down a hallway, expecting you to follow him. 

Which you did. Of course. 

He stepped into a conference room and shut the door after you. König was already there waiting, leaned back against a wall, gaze fixed on the two of you. 

“How are your recon skills?” Horangi turned to you as he asked, removing his sunglasses. The better to watch you, eyes dark and just a little narrowed. 

“Good,” you said slowly, gaze darting between your two packmates. “Better if I can shift.” 

Horangi nodded once, holding your gaze for a long moment before you blinked and looked away. “Good. We'll be going out on recon.” 

“When?” You stood up a little straighter. 

“Tomorrow. Briefing is officially in half an hour.” Horangi took one step closer to you, fingers closing around your wrist gently. “We will be the only two going in.”

“Two?” Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. 

“I am not as skilled at recon,” König rumbled, faintly embarrassed. “I am too loud.” 

Horangi chuffed, amused and fond. “Two,” he confirmed, still watching you closely. “Will that be a problem?”

“No, sir.” You refocused on your alpha, head tipping slowly to one side. “I can do it.” 

His eyes crinkled the smallest amount, like he was smiling under the mask. “You don't even know what it is yet,” he teased. 

You shrugged. “I can still do it,” you asserted with a brief flash of teeth. “I can do quiet.” 

“Hm.” Horangi nodded again and released your wrist. “Get cleaned up, meet back here in twenty-five.”

You nodded, though for a moment you stood still, just looking at him. His eyes would be covered again for the briefing, you knew. So you soaked in the trust he showed for a moment longer before you stepped around him and left.

You had to clean up, after all. 

But you made it back with two minutes to spare, sinking down into the seat next to Horangi. König was gone, though you didn't have a chance to do more than shoot Horangi a questioning look. 

The briefing was, well, brief. Shorter than you'd expected, actually. You were being sent in to find some information, very quiet. Just you and Horangi, as he'd warned you before. 

You didn't mind. You were good at recon. 

The building was isolated, meaning a trip in a helo, then a drive. The two of you had a few hours before you'd leave, which gave you time to grab a few necessities. 

The knock at your door startled you, and you paused with your hoodie in your hands. But you opened the door after a moment, curiosity winning. 

König stood in the doorway, filling the entire thing, looking even broader than normal. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, seeming uncertain. 

“König?” You blinked up at him. “Can I help you with something?” 

He shook his head, hood shifting with the movement. “Here.” He thrust one hand at you, gloved fingers curled around a piece of fabric. 

You took the fabric carefully, surprised at how soft it was. An old bandana, blue and black. Curious, you lifted your gaze to König again. 

He shrugged, now-empty hand reaching back to rub the back of his neck. “Just in case,” he mumbled, gaze dropping. 

“Thank you.” You pulled it closer, rubbing your thumb against it. “I'll bring it back.”

He shook his head again. “It's yours,” he said, speaking faster now. “A gift.” 

Your lips parted, because that? Was very different from something borrowed. 

“You will be late,” König fussed, taking a step back from the doorway. “Don't keep Horangi waiting.” 

Before you could gather your thoughts to say anything, he was gone, long strides carrying him down the corridor and away from you. 

You blew out a breath, letting your cheeks puff out. Well then. 

He'd given you a gift. Something personal, given how soft the bandana was. And judging by the fact his scent had permeated the fabric entirely, as proven when you lifted it to your nose. 

This was… unexpected. 

But he was right, you didn't want to make Horangi wait. You hurried through getting ready, throwing your hoodie on last. Since this was a recon op, you were dressed down, no longer in uniform. Which suited you just fine. 

Horangi was waiting for you at the helo, dark eyes giving you a swift once-over before he nodded his approval. He motioned you in first, settling next to you for the ride. 

It felt odd to see him without his sunglasses - he wore them constantly, even sometimes in the pack room. 

You only realized you'd been looking too long when one dark eyebrow arched at you. 

“Something on your mind?” The words were almost teasing. 

“Eh. Sort of.” You shrugged, forcing yourself to look away. “Just not used to seeing, y'know, that much of your face.” 

He snorted softly, one hand landing on your knee. “If you spent more time in the pack room you'd see more,” he murmured, definitely amused now. 

You huffed, playing at being indignant. “Yeah, sure.”

He eyed you but didn't push. For once. Instead he kept his hand on your knee for the rest of the flight. 

The drive was a couple hours, and he wordlessly got in the driver's seat, leaving the passenger side for you. You briefly debated laying down for a nap in the back… but gave up on that immediately. You'd rather spend the time with Horangi.

“König gave me a gift,” you blurted, without really meaning to. 

Horangi nodded. “I know.” 

“He told you?” 

“He didn't need to.” 

You eyed him but he didn't look at you, hands steady on the wheel. “Did you talk about it before?”

Horangi hummed softly, gaze flitting to you. “Briefly, yes.” 

You weren't quite sure how to feel about that, and so simply huffed softly. 

“If you came into the pack room more often…” He trailed off.

“You've mentioned.” You blew out a breath. “I guess I'll have to.” 

You almost missed the flicker of his lips into the barest smile. Almost. 

But that humor was nowhere to be found when the two of you reached your destination. Horangi parked the car, and you took a moment to stretch. Dawn was still a few hours off yet, giving the two of you plenty of time to get this op done. As long as things didn't go totally sideways. 

The last section of the journey was on foot, Horangi taking the lead. When he glanced back at you, you could just see the reflection in his eyes, undeniably green. Your lips twitched. What a cat, indeed. 

The smell hit you first, and your nose wrinkled against your will. Filth and waste left to sit too long, the faint tang of rusted metal overlaying it. The animal musk seemed out of place, but then again, this far out from a city any number of critters could be living around the building. The building was long and squat, single story, no lights on. 

“Here.” Horangi stopped at a window that had been left open a crack. “This will be the bathroom.” 

You nodded, recalling the map the two of you had gone over hours earlier. “Ten minutes,” you agreed. 

No more words passed between you as he boosted you up, and you pushed the window the rest of the way open to twist through. It was easier without gear in the way, but also left your shoulders and back tingling with the knowledge that you had nothing but fabric between you and any potential attack. 

But you were good at being quiet and sneaky, as proven when you made your way through the building. Nothing moved around you as you crept down the hallway, checking your doors and corners as you went. 

The smell got worse the further into the building you went. You opened the door at the end of the hallway and paused for a long moment, swallowing hard. 

The big empty room you'd seen in the plans was not empty. Instead it held a dozen or so metal cages, each one housing a small furry critter. A few of them moved as you did, eyes opening and feet shifting. 

Intel had been wrong about this room, and you wished you'd never seen it. But you had to push through to finish your task. 

You swallowed hard and crept around the outside of the room, focusing only on being quiet and avoiding any cameras. You couldn't worry about the animals, not right now. 

The office, at least, was exactly where it was supposed to be. It took moments to find and grab the documents you needed, lips curling. Well. At least Horangi would be pleased with you. 

Doing one more check of the room to be sure you had everything, you turned to go. 

Soft chittering made you stop. 

You couldn't understand the animals in the cages, no more than any human versed in body language could. But you could feel more empathy towards them. 

They didn't deserve this. But you needed to get out without leaving any sign of your passage. 

As much as you wanted to, you couldn't loose the animals in the cages. 

Jaw clenching, you forced your feet to move. Maybe you'd see if Horangi would let you come back and take care of the animals later. That was the best you could do, right now. 

The trip back through the dark building was silent, and you hoisted yourself up to the window, hanging half-out to hand the documents to Horangi. He looked amused when you slithered the rest of the way out. 

“Well done,” he murmured with an approving nod to you. Warmth filled your chest at the simple praise, and you basked in it for a moment. 

“Seemed pretty easy,” you murmured cautiously as the two of you snuck away again. “I mean, for us.” 

Horangi chuckled, dark eyes glancing at you. “Sometimes things are easy,” he murmured. “We're not paying for it.” 

You shrugged. Something still seemed wrong, but if he wasn't concerned, you weren't going to make a fuss about it. 

“You could sleep,” Horangi offered, even as he turned on the car to drive the two of you away. 

“Nah. I'll wait.” You stretched out a little in the seat, head leaning back against the headrest. The sky was just beginning to lighten with the first hints of sunrise, promising more. “Where are we stopping?”

“Safehouse,” Horangi answered, even though you were pretty sure you were supposed to remember that from the briefing. “In case we need to go back.” 

You hummed acknowledgement of that, glancing at him. Time alone with your pack alpha. You weren't entirely sure how to feel about that. 

“Promise I won't bite.” He flashed you a grin with teeth. 

You laughed, quiet but amused. “Ah yes, very reassuring.” 

He smirked, fingers flexing on the wheel. “Nervous?”

“Not particularly.” You grinned. “You had your chance to murder me in the middle of nowhere.”

He chuffed at you, briefly letting go of the wheel to pat your knee. “Won't be my only chance.” 

You laughed as his touch retreated again, leaving you warm and more relaxed than you should be. But you were learning to trust him, to give him bits of yourself. 

It was a heady feeling. 

The safehouse was boring, as most safehouses in your experience were. But it was warmer than outside and had blackout curtains, which would come in handy since the sun was up. 

You left Horangi in the main room to scout the rest of the place. Not that there was much to see - a single bedroom, a bathroom that König would have been absolutely squished in, and a hall closet with spare supplies. Nothing glamorous. But it would do. 

“Get some rest,” Horangi told you, sprawled along the length of the couch like a, well, cat. “I'll be up for a while.” 

You eyed him for a moment, debating how much you could push. “You'll rest soon?”

“Yes.” Far from appearing offended, Horangi smiled, just a little. 

You blinked at him, startled, warmth building in your chest at the sight of that smile. And promptly fled back to the bedroom. 

You absolutely should not like the sight of his smile that much. It wasn't that big a deal. It really wasn't. 

You were still trying to convince yourself of that when you dropped off to sleep. 

You woke before Horangi, sneaking past him to get some water. He'd managed to fall asleep on the couch, legs dangling over one arm, head tipped at an angle and torso twisted into some weird position that only a cat could enjoy. Shaking your head, you twisted the top off a water bottle, guzzling half of it in one go. 

Hopefully the two of you would get to head back to base today. Not that you minded being in a safehouse with him, but… it felt weird. Just the two of you, and no König. 

It was odd to leave a pack member out. 

Which was weird for you - it had been a long time since you'd been part of a pack, and longer since leaving someone out was even an option. All these realizations made you antsy, eager to do something, just so you weren't trapped in your own head. 

“You think too loudly.” 

You absolutely didn't jump at Horangi's voice behind you. You definitely didn't drop your water. “When did you wake up?” You asked him, eyeing him over the back of the couch. He hadn't moved at all. 

“I've been awake.”

“Liar.”

His lips twitched into another smile, small but very much there. You had to look away as heat suffused your face. 

“Any updates this morning?” You cleared your throat, picking up your water bottle and tossing it from hand to hand. 

“Not yet.” Horangi swung his legs around the side, sitting up and cracking his neck. “We'll hang tight a little longer.” 

You shrugged, wandering around the room aimlessly, too restless to settle. 

“Sit.” Horangi patted the couch next to him. “You can answer a few questions for me.” 

Well. That wasn't ominous at all. But you sat anyway. 

“What do you need in the pack room?”

You blinked at him, mouth dropping open a little. That… was not what you'd expected. “What?”

“You heard me.” His lips twitched again, eyes warm with amusement. 

Surprised, you leaned back against the couch, watching him. But he didn't change the question, didn't restate it. Just waited. 

“Not sure,” you settled on, a little cautious. “I don't need much.” 

Horangi made a short, dismissive noise at that. “Everyone needs something,” he insisted, head tipping to one side, gaze fixed on you. 

You blew out a noisy breath. You'd never given it any thought, if you needed anything in the pack room. “I don't… really know,” you admitted slowly. 

Horangi nodded slowly, never looking away from you. “Then we will figure it out.” 

You swallowed hard, the implication that he wasn't going anywhere, that he and König would help, bringing both a rush of joy and trepidation. You honestly weren't sure how to feel, now. 

Fortunately, you didn't have to figure it out. The phone rang. 

You moved away as Horangi made a face, reaching over the couch to grab his pack and the phone. You went back to the window to look outside, only half paying attention to the phone conversation. 

You needed to get your head on straight. Or move. 

“Time to go.” Horangi stood, shouldering his bag. 

You followed him silently back to the car, looking out the window without really seeing anything.

[angofwords]

MAX LOBO: MAIN CHARATER?

I've been thinking about Max. I love that guy. I mean, we all love him, right? It's well-known that Yoshida modeled him after Harrison Ford, and so he exudes that brand of action-hero energy. But this morning I realized that, from an outside perspective, Max very much *was* the main character.

Think about it: a journalist jailed for punching a cop (plot twist--he used to be a cop himself) ends up writing an exposé that brings down a trafficking ring of pedophiles that include mob bosses and Congressmen. The whole thing starts with him investigating the drug that destroyed his buddy's life in Vietnam, and for flavor, he finds himself teamed up with his friend's troubled teenage brother.

Max is the one who thought to go to Cape Cod for clues, which led them to Los Angeles, where the drug plot really cracked wide open. Adding an angry ex-wife and an adorable kid just adds to the energy, right? Then he's captured (made docile because there are kids being held hostage) and brought back to the east coast to get dressed in tuxedos and watch a macabre demonstration of the drug's power (super-villain shit, am I right?). It's got Hollywood style all over it.

Then, once he blazes his way out with an M-16 (no one would believe a kid did that much damage, right?), he pretends to be Griff's brother's dad so they can get him set up in an apartment optimally located to photograph Golzine's comings and goings. Then, after the kid gets himself "killed" in a gang war, Max is the guy who's like "that's not my kid" and tries to spring him out of the evil facility he's been locked into.

Later, he uses the kid's unfortunate connections to coerce evidence out of a man who produces underage porn. It's enough to bring down the main players, but Max very heroically burns any evidence that relates to the kid he's taken under his wing. Hero-style, of course.

Then the shit hits the fan. A Russian assassin pressures the troubled kid who basically double-crosses Max and steals the evidence at gunpoint. (Max is sympathetic, of course, because that's his kid now and he understands the pressure he's under.)

Realizing that he no longer has any leverage for his own safety, he calls the ex and tells her to take their son and hide out. Instead, she crosses the country to be at his side, ready to fight. During this final fight, he ends up captured, and she joins an army of rag-tag teens (led by a pipsqueak kid) to break him out.

The facility burns to the ground and all the banana fish evidence is destroyed, but Max still has the pedophile exposé and a hell of a good story. He even gets his wife back, though his buddy's kid brother tragically dies.

It reads like an American blockbuster, particularly those of the '80s and '90s (the same films that Yoshida was such a fan of). I seriously think that the whole thing could launch Max into a celebrity career--the kind that eventually gets a bio-pic.

I hope they get Harrison Ford for the role, lol.

[mad-hatter-memes]

BDylanHollis Starters

A collection of dialogue prompts from the videos of BDylanHollis. Feel free to edit quotes if needed.

TW: Suggestive references and drug references,

"This recipe is making me cry, not the onions..."

"Are we sure this recipe wasn't written by a cat?"

"Buy me dinner first."

"It's ten PM and I'm boiling prunes in my kitchen..."

"You know, it's not bad...It just vaguely tastes like a felony."

"Tastes like a boot! Like a size ten boot!"

"I didn't know tuberculosis had a color scheme."

"I think I summoned something..."

"Are you still here?...Dammit!"

"You could just use canned pineapple...if you're a communist."

"It doesn't tell you how to eat it...So I don't know if I need a knife and fork or if I need to tie my hair back."

"Do I call the police or a priest?"

"Can we at least have coffee first?"

"I bet this recipe is just all the wrong answers on a baking test."

"Well I don't have sorghum, cause I don't have a life expectancy of twelve!"

"Sweetie, none of this is my liking."

"Are you just making things up? Who are you?!"

"You know I've never been particularly religious, but today might be the day..."

"This ain't food, honey. This is a bioweapon!"

"I am in utter fear..."

"Hello, you are very green sir."

"Did you just kill my blender?"

"This is personal now, you swung first!"

"Welcome to the world; it's awful!"

"Were you really worried that I was gonna mix a fully constructed pie shell into this?!"

"I'm a fool, not a idiot!"

"Thought this was a joke, turns out I'M the joke...'

"Or what? I'm gonna ruin your disaster?"

"This is from 1938, it's only electrocuted me twice!"

"If I cut off my feet do we still have to do this?"

"Celery's just like your parents; dirtier than you think!"

"What have you perfected?! Garbage?!"

"Now in my personal experience, depression and ice cream are a match made in heaven."

"If there's one thing I've learned, it's that Jell-O is inevitable!"

"Sweetie, this needs a lot of things but water isn't one of them..."

"It doesn't need salt, it needs help!"

"Normally I'm quite comfortable handling meat, but this is physically disturbing me..."

"This is giving me emotions previously unknown to man..."

"Are you supposed to eat this on crackers or on drugs?"

"What are you trying to do, live longer?"

"What do you take me for? Grown?"

"He looks like if you get a tattoo, you'll be written out of the will."

"Precisely what realm of mathematics do you inhabit?"

"Did you just throw a grenade down aisle 6?!"

"I'm not concerned about your precious Grind-o-Mat!"

"The only thing this is going to rise up from is the dead."

"You know they invented a tool for that, it's called a whisk."

"Bacon is always a good idea!"

"What exactly are we trying to raise up, hope?"

"What is it with dead people and their obsession with this?!"

"Yes I know it's hot you git, it's an oven!"

"No I have never had these, you must remember I'm not an American."

"I am a [Nationality] and we grew up with things like party rings and custard creams."

"Is the pudding related or did you just want a snack?"

"Were you subject to a fall from a great height?"

"I'm serious, don't disrespect the Irish. They can be mean..."

"Don't worry, my hands are the only touch I know."

"This is sacrilegious! Preposterous! Daft!"

"Yeah it's alright, but it's all wrong!"

"I'm not sure if you know, but beef is a COW. You know, the mooing?!"

"Smells like a Palm Springs retirement home..."

"It could be because I like illicit substances, or like psychiatric disturbances, being held at gunpoint, these types of things..."

"Ow! Ow! It's got ranged attacks!"

"What you've never put cereal in a blender before?"

"I don't like boxes, people get buried in them..."

"If it looks like oil, it must be good!"

"Thank you, I'd hate to have an uneven disaster. That would be terrible..."

"It's hot! I'm sunburnt! There's bugs!"

"I'm feeling like a rotisserie chicken out here!"

"Are you supposed to eat this for Christmas or for punishment?"

"It's so good, it's in danger of becoming my dinner!"

"Who's fingers they are we'll never know...They might even be Charlotte's!"

"Where do bugs go in the winter? And why are birds?"

"But [Name}, what if I'm allergic to peanuts?"

"You and your ancestors have obviously done something to deserve such a malady."

"It looks like I microwaved a squirrel...again."

"What part of Italy are you from? Kentucky?!"

[avaritia-apotheosis]

Danny ends his first month as Bruce Wayne's PA being held at gunpoint.

This is not the first time he's been in this position, and lord knows with his luck it probably won't be the last. But this is the first time he's ever been held at gunpoint by a regular gun. As in one that fires bullets and has gunpowder, as opposed to the ecto-charged weapons back in Amity. The novelty of the situation makes him hesitate for longer than he usually would. An ecto gun would hurt like a bitch, sure, but he knew he was strong enough to tank it. But a bullet between the eyes? He's not sure how that would affect him considering, well, him, and he's really not in any hurry to figure that out.

The guy in the Michael Myers mask holding him hostage— one of six, all wearing horror movie villain masks probably taken from some local Party City—yelled at Danny to put his hands behind his head. "I know you!" Michael Myers said. "You're Wayne's dog aren't'cha?"

Danny rolled his eyes. He shoots Tiffany, one of the front desk clerks, an exasperated look. God forbid people actually call Danny by his job title.

Tiffany shrugs as best as she could from the ground.

"I'm his PA, asshole," Danny snapped.

"Why you—"

"Oh just shut the fuck up!" Scream, well, screams. "He's just some punk kid. The cops will be here any minute, and we still don't know where the fuck Wayne is."

In the most innocent way Danny could manage (and by innocent, he means the most annoyingly straight face he could pull) Danny says, "Do you have an appointment?"

Tiffany face palms. Scream blue-screens. "What."

"Do you have an appointment?" Danny stalled, straining his senses for any sign of the Bat. Really, it shouldn't take Bruce this long to respond. They were literally in his building. "Anyone that wants to see Mr. Wayne needs an appointment."

Michael Myers fumes. "Yeah, I do. It's under do what we say, or I put a bullet in your teeth!"

Danny tilted his head just so. Was that footsteps he heard overhead?

"Interesting name." Danny made a show of pulling out the palm-sized planner he kept in his breast pocket and flipped to today's date. "Is it foreign?"

He made it a habit to keep a physical copy of his boss' agenda as a back-up in case something happened to his work phone. (See: Vlad messing up the work phone he bought Danny after Danny purposefully squeezed in a month's worth of work into one week). If Danny wasn't so sure that Michael "trigger happy" Myers wouldn't shoot Danny's fancy new work phone, he'd have pulled that out instead and called an ambulance for these poor bastards.

"I am going to enjoy hurting you."

The lights overhead flickered.

Danny hissed in mock-disappointment. "Oooh, would you look at that. It looks like Mr. Wayne is fully booked. Guess you can't see him today." He batted his eye lashes, mouth widening in a shit-eating grin. "But luckily for you, it looks like there's an opening with the Batman."

The room was swallowed up by darkness.

The sound of horror villains screaming was music to Danny's ears.

[lil-gae-disaster]

Mandatory compensation for last OS

I have been held at gunpoint to write this.

@potatosneevees @hamalicious-soup @almaprincess66 @hiidkwhatimdoing7525 @half-eaten-baguetteee

Frederick was behaving strangely, that is something Jonathan noticed almost immediately.

The older of the two was not talking with the lad he was usually with, although it is quite understandable after what has happened with his other close friend... Jonathan could not imagine how enraged his dear friend might have been had Hamilton actually been hung and not been able to escape.

He was there for his only friend, of course he was, and yet Frederick wasn't the same. Jonathan did not expect him to be, but he can't help but worry, that's one of the things he could do best.

September was coming to an end and Frederick, for all awkwardness he exhibited during the last weeks, subtly started to distance himself from everyone he seemed close with. All except Jonathan, it seems. Apparently, he was more drawn to Jonathans presence and, if Jonathan himself were honest, quite useless comfort.

But this did not matter as it provided no explanation as to why the blond man was quietly leading Jonathan into the forest near their encampment. There seemed to be some invisible weight weighing down on the shorter one of the two since he was walking with a stiff posture, quite then opposite of his usual relaxed and open manner.

Jonathans mind was racing with reasons as to why Frederick was leadind him so far away from their fellow men as they came to a stop and Frederick gestured for him to sit down on a fallen over tree, leading by example as he also sat down. The tension between both men was nearly able to be grasped in human hand as neither of the two wanted to speak up as if disrupting the fragile peace they both have made between them, although the peace between them was as stable as it had been ever since they both got to know each other.

Finally, Frederick sighed and broke the quiet. "I... am supposed to leave tomorrow morn before another man here wakes. I will be leaving for the enemy, to gather intelligence." he confessed with a look straight ahead.

Jonathan felt his world shattering. "May I ask... why are you risking yourself in leaving when we already have spies providing us with information of the enemy?" He inquired hesitantly, his words slightly quivering with concern for his dear friend regardless of his effort to mask said worry.

Frederick laid his sapphire eyes upon Jonathan before closing them, shieling the true beauty and intensity of them from the world. "I need space to breathe, truly. With Ca- Joseph here, after what has happened, I cannot properly calm down and forgive him just yet. I am not leaving because of you, I can assure you." He elaborated, his eyes open again and looking into Jonathans to get him to truly understand his leaving is not Jonathans fault.

Upon the silence, Frederick continued. "I cannot thank you enough for the times you have allowed me to cry in your arms and how many times you have given me the assurance and stability I needed that day, you are one of my closest friend, I would never dare to voluntarily leave you. You are the one friend I would always return to, I value you and our friendship too much to simply leave behind over a crime you have not even committed." He had moved closer to Jonathan without taking notice of it, so that their thighs were nearly touching and Jonathan just had to reach out with his fingers to caress Fredericks and yet he stayed put.

"I... must thank you for your kind words..." Jonathan responded after what must have been eternity or longer, his focus all over their nearly touching bodies, the closeness of Fredericks face from his, and yet it was so far away. The golden locks framing the freckled cheeks and deep blue eyes in perfect harmony with the pale skin complementing it all, the kind man next to him who he wished to pull closer and yet also push away.

They sit in silence for long, enjoying their last moments together before Frederick had to leave and in the worst case never get back. .. He might never get back. This realization hit Jonathan as if he had collided with a horse. He might never have the opportunity to say what he has been itching to say to the scotsman beside him for so long.

Jonathan cleared his throat, actively drawing in the attention of the one he had been yearning to call his lover for several months now. With those intense and beautiful eyes landing on his, there was no returning from the reckless action he might be taking now. It matters not though, since he came to the conclusion of if Frederick were to start resenting him, he might have near no one left to walk among the living anymore. He has his mother, this may be true, but he did not want to cause her heartache should he disappear after the war has finally ceased and he will return to what was now his blacksmith. Were he to die, she would at least know him safe with god.

"I.. must confess what has been plaguing my mind for a long time" he began, feeling Frederick hesitantly reach out to grasp his fingers, what for he did not know, maybe Frederick does not know it himself. Jonathan continued.

"I.. have grown to appreciate you, my dear friend. You are beside my mother the only one to care for me, you have been my first friend and the one I cherish the most. You are also the one I ought to return to should fate seperate us as I find myself incapable on willing to be seperate from one as you." Jonathan took a deep breath and, perhaps foolishly, closed his hand around Fredericks, intertwining their fingers and squeezing Fredericks hand in his own.

He nearly got distracted by the joy of the discovery his hand fits perfectly into Fredericks, but the words of the man who boldly stole his heart distracted his mind. "I understand, you are also my dearest of friends, but why do you tell me this?" He asked, his beautiful brows furrowed in a confused frown as he met Jonathans eyes. In this deep and clear sea that was Fredericks eyes Jonathan could spot a faint hint of fear and worry.

Jonathan reached with his free hand up to smoothe the frown, it did not look as gorgeous as his smile did, but Jonathan found he loved the frown near equally as much as he loved the others genuine smile. "There indeed is a reason, ... my dear." He started and ceased to speak again, the hand on Fredericks forehead moved to cup his cheek. Jonathan resumed speaking as his thumb gently swept over the other mans spots of sun in his face.

"The reason being, I have fallen for you, dearest Frederick. Your smile, your mannerisms, your voice, everything you may have has captured my heart and laid it into your hands. I ask you not to give me yours, I ask you do not step on it out of cruelty. I am aware you may not share my sentiment and might even condemn me for those, but I must tell you this before you might never return and I am left with no heart and in its place a hole." He confessed, his eyes too busy trying to detect any amount of contempt in the other mans eyes that he failed to notice the faint reddening of the mans cheeks as he desperately attempted to surpress the redness that was threatening to place itself in place of the usual pale color.

Jonathan sighed, his heart finally light and yet it was so heavy with the impending judgment. He then decided to be reckless yet again. "May I...?" He asked curiously as his thumb caressed the other mans lips, a clear indication of what was left unspoken.

Upon the faintest nod he might have been imagining, Jonathan closed the endless distance between him and the man he gave his heart to.

Not even his sweetest imagination would have been able to recreate the feeling of Fredericks lips on his, they were the perfect harmony of roughness and softness. Jonathan let go of Fredericks hand and held the other cheek too, both his hands holding Frederick- his dear friend- and all his beauty that was rivaling the sun while their lips were intertwined. After the first few moments, the blond man joined in their kiss. It was more heavenly than what Jonathan might have imagined in his sweetest dreams, if Frederick was no angel sent from above with all his grace, Jonathan did not know what this man was.

They seperated when they both were reminded of their mortality by their need to breathe air, but neither of them slid away from the other. Jonathan still had Fredericks whole beauty in his hand as he moved to lean his forehead on that of the other mans.

"I am asking you", he began his whispered plea, "please return unharmed if it is possible." he asked, his brown eyes pleading into Fredericks beautifully dark blue ones as the other nodded.

"I will." Frederick promised, perhaps foolishly as he got up and made his way back to their camp to pack his last necessary items, leaving Jonathan alone.

When Jonathan returned at last, he found Frederick shivering and asleep. He did not hesitate to strip most of his clothes and join the man whilst shielding him from the cold.

And if Frederick left the next morn with pressing a kiss on Jonathans cheek, no one might now.

[mistypsych]

ANATOMY OF A CRIMINAL yoongi / suga / agust d (teaser)

summary: as a doctor you never expected to be dragged into “the criminal life”, nothing and no one seems to be true anymore, your whole world turns upside down after you save him.

pairings: yoongi mob boss x f.reader x non idol bts members.

warnings: smut, guns, knives, stabbings, blood, gore, murders, drugs, criminals, gang life, medical emergency, illness, abuse, swearing, angst, dubcon, gang violence, corruption, manipulation, lies, cheating - 18+ minors dni.

Note: Hi! This is an attempt of writing a fanfic long after writing anything at all. Please also keep in mind English is no longer my first language and it might be a bit rusty and odd at times but I try my best. The story is a non idol BTS fanfic with Suga being the main character. Hope the teaser catchers your attention! Let me know if you want to be in the tag list.

Blood was pumping threw your body with speed that seemed to be at hundreds miles per hour. The dizziness that came from all the adrenalin was slowly creeping up your brain. Your heart tried to climb out threw your now completely dry throat. You still couldn’t fathom how in the world you turned out to be naive and blind enough to find yourself in this damn situation.

The fact that the person who dragged you into all of this was standing petrified and held at gunpoint, was not making it any easier. The tall and well built male whom others referred to as Joon was staring you down while holding his silver piece close to Jungkooks head. “You better not try some bullshit bitch!” he snarled angrily. His gaze was locked onto your back. You could swear you felt the heat of his eyes burning threw your skin.

You were sweaty, your hair was messy and stuck to your forehead. While elbows deep in blood you tried to stop the hemorrhaging. The long haired male laying in front of you with horrific wounds was getting paler by the minute. You were smart enough to figure out he most likely was the boss of this whole group of questionable men.

“He needs a fucking hospital!” a hoarse scream flew out of your lips while you were desperately trying to stop the blood. At this point you felt it was almost overflowing the whole abdominal cavity.

The brunette moved up and took his gun away from your colleges head just to put it to your temple. The coldness of the metal sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed the dry ball forming in your mouth. You were slowly out of ideas. This was not a place for dealing with such wounds. In your mind you knew the young man should be on an operating table with blood bags hanging already. “I said no fucking hospitals!” the roared words snapped you back to reality and pierced threw you like an arrow.

“No way in hell am I gonna pull this shit off” you thought to yourself almost giving up. You were at the point of exhaustion you slowly stoped to care if you got shot or not. In all honesty you were slowly shitting yourself, the scenario of this whole fucked up deal was staring to hit you hard. Not only was some thugs life on the line but so was yours and your friends. The same damn friend who got you into this predicament in the first place.

As much as you wanted to rip Kooks stupid head right off his shoulders, you knew you had to focus on the task. It was the only way out of there. You closed your eyes trying to forget about the cold sting coming from the weapon that was painfully pushed against your scull.

Exhaling threw your nose loudly you suddenly thought of something. It was brutal but you had to try. “Get me salt!” you finally spat out. “Are you fucking crazy?!” one of the men standing at the door growled. He was shorter and of a lighter built but still had something about him that made your skin crawl. All of them made you feel extremely uneasy and wonder if you were gonna die even if you end up saving their main man. You saw them. You knew their faces and location. Were they really gonna let you walk out of there breathing?

Looking into the still not moving gangsters misty eyes you gritted your teeth. “I SAID GET ME SOME DAMN SALT YOU FUCKING IDIOTS!” the words shot out of your mouth faster then you could think them threw. Luckily the insult only got them to move and fetch what you wanted. In a different situation you could imagine such talkback would only earn you a proper wack.

Jungkook looked at you with worried eyes. He was trembling a bit knowing what you were planning on doing. He heard some stories about this so called “last hope” method. It was mainly used at the military when doctors were out of supplies and tools. He knew you were always fascinated by medical work in the army. Still he prayed that you had at least the slightest idea about what you were doing and were aware of all the possible outcomes.

Of course you weighed your options. This approach was not something you would do while at the hospital but given your situation you had little to no choice. You could let this shady dude die and have your life taken with him or you could try and use a risky method.

Taking the pack of salt in your surprisingly steady hands you looked at the full of lesions and oozing abdomen. Taking a deep breath you tossed the powder.

Everyone in the room except for your coworker looked in utter shock and went silent for a while. Then a “The fuck you think you are doing?!” was let out in a high pitched note by someone.

You barely made out the next obscenities that were being thrown around by the now very anxious group of criminals. You steered yourself into your work zone. Staring at the cavity you already knew you dealt your cards well. The blood finally stopped flooding in and you could now start looking for all the torn vessels and start stitching them up.

Once more you closed your eyes, moved your head to both sides. The motion let out a loud crack and gave a little relief to your aching neck. Grabbing the suturing kit from the medical bag you began to work your magic.

Being a highly well trained trauma surgeon made you capable of working fast and efficiently under hefty amounts of stress. But no training at the hospital could prepare you for being trapped in a hellhole stitching up some shady persona while being held at gunpoint. And sure as fuck no one had you ready for all that was about to come next in your life…

[aneurinallday]

The Grey Man

Chapter 1: Lock and Key

It only took a second. He caught Holford in mid-stride from behind, clapping a leather-gloved hand over the doctor’s mouth, silencing him instantly. There was no struggle - as soon as Holford felt the hand, and the muzzle of a gun press against his temple, he became perfectly silent and still. His right hand was still clutching his coat and hat (which he hadn’t donned due to the mild weather) but his left hand (which had been reaching for his car’s door) wavered in the air, fingers open in surrender, palm up to show that he was unarmed.

Their two bodies pressed together, Holford’s head pinned against Tommy’s shoulder, trapping him on the spot. He could feel Tommy’s breath on his cheek.

After a pause, during which he determined that Holford wasn’t going to struggle or scream, Tommy began to speak softly in the doctor’s ear.

“How was the wedding in Berlin? I hear Chancellor Hitler himself was the best man.”

He glanced down at Holford’s face - or what he could see of it from this angle - to check his expression. The fear in his green eyes as he recognised the voice and realised whose hand held the gun.

“You’ve been my doctor now for three years,” Tommy continued, scanning the courtyard vigilantly. “Never knew you were so well-connected. Oh, and the doctor at St Thomas’s who you sent me to for the second opinion, second set of X-rays? A maid of honour at the same wedding. All so very well-fսcking-connected.”

His voice was a low whisper, deceptively calm, yet hiding a deep well of seething fury underneath. The doctor didn’t dare move or make a sound, but his breathing - muffled by Tommy’s black leather glove - had become shaky.

“On your knees, Holford.”

Tommy removed his hand from over Holford’s mouth, and pushed the muzzle of his gun down on the doctor’s shoulder, forcing him to his knees. Holford turned as he descended, dropping his coat and hat on the ground at his side, until he was kneeling at Tommy’s feet. He found himself staring up the barrel of a handgun, and above it, Tommy’s cold gaze shaded by the low brim of his flat-cap.

“I'm guessing you people all decided that the only person who could ever kill Thomas Shelby is Thomas Shelby himself. You made me believe death was coming. Let my nature do the rest, eh?”

The doctor was pale and trembling, his eyes wide. His tongue ventured out to moisten his lips, which felt suddenly dry. He was trying his best to maintain his composure, his gentlemanly comportment.

“You may not have tuberculoma, Mister Shelby,” he said quietly, “but you are sick. I know you. You are sick with guilt. Sick of death at your own hand. Sick of who you were. You are no longer the kind of man who would kill another man in cold blood.”

Tommy listened, waiting patiently while Holford babbled - perhaps willing to give him a chance to explain himself, or perhaps merely curious to see what excuses he would come up with. Holford licked his lips again, and tried a different tact.

“T-Tommy,” he said, hoping that by using his nickname, he would stir any kind of empathy, any glimmer of connection. The attempt wasn’t lost on Tommy, who remained unmoved, his face betraying nothing. “You have been on a journey, from the back-streets to the corridors of power. You can’t go back.” The faintest ghost of a smile warmed his face - a hopeful smile. “You are a different man. The gun no longer belongs in your hand.”

Tommy turned off the safety on his gun. Amusement curled his lips.

“Oh, but I am back,” he said, “Back from under the ground.”

Tears started to well in Holford’s eyes and roll down his cheeks, as he stared desperately up at the man holding him at gunpoint. Realising that all his words had failed. Realising that he was going to die here, kneeling on the hard cobblestones.

Then the clock struck the eleventh hour, and Tommy changed his mind.

“Give me your neck-tie.”

Holford hesitated for a second, confused. Then he obeyed, his cold fingers fumbling at his neck. He removed the chequered grey tie, and wordlessly handed it over. Tommy pulled a cloth bag from his pocket, unfurled it with a shake, and put it over Holford’s head.

“Don’t fucking move, now,” Tommy warned as he tucked his gun back inside his jacket. That was Holford’s only chance to fight back, but he didn’t take it, blinded as he was by the fabric. Using the neck-tie, Tommy bound Holford’s wrists together behind his back, then pulled him to his feet. He bundled Holford into the passenger’s side of the car, then got into the driver’s seat. The key was already in the ignition. Tommy started the car and began to drive.

He glanced at the doctor in the passenger’s seat. Even though his face was hidden beneath the bag, Holford was visibly petrified - shaking, his knees pressed together to sub-consciously shield himself, his feet tucked away under the car-seat. With every shaky exhalation, the cloth covering his face fluttered slightly.

Doctor Michael Holford. The handsome, elegant physician with the impeccable manners and the soothing bedside manner. With his fashionably slicked hair, neat three-piece suits, and refined bearing, he was every inch a respectable gentleman. Even Tommy couldn’t help but notice his charms. Sometimes, when the doctor leaned in close to check his pulse or listen to his lungs, Tommy was caught by his large eyes. They were a beautiful, soft green with a subtle, almost imperceptible touch of hazel. They made Tommy think of sun-dappled foliage and peaceful summers.

But the charm was all a façade. In private, he was an irritable and foul-mouthed bully who snapped at his servants because they were beneath him. It all seemed so obvious, in hindsight. His condescending tone, his rehearsed platitudes, his hollow expressions of fake sympathy. Tommy wondered why he hadn’t noticed it sooner. His black leather gloves creaked as he gripped the steering-wheel tightly.

“Whose idea was it?” Tommy asked, “The false diagnosis. The tuberculoma. My suicide. Was it your idea or Mosley’s?”

There was a pause as Holford considered lying.

“Mine,” he admitted. “Other methods hadn’t worked, and Mosley asked me for an alternative. Being your doctor, I was in a position to…”

“To do Mosley’s dirty work? It makes sense he wouldn’t stain his own hands. He was willing to endanger your life and reputation, but not his own.”

Holford didn’t answer.

“And his entire plan - his grand scheme to drive me to despair, to shut down my operations, to trick me into blowing my brains out for fear of some phantom tumour - it all hinged on you. He couldn’t have done it without you, without your medical knowledge, without your doctor’s license. And you were happy to be of service.”

“I did what I thought was necessary, at the time.”

“Well, I appreciate your honesty.”

He stopped Holford’s car at the foot of a hill, parking it among trees where it was less likely to be spotted, and turned off the ignition. The engine died, leaving the two men sitting in silence. Tommy stared up at the grassy hill, the green ridge beyond which he’d made camp. Only a little further to go.

“Let me go, Mister Shelby,” Holford pleaded, his voice muffled behind the cloth. “It’s not too late. I can still make it to my next appointment. I can tell them I had car trouble - apologise for being late. Nobody needs to know anything. It would be as if nothing had ever happened.”

“And after your little appointment, you’ll run straight to Mosley, aye? Tell him that Thomas Shelby survived, and that he’s coming for all of you?”

“I won’t tell anybody. I’ll cause no further trouble. You have my word.”

“The word of a man who lied to my face and told me I was dying,” Tommy scoffed.

He got out of the car, and strode around to the other side. Opening the passenger door, he yanked Holford out by the arm. Holford must’ve assumed the worst - that he was about to be shot and dumped in a ditch - because he panicked and abruptly blurted out:

“Don’t kill me.”

“Start walking,” Tommy ordered.

Abandoning the car, he half-led half-dragged Holford up the hill - gripping the doctor’s arm with one hand, while his other hand held the gun ready. Unable to see, and off-balance because of his bound arms, Holford stumbled through the grass.

They reached the high field overlooking Holford’s estate, atop which the black wagon stood and the white horse grazed. The wagon where Tommy had spent the past month living in isolation, waiting for his non-existent tumour to do its work, waiting for death to come.

Unbeknownst to him, Tommy was just in time. If he’d returned to the wagon the same way he’d left it - on foot - he would’ve been too late. Holford’s obedient workman would’ve already doused the wagon with petrol and set it ablaze. But Holford’s car had given Tommy a headstart; the workman wouldn’t be here for another ten or fifteen minutes.

“Where are we?” Holford demanded.

Tommy didn’t answer. He led Holford up the five wooden steps, and shoved him into the back of the wagon, pushing him down onto the cushioned bunk.

“You’re about to see the consequences of your actions, Doctor Holford.”

Without waiting for a reply, Tommy exited the black wagon. He shut and locked the double-doors behind him, and put the key in his pocket. He glanced down at the trees, the little lake, the garden, the manor-house. He could even see the gravel driveway and the cobbled courtyard, the guest-houses and the servants’ quarters. The trappings of a wealthy and privileged life. Holford deserved none of it.

Tommy approached his horse and stroked her white head, murmuring softly. She followed him obediently back to the wagon, to which he hitched her.

And then onwards he drove, with the treacherous doctor in his custody. To any eyes that might happen to fall upon them, he was simply another insignificant Romani, one of many who roamed the British countryside. Nobody would guess that he was the famous crime lord Thomas Shelby, OBE and MP, and that he had just kidnapped a man for revenge.

Chapter 2: Black Wagon

[slippinmickeys]

Proof of Life 4/?

1. “Dana, I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear your voice,” Ethan says. The connection is not great, a truncated hiss on the line, but he sounds truly relieved. “Honey, I missed you so much.”

She is not sure how to respond. She is thrilled of course, to no longer be a hostage. To have unlimited food, water, and Jesus Christ, a hot shower. But even in the midst of the gunfire, of her producer dying in front of her, her thoughts didn’t once turn to Ethan. She thought of her mother, her nephews. If he’s waiting to hear that she’s missed him too, she’s not sure she can bring herself to say it.

“Dana? Are you there?”

“I’m here,” she says.

“I’m sure you’re tired and…” his words trail off. Traumatized, is probably what he’s thinking. And he’s not wrong.

“Yes,” she says. She is tired. But it’s an emotional exhaustion.

“Honey. I’ve talked with Bill. We’re still going to get you home. The network is going to help cover the cost.” She feels a small amount of guilt for putting a kink in Bill’s plans. The military will no longer be transporting her home, not after her insistence on being brought to the mainland and onto the closest US base. His superiors were not thrilled, and neither is he.

“Okay,” she says. There is something he’s not saying, she can hear it in his voice.

He hesitates a moment longer.

“Listen, the network… They want to do an interview. As soon as possible. Do you feel up to doing that?”

It sounds like the very last thing she’s interested in doing.

“Ethan, I don’t know,” she says, weary. What would she even say in an interview? Yes, I was kidnapped at gunpoint and my friend and producer was killed in front of me. I thought I was going to die. I thought I was going to be raped. I was held hostage without enough food and I passed the time by falling in love with my cellmate and having a lot of sex.

“I get it honey, you’ve been through a lot,” he says. He needs to stop calling her honey. “It’s just…”

“It’s just what, Ethan?” she says testily. No part of her wants to be having this conversation right now.

“The network. They… They paid a lot of money to the rebels for your release. They spent countless resources trying to find where you were being kept. There was a full week’s worth of news cycle on you when you were taken, and now that you’ve been rescued, it’s back in full swing. We’ve had requests for interviews from all the broadcast networks. But I feel like we owe it to CNN to appear there first.”

She is struck silent by his words. Ever the newsman, his priorities have remained the same since they met. And the word “we” bothers her.

“I’ll be right with you the whole time. I’ll pre-screen every question. You don’t have to do it alone.”

“That’s… very kind of you,” she says, with no emotion.

There is another hiss of static on the phone.

“Listen, it sounds like we have a bad connection,” he says. “I’m going to let you go. Bill should have your flight information by morning. I love you.”

She does not say it back.

2. They met, embarrassingly enough, at a pub.

She had actually agreed to go out with some friends from the hospital — something she never did — and they both ordered the same drink while standing next to each other at the bar, something fruity and pink. She was impressed at the confidence with which he placed his order and told him as much. He was impressed by her.

They began dating soon after, about a year after Ethan had started at CNN. She was working in pediatrics — something she both loved and hated — when Ethan brought up an idea one night while they were out to dinner.

“So one of my segments tomorrow,” he says. “The guest dropped out just as I was leaving for dinner.”

“Is that why you were late?” she asks.

He gives her a small smile, ignores her question and plows ahead. “It’s a story on the phenomenon of misinformation as it pertains to the AIDS epidemic.”

“Oh, Ethan,” she says, suddenly and genuinely interested in his work. She forgets to be annoyed at him. “That’s fantastic. There’s so much bad information out there.”

His smile gets wider.

“I was thinking,” he goes on. “That maybe you could step in.”

She’s confused. “What do you mean?”

“You could step in and be the guest. The medical expert. For the segment.”

“You mean on air?” She’s flummoxed by the idea. It’s ludicrous.

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Ethan, I’m not an epidemiologist. I’m not… There are far more qualified people that would do a much better job than I. Like… Spitzer. Or Harris. Or… who’s that guy from NYU, the one who wrote the paper? He could take the train down and be here in plenty of time.”

His grin has only gotten wider.

“I tried,” he says. “They’re all at a conference in Amsterdam. Listen, you’d do great. You know your stuff, you can think on your feet and, I mean… you’d look fantastic on camera.” He is playing on her vanity now.

“Kirby would have a heart attack,” she says, stabbing the olive in her drink with the straw. Kirby is an executive producer, and Ethan’s boss.

“Kirby already approved it.”

She was running low on arguments and he could sense the blood in the water.

“You’d be on air for five minutes, tops. And we can pay you.”

When she heard the amount, she blanched. She had med school loans to pay back and Ethan knew it.

In the end, she agreed to do it. And once she’d done it, she found that she liked it. Was good at it. Kirby was so thrilled with her performance that he asked her to come back, and eventually, to be an on-call medical expert. Not long after that, she was offered her own monthly segment that sent her out into the field. Ethan’s star began to climb. They moved in together. And one thing led to another which led to another, an odd snowballing effect which led her to a street corner in a war-torn city in West Africa, where she was kidnapped by a group of rebels and thrown into an upper floor hotel room with a man she had never met.

Where the course of her life once again took another hard right turn.

3. She has reached a level of numbness that she can’t fight her way out of.

She doesn’t actually want to fly back to the States. Well, she does, but she wants to find Mulder first. To talk to him, to explain. To have an honest conversation about what they went through and What Happens Next. What must he have thought when he saw Ethan on the base television? When he read the chyron under his name, when he heard him say ‘I want to put my arms around her and never let go?’

What must he be going through? Whatever it is, she feels like they should be going through it together. Nothing feels right anymore. For weeks and weeks all her experiences were filtered through a lens of the two of them together. Every decision she has to make now comes with the impulse of wanting to turn to him to see what he thinks about it.

Their relationship in the Hilton was something they were in the middle of. Everything inside her is screaming we weren’t done! It’s like they were mid-conversation when someone cut the phone line.

Ethan, her boyfriend, the man she has built a life with, feels like an annoyance, a pesky insect she wants to brush from her shoulder. Her life had narrowed to the four walls of a hotel room and the man that was harbored within them. The world outside of it is too much. She wants nothing to do with it. She wants Mulder and the narrow, fixed point of her life as it intersected with his. Nothing else feels right. It’s too much. She wants to be rid of it.

So she chooses to feel nothing. She chooses the hebetude of nihility. It’s not the healthiest choice, but at least it’s hers.

4. She tries on calling him Fox. Like slipping on a sweater she isn’t sure will suit her, she calls him by his first name.

“Fox,” she says, letting the X draw out a little, letting it hover in the air like a fine mist of smoke. She is wearing nothing but the natty sheet from the bed, which makes her feel libidinous and a little bit bratty. She’d like to reach out to touch him, but he’s on the other side of the room.

When he hears her say it, he winces. There’s a story there.

“You don’t like your name,” she observes.

He wanders back towards her a little, but gets caught in a shaft of sunlight streaming into the room.

Outside the window and up, up, the clouds look like cotton candy. They could be in Kansas, in Iowa, in one of those states in the middle with a lot of Walmarts and Republicans. Outside the window and down, there is the burnt-out husk of a Ford, there is a rounded shape of what once might have been a human turning to leather in the sun. A khaki colored dog trots by, like it has somewhere better to be.

“I—,” he starts, “I even made my parents call me Mulder.”

He gets to the bed where she’s waiting and lowers himself onto it, reaching out to touch her arm.

“Is that so?” she says.

He shrugs, opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. Scully senses pain behind his silence and touches her hand over his where it rests on her arm. He rolls his hand over so their palms are touching and laces his fingers through hers.

“‘Fox’ was the last thing my sister ever said to me,” he says, looking at the floor. “She was calling out to me, asking for help. She was calling my name.”

A hard shot of empathetic pain darts through her chest.

“What happened to her, Mulder?” she asks quietly. If he doesn’t want to answer, she won’t force the issue.

He squeezes her hand and then lowers himself onto the floor next to the bed, leaning against it, the back of his head resting on the mattress.

“I was twelve when it happened. She was eight…”

5. “Tell us about the picture, Dana,” Maureen, the interviewer asks her, empathy or sympathy or pity edging into her speech from all sides.

The woman hands her an 8x10 color reproduction of the proof of life picture the rebels had taken, ever so slightly out of focus, the cheap little flash making her hair look like the orange of a lava flow. Mulder is standing just beside and slightly behind her and so he’s a little bit darker, and his beard in the picture is really just a few days worth of stubble. They both look frightened, a little stunned.

“Did the picture give you hope?” Maureen asks.

“Did it give me hope?” she asks, confused. She had been shoved up against the wall with guns in her face; hope was so far off in the distance it wasn’t even on the horizon.

“When they took the picture. The Proof of Life. Did you know then that we were trying to get you home? Did it give you hope?”

There’s that word “we” again. Scully swallows, looks down, shakes her head.

“He gave me hope,” she says quietly, staring at the Mulder in the photograph.

She thinks of his narrow hips between hers, his hands spanning her ribs. She thinks of the pictures he took, the way he looked at her like she was the only woman in the world.

“Fox Mulder?” Maureen asks her. “The other hostage?”

Scully nods, then finally pulls her eyes from the photograph and looks for Ethan in the darkness just behind the camera. She doesn’t see him. It’s hard to see anything with the lights so bright in her eyes.

“Yes,” she says, coming back to herself, remembering to be professional. “The other hostage. We leaned on each other.”

Maureen leans forward eagerly. “Why don’t you tell me about that, Dana.”

[dearestones]

Horrifying Meet Cute (Yandere! Rem x Reader)

Warnings: Yandere character, yandere behavior, etc. 

Anonymous Request: Now that promps are open, can I now request Yandere Rem with a gn!Human darling? Could I have the "Why should I trust you" Prompt for Yandere Rem?

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Sometimes, life led you down a path that you weren’t keen on treading, but had to anyway. One day, you were a normal person with a boring office job and with limited prospects for the future. The next day, you were confronted with the reality that there were beings and worlds that were well outside the scope of your very understanding. 

When you were about to put away your shoes from a day at work, you saw a scrap of paper on the floor. Unobtrusive and trivial, you didn’t think much of it when you bent down, shoes still held in one hand, and your fingers brushed against a corner of the paper. As you stood up from your bent posture, you flipped the paper over, expecting to see maybe a hastily scrawled address or phone number, but found that there was nothing, only creases. Shrugging, you relaxed your posture, but as you did so, you were face to face with the most grotesque creature you had ever seen in your life. 

Uselessly, you could only back up against your apartment door, the shoes tumbling from your hand and onto the floor. Instinct had you opening your mouth to scream, but social convention had you at gunpoint. Downstairs, you had elderly neighbors and most of the time, it was thoughtless to even think about earning their ire for making more noise than what was necessary. Instead, what came out of your mouth was a hushed gasp that was caught between a shriek and a whimper. 

The creature, with its strange skeletal structure, oddly dyed hair, and piercing one-eyed gaze, skulked forward. Even though it was taller than you by at least a foot and its hulking mass took up most of the width in the hallway, its steps were silent and almost graceful. Oddly enough, you were reminded of a ballerina–that was just how elegant the creature was. 

All of your analysis stuttered to a halt when the creature spoke. 

“It’s about time we talked.”

About time? What did that mean?

You balked, cognizantly aware that all you had to do was reach behind you, grasp your doorknob, and then twist. It didn’t matter if you were hallucinating or if there was truly a specter of horrific features–you had to leave. The longer you stood at the precipice of your apartment, fleeting freedom only moments away from being available to you, the more you knew that your chance of getting away was becoming less and less viable by the moment. However, when you finally got the chance to right your head upon your shoulders, the creature appeared in front of you, almost as if teleported in front of you.

You swallowed. 

Hallucination or not, this felt too real. 

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” the creature apologizes. It bows its head, almost in shame, but you can tell it hopes that you will forgive it. There’s something earnest in its posture, but at the same, you can only remember the slit in its sickly yellow eye. A predator, you can’t help but think. A creature that could easily eat you alive if you let it. “But I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to introduce myself now.”

It’s at this point that you speak. Your words are shaky, a stammer that was reminiscent of young children giving their first presentations in school. Still, you press on, and hope that whatever this encounter was, it would end soon. 

“Go on then,” you mumble, moreso out of self-preservation than out of true curiosity or politeness. “What’s your name?”

Something told you that this creature already knew yours.

“Rem.” It paused, as if preparing for the grand reveal of information that would change your life. And it would. “I am a shinigami and I have fallen in love with you.”

If the first admonition stopped your heart in surprise, the second one restarted it and then caused it to beat even faster. You’ve heard of shinigami before, of course, but you thought that they were only objects of superstition! There was no way that this strange being could take away your life with a simple thought! As that thought settled deep into your mind, you tried to read into the second thing the creature had told you.

It–no, Rem–loved you.

Shinigami don’t love people.

They couldn’t. They only took away people’s lives. 

The shock and disgust must have shown on your face because the shinigami bowed its head low, but its one lone eye continued to stare hungrily at you. Predator, you couldn’t help but think again. An apex predator who was cornering helpless prey. 

Rem took something from behind them. At first, you thought that maybe it would be something gruesome, like a severed head or a beating heart, but you felt yourself calming down slightly when you saw that it was a pitch black notebook. Atop the cover, there was something written there in English. It took a second for you to decipher the foreign language, but years of classes were enough to let you know that this notebook was called “Death Note”. 

“A gift. For our first meeting.”

Rem held out their hand, the bony carapace that reminded you of a human skeleton clicking with every moment, notebook still in hand. The shinigami waited and despite yourself, you hesitantly reached out and took it. The notebook felt… normal. It shouldn’t have disturbed you as much as it should–you’ve used notebooks for your entire life–but when you compounded the normalcy of something a student would use with the presence of a god… It blew your mind. 

“Why?” Your voice was tight, a quiet whisper that most humans could not hear. 

But Rem wasn’t human, now were they?

“Because I want you to trust me.”

Swallowing thickly, you couldn’t help but ask, “Why should I trust you?”

The shinigami didn’t smile, but you could tell that there was the seeds of glee and ecstasy in their gaze. “Because you can use the Death Note to kill me… if you so wish it.”

The notebook felt even heavier in your hand. 

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DISCLAIMER: I do not condone yandere behavior outside of fictional settings. Please don’t mistake the actions of fictional characters displayed in works of fiction to be considered harmless in real life.

If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free: https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.

DEATH NOTE MASTERLIST

[instaspacenoodles]

A Touch between Warriors (Magnu Kenki x GN!Reader) [Part 1]

Pairing: Magnu Kenki x Gender Neutral Reader

Warning NSFW Content ⛔️

Summary: Having earned the respect of the legendary Magnu Kenki, he agrees to help you grow stronger in your sword skills. However, after a certain spar session, Mangu has a question to ask about the human body.

A/N: This was a joke that started during a stream and then I was held at gunpoint by my bestie Zoe to write this. Enjoy this quick and chaotic piece. 😩

Through the light mist, the outline of the puppets arm moving catches your eye. 

Your hand grips tighter around the hilt of your sword, ignoring the burning pain and exhaustion clinging to your being. Every muscle of your body screamed for rest and it only increased the longer you stood. 

You were victor of the fight this time, wounding the puppet enough that he retreated back to his idle position. It was the first time you had won out of the many confrontations, though you would be a fool to let your guard down. That thing was a monster in a fight: quick on its feet, skilled with the blade, and using ghostly elemental clones to attack. Gods, it even had the balls to taunt you mid fight which surely pissed you off. 

At the end of the day, you didn’t know what else the puppet had in store but you knew you weren’t going to be caught off guard again. Your tired body steps forward, moving into a defense stance with your sword position to block another strike. 

The puppet didn’t launch a devastating attack like you thought; the only thing that started moving was it’s arms. Your eyes carefully watched as the puppet made some movement with its arms and hands. In confusion, your sword lowered from its defensive stance and you see the puppet repeatedly making the same gestures. Then it hit you. 

The puppet was trying to communicate. 

The puppet was signing to you. 

You didn’t know how to react. From the tales and stories, it was thought that the puppet couldn’t talk and refused to communicate any other way but through crossing blades. So how does he know Inazuman sign language? You managed to catch the sign again. 

You fought well, your skills have improved. 

Your hands fumbled to sheath your sword and you slowly sign back, Thank you?

You look confused. Why? You have bested me in battle, The puppets head tilted slightly. 

It’s because I am confused, Your body closed some of the distance between you two before finally settling down in front of  the puppet, I thought you couldn’t talk. 

 I do not have the ability to speak like you do; I was only taught the language of the hands by my creator. However, only those whom I deemed worthy shall have the privilege to communicate with me.

“I’m not all that special,” You dismiss with a wave of your hand, “As you see, I barely won that fight— and that’s not counting all the other times you nearly sliced me in half.”

The first time you stumbled upon the puppet was when you had lost your 5th duel in a row. Anger and embarrassment course your veins as you rush away from the scene, barely muttering a word of congratulations. You couldn’t bare to see the look of disappointment on your master’s face. As fast as you could, your feet carried you blindly through the island. That’s how you ended up at a wide open space— a single figure kneeling in the distance. However, as your curiosity got the best of you and you moved a little too close, you didn’t know that the figure was the demon puppet of legends and that you would barely make it out alive. 

From then on, you would come back to the ghostly area every week to fight Magnu Kenki. To prove your skills to the world— and mostly to yourself. 

A loud noise could be hear leaving the puppet, like he was offended at what you had said, Nonsense. You have a warrior’s spirit, young one. I sense your dedication in mastering the art of the sword. 

You confirmed with a nod, “You’re right, I am. I must get stronger- I can’t loose. Not again.“

An idea popped into you head, “I swore to myself to be the strongest samurai Inazuma has ever seen. Though I will need some extra training. Will you help me, Magnu Kenki?”

Magnu suddenly stood up from his resting position. His legs carried him over to where you sat, heavy footsteps echoing through the quiet arena as he closed the distance between you. You lift your gaze as he stood before you; His arm moved forward and you realized he was holding his hand out for you to shake. You stumbled to get up. You grabbed his hand with your right. 

Wordlessly, at that moment, an agreement was formed between warriors.

////

You laid spread out on the ground, chest heaving for air due to your latest spare with Magnu Kenki. It’s been a few months since your agreement and your sword work has definitely improved over the course of your weekly sparring sessions. However, you still had a long way to go before you could compete in Warrior’s Spirit competition this spring. 

Your ears picked up the sound of heavy footsteps growing close and you opened your eyes to glance at the approaching puppet. 

I have a question, my warrior

“What’s up Magnu?” You sit up, reaching for you container of water and bringing it to your lips. 

Your physical being is different from mine, I believe it would be beneficial to learn more about your body, if you’ll allow me.

You choked on your drink. Coughing ensues as you try to once again catch your breath. The sudden forwardness of the puppet was surprising, as you didn’t expect such a question to come from Magnu. However, it does give you a special…opportunity. You had been wondering for weeks how his hands would feel upon your skin and this was your moment to make it happen. 

Are you feeling ill? Magnu Kenki’s head tilted slightly. 

Your hands quickly signed a reply, No I’m okay! I was caught off guard by your question! 

I see. 

“But why do you want to know?” You asked cooly.

His hands went still before replying which further piqued your interest- that hasn’t happened before, I am but a machine. You are a warrior of mortal flesh. This is a prime opportunity to learn from each other. 

“You’re right, it is a great chance .” You stood up from your sitting position, “Then I am at your mercy.” 

Very well, let us begin warrior.

You feel his gaze raking over your body, taking the opportunity to step even closer to you till you were barely inches apart. 

A chill runs through your body as Magnuu’s fingers lightly traced down your spine. His touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as it caresses your exposed skin.  You didn’t know why your body was super responsive to the puppet, only that the shivers of pleasure felt too good to say otherwise. 

The heat was growing in your lower area, burning brighter the longer Magnu touches you like this. His fingertips dragged against a sensitive area and you nearly jerked in his grasp. Your hands found his armored chest, something solid, to keep you grounded in reality. You can tell that he was being gentle to not harm you but damn you want him to give you more. 

Your body, it’s reactions are something I do not understand. Still, I shall investigate further. 

Suddenly, thick fingers slid under your clothing. His thumb brushes against one of your nipples, rolling it curiously. Soft moans escaped your lips; the noise echoing off of the quiet cliffs. You couldn’t stop yourself from rolling your hips against his solid figure. 

Your body is very expressive, warrior. Magnu quickly signed and you nearly whined from the missing hand, Is this how the human body is like?  

 “Only when you stimulate it- fuck“ You groaned.  

A sound similar to a low hum left the puppet, I see, how intriguing. 

No other questions were asked. 

The puppet continued on. His hands trailing down towards your lower parts. Flames danced beneath your skin and you felt like you could faint from how worked up you were getting. Arousal and slight embarrassment fluttered like butterflies in your stomach, knotting and unknotting as the puppet cursed brushed his fingers against your-

You let out a loud, drawn-out moan with no shame at all. At this point you could care less what heard the noise. Gods, it felt so good—so right—being touched like this. You were on cloud 9.

“Right there- ah~,” you pant desperately, “Keep touching me there.” 

As you wish. 

You pushed even more towards his hands as they continued to stroke your sex. You could feel the pressure in your gut growing tighter with every passing second and you knew you wouldn’t last long. The remaining reason in your clouded mind wanted to extend this moment but your body was screaming for release. 

Magnu must have felt your body growing tenser cause that’s when he decided to add more pressure and speed to his fingertips. That was the last drop that broke the dam. Your lips parted with a sinful moan and stars danced before your vision as you came. Your fluids squirted and dripped onto Magnu’s hands. 

Magnu Kenki watched as you came down from your high, curious as to what happened. He slowly removed his messy hand, taking the time to gaze at the fluids in curiosity. 

This was…enlightening. Tell me warrior, what is this?

You took your time catching your breath. Your energy was completely drained and the intense orgasm turned your legs into slime goo. You knew that if you weren’t still clinging to Magnu Kenki you would’ve been back on the ground. 

 “That’s my…um…well…” You begin awkwardly, no one told you you had to explain the birds and the bees to a puppet, “when you physically stimulate humans enough with pleasure they will send out fluids called cum.” 

Magnu made a short humming sound, I see. Then I shall practice this knowledge on the next human I come across.

You never wanted the Electro Archon to open up the ground and swallow you more than at that moment.

“No, no, no! Please don’t touch anyone else that way but me understand!?” 

Very well, I shall respect your wish. 

You sighed in relief, thanking the seven that that bullet was dodged. You could only imagine the next poor soul’s reaction, accidentally stumbling across this place and being touched sexually by the puppet. It would be downright awkward and you would die of embarrassment. 

The conversation moved to silence as a few minutes have passed. You managed to get yourself back to normal, fixing your clothes to best of your ability and praying that no one would see the wet spot on your pants. Magnu Kenki wordless watched by was still next to you nonetheless.

The sun was beginning to sink beneath the horizon, painting the sky in beautiful oranges and reds. It was then you realized how long you stayed and that you should head back to your home. As you wave goodbye with an embarrassed smile on your lips, Magnu Kenki watches your figure disappear through the foggy cave entrance. He waited a minute then another- the sound of your footsteps fading into natural silence. Once he was certain you were gone, His body returned to the center of the arena, sitting down into his resting position once more. 

The puppet could only sit and ponder the weird feelings that now plague his hollow chest. Nonetheless, he will be looking forward to the next time you come to see him.

[aya-fay]

At gunpoint

Name: At gunpoint part I

Author: Aya-Fay

Fandom: Captain America

Pairing: Mobster!Sebastian Stan x fem!Reader; platonic Chris Evans x fem!Reader

Summary: There have always been threats and hatred, and it has never stopped us.

Warnings: attemped shooting

Status: In-progress

My Sebastian Stan’s masterlist and My Main Masterlist

Part II of this series may be found here: At gunpoint part II

There is no such thing as a good morning. Y/N knew this firsthand.

Even now, when everything was finally turning out in her favor, the morning concealed a devilish trick that threatened to become a real disaster if she ignores it. Y/N carefully slipped out from under the covers so as not to wake the sleeping man by her side and went into the bathroom, where she hastily washed herself and tried to collect her thoughts somehow.

Dressed into her best outfit, she quietly left the house and greedily took a breath of fresh air, not fully understanding at what point exactly her life went awry. Was it when she was thrown jail for something she didn’t do or when she agreed to work for Scarlett she had no clue. The only thing she was certain about is that she was so fucking stuck in a huge mess and if only she could turn back the time she would strike Scarlett in her impudent face and leave.

The phone vibrated in her pocket, and Y/N hailed a taxi, giving the address of a small street cafe where she was already awaited. If she knew that her life would soon take another unexpected turn for the worse, she would never leave her house that morning.

“I am sorry for being late, Miss Johansson” Y/N said as she sat down at a table directly across from a thin woman dressed in a business suit, consisted of a dark red silk blouse tucked into an overly tight black leather skirt. The redhead was slowly drinking her coffee and reading the newspaper, as if she was in no hurry to go anywhere and was not expecting anyone, but the appearance of Y/N clearly inspired her.

Scarlett looked up from her newspaper and glanced at the young woman with sharp cold eyes.

She smiled, but her smile was empty deprived of any trace of emotions and warmth and held out her hand. Y/N was surprised at this gesture, but shook hands in return nonetheless. “No worries, Miss Evans,” Scarlett replied, and Y/N winced.

Since when did she become “Miss Evans” for this devil woman? For the last months she only been called slave or toy. Nothing else. Literally. Can it be that an expensive coat and her blue cashmere jumper really changed her view into other people’s eyes?

Even though the morning has just officially started, people were already in a hurry to get to work. Some of them were taking their time having their breakfast. Y/N looked around, feeling uncomfortable sitting in the sun, in an open area at the busiest time. She could feel shivers running down her spine, which was never a good sign. She ordered coffee in a somewhat somehow constrained way and clamped, just to blend in with the rest of the customers.

“What did you want to discuss?” She immediately got down to business, not wanting to drag out this meeting for longer than necessary. “I am all ears.”

“The time has come.” Y/N raised her eyebrows in surprise. She knew that time was slowly sinking through her fingers, but she was not ready to betray him so soon. Her nerves were on the edge. An extremely dangerous state of mind.

“And what do you want now?” She asked Scarlett and smiled at the waitress when she brought her coffee. “Thank you.”

As soon as the girl left, Scarlett came straight up to Y/N’s face and whispered something in her ear. “Give me all the information you’ve collected.”

The girl felt how her fingers curled tightly around the cup. Suppressed anger, resentment and rage were slowly bursting out onto the surface. “Not now” She said and stared into the amused redhead’s eyes.

Scarlett laughed then abruptly stopped and dangerously low said narrowing her eyes. “Remember who you are talking to, pet. Your life depends on me. You don’t look like a person who was offered bigger amount of money...  Oh no…Don’t tell me that my slave suddenly became attached to the man in her bed? How mane has been in his place?”

Y/N gritted her teeth angrily and looked away. She was sick of this Scarlett’s habit of showing her superiority over others, even sicker than when Sebastian did it. Stan’s superiority over others come out more natural,  elegant and organic, while Scarlett’s superiority seemed fake, poisonous and vile.

“Don't think that if we're in public and you are my mistress that will save you from being punched in your pretty face.” She outburst, collecting for the punch that never came. Scarlett just chuckled, perfectly aware that no strength was going to happen out of this threat. Her located nearby people would stop Y/N when she would just raise her hand. People like Johansson were never alone.

“Just remember…” Scarlett said as she stood up, buttoned up her coat and was about to leave. “Getting attached to Stan is your biggest mistake that will destroy you. One way or another. Whether it would be me who kills you or him.”

Left alone, Y/N drank her coffee, then got up and threw some money on the table and went home.

Returning home she cautiously opened the door, took off her coat and shoes and went into the bedroom. Sebastian rolled over onto the bed, pulled the blanket to his chest, but he did not look absent-minded or disheveled, he was clearly awake and even cleaned himself up.

“I betrayed you” Y/N said. Simple as that and with no warning. There was no way to prepare someone for such truth reveal.

“I know” Sebastian replied just as simply, not surprised at all.

“For how long?”

“For quite a long time. I was just wondering if you decide to confess or not.” Said Sebastian pulling out a hand with a gun clamped in it from under the blanket. Sebastian’s eyes were filled with sadness, even grief, and Y/N made no attempt to escape or defend herself.

“Sorry,” she shrugged and chuckled a little. “You will find a flash drive with everything I collected in the pocket of your yesterday's jacket. There are if not everything, then a lot. And…Aim for the head, not the heart.” She whispered, looking straight into the blue eyes.

Then there was a shot.

TBC

[ad-hawkeye]

You can tag this under 50 Shades, but after I read this post from Hoyolab, hoyolab (.) com/#/article/19978642/, if this is true, I am very disappointed about this direction, though it is one I've seen coming. That being said, you've given your thoughts on the writing. In your ideal world, where would the cards post 2nd anniversary have gone, if you had to keep the general situation/environment, but could change up everything else about it?

holy fuck, the way i actually agree with everything in this post. here is the link for those curious, it's a fantastic read tbh.

a few of us in our tot discord have discussed this as well. here are a few brief snippets below.

sorry for the incoherent mess of thoughts below, words are Not coming easy HAHA.

but yeah... like the post said, barbie is a very good way of putting it.

i used to have the same issue with luke. i'm not a huge fan of characters being good at Too Many Things, especially when there's no flaws to balance it out. it really pulls me out of the story. so like. the more you try to impress me with a character, the less impressed i'll be. which. is why i haaaate artem's newer cards.

see, the thing is, the whole reason why i liked artem in the first place is because of how he felt like the down to earth option. he wasn't the childhood friend/undercover agent/detective/stem genius, he wasn't a ceo and son of the richest family in stellis, and he wasn't literal royalty. he was just a lawyer who worked with rosa. he was bad at talking to people. he was a bit of a homebody. he was LAME. completely inexperienced in romance. he was good at his job, but it was obvious he put all of his skill points into being a lawyer and no where else. his abilities with shooting and cooking were both important aspects to his character, but the skills hoyoverse added beyond that just baffle me.

he wasn't cool, but he was kind and genuine.

ever since second anniversary, there has been absolutely no consistency to artem's character whatsoever.

neil gets mentioned less and less even though he was a major part of artem's life AND character. neil was his father figure, since his parents were rarely, if ever, around. and yet, in recent cards, tot constantly goes out of its way to try and convince us artem's parents did nothing wrong. to add to that, we're lucky if neil is even mentioned.

in earlier cards, it was very clear artem was grieving neil's disappearance (see: entwined fate). it was also clear artem's childhood circumstances were extremely lonely and caused him to try and brush off the neglect because he didn't want to stress out his already busy parents (see: loving memories and his dreams of childhood sr)! earlier cards also hinted at traumatic events and a fear of firearms due to how dangerous neil's job as a lawyer was (see: focus fire).

but for god knows what reason, newer cards said well! fuck all of this! artem no longer gives one single shit about neil! also? honestly? the writers seem confused and disoriented by artem downplaying his childhood issues and just made it so he truly Had no issues with his childhood. which. ok. i guess.

in recent months, we have not had one single card where rosa and artem sit down to talk about how artem feels about neil's disappearance. one single card where artem even openly addresses any traumatic experiences. or emotional neglect in childhood.

remember when focus fire mentioned that a disgruntled mafia member held him and neil at gunpoint because he was pissed neil put everyone else in the gang behind bars?? no?? yeah, me neither! because it's never mentioned again! old tot content implies it was incidents like these, the general emotional neglect from his parents, and neil's disappearance that contributed to artem's closed off personality. but man, fuck that! for some reason!

this doesn't even touch upon artem's romantic and sexual inexperience, which has also been entirely undone. he's a sex god now, i guess.

and let us not forget how artem has learned and forgot the same lessons like, several times. artem did we not learn why jealousy and possessiveness are bullshit in atmospherics, por una cabeza, etc...??? are we really back at this again? and it's not even being addressed as a character flaw anymore? okay! okay. fine! whatever.

but okay. i'm getting off track. you asked me an entirely different question! where would i have liked to have seen the cards go? i think the cards following second anniversary are so... well, nothing that you could probably swap out the plots and avoid losing anything of importance.

honestly, i think artem's cards would have shined the best if they stuck to his original character. so when considering the confines we have now:

artem is extremely emotionally repressed. it'd take time for him to come out of his shell. and his early dating cards do begin like this! it's very endearing! several cards could focus on this progression as he becomes more comfortable and relaxed with rosa. progression into being engaged. living with someone for the first time. please.

rosa and artem's dynamic has like, vanished in recent cards. which is a goddamn shame, because their more comfortable dynamics in his railroad, revisiting youth, and snowfallen secrets cards are so charming! they joke around! artem's sense of humor pokes out! they act like real PEOPLE! they're silly! they're nerds! they're equals! i'd keep this dynamic instead of it just being artem flipping back and forth between sex god and "yes i will do whatever you want [insert player name here]"

neil. please, can we focus on neil. what being a lawyer means to artem. how neil influenced that. how artem feels about neil being gone, how artem feels about neil's possible betrayal of the nxx?? he could always have an arc of going through the stages of grief, or learning to look at things through a new lens. being sad neil won't be around for milestones. etc.

the incidents implied in focus fire. okay, being held at gunpoint is pretty uhhh fucking traumatic. did any other events happen bc of neil's status? his parents' statuses? is this why he is so emotionally repressed? is this why he takes the law so seriously?

his parents. can we stop acting like his parents did nothing wrong. please. his parents used to be portrayed under the "well meaning but ultimately very flawed" light, which i adored. it was grey. it was human. maybe artem could learn that it wasnt right of his parents to be so nonexistent in his life. his parents can still love him and make mistakes. maybe he could rebuild his relationship w his parents? maybe once he realizes what he went through wasn't normal, he can be angry, and work through it. idk! anything! please!

more focus on rosa. her studies. her exams. anything. her family. her past. her hobbies. her teaching artem something. rosa talking about her issues. pelase. Please.

it truly feels like his original writers got swapped out, and the new ones have no idea what artem's charm was in the first place. they have no idea how his character even works, so they're just desperately trying to attach Cool Hobbies to him bc they think he's more boring than the other boys when like. that's the fucking point, that IS his charm.

gosh this was so long and i'm sorry if it's like. UNREADABLE or if i totally missed the point but this was like. Freeing to type out. thank you for reaching out anon, it turns out i had more thoughts than i expected!! hope you're having a lovely day! : )