#i do have the same words with more formatting on ao3

[cum-a-calla]

you ever buy weed from a hot, deranged, psychopathic cult leader? no? well, sugar, do ya want to?

under the cut: Kappa/“reader”. coercion/dubcon/noncon. drugs. drugged fuck. knifeplay and blood kink. religious/cultlike ideologies. possessive Kappa. a general air of manipulation and abuse. wet, absolutely unhinged, hard fucking.

“Well, well - what brings you here?”

Kappa hangs in the doorway, resting his head on the frame as he peeks out from behind the door. He’s in the same thing he wore the last time you saw him, some flowy, open-necked bohemian top, so threadbare and worn that there are patches you can see through. He smiles his lopsided little smile and opens the door further, eyes dark and bloodshot. Trying to guess what Kappa might be fucked up on at this very moment is just as fruitless as buying a lottery ticket - the chance of getting it right is comically low.

“I need to… you know, pick up. And my usual guy is out of town, so… I know sometimes you have stuff,” she says, glancing around as if they aren’t on his wide, dusty property. Somewhere off in the yard, one of his strange friends plays fetch with a very filthy, very enthusiastic dog, tongue lolling from its grinning muzzle as it chases a frisbee and proceeds to shake it from side to side.

“Gunna have to be more specific than that, my dear. Kappa has it all.”

God, right - she’d forgotten about the third-person bullshit. She smiles flatly at him and mimes smoking a bowl, to which he laughs a little and moves to the side.

“Well, who doesn’t have that, right? Nature’s medicine. Come on in, don’t wanna let all the cool air out.”

She follows him into the dim, ramshackle home. Random furniture and cluttered countertops, sinks full of dishes with a couple flies buzzing lazily around them, hoping for lunch. The house is dark; most of the light comes in through the crooked slats of the blinds, drawn shut but damaged enough that the sunlight filters through in blazing shafts, illuminating all the dust in the air. Two woman doze off on each other, half naked and intertwined on the couch. One opens her eyes, takes in their guest, and allows them to flutter back shut in her lack of any real interest.

“This is Theta, Sigma… I think you remember them? We’ve met a few times. Girls, why don’t you go lie in the back room so that my… new friend, here… can have a seat.”

Theta and Sigma stir, but mumble and whine about Kappa’s request. He raises his eyebrows and purses his lips for a moment, hands on his hips.

“… are you going to make Kappa ask again?”

He looks like a parent preparing to lay down a punishment. His voice is even and low, something about its quality shifting the air in the room. Their eyes pop open and it’s like neither of them had been sleeping at all. Alert and obedient, they rise up while holding each others’ hands and scurry past him, squeaking apologies. Kappa watches until they’re out of sight, the sound of a door shutting breaking him of his sternness. He smiles again and everything feels even more disturbing, somehow. The switch. He holds a hand out to her and takes it gingerly into his own. He brushes his lips against her knuckles in a chaste kiss, watching her with his deep-set eyes.

“Sorry about that. They got a little fucked up and forgot their manners, it seems.”

“It’s… fine, it’s fine. No big deal.”

“Go on. Sit with me.”

Lowering to the couch feels like a death sentence in some unexplainable way. It’s not unlike any other experience buying weed from the various small-time dealers in the area - dirty house, wasted buddies sleeping off a hangover, weird dudes that just want to have a chat while they sell their goods. Despite this, there’s a vibe here she can’t place. Something that makes the tiny hairs on her arms stand up, something off. She’s already anxious to leave, watching Kappa lift the top to the coffee table to reveal a hidden compartment inside. It reminds her of a much nicer version her grandparents have. She guesses confidently that their isn’t stuffed with different sized bags of weed and little jars full of dried mushrooms, of various pressed pills and powders.

Beside these goodies is a handgun and a hunting knife.

“So - what will do ya? A dub, a quarter? An ounce? We’ve got some serious couch-lock shit all the way from the U-Dub, uh… we’ve got a great Californian purp. Sort of a mid strain from Maine; yeah, real gentle stuff, in case you have a hard time handling yourself.” He smiles and leans back, reaching an arm behind her shoulders as he settles in. He offers her a little wink. “I’ll take care’a ya.”

“I mean… I’m don’t need a ton, it’s just for me. Maybe the Cali stuff, just, like… an eighth is fine.”

“You wanna try before you buy?”

Textbook pickup manners dictate the sharing of the weed, so share she does. His ensuing grin shows his teeth, eagerly packing a scratched-up metal pipe with a frosty, dark bowl. He’s not kidding about quality; his home may not be kept neat, but she has zero doubts about his ability to afford the property. He must make bank. She wonders idly about his roommates and friends as she allows him to push the pipe to her lips, lighting the bowl for her. A true gentleman.

“They say weed’s a doorway; that may be true, but not in the way I see it. Smoking weed didn’t lead me to, say, coke - I tried coke before ever smoking, actually. Smoking, and surrendering to something that’s been around as long as man has walked the earth, I mean… it’s meant for us to consume. You know?”

She nods as he takes his pause, hitting the pipe himself until his chest is puffed out and he’s snorting back the urge to cough.

“Yeah, man. I agree.” Placid, easy. “Weed’s rad.”

Kappa exhales through his nostrils, thick streams of it curling to frame his face, tendrils of it sneaking from between his lips as he smiles in agreement.

“It is rad,” he amends with amusement.

It’s hard to look away from his mouth. His mannerisms and friends are off-putting, and she hasn’t made any significant effort to be around any of them in any given social situation outside of attending the same parties, once or twice on this very property. A polite greeting, a loose comment here or there. All of this to say that she had never noticed just how shapely his lips are, how the way he smirks ignites a curious little spark in her guts.

“You want more?”

“Yes,” she says quickly, and she has no choice but to suffer that knowing smirk as he once again lights her up. It’s already taking effect and doing its intended job - she feels that she could relax back into the couch and let Kappa gaze at her for longer than she’d ever wanted him to, suddenly open to this experience. His hair hangs around his face, tangled and wild and wavy. His knuckles are chapped, fingers slim as they bring the little pipe back to his own lips. He is unblinking as he watches her over the flame, over the burning little leaves.

“You seem a little more relaxed. Seemed a little off just a few minutes ago. Nerves? Are you… you wouldn’t be scared of your buddy Kappa, would you, sweetheart?”

“Not scared,” she says carefully. She shifts a little in her seat and bites the inside of her cheek. “How would you know what I’m like, anyway?”

“Human interaction is a wonderful, complex thing. The energy we give off, the smells, the sounds, the animal magnetism. Animals - that is to say, living, natural beings, blood in veins and flesh on our bones - they can sense these things naturally. I’m very intuitive. Very sensitive. It’s my gift. It’s why I feel so strongly about experiencing new things, about… sometimes teaching other people the beauty of life, of living, of taking back what’s ours. Owning what’s ours.”

“You’re losing me, Kappa,” she teases. “I might need to smoke a little more before I’m on your level.”

“You understand my basic point. I know you’re a smart girl. Open-hearted. You know, you’d really get along with us - Sigma, Theta, Epsilon. That’s who you saw outside, with the pup - Epsilon.”

“What’s with the names?”

“Mmm.” He takes another hit and finally gives her a reprieve from his intensive gaze, eyes practically burning through her flesh. Deep-set eyes. Bedroom eyes. Smoke streaming from his lungs, he nods at himself. “Well. There’s a power in identity. I, as a living being, have the inherent right to choose my path. I give and take and protect the sanctity of natural life and the furthering of that natural life. Part of my process is choosing my own name. I was given my birth-name, and eventually took a new name for myself. Nature is fickle, breakable. Give. Take. Like life. Life is given, life is taken.”

“Getting pretty deep in here.”

“That’s my pleasure as well as my duty as a man,” he muses, licking his lips. “Getting really deep. Planting seeds.”

The urge to scoff, to laugh and look away, to haul her way into a distraction, another conversation, something, knocks her on her proverbial ass. It’s all she can do to pretend she isn’t turning red. It would be easy to blame the heat, to blame the smoke… but he’d see right through that. For all of Kappa’s philosophical ranting, he’s right about his perception of others. She can feel him reading her, studying her like she’s a specimen in some laboratory.

He follows her movement as she ducks her head down, leaning forward to force her eye contact. His lips purse a little and he licks them again, his fingers crawling over her thigh to squeeze. Again, the urge to brush or even slap his hand away is at the forefront, but she doesn’t. She sheepishly meets his eye, ashamed of her own discomfort, her own utter excitement.

“Darlin’ - there is nothing wrong or immoral about these… urges, our collective responsibility as a species. Animals are meant to breed. It’s all in the blood. We’re not - we’re not machines, we’re not meant to be cold, lifeless. Purposeless. The whole fucking thing - the entire idea of these replicants, of playing God and mocking mother nature, it’s… it’s disgusting. But this - us? This is the most natural thing there is.”

In his impassioned speech, Kappa leans closer and closer, hand creeping higher on her thigh. The graceful, long line of his nose is so close she could lick the tip of it. He tilts his head and only then does he break eye contact, watching her lips. His eyes flicker between them and her eyes, pupils wide. It’s hypnotizing, the low purr of his voice floating over the warm afternoon air to caress her ears.

“Kappa…” she can barely breathe. “I - I should… this is -”

“Hey.” Kappa is murmuring, voice soft, but the underlying authority shuts her up. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches with dread as he casually takes the hunting knife into his hand. “Listen, sugar. You have a choice to make. In a second, I could get Epsilon in here and he would be more than happy to hold you down while I show you the meaning of life firsthand. I can make it very, very unforgettable for you… and you have to choose whether that’s gunna be a good thing or a bad thing. If I have to interrupt Epsilon’s time with this task, I’m afraid that’s going to make everyone upset, and that would be very bad for you. Are you hearing me, sweetheart?”

“Yes…yeah, I hear you.”

“What I really think is that you’re tethered by the morals of society. You’re stuck in a prison of the mind, you’ve been poisoned. ‘Sex is evil, trust in technology, evolve, evolve, evolve’. There’s nothing wrong with the way things have been for thousands upon thousands of years; villages of people looking out for each other and keeping the natural balance and order. It’s up to us to restore that order.”

He slowly moves in, attention flickering between her lips and her eyes. Her heart beats so hard she can feel each thump in her ears, in the tip of her nose… between her thighs. It throbs secret and hot there, his hand inching closer by the second. He’s captivating - batshit crazy, but charming in a strange way that keeps her rooted to the spot despite the alarm going off in her brain. She should leave. She should just back away and get to the door - her car’s right outside.

… but she doesn’t. She drinks in his mean little self-satisfied smirk just before he kisses her. His lips are surprisingly soft, his kiss gentle and slow. It almost makes her forget about the knife in his hand. He snakes his hand around the back of her neck and holds her firmly there, knotting those slim fingers into her hair. It hurts as he curls them into a fist. He swallows the surprised little whimper she makes, moaning in return as he becomes more aggressive, her lip between his teeth.

“Now - I’m not in the business of indecency with non-human entities. I’m sure you’re a natural being, but… my convictions are strong, and I need to be a hundred percent sure. Okay?”

“Wait, Kappa… wait. What do you mean?”

“Gotta make sure you’re not one of them. I need you to be real good for me and take off your pants.”

Kappa runs the tip of his knife lightly up her thigh, tickling her with it. He traces it up the seam, breath picking up the closer he gets to her cunt. His lips are plush, kiss-bruised and parted as he stares down at the knife. His excitement permeates everything around them, the air thick with it, his eyes wide and bright and his chest practically heaving. She should have run. She should have run before he had his hand in her hair, a knife tracing her inner thighs. He looks absolutely hungry. He looks up from under those lashes and searches her expression, taking in every detail as though memorizing her terror, tattooing it permanently into his mind for later use.

“I don’t wanna hurt you more than I already have to. And I can’t have you running,” he murmurs. His voice so low, wavering a little as adrenaline rushes through his veins. They cord his forearms, his strong hands. She can see his rapid butterfly pulse in his throat. “Make this easy on yourself, darlin’. Faster you listen, the faster I can make you feel good.”

He uncurls his fingers, allowing her space to do as he asks. Still he hovers, knife ever present and threatening. His eyes are manic, sliding over each new inch of exposed flesh as she unbuttons and pushes her pants, her panties down her hips, off her legs in a few clumsy kicks. With the knife, he motions at her shirt - up, up.

“Kappa…”

“I could do it for you, if you like. But what I’m not gunna do is ask twice… this is your last warning.”

In contrast to his soft, smooth voice is the undercurrent of malice. Self-assured. Not a hint of doubt in his mind, focused on his intentions and making zero room for failure or disobedience. There’s a sense of authority, of somebody well accustomed to being followed without question. He reaches into the table to fish a small glass vial out, flicking the cork loose with his thumb before he sprinkles a generous line on the dull edge of his knife. He snorts it off and gasps a little, shaking his head, wiping the white off his nostril. He hums with pleasure and does another, much smaller line, before offering her one of her own.

“I’ve never done anything like that,” she says quietly.

“I look forward to the pleasure of opening you up to all kinds of new things.”

He nods encouragingly, as if to say, bottoms up. Like feeding a child medicine, like convincing somebody to drink poison. She pleads with him for a moment with her eyes and he pets her thigh, squeezes softly. He sets his jaw and waits, unwavering. She does as asked - what choice does she have with a knife in her face? - and snorts the baby line, wincing at the way it burns fire up into her sinuses. She paws at her nose like an animal, rubbing it, wiping it to relieve the discomfort.

“It fucking burns, fuck.”

“Yeah, that will happen. You get used to it with time. Now - come on, let’s… get this…”

Trailing off, he guides her to straighten up so he can peel the shirt off her body. Defeated, she raises her arms and allows him to pull it over her head, immediately crossing them over her body once liberated of her top. He clucks his tongue and pries her arms open, taking all of her in. Every curve, every dimple, every freckle, every detail. He wastes no time in pulling her bra off the same way, and her face burns with shame as she squeezes her eyes shut.

He angles her chin with his fingers, cooing down at her to look at him, open her eyes. She does as requested and he smiles tenderly down at her.

“I promise this will only hurt a little bit. But I have to do it. It’s my will and duty to do it,” he says, and there’s a feeling in the back of her mind that he’s convincing the both of them. The thing she can’t deny about his manic, lidded eyes, the way his mouth is set in a triumphant smirk, is that it’s utterly intoxicating. He’s beautiful in some strange way. The tension in the air is thick and palpable. Suffocating.

He turns his attentions to her thighs and draws in a shaky little breath. Without ceremony, without warning or preparation, he turns the knife and draws it efficiently in a line on her inner thigh. Blood beads up almost immediately and the skin splits open as though blooming, a red, dripping little mouth. The pain is immediate and she cries out, afraid to move but unable to recoil from it. He holds her thigh down, making a sound that could have been him clearing his throat or a grunt of pleasure.

“Oh, there you are. There you are. Natural as ever.” His voice goes low, hoarse, and he presses the heel of his palm against his hardening cock. “A real woman, flesh and blood and sinew. A real woman for a real man.”

He does it again, draws the knife in a quick, shallow slash, and then again, again. Most of them aren’t as deep as the first - most of them don’t yawn open and reveal the layer of flesh underneath, but they all run blood down her inner thighs, soaking dark little spots into the cushion of his old couch. He pants until he’s practically hyperventilating, and brings the blade up to his mouth. Closing his eyes, he savors licking it clean, moaning, pulling at his shirt until he tosses the weapon back into the table’s compartment and yanks it off. The body underneath is long, milky pale.

“The taste of you - I need more of you.” He hooks his hands underneath her knees and yanks, pulling her down and spreading her legs open. He kisses her abused inner thighs, ignoring her fingers tugging into his hair as she pleads softly for him to stop, to be gentle. He runs his tongue over them, pushes inside of the deepest wound just a little, just enough for her to grit her teeth against a scream, to trap it back in her throat. “That’s it. There’s a good girl. You let Kappa take care of you, let me show you - fuck, I want all of you. Every single bit, mine.”

His flushed face is smeared with red, lips wet with it as he licks them. Her blood is on his teeth as he grins, wolfish, kissing up and up and up until he presses a soft kiss against the lips of her cunt. He drags his tongue between them, slow. Calculated.

“Kappa.”

“Tell me how much you want it. Tell me you want me to taste your blood, your cum. Tell me you’ll give me everything.”

He goes back to work, awaiting her response with all the patience of somebody used to a little insolence. It takes time to break a new one in, right? And she’s so very shiny and new, a challenge. A territory to conquer and claim, all this soft, generous flesh, all this clean mind to furrow into and spread like a disease.

“I… I want… you, I want you.”

Kappa moans and the vibrations against her send her into a new realm of pleasure. Something rhythmic, quick, powerful - whatever he gave her is slowly worming its way into her bloodstream, into her brain, making everything soft and hard all at once. Electric. Vibrant. Time both stops and speeds by, sweat beading at her hairline as she writhes under his mouth, under the sensation of his fingernails catching into a fresh wound. It all boils down to some horrible base sensation. All of it has her grimacing in pleasure - there are a hundred reasons she shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this, the bright red alarms in her body screaming for her to GET UP, LEAVE, RUN, STOP, STOP, ESCAPE ESCAPEESCAPEESCAPE—

And she lay anyway, the circle of her overstimulated thoughts coming back again to Kappa’s mouth, his tongue and lips and fingers and teeth, his body the color of moonlight even though she knows the sun is blazing hot and sticky outside. Girls trapped in a room. Her trapped on the couch. Kappa trained expertly on her clit, lapping, moaning, drooling. Something about all this must make sense, it all comes together, somehow - but exactly how eludes her. She’ll remember later, maybe. She’s responsible, dependable. Smart. Maybe this is why Kappa likes her so much. Maybe he has something to share, maybe what he’s saying makes a little sense. Maybe. Maybe, maybe. The only truth is the way he eats her alive, the way he clings to her thighs and moans into her cunt like he can’t live without tasting her another second.

“Kappa,” she gasps. “I’m gunna cum.”

Kappa lifts his face and wipes this chin on the back of his hand, pupils eating into the ocean of his bright irises. It’s like a perfect eclipse. There’s something there, something in the meaning of it all; she feels on the cusp on something important, life-changing. Kappa stares so deeply into her that she can feel him reaching down into her heart, into her fucking guts, into the core of her. Squeezing. Knowing. Exploring. Everything is heightened, everything feels like some kind of milestone; how could she have missed any of this before? How did she never notice the way his hair falls into his eyes? How did she miss the exact curve of his cupid’s bow, of the way his throat curves into the cradle of his collarbones?

“I know,” he says softly. He breaks his gaze to pull his trousers down - they’re so thin, the material. He unties the front and pulls them down his slim hips, cock bouncing out, and she has to hold her breath. He’s thicker than expected. He gives her a knowing look, again, constantly - he seems to pick up so much. Doesn’t he? Is this - is this her own mind? How did she not see how he sparkled before, how smooth his skin is? How good he feels even breathing against her?

What did he make her take? And how can she feel so much, and can she feel more, can she do this more often?

Kappa smiles, and it’s so kind. He strokes her cheek with his thumb like he hasn’t drugged her, cut her open, forced her into her current position. He smiles like he’s proud, like he’s glowing and the only thing in the world, and he is. He is the only thing in the world. She marvels up at him and waits for him to speak. He must be accustomed to this. He takes his cock into his own hand and strokes lazily, rubbing himself against her, up, down.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers. He lines himself up to plunge into her, and she can’t help but match his breath - panting, desperate. Sweating. He licks whatever tears remain on her face - she’d forgotten they were there. Tears, sweat, blood, cum - what’s the difference? “Oh, little lamb. Don’t worry. Kappa will take care of you.”

He thrusts into her with all the softness of a battering ram. He’s balls-deep before she can even utter the first shriek, high-pitched and whining. He breathes it in, leans down to seal his lips against hers again before they’re both taking in each other’s moans, melting together with each vicious thrust. He pounds into her, hands unable to decide what to do - to grab her by the face, to dig his fingers into her plush, aching thighs, to run them up over her chest to fondle her there. He slows his pace only to lean down and pay attention to her nipples, his tongue and lips and the threat of his teeth.

“Touch yourself.”

There’s no argument - there are barely any coherent words left inside of her. Everything is pushed out and filled by Kappa, his cock, his words. His drugs.

She reaches between her thighs and he slows his pace, the roll of his hips delicious. His hair hangs down and tickles her face. She can do nothing but rub at her clit and stare up at him, and he beams down at her, smirking. The sharp angles of his face, the traces of her own blood still present on his lips. Sweat, pulse, flesh, blood.

“You gunna cum for me, sugar? Can feel it - can feel your tight little cunt squeezing against me. Is - oh, is that the spot?” He settles into a new rhythm, the head of his cock dragging over and over the same hyper-sensitive nerves inside of her. Her breath hitches and she’s practically sobbing, begging him, nodding when words fail. Her fingers are so wet. The sounds their bodies make together seems deafening - her fingers making hurried circles around her clit, his cock relentless in filling her slippery pussy. Her whining, his soothing voice as he builds her closer and closer. It’s painful, it’s passionate. She could die right here. He could plunge that knife into her throat and she’d still cum for him.

“Kappa. Kappa, I’m so close, I’m sooo close.” Pathetic. Mewling. She hyperventilates and her body shakes underneath him, like she might come apart. His eyes are so bright. He’s so focused.

“I know. I know,” he says. “Tell Kappa what you need.”

“I - I need - I need you, I need you. Please.”

“I’m right here. You’re doing so well, look at you - trembling. Gunna cry for me? Go on - cry for me. I want all of you.”

She hadn’t realized the tears building until he brought it to her attention. As if on cue, as though her body has decided that Kappa’s word is as good as truth, they spill over her lashes and track down her cheekbones, and she’s sniffling, soft little gasps and whines as he leans down to trace those tracks with his tongue. He moans, breath hot against her face. He kisses her wet eyelids before kissing her mouth, and the feeling of those shapely lips pushes her past the edge. Every muscle in her body tightens to its limit and she’s cumming for him, finding her voice after all that pitiful whining as she moans and sinks her nails into his back.

“There. There you go, good girl, good girl, fuck! You’re so good for me.”

His pace picks up and loses its poetic, slow grind, and he’s grunting and growling like a beast, like he aims to fuck her in half. Their bodies slap together and she’s seeing stars behind her eyes, crying out when he bites at her throat and sucks her flesh between his teeth. An animal playing with its dinner. In a matter of minutes, he’s stiffening up, pace stuttering to a few deep, mean thrusts as he empties into her. There’s a part of her that thinks she can feel it, his seed hitting the tender curve of her cervix and coating her from the inside.

There’s a shared pause in which they catch their breath. He idly fondles her tits as he comes down from the thrill, careful with her. The mischievous spark is still in his eyes, but they’re softer, too. Subdued.

They re-dress in silence. She catches him staring at the cuts on her thighs as she grabs her pants, her shirt.

“I should - I should probably get these fixed up,” she mumbles. In the comedown of their act, the fear returns in a cold trickle down her spine. Her heart never slowed down - where it was hammering in the cage of her chest for what he was doing to her moments before, it now beats for what he might still do to her if she remains. She feels like an alien, realizing for the first time that she’s done something she cannot undo in a territory that isn’t her own. Unsafe. Targeted. She’s a fucking idiot - how did this happen? Her mind races with trepidation, with the drugs still coursing through her heart in the thick, viscous blood there. There’s a thought, a mental picture of him with his hands buried elbow-deep beneath her ribs, naked body smeared with blood as he prizes his fingers around her heart to pull it out. The things he would do.

“Don’t,” he says simply. He pulls his trousers up and ties them. “I want to see them next time. Want ‘em to scar up nice. No ointment, no bandages.”

“What? Wait - next time?”

Kappa flashes a grin as he straightens up, shirtless and flushed. There are red marks where she’d dug her fingers into him, on his chest, on his back.

“You don’t think you can stay away from Kappa, do you?” He narrows his eyes and shakes his head a little, wagging his finger at her like a bad pet. “You know better than that, my dear.”

The fabric of her pants scrapes against her wounds and she has to wince. The sharp, prickling pain of them is intense, throbbing. Kappa’s territory. She almost forgets to grab her bag as she fishes some bills from her purse, tucking the weed into a pocket and tossing the money to the table.

“Thanks for the… uh. Thanks. It was…” she struggles to find the words. He stalks slowly up to her, and she wants to both back away and kiss him all at once. “It was - enlightening.”

“Right. Very,” he agrees, clearly amused.

“Well, I - I’ll see you around, Kappa.”

He leads her to the door and winks at her, like sharing a secret. Across the yard, Epsilon has stopped playing with the dog. He sits in a patch of dry yellow grass and smokes a cigarette, eyeing them from a distance with interest. Kappa glances at him and back at her, taking all of her in as his eyes trace the line of her body, lewd, hungry again. He tongues the edge of a tooth and watches her fixate on his tongue, clearly pleased with himself.

“You certainly will.”

[thebiggerbear]

Giving In

Summary: You've finally given in to what you've wanted all this time but will it be enough?

Pairing: ? (whoever you want it to be) x Female!Reader

A/N: This is a new format I was experimenting with while also practicing...well...smut. To a low degree. I've come across fics in the past for all different fandoms, on here and AO3, that have featured this "whichever character you want it to be" format. So this could be Dean, Russell, Beau, Soldier Boy, Jensen, whoever you want. I'm going to tag the ones I just mentioned just to give it somewhere to go but it was purposely kept vague to be whoever the reader wants it to be.

All unbeta'd.

Thank you @rieleatiel for pre-reading! I was so nervous lol. Once again, your input is invaluable and your time spent appreciated. 💖

Warnings: smut-ish (18+ - minors DNI); language

Word Count: 978

Taglist: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187

You can also read on AO3

“Oh fuck,” you moaned as he moved in and out of you.

You felt his breath near your earlobe. “There it is. Let me hear some more of that, sweetheart.” He purposely moaned into your ear as an example.

You dug your nails into his back at the sound, matching the indentations that now resided in your bottom lip from your teeth. Fuck, that was hot. No wonder he wanted to hear similar sounds coming from you. “We shouldn’t—” You loudly gasped when suddenly without warning, he hiked your leg higher on his side, causing him to go just that little bit deeper. “Be doing this.”

“Yes, we should,” he whispered, feeling him trailing kisses down your jawline until he reached your lips. “I’ve wanted this for so fucking long,” he grunted into your mouth, squeezing your hand in his almost as if to echo his sentiment.

You let him kiss you passionately, make love to you, but the guilt weighed heavily in your chest. You meant what you had said before — neither of you should be doing this. Yet as his hips moved steadily against yours, as he broke away to lift his head up and lock eyes with you, panting harshly, you couldn’t help but admit to yourself that you had wanted this for some time as well. It was a truth you kept hidden deep down inside that you refused to acknowledge. Even when you’d taken a picture together last week with your friends and his hand had stayed glued to the small of your back until the last possible second. When his gaze lingered on you longer than it should in polite company. When the discreet tender touches began, the inconspicuous feathery brush of his lips on your earlobe happened repeatedly when your head was a little too close to his, and when his hugs lasted a little too long. Each time any of those things occurred, you knew that you were heading in a direction that would only lead to trouble, getting closer and closer until one of you couldn’t take it anymore. Like a rumbling storm cloud that was close to breaking, the electricity in the air around you two became more and more charged until eventually lightning would strike and the downpour would be sudden and both of you would be drowning in it. You should have put a stop to it, to any of it, but you hadn’t. Because deep down in that secret place, you hadn’t wanted to. 

And now here you were, underneath the man who had as tight of a grip on your heart as he did your body — tighter even. He was staring down at you with a mix of desire and something akin to reverence; you stared back at him, the same feelings coursing through you alongside pleasure and — well, love. You loved these eyes now, the ones that watched your expressions closely as he moved within you. You loved these lips, the ones that parted to let out a deep groan when you reflexively clenched down on him to slow him down. You loved the deep voice that followed, telling you, “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing the shit out of me” as lust brightened the sheen in his eyes. You loved the warm yet prickly skin you felt underneath your hand when you placed it against his cheek, causing his eyes to shut halfway before he turned and pressed his lips to your palm.

You loved this man. You’d loved him when he insisted on playing you song after song from the playlist on his phone. You’d loved him the first time he’d laughed at something you said, appreciating your steady stream of snarky commentary from movies to news to every possible topic in life you two could find to discuss. You’d loved him when you turned to say something to him about the tv series you were binging together one day to find him already watching you with an affectionate smile and a soft, faraway look in his eyes. You’d loved him when he fell asleep on your couch one night after several drinks between the two of you, his head in your lap and his lips resting against your hand that he had brought to his mouth and placed soft kisses on before drifting off. You’d loved him when you saw an act of kindness from him to a stranger that wasn’t meant to be witnessed by you or anyone else nor was he aware that it was. You loved him beyond words with every smile; every conversation; every laugh; every exchange between you without words; every look; every phone call and facetime; every touch; every text message he sent; every embrace; every thought he had and shared with you; every time he spoke your name with that adoration attached to it — all of it. You loved him.

“I love you,” you whispered to him, straight from the heart.

He turned a dopey smile down on you, kissing the tips of your fingers reverently. He didn’t say it back; he never said it back. And you knew why. It was the very same reason you two should not be tangled up in each other like you were. 

But you knew that he loved you, too, even if he couldn’t say the words. The way he leaned down to kiss you; the way he moved your hand back over your head and slipped his fingers into yours; the way he continued moving both of your bodies anew; the way his mouth lingered near your ear and breathily encouraged your quiet moans with “That’s it, baby, let me hear all of it”; the way he held you to him as you shuddered in orgasm and pressed his lips to your temple — you knew he loved you. And that would have to be enough.

For now. 

Please let me know if you would like to be tagged for any works.

dividers by @firefly-graphics

banner by @cafekitsune

[capseycartwright]

oh what a terrible honor it's been (to learn that my blessings are things you call sins)

Hey God, it's me, Eddie. I hope you don’t mind that I’m sitting in your house thinking gay thoughts.

Eddie couldn’t help but giggle to himself as he thought the words. If he couldn’t be a bit silly while having a sexuality crisis in a Catholic church – when could he? 

Christopher leaves for Texas, Eddie goes back to therapy, unearths an emotional lockbox he had been fourteen years old when he buried, and has a lot of thoughts about how Buck is sunshine incarnate. In hindsight, it probably should have been obvious he wasn't straight.

ao3 link

t’s been a long time since Eddie Diaz had set foot in a church – of his own accord, at least. He’d been to the christenings and communions and confirmations of all of his various nieces, nephews, and cousins, he’d sat stiff in the pew as he’d watched friends, and family get married, trying his best not to remember how own wedding day, the way Shannon’s hands had shaken in his grip as they promised to love each other until death do them part, both of them young, too young to understand the covenant they were signing up to. Eddie had been there, for all those occasions, but he hadn’t gone to mass, or even sat in a church, just because he wanted to in a very long time. 

He wasn’t even really sure if he wanted to be there today, but it was a Thursday, and Christopher was in Texas, and Eddie wasn’t working, and he’d been having an extended mental breakdown for the last few weeks, and before he knew it, he was sitting in the pew of St Brendan’s Catholic Church, listening to a softly spoken priest with an Irish lilt to his accent – faded, after years in America, Eddie presumed, but still there, noticeable in the inflection of certain words – recite the Our Father. 

Eddie had never been to St Brendan’s before, but it felt like every other church he’d been to in his life. They didn’t all look the same, necessarily, though they followed the same format, rows of uncomfortable wooden pews and an altar decorated in gold, as opulent as it was suffocating. Eddie had thought it beautiful, before, the way Catholic churches were decorated in gold and jewels, believing for so much of his life that the wealth honoured God – but living life had made him learn the grandeur and displays of wealth were nothing more than indicative of the wealth the Catholic church had hoarded while their devout followers starved, all in the name of faith and of God. True faith didn’t need to be gilded in gold to be sincere, he’d decided.

Eddie had never been to St Brendan’s before, but mass was the same. It didn’t change – though the wording of some of the prayers did. He’d sort of been checked out of being a regular churchgoer by time they had changed some of the prayers, only discovering the difference when he confidently started to recite it wrong at his youngest niece’s communion, his mother fixing him with a glare so icy hell might have frozen over under the power of Helena Diaz’s gaze alone. He’d never learned the new ones, not really, and so Eddie just recited the one’s he’d learned for his own confirmation, the words falling from his lips, muscle memory more than it was faith now. 

Our father, who art in heaven – hallowed be thy name . 

Eddie couldn’t help but laugh, a little, as he murmured the prayer. Hallowed be thy name. He knew the prayer talked about God, their holy father, but the prayer had always made him think of his own father, of the way Ramon Diaz was a hallowed man in his own right, how he parented with an iron fist and expected to be obeyed. 

Things were getting better now, with his dad. Maybe – maybe that was part of the fear. Eddie had always been afraid of letting people down, but more than anyone, he was afraid of letting his father down – of seeing that look of disappointment set into every crease of his father’s face, an expression he’d been on the receiving end of for more of his childhood than he’d like to admit. Eddie had tried so hard to make sure he was never on the receiving end of that look again, but nothing he had ever done was good enough – not marrying Shannon, not the way he had tried to take responsibility for his young family, not the army, not the man he had been when he’d come home from Afghanistan. 

Distance had lessened the number of disappointed looks, but Eddie knew that was because he was simply not seeing them anymore; he was sure his father sometimes frowned at the phone when they’d finally call, silted conversation about Christopher and life at the firehouse the best either of them could muster. 

It wasn’t perfect, but it was getting better. 

At least it had been, until his parents had taken Christopher with them to Texas. It hadn’t helped their relationship – but it hadn’t hindered it as much as Eddie had expected either. He was never going to thank them, for the way they had swooped in, ready to take Christopher at a moment’s notice, but he could thank them for giving his son the space that he needed to process. Eddie couldn’t give him that space, right now, but he was grateful someone could. Still – he would be ready to drive to Texas at the drop of a hat when Christopher decided he was ready to come home.

Things were getting better, that was the thing. His dad called, every night, to update Eddie on Christopher’s day. Eddie could hear the familiar sounds of the Diaz backyard as his dad softly spoke, telling Eddie about how Christopher had been to the lake, with his cousins, and how he’d finished another book, and how he was helping Helena to make dinner, right then. It had filled the gap until Christopher had started to call Eddie himself, his voice tinny as he mumbled over the phone, things not quite back to normal, Christopher not willing to talk to him about anything except Marvel and Minecraft and how abuela’s tamales were better than Eddie’s, but better than they were, at least. 

Every time they were on the phone, Eddie reassured his parents that he was working on himself. He was back seeing Frank, every week, and at Frank’s encouragement, he’d joined a veteran’s support group. Eddie wasn’t exactly the picture-perfect military veteran he assumed he needed to be, to join a veteran support group, but the rag-tag group that met at his community hall every month weren’t exactly the flag-wearing, gun-toting veterans he’d expected them to be. James was a 63-year-old man from Massachusetts who ran the group – he had moved out to LA to live with his daughter after he retired and referred to himself delightedly as a stay-at-home grandfather. Luisa was a vet around Eddie’s own age, and she’d gone back to university after she got out of the army and got a fine arts degree. She liked to paint, and talked about her wife with a reverence and openness that Eddie could only admire. 

He hadn’t said a word the first time he went, and Buck had sat in the Jeep in the carpark, a ready-made escape plan for Eddie in case he decided it was all too much. Eddie had sat quietly as the group had chatted, drinking tea and coffee out of flimsy paper cups, and eating homemade biscuits – made by James, who, as it turned out, was quite the prolific baker – and he’d watched. He’d watched as the group had talked about their bad days, and their good days, and how they were coping with life after the military, and not a single glorious war-story was exchanged. 

That was when Eddie knew it was safe to keep going. He was never going to be a man who was proud of his service, and he didn’t want to have to attend a support group of people who’d talk about their time in the military like it was the good old days. He had spoken a little more, the second time he went – Buck doing his groceries, two streets away, rather than sitting in the carpark – and he’d introduced himself, his voice gruff as he tried to figure out what version of Eddie he wanted to present to the world. 

Eddie was still figuring that part out – the version of himself he wanted to be, that is. 

He was figuring himself out. That was the point. He was trying, he was really trying – and people could see that, Eddie was sure. His parents said they could, at least.

Which was why he was here – in a church not dissimilar to the one he’d attended every Sunday in El Paso growing up – on his knees, praying to a God he wasn’t sure he actually believed in for guidance. 

read the rest on ao3

[xiaokuer-schmetterling]

documenting my journey to really actually making a podfic! ETA: 7 days One Month Of Bedtime Stories & counting!!!

+++ i am contemplating making a podfic episode narrating thru my process from start thru posting to ao3. would there be an audience for this???+++

this post is gonna be an ongoing series of links (in the replies) for blog posts that inspired me to DO THE THING! pretty much reverse chronological order. it's like tracking what bits of tumblr i was interacting with almost in real time.

to everyone i reblogged and/or who replied to me: i just wanted to tell you that your post was part of the inspiration & motivation that led me to making & posting my very first podfics!!! tysvm!!!

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follow my podfic tag xk_s_reads !!!

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BABY'S FIRST AO3 POSTED WORK!!!

[podfic] Just One More by MaelstromOfEmotions

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baby's first podfics:

https://www.tumblr.com/xiaokuer-schmetterling/772475114852892672/podfic

https://www.tumblr.com/xiaokuer-schmetterling/772482920534376448/thank-you-for-the-validation-no

https://www.tumblr.com/xiaokuer-schmetterling/772441206958571520/podfic-2025-01-11-3-xksreads-free-download

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tyvm for the support & encouragement in chats:

@ferntasie @maelstrom-of-emotions @travelingneuritis @keriarentikai @geck-motj

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ao3 resources:

A Newbie's Guide to Podficcing (10897 words) by Azdaema Pods

[Meta] A Breakdown of Podfic Hosting Options (1804 words) by GoLBMeta

A Basic Beginner's Guide to Podfic Creation (3647 words) by Flowerparrish Arts et al

A step-by-step guide to your first (tenth, hundredth) podfic (11150 words) by Annapods

Podfic Posting Guide (1996 words) by Shmaylor

The Fic Writer's Guide to Formatting (An AO3 Repository) (12783 words) by AnisaAnisa

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pinyin pronunciation resources:

i took a semester of mandarin chinese in community college forever ago and this is something i found that is catchy and quirky and weird and funny and memorable. it's part 1 of a 4 video playlist. actually really helpful if you pay attention to the shape of the mouse's mouth. the grouped consonants all have the same mouth shape with sequentially further back positioning of the tip of the tongue on the roof of your mouth fyi

this is a pinyin guide by user @pumpkinpaix and it has an accompanying transcript with tone markers and embedded audio!

https://pumpkinpaix.tumblr.com/post/619038202237452288/hello-cyan-you-have-the-cutest-voice-one-thing

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this is the image in my mind anytime i say I DID THE THING or similar

motivational art by @thelatestkate

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[megwritesriddles]

A Few Strings Attached ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Sam (Stardew Valley) x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Request: I saw your post about requests, and I love your sdv stuff! Could you maybe do something with the reader and Sam being fwb. Sam gets super jealous when she hangs out/starts getting close with one of the others, leading to him confessing the next time they have sex. If you wanted to have him be a little rougher with the reader, that'd be cool to, just whatever you're comfy with ^-^ tysm!!

Tags: Friends-with-benefits, P in V, Unprotected sex, Fingering, Nipple play (minor), Biting, Rough sex, Jealousy, Moody!Sam, Love confession, Possessive behaviour (slight).

Word count: 2.5k

all fandom masterlist | sdv masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: This may seem like it starts in the middle, because it DOES!! I wrote too much unnecessary exposition like always so I'm posting it as an optional 'prequel' to read. There's a few weird text formatting things going on that I can't fix but oh well!! Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

'PREQUEL' HERE !! (you don't have to read it but if you do, prob read it first, it's only 1.3k words)

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He’s late arriving at the Saloon one Friday for your weekly hangout, a time to enjoy the ‘friends’ part of friends-with-benefits with you and relax with the people he’s closest to. The new riff he’d written on his guitar had kept him busy and he’d lost track of time. When he arrives at the Saloon and heads to the side room to find his friends, he freezes a little at the sight before him. Sure, you and Sebastian had started talking more lately, he’d noticed, but Sam was confident he had you to himself and had no reason to worry. He barely thought of anything but you each day since starting the arrangement, and as you seemed to enjoy the sex as much as he did, he assumed you would be the same. Sebastian had ceased to be any sort of a threat in his mind, until now. The two of you stood at the end of the pool table, way too close together for Sam’s comfort, talking and giggling, nudging each other with your elbows. Sam just stared for a moment as the two of you clearly made jokes back and forth, giggling and swatting each other. What could the two of you possibly have to giggle about? You didn’t have anything much in common… Did you? Sam tried to think but came up blank, yet something was clearly very funny to the two of you. Trying to control the irrational urge inside of him to rush over and stake some claim over you, he took a deep breath and wandered over.

“Hey guys, having fun without me?” he teases, although his voice is just a little tense enough to give him away. He doesn’t think of himself as the jealous type, and really you weren’t his to get jealous over, but the burning of his cheeks tells him exactly how he feels. He wants to wrap an arm around you and pull you in, bite your neck in the way that he knows you love right in front of Sebastian and actually leave a mark this time.

“Hey Sammy, had to entertain ourselves somehow while you weren’t here,” you tease, your voice and expression sweet, unaware that Sam is seething with jealousy. Is this what you’d do if he went out of town for a while or something? Find a way to ‘entertain’ yourself? Turn to Sebastian? His face falls without him being able to help it.

“Right,” he grunts, staring at you intently. You tilt your head at him, finally noticing something is wrong. Sam is seldom moody, he’s always outgoing and happy-go-lucky, so seeing his face twisted into a sour expression is disconcerting. 

“Is something wrong Sammy?” you ask gently. “Why were you late?” you clearly assume whatever made him late is what has him upset. Are you really that naive? He glances contemptuously at Sebastian who is still at your side, looking similarly concerned. 

“I’m just tired, honestly I’m gonna go home, you’ll have more fun without me bringing you down,” he grumbles, turning to leave. He knows he shouldn’t be acting like this, you’re both his friends. Friends. And it wasn’t like he caught you kissing Sebastian, just laughing with him, but the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach persists. The two of you and even Abigail protest, saying he’ll feel better after a round of pool, but he’s made up his mind, he cannot watch this. If you want Sebastian, who is he to stand in your way? As long as he doesn’t have to see it play out. He stomps back to his house, listening out in case you’ve come chasing after him, but you haven’t, taking him at face value and assuming something had happened at home to upset him. Admittedly, he does feel a little stupid returning home mere minutes after he left, and considers turning back around, but can’t bring himself to. Hiding away in his room sounds best right now. He waits quietly in his bed, glaring up at the ceiling, expecting that you might knock on his window, but you don’t. It pains him to imagine what you might be doing instead. Could Sebastian please you as well as he could? How was he to know? You might be forgetting all about him at this very instant. He comforts his male pride by convincing himself that Sebastian is probably a disappointing size compared to him, even though he has no evidence of this. Then when he realises what he’s thinking, he feels wildly ashamed. Sebastian was his closest and oldest friend here. Wasn’t the whole point of this arrangement for things not to be complicated? His thoughts had never been so muddled. After another half hour, he concludes you aren’t coming to knock on his window, and turns himself over to sleep.

The next day, although he tells himself he won’t, he’s drawn to walk to your farm at his usual time. He’s a little worried about what might be waiting for him. He imagines Sebastian embracing you from behind as you bake, something he’s always wanted to do, as he often arrives just as you finish baking and is sent home with some fresh rolls. He knocks on your door and you open it like usual, smiling brightly. 

“Hey Sa– ooh,” a puff of air leaves your lungs as he pounces on you, pushing you to the wall of your entryway. You give him a bewildered look as he tilts your chin from side to side, examining your neck for any marks. “What are you doing?” you chuckle, but he doesn’t answer, examining a tiny dent in your skin that resembles a bite. Was that the same one he’d left on you a few days ago? Beyond hope, he hoped it was. “Sam?” He pulls back and looks at you, examining your face as if something in your expression would give away if you’d done something with Sebastian. “What are you looking for?” you scoff. He knows he’s being unreasonable, so he falters a little.

“Nothing…” he huffs, looking away, though his hands remain on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles. You laugh softly and it sends a jolt through him, reminding him of the scene last night. He slams his lips to yours to shut you up, causing you to squeak in surprise for a moment, but quickly relax, slipping your arms around his neck just in time for him to hoist you up and carry you to your bed. Your lips remain connected, moulding together and tongues finding one another as he walks you over. He’s determined to make you forget everything but his name. The bed dips as he climbs on, lowering you to lie beneath him, wasting no time in sliding his hands beneath your shirt to push it up. You giggle at his sudden dominant attitude, but you don’t mind at all, lifting your arms so that he can free you of your shirt. “No bra…” he purrs. “Expecting someone?” His voice is rough enough to give you a little pause, but his hands dancing all over your bare skin don’t allow your brain to pause for long. His thumbs circle your nipples, causing them to stiffen into peaks.

“You, of course,” you sigh as he lowers his head, wrapping his warm lips around one rosy bud and swirling his tongue, gently rolling the other between his fingers. A gentle moan leaves your lips and he flicks his tongue back and forth. 

“Me,” he mumbles against your skin, slowly kissing his way from one nipple to the other, before taking it in his mouth and repeating the swirling action you so liked. 

“Mhmm,” you whine as he carefully brushes his teeth against your sensitive skin. He doesn’t bite but just teases you enough for goosebumps to rise on your skin, the cool air meeting the wet kisses over your chest adding to your shivers. His hands cup the weight of your breasts, his mouth swapping between your nipples periodically just to tease you, hardness rubbing against your inner thigh. You squirm, trying to shift so Sam’s bulge would press where you need it to. He growls, slamming his hips to yours and harshly rutting against you. Your head tips back and you moan, much to his private delight.

“You want me, don’t you? Tell me you want me not Sebastian,” he hisses, biting his way over the swell of your breast and up to your neck. 

“What–? What does Sebas–,”

“Just say it, tell me you want me,” he demands. Your mind is hazy with arousal, but even so, you know something is incredibly odd with this ask. At your silence, he ruts against you once more, spurring you into action.

“I want you, I want you, only you…” you whine, wriggling against him softly. Full of pride, he bites down on your neck, sucking a harsh mark into your skin. Another squeak leaves you, surprised by this, he doesn’t usually mark you, it defeats the purpose of hooking up in secret, but before you can protest, he’s tugging down your leggings and rubbing his fingers through your slick folds, melting all of your thoughts away until you’re left with only his touch against you. Your hips chase his fingers as he playfully withdraws them, enjoying watching how needy you are. He isn’t usually so teasing, but his ego needs stroking right now, as does something else. He sucks his fingers clean with a groan and drops them back down to resume rubbing. The sensation has you whining and squirming and he enjoys it whole-heartedly, guiding your hand to his bulge as he dips his fingers inside of you, stretching you open. Ever generous, you immediately begin to stroke him through his jeans, even despite being a little distracted. It’s a fumble for you to undo his jeans when your eyes are glued to where his fingers are disappearing inside of you, but eventually, you manage. He snatches your hand before you can try to dip it in his boxers.

“No, I want to fuck you,” he growls, making you moan, looking up at him starry-eyed. You want it too, but words escape as his fingers drive as deep as they can go into you before quickly withdrawing completely. The empty feeling makes you whine, but you don’t have to worry for long. He sucks his fingers clean again, making sure he doesn’t miss a drop and then strips himself down to the buff, kicking off his jeans. He always enjoys the way you admire his body, but today it feels especially favourable. He admires you in turn, dripping wet and perfectly sexy, the perfect body laid out in front of him, belonging to the perfect person. Something regrettable threatens to slip out of his mouth, so he bites his lip and settles right between your legs, placing his heavy cock against you, and gently tapping your clit with it a few times. You whine and wriggle, giving him your best wide-eyed plea, he loves it when you get like this. Out of a hint of misplaced lingering spite, he grinds his cock between your folds a few times, not yet pressing inside like you want, getting the both of you wetter and wetter. It would be torture for him too if it wasn’t for the look on your face. “Pretty perfect girl…” he hums as you whimper for him. You’re too aroused to notice the seriousness of those words, he usually only calls you hot or sexy. 

Finally, at long last, he grabs the base of his cock and angles himself so he can push inside of you. He buries himself to the hilt immediately, revelling in the choked-out gasp that leaves your lips. He takes a grip on your hips and, after a few gentle thrusts to assess if you can take it, he begins pounding into you. Your eyes roll back and you shout out in pleasure and he feels much the same way. His eyes roll a little and he growls, holding you down as his hips slam into yours over and over. You’re so tight and warm and perfect. He pants, staring down at you, flushed and blissed out, your tits bouncing with each ruthless thrust. You take him so well, you look so beautiful, even now. He leans down to kiss you, your noses bumping as he bullies his cock into you, tongues making a sloppy mess together. You’re so perfect, nothing has ever felt this good, he refuses the idea that someone else might take this from him. With a loud grunt, his pace increases impossibly more, forcing loud wanton moans from your throat with each movement.

“You’re mine,” he pants, a hand coming up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You’re mine, say it,”

“I’m yours,” your fucked-out mind doesn’t understand the gravity of what he’s saying, merely obeying orders so your orgasm isn’t stolen from you. Your words make him groan and lift your legs, thrusting into you at a new angle. You cry out in pleasure.

“You’re mine, say it, say my name,” he growls.

“Sam…” you whine, unable to form a coherent thought.

“That’s it, my perfect girl, I–” he cuts himself off, stuttering and twitching deep within you. “Ah–, I’m close, please…” he ruts himself against you a few more times, the pleasure completely clouding his brain. “I- I love you,” he grunts against your lips.

“Sam…!” you sob and it sends him over the edge, his thrusts slowly significantly as he shoots ropes of his cum deep inside of you.

“Fuck, I love you,” he chokes as he cums. “I love you so much…” he collapses on top of you but gives a few more weak thrusts into you as he feels your fingers frantically rubbing at your clit, helping you fall over that edge. He hisses when you do, feeling you squeeze down around his oversensitive cock, but he can’t bring himself to pull out. He lies there on top of you, one arm sliding behind your back to keep you pressed to him. His eyes fall shut and he takes a deep breath, completely satisfied. 

“You love me?” your weak voice squeaks from beneath him and he suddenly realises what he’s said, what he said throughout what you just did. He could probably pass it off as a weird kink, or just getting lost in the moment, but as he looks down at your flushed confused face, he can’t lie.

“Y-yeah I uh… I guess I do,” he grins sheepishly, back to his old self now he got the insecure anger out of his system.

“And you… thought something was going on with me and Sebastian? That’s why you were being so odd?” you sluggishly piece the pieces together, struggling to think in your pleasured haze, but unable to ignore it. He nods. “Well, nothing is going on, I promise you, we’ve been talking more because I’m trying to get him to ask Abi out,” you chuckle tiredly. “Why would I want him when I have you?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Sam jokes, but is incredibly relieved to hear it. “And… the whole ‘me loving you’ thing, how do you feel about that?” he asks, gently wiping some sweat from your brow. 

“Well… I guess I love you too,”

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hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

xoxoxo

[seireiteihellbutterfly]

Second Chance Sorcerer Chapter 3 - The Trials

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Fem! reader A/N: Chapter 3 is here! I'm glad I was able to write this out. As usual, this has been adapted to y/n format. To read the OC version, check out AO3.

Oh, and I highly recommend listening to Yet by Switchfoot while reading this chapter. It just pairs well. Warnings: childhood trauma, lots of angst

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Nanami masterlist

“By facing your deepest regrets.”

Nanami feels a chill rake over his spine as the shadow being says the words.

“Regrets? There isn’t a single sorcerer in the world that doesn’t have regrets. There’s no good way to rank them.”

“Really 7:3 sorcerer? You don’t believe some regrets hurt more than others?” The Spectator watches with keen eyes as Nanami contemplates its words. There’s a pregnant pause while he considers, glancing around at Phantom Tokyo as he does so. He didn’t like how the shadow easily figured out what he’d been hiding for years. 

A sorcerer’s life was always full of regrets; regret for not being normal, regret over their fallen comrades, regret over not taking time to themselves, regret for not being able to fall in love freely.

“What good is spending time thinking about regrets anyway?” he asks finally. “There’s nothing we can do about them. We learn to accept them and move on.”

“Have you? Accepted, that is?” the shadow asks back. Nanami stares at it, feeling a jolt pass through him.

“Of course I have. Now unless time travel is something the purgatory realm offers, I don’t see the point. I can’t go back and undo the things I regret. So of course I learned to accept them.”

“Then why do you never allow yourself to think about them? If you’ve really accepted them, then thinking about them shouldn’t bring that feeling of guilt in your chest, should it?” There’s a sly tone to the shadow’s question as it asks.

Taken aback, Nanami glares at it but doesn’t answer. Anyone who had lived his life wouldn’t question the guilt that accompanied his regrets. It was an endless cycle, reminding himself that most of the things that had happened weren't things he could have necessarily controlled yet it weighed down heavily on him. And how could they not? He was there when those awful things happened. It was a natural human tendency to wonder if the outcome may have been changed if he had done something differently.

The shadow does not fail to notice the less-than-kind expression on his face. “The only reason I ask, sorcerer, is because many try and fail to escape the purgatory realm even after agreeing to face their deepest regrets. Most believe it is coming to terms with them when in fact, it’s more than that.” 

It glides slightly closer to him before continuing. “It’s not enough that you come to terms with your regrets. But it’s learning to recognize that despite everything, despite all the guilt and unhappiness, life is still worth living. Many do not make it to that stage, and if that concept fails to take root, then the realm decides your life isn’t worth saving, and it will do what it was created to do, and end your life for you. You must want to live so much that all the regrets that feel like failures become reasons to live.”

“That’s unrealistic. Shouldn’t you have to find new things to live for instead? Who would want to continue living because of their regrets?”

“And what’s the guarantee those new things won’t become regrets later? Life doesn’t necessarily go linearly, does it? Something that brought you joy one day can make you miserable the next. It’s the same with people and relationships, isn’t it? You could have the best relationship with someone, and one day, they may hurt you, or you hurt them, and that too becomes a regret. Depending on the situation, it may be superficial or deep. If that person means enough to you, you won’t end the relationship because of that single regret, do you? Sometimes people experience multiple regrets with the people in their lives. It’s the same with wanting to live. You can keep finding new reasons to live, but ultimately, it’s realizing that life is worth living even with regrets.”

Nanami ponders the words, the frown on his face deepening. So many people in his life had come and gone. Some had been his choice, others due to circumstances beyond his control. He thinks about everyone he currently knows, and the shadow chuckles at his state. “I promise I’m not speaking in riddles meant to be solved. This journey is different for everyone. For some, it’s simple. Others need a few reminders about how much opportunity life offers.”

Nanami paces up and down the aisles of the bookstore, contemplating. “And what does facing one’s regrets look like?”

“It’s different for each person that enters the Trials. Some say it’s a withered garden, and they need to tend to the most neglected flowers and once the garden is in bloom, they can go back to living. Others are the only doctor in a hospital full of sick patients and don’t get respite until everyone is nursed back to health. But I will say that not everyone makes it through. Some become consumed by what they see or begin to feel hopeless with the amount of work necessary to survive. You have an additional restriction of being at the mercy of however long the neutralized energy remains in that charm of yours. So I’d say to not waste it much longer.”

Nanami glances at the aum charm on his wrist and feels a tinge of hope bubble inside him. He tries to think optimistically. Finding reasons to live even with the regrets…he hadn’t considered it that way. 

“You also have an unexpected plus. You have someone who desperately hopes you might come back to them. Most don’t necessarily have that privilege. The additional incentive will hopefully allow you to navigate this quicker.” The shadow adds trying to gauge his reaction.

Nanami again looks doubtfully at the charm. Deep in his heart, wedged away was a little box he hadn’t dared to open or peek at since he locked it away at 16. Even the sheer idea of it felt taboo, and he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on it. But he allowed himself a moment of guilty pleasure, wondering if y/n had received his message by now. What would be your reaction? Shock? Happiness? Would you be crying tears of joy? 

He tries to imagine your face, putting together fragments of the various expressions he had seen during your time together. The lines of dissatisfaction that tugged at the corners of your mouth when he kept saying logistically sorcerers didn’t live very long, the glitter in your eyes when Itadori-Kun brought back a pastry for you, or the melancholic way the tip of your nose turned red when you watched those sad movies when he was teaching you how to channel your energy into the cursed doll. The day you had chosen Sophie’s Choice was a hard day overall, with him coming back from a mission only to see you, Ino-Kun, and Itadori-kun squished together on the sofa, the doll on your lap, all of you with tears in your eyes. 

Would you have cried like that for him after learning about his supposed death? Or maybe it was more intense than that? The kind of ugly crying where one trembles and can’t catch their breath? Or maybe there hadn’t been any crying at all. He shakes his head. He had no evidence that he had meant anything to you at all. The aum charms had been put on Ino-Kun and Itadori-Kun as well. Yet part of him hoped you had felt some kind of grief, that he had meant something to you, even if it was just as your teacher. 

In any case, whether or not you had cried was irrelevant. As the shadow had pointed out, it was thanks to your charm that he was now alive, and that wasn’t a thing to be taken lightly.

“You called it the Trials?” he asks The Mediator, who nods. 

“I will have to send you into another space where you can deal with your regrets. It’s rumored to be inside one’s heart but so far, no one has been able to confirm that. Now remember sorcerer. Once inside, you must look at your regrets, each one, learn the lesson it provides, and accept that you can live, despite having it. This isn’t about coming to terms with your regrets. It’s about understanding that your life isn’t any lesser to live just because you have them.”

Still not entirely convinced he knew what the shadow meant, he nods shakily. 

“Take your time, but don’t dawdle. You don’t have forever. And when in doubt, remember the reason you’re alive right now.”

“Have people have been successful before?”

“Indeed. And went on to live very happy lives, in fact even fuller lives than they had before.”

Nanami feels his pulse quicken. He had more questions but it felt pointless to ask them. As the shadow had pointed out, he was wasting precious neutralized cursed energy. He can feel his earlier dream of dying, of fading away into oblivion, slipping away like water through his fingers. 

“Ready?” The shadow’s silvery eyes gleam at him, waiting. 

With resolve, Nanami nods. It felt daunting, but he knows now he has to try. That there might be things he still needed to experience in the world of the living. 

The Mediator gives him a nod of finality before raising a shadowy limb from its side, looking eerily like the Grim Reaper for a moment, black smoky fingers curling up into its palm. Nanami turned to look behind him, transfixed, as what appeared to be a rectangle of light began to materialize. It had a strange metallic look, and as it grew larger, he could have sworn he heard the faint pulsation of a heart fill the space in the bookstore. Perhaps he really was going into a dimension of his own heart. The thought filled him with wonder, something he hadn’t felt since the loss of innocence during his teen years. 

He knew from a medical standpoint that his heart would be the same as any other human being, but he couldn’t help but try to imagine what it looked like in this dimension. Was it warm? Cold? Would he get a garden or a hospital? Or something more wondrous and complex than either of those? The rectangle finally stops growing and hovers a few inches off the ground and Nanami chances a peek inside. It looked curiously smooth and paved from his position, and appeared to have light reflecting inside it, and again, he heard the undeniable sound of a heart beating, like it was trying to urge him to look inside himself.

“This is where we part, sorcerer. I hope we do not meet again.” The shadow bows to him and Nanami returns the gesture, pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose as he straightened. 

“Thank you for the guidance. I feel a little less willing to die at this moment.”

“That is reassuring to hear. Your initial attitude had me worried. Now go, there isn’t any time to waste.”

Nanami looks at the bright geometric patch before squaring his shoulders and purposefully stepping forward towards the metallic, reflective light. Y/n’s face burns in his mind as the sound of a heartbeat fills his ears and he walks through the door into what lay beyond. 

Once inside, he chances a glance backward and sees the portal sealing off, the briefest glimpse of the shadow creature catching the corner of his eye before it closes into a smooth surface of reflective glass. The dimension is plunged into silence, deafening and slightly unsettling. The blond sorcerer moves forward, taking in his new surroundings, astonished by what he saw.

His Trial was a smooth, long, corridor that appeared to be made of endless panels of mirrors from top to bottom. His shoes clicked on the polished glass as he moved forward. What was he supposed to do? Unlike the Trials that had been described to him, there was nothing here that needed his care or nurturing. He appeared to be alone, with nothing but his reflection for company. He ventures a few steps forward, thinking.

“The scenarios described to me said I needed to take care of whatever I found here,” he mused out loud, continuing to walk, randomly looking up, down, and to the sides where his glass image followed suit. “But I don’t see anything here. Wait, don’t tell me…” he almost laughs aloud, Y/n’s chief complaint echoing in his head. “Is the person I have to take care of myself?” he asks the mirror dimension. 

Immediately, the panel of mirrors on his left changed. While the ceiling, floor, and right wall retained his reflection, the left began to show swirls of color and distorted shapes. Fascinated, Nanami steps closer to the one nearest to him and peers into the glass. The abstract splotches instantly form a crisp image, playing like a scene from a movie and Nanami is astonished at what it shows him. A young boy with a tuft of messy blond hair ran towards a lake in happy abandon, water wings around his thin arms as he splashed in. Nanami’s gut twists as he remembers this day. The day so long ago, when he had learned that things such as curses really did exist, that they were not imaginary misfortunes cast by witches onto unsuspecting people like his storybooks had said. 

He watched his younger self floating at the surface of the water, his family a short distance away as they set up lunch on a picnic table. One of his cousins joins him shortly, giving chase as he lets out a peal of laughter and tries to kick away from him. Knowing what was going to happen, Nanami watched his younger self helplessly as he swam towards the middle of the lake, a brave 6-year-old unaware of the darker things that lurked in places that held negative emotions.

Unbeknownst to his family at the time, a girl had drowned there that past summer, something that Nanami had unearthed years later after this incident had occurred. His younger self now reached the middle of the lake and was suddenly lost, dragged under by an invisible force. The little boy blinks in shock, then opens his mouth and lets out a muffled scream as he sees the ugly curse that had caught hold of his foot. It grins, showing off too many teeth as he struggles, its pale green skin glimmering grotesquely under the watery light before he manages to kick the curse with his foot, swimming to the surface, coughing and spluttering, desperately trying to make his way back to land. His cousin looks at him in confusion as he swims in the opposite direction. 

“Get out of the water! Get out!” The shrill screams echoed off the lake as he finally made it to the edge and hauled himself out, laying on the grass shivering. He watches in panic as his cousin stays where he is, treading water and not making any attempts to come back. His father sprints over to check on the situation looking alarmed.

“Kento, what’s going on?”

“There’s something in the water! Tell aniki to get out!” Younger Nanami practically yells, trying to put distance between himself and the lake. His cousin shrugs, then takes a breath and goes underwater. When he resurfaces, he shakes his head. 

“There’s nothing in here! Kento did you see a huge catfish or something and freak out?” he taunts, a smirk appearing on his face. The blond boy shakes his head no vigorously. 

“There’s something there! I swear!”

“You’re just making things up! If you’re too scared, then stay there, I wanna swim.”

Nanami watches his younger self shrink, drawing his knees up to his chest in terror, watching his cousin swim fearlessly in the water. However, nothing happens. Several minutes pass by before his cousin finally comes back out, hair dripping. “Fraidy cat,” he shoots at him before joining the others at the picnic table. Younger Nanami walks to the table too, determined to get his point across.

“There really was something there!” 

His mother reaches out to pat his head. “It may have been a large fish Kento. It’s ok to admit it startled you,” she says emphatically, and the younger boy’s expression drops. Adult Nanami felt it inside his chest, that feeling of knowing they didn’t believe him, and that it was the beginning of almost a decade of them convinced he was a liar, saying things for attention. Younger Nanami becomes quiet after that, sitting in defeat at the table, the fresh barbeque and corn on the cob tasteless in his mouth. 

What was he supposed to learn from this? Adult Nanami pulls away from the mirror, feeling his heart tighten, feeling sad for the little boy sitting so dejectedly at the table. He takes a deep breath, knowing this was the moment he started to not trust his family, his parents, with any of the things he saw. The curses only worsened from there, almost like because he had seen one, all of them suddenly felt comfortable revealing themselves to him. His chest felt heavy with the grief filling him. The shadow had said to take the lesson from the memory and move on.

He leans against the opposite panel of mirrors, trying to get his feelings into check. Regrets from that day…he regretted scaring his family. He regretted being able to see that curse in the water. He regretted finding out he was different from everyone else that day. And how were these regrets supposed to become reasons to live? He racks his brain. He tried to warn his cousin about the unseen danger. That shaped him into becoming the responsible one in any situation. He had to be aware of what the others couldn’t see. It made him protective. It made him want his students to have a better childhood than he did. Was that it? Him turning into a guardian for everyone around him was a reason to live?

And just like that as the thought came into his head, the mirror began to frost at the edges, becoming more and more opaque as it covered the length of the panel before the memory became fully obscured, no longer visible to his eyes. 

Nanami swallows, still slightly unsettled by what he saw. It had been one thing to experience that as a child, but watching it as an adult, seeing how the people who were supposed to be looking after him brushed away his fears like they were nothing, hurt, even now. Part of him wanted to hug his younger self, to tell him he had become someone that everyone depended on, that someone wished for him to stay alive so hard that she put a neutralizing charm on him and saved his life. 

Was this how the rest of his Trial would be? If the first memory it showed him was this one, Nanami knew it would only get worse from here. His being felt painfully raw after seeing that childhood recollection, and he was unsure if he wanted to see more of that. The events that occurred at Jujutsu High when he was a teenager were unavoidable; he had been prepared for those to crop up based on the conversation he’d had with the shadow, but to see himself defenseless, as a child, with no one on his side was already breaking down his psyche. 

As he gathered his will to push on, he recalled the shadow saying this Trial was so he could face his deepest regrets. Deepest, not every. Could he have possibly found a way to get out of here faster? Nanami knew he had regrets that ran deeper than the day at the lake. If he approached each mirror, he would know which regret it was showing him. What if he could skip over the ones that weren’t as bad and only get to the ones that had really impacted him?

Motivated by the idea, he peeks into the next mirror panel, the colors and shapes coming into focus and he sees himself at 11, seated on the sofa with his parents, his dad looking stern, his mother exasperated. Recalling this event, Nanami quickly walks away from the mirror to the next one. Dealing with his regrets should not involve also dealing with his emotional trauma. That was too much. 

He stands in front of the next mirror and waits for the memory to come into focus. However, to his dismay, the colors remain as jumbled objects colliding with each other, refusing to coalesce. Hoping this was just a coincidence, he moves to the next one and is met with the same view, abstract movements, and blurs of action, refusing to show themselves to him. 

A regret is a regret, no matter how big, perhaps. Or maybe, the mirror dimension had determined what his deepest regrets already were, and he would have to face whatever it threw at him. 

With a sigh of defeat, Nanami turns back and goes to the mirror he was hoping to avoid. His heart was racing at the thought of reliving that day, but he was left with no choice. Once directly opposite to it, he braces himself for the memory. 

“Kento, this cannot go on any further. Your mother and I…we’re at a loss about what to do.”

“I’m sorry otosan.” His 11-year-old self keeps his gaze trained downwards, observing his legs that were swinging off the edge of the sofa. “But I mean it, it was there, trying to hurt my classmate.”

“Kento.” His mother leans towards him. “I am not sure what to believe anymore. These…incidents. These…stories. They’re becoming a more frequent occurrence. The doctors are baffled.”

Nanami’s dad, a man resembling him now in terms of height and build, tsks and shakes his head. “They’ve suggested medications, talking to a therapist-”

“The therapist wasn’t helping. They never believed anything I said.” The small boy appears to shrink a few inches in between his parents, his little fingers now fidgeting with each other as he speaks his words. 

“Kento, the problem is, we’re having difficulty believing you as well.” His mother looks like she’s about to cry and it fills his younger self with guilt, that he’s making her this way over him. “The doctors believe you have schizophrenia. It would explain you seeing things that aren’t there-”

“But they are there,” little Nanami insists desperately, looking at his parents with tears in his eyes. “They’re there, but it feels like I’m the only person that can see them.” He sees the look his parents exchange and feels like his worst fear is being confirmed; that his parents thought he was going crazy.

Adult Nanami steps away from the mirror, feeling sweat on his forehead. He feels his heart hammering in his chest and he slides down the smooth glass onto the floor trying to not fall apart. It was behind him. He had put this all behind him. He had vowed to never remember any of this ever again. It was why his will stated all his possessions should be donated to charity. He didn’t have a family. Had no one checking in on him. No one to visit during the holidays, save the other staff from the school. 

Jujutsu High had been both a blessing and a curse. But Nanami hadn’t felt like he was part of a family in decades. Hadn’t allowed himself to want that simple wish because it hurt too much. The aum charm swings against his leg, a pendulum reminding him of the limited time he has left. He realizes the day spent at the amusement park had been the first time in his adult life that he had allowed himself to indulge in that little fantasy. That the little group he had trained had somehow become his family of misfits. It wasn’t until now that he realized how much he wanted that to become a reality. That he wanted to belong.

Taking deep calming breaths, he gets to his feet, not totally prepared to face the memory again but is astonished to see the mirror has already frosted up, the memory blocked and gone. Admitting he wanted a family…another lesson learned. 

Unsteadily, Nanami moves on, hoping the next memory isn’t as brutal as the first two.  

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[spockandawe]

Double edit: actually, that's enough of that.

Edit: I was expecting maybe thirty notes tops. This is a surprise, and one that doesn't delight me. If I hear about any harassment stemming from this post, I'll be more pissed at the harasser than the person this is about.

God. Dammit.

I hate this, let's just out that out there! I'm unhappy that I'm talking about any of this, I'm unhappy there's an issue that's come up at the intersection of media preservation, respecting authors, and one of my favorite book series. And I'm unhappy that I've censored the names in the screenshots I'm about ti post! I'm not happy that I'm helping to slide consequences away from someone who thought this was an acceptable thing to do to a modern working author. But I'm even less happy this is something that happened in the first place, and I'm VERY unhappy the original post has been deleted without a whisper of accountability or apology.

And here's a partial screenshot of the IA page, which has since been removed. I get the excitement to share something you love with a new audience. This isn't the right way to go about it.

First, if Martha Wells' patreon is still in place, I encourage everyone in the strongest possible terms to go sign up for it. It'll charge you one dollar. I've been a member since probably 2018, and I mistakenly believed it was locked to new members (it's labeled 'Currently Closed To New Patrons') until I had reason to look it up last night, when I tripped across this reddit post from earlier this year.

Now. I was looking it up because of this sudden patreon message:

Even if the patreon goes away, I still recommend that people sign up. Explore the stories! They're very fun! Even though the patreon has been dormant for years, I've loved having that repository in place.

In fact, in the interest of full disclosure, what kept me from immediately reblogging last night is that I've felt the same archival urges! I bound a hard copy of these stories earlier this year, and let me quote my own words from that post:

I live in a state of perpetual low key stress over the impermanence of digital media and that goes extra for sites that aren’t designed to work well as archives. I hope, desperately, that someday Martha Wells publishes more raksura, maybe even including these stories! I will buy it immediately. No thoughts, wallet empty. I own all her other raksura books in literally three formats, fingers crossed that by printing this, I can actualize a formal official printing of these stories by the author 😂

So. Archiving, yes. But especially with a living, working author, I would never DREAM of posting a public free-for-all with IA and mediafire links. My most charitable interpretation is that OP thought it was fine since the stories were "free," even though the writeups acknowledge that access costs a dollar. Ao3 is also free. Reposting someone else's fic is still understood to be a dick move.

Last night i was left kind of stunned, and I was hoping to see some kind of response from op this morning taking responsibility, and was... disappointed to see that the post was just deleted. The IA listing was deleted too, and I hadn't actually looked up the mediafire post yet but I'm guessing it's also been nuked. Out of curiosity, I wanted to see if there was anything more in the comments, so I found a surviving reblog. And there was!

So I'm writing this post because I'm... frustrated. Taking down the files is a good step. Posting them publicly was a worse step, but hey. I still more than understand if Martha Wells still deletes her patreon. I don't understand what sending her files of her own stories is meant to accomplish, but whatever. Ascribing a profit-driven motive is driving me up a wall, though. She's financially stable. I read her email, and what i see is frustration that even though it only cost a dollar to access 62k of her work through her own chosen location, control of her writing is being forcibly removed from her. I'm sure that seeing copies sold by third parties wouldn't help, but I don't think that's the root issue.

This is a fandom-heavy website, I'm sure most of us have seen posts about not reposting art when you can share directly from the artist's blog. I've seen posts about stop copying your ao3 faves over to wattpad just because you like reading there better. At a fundamental level, I read the message from Martha Wells as a deep frustration at having no way to share her creative work without someone removing control of it from her hands. And I don't know if there's any way to really take back that damage.

[malgomy]

new wave dreams

Malleus smiles. You know this smile. In all your time with him, you’ve become intimately familiar with his different smiles. This smile, you fear, spells your doom.

This smile is smug.

“I recall Grim whining about spilled milk on his fur,” he hums, expression deceivingly serene. “Just before he went to sleep, he was telling me about how you have to clean up yet another mess and how dreadfully clumsy his henchhuman is.”

Oh that snitch.

or;

You're clumsy, Ramshackle has outdated appliances, and Grim is incapable of keeping house secrets.

tags: 2.7k words, cross-posted on ao3 under the same name and the same alias. this is my first work on here cries have mercy on me when it comes to formatting, ok. title is from P.U.N.K. Girl by Heavenly

You have a problem.

An issue, a predicament, a conundrum, even.

See, you’ve developed a bit of a … bad habit. Grim is a very deep sleeper and ever since you’ve been thrown into Twisted Wonderland, you are decidedly not. Whether it be unnerving dreams that wake you up or just plain insomnia, you’ve spent many a night kept awake with only Grim’s incessant snoring to keep you company.

And well… it’s not like your stomach stops working either. So maybe it’s not uncommon for you to sneak down into the kitchen and make yourself something to eat, and maybe it’s not uncommon for you to sneak back into your comfortable bed and eat while under the covers. Maybe. 

You’re so used to the sound of boisterous laughter coming from the kitchen in Ramshackle that the dead of night just makes it… eery. Not to mention, the ghosts who live in the dorm have no sense of when is a good or bad time to play a silly little prank on you. Is it really so bad to want the comfort of a wall against your back and blankets trapping your warmth while you enjoy a home cooked meal? 

It’s just that… your hand might have slipped while crawling into bed and you might have spilled your cereal all over your bed while Grim was still sleeping in it. Oops. 

This is where your predicament lies. Grim is now partially awake, bleary eyed and upset at having been woken up at 2 am. Your sheets, comforter, and pajamas reek of milk. Class is at 9 am sharp, and if you leave things the way they are, you have no doubt that your room will reek of spoiled milk.

Which would be fixable, except for the fact that your biggest issue is that Ramshackle doesn’t have a laundry room.

Or… well… it does. Technically. Except you may have smacked the washing machine a little bit too hard to get it started once, and it hasn’t turned on ever since. You’ve been doing your laundry in Heartslaybul with either Ace or Deuce accompanying you ever since.

But that is definitely not an option right now! Let alone the fact that Riddle would undoubtedly take your head if you snuck around and did laundry in his dorm at 2 am, you know for a fact that Ace would have a field day if he found out why your sheets were soaked with milk at this time of night. No, Heartslaybul is certainly not an option.

Which leaves… no options at all. You suppose you could just use the kitchen sink… or maybe the bathtub? 

“I’m not cleaning this,” Grim grumbles. He’s rubbing his eyes and lets out a big yawn. Despite his insistence, he really is more catlike than anything else you’ve ever seen. When he looks up at you with his big blue eyes, you can’t help but forget how annoying he can be. Aw, now you feel bad. 

“I wasn’t gonna make you, d’worry,” you mumble back. There’s no other option, you suppose. You begin peeling the sheets off the bed. It’s heavy, and it doesn’t help that your movements have a certain grogginess to them. Just your luck, you’re starting to get tired after you already made a mess. “I’m gonna head downstairs to clean this, you go back to sleep.”

Grim doesn’t respond to you, so you assume that he nodded off even without your prompting. When you make it downstairs though, you almost trip over him running right past you.

“We’ve got a visitor!” 

You almost drop your clothes to rush over to the window. From your spot in the lounge, you can’t make out what Grim is seeing. “Huh? Who?” 

“Who else visits ‘n the middle of the night?” 

The clothes are unceremoniously dumped in the sink and you rush to the window. Sure enough, green sparks fly around a familiar silhouette underneath your porch.

Talk about bad timing. “I can’t just leave him out there, can I?” 

Grim just shrugs up at you. Ugh, your bleeding heart. How could you leave a friend out in the cold when he came all the way just to see you? The ghosts would scold you for even entertaining the thought. 

With strengthened resolve, you glance out the window one more time. Sure enough, Malleus is still standing on your porch. He’s staring intently at the doorknob, but as soon as you move the blinds, his eyes meet yours. 

You don’t even give him the opportunity to knock.

“And what are you doing out here, unsupervised in the dead of night?” You say in lieu of a greeting. You grin up at him and open the door wide as an invitation to come in. Malleus slips into the foyer, but not without dramatics of his own.

“Might it be that I’m unwelcome into your humble abode?” He sighs, forlorn and melancholic. You’d almost believe that he was hurt, if not for the fond smile he gives to you and Grim and the airiness of his voice. “I suppose I ought to make myself scarce, and hope the loneliness of my dearest friend’s rejection doesn’t take my weary heart.”

“We can’t have you dying yet, now can we? Your retainers would have my head, I fear.” You flick the lights on, and lead the way further in. “Not to mention your family — I can’t have an army sent after me at my delicate age.”

“Oho! So all you care about is your own life? Careful, should you offend me too much, I may very well send the armed guards after you regardless.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes at the dramatics. He’s too attached to you to do anything of the sort. “You’re welcome anytime, just make sure you leave your retainers a note or something.”

“That one guy’s too noisy when he doesn’t know where you are,” Grim grumbles. 

“They should know very well by now to check for me here before breaking out into a frenzy,” Malleus breaks out into a grin, self-satisfied. “I am no babe; they haven’t a reason to fret over me so often.”

Grim lets out a little hmph! at that. “Betcha they're more worried ‘bout what you’re getting up to, going out at night all sneaky-like.”

You all pause for a moment at Grim’s statement. “Y’know Grim, it’s very rare that you say something smart.”

It takes a moment for what you say to process. Grim goes from smiling to attacking your leg in the blink of an eye. 

“Hm, that very well may be it then,” When you glance up at Malleus, all you can describe his expression as is preening. “I trust that your word will be a suitable alibi then, should they assume that I’m up to mischief?”

“Oh I doubt it, with what we’re always up to? They’ll probably assume the worst as soon as you say my name.” A light hum is all that you get in response. Typical, Malleus tends to zone in and out of conversation. You lead him to the lounge with Grim still hanging off your leg, flicking lights on and fixing things up as you go. Everyone’s awake now, so there's no need to go traipsing through the dark. Besides, Malleus’ eyes seem to glow like a cats in the dark, and you don’t feel like going through that heart attack right now.

Malleus sits by the unlit fireplace, picking up a random book from the coffee table. Grim stays behind with him while you take a moment to head into the kitchen, ignoring the pile of sheets you dumped in there in order to grab some fruits. The living arrangements may be poor and decrepit, but never let it be said that you weren’t a good host. When you make it back, the fireplace is lit, and Grim is curled up in front of it. “He asleep?”

Malleus nods. His gaze washes over the fruits before settling on your face. “For me?”

“They’re chilled, but I think I remember you saying you liked ‘em better that way.”

He reaches out for a grape, plucking it from the vine with a delicate hand. He’s just about to pop it into his mouth when he pauses for a moment. “Ah.”

“What?”

“I’m not supposed to eat anything my retainers haven’t cleared first,” he sighs. “Poisoning and the like, you understand.”

You nod in understanding. You’ve never had Malleus decline anything you offered him before, but…

Wait a minute. He’s laughing. 

“That is not true!” You dump the fruits on his lap, leaving him to place them delicately on the table. Malleus hums in amusement as you settle into place by his side. “I can’t tell when you’re joking, it’s not fair.”

“No poison you could get your hands on could harm me,” he says. “Let alone anything you could disguise with the taste of fruit.”

You think he’s joking. Malleus doesn’t force you to respond, content to nurse through the fruit in front of him. He alternates between giving you a handful of berries and popping them into his own mouth.

“Why was Grim awake at this hour? I seem to recall him to be a heavy sleeper, if nothing else,” Malleus murmurs out the question, like it’s not important enough to be articulated properly.

But it is. Because this is embarrassing. There is no way that you are going to reveal to the crown prince of any nation that you spilled cereal all over your bed while Grim was sleeping in it! Not even if you were tortured. 

“Oh! I think he ate the leftover tart from Riddle’s unbirthday party,” you laugh, like a liar. “You know how it is, sugar highs and all that.”

“Really?”

“Mhm,”  you nod. “Must’ve worn off by the time you got here.”

Malleus smiles. You know this smile. In all your time with him, you’ve become intimately familiar with his different smiles. This smile, you fear, spells your doom.

This smile is smug.

“I recall Grim whining about spilled milk on his fur,” he hums, expression deceivingly serene. “Just before he went to sleep, he was telling me about how you have to clean up yet another mess and how dreadfully clumsy his henchhuman is.”

Oh that snitch. 

“It’s not important,” you rush to reassure Malleus. You wave a hand dismissively, hopefully putting an end to the subject matter. “Grim must’ve just been yapping, you know how he is.”

Before you can even process it, Malleus grabs your hand with both of his. Shocked but not uncomfortable, you don’t deign to snatch your hand back. If you didn’t know him any better, you’d say he even looks earnest. “I would be willing to lend you my aid no matter the situation, whether the problem be big or small.”

You can’t stand to look him in the eye like this. “It’s really not that serious.”

“Tell me what is troubling you, I will have it dealt with.”

… ominous. His grip on your hands is loose, his palms warm and dry. If you don’t catch yourself, you might start to lean into him. 

Also… isn’t Malleus… a dorm leader? With access to his dorm’s laundry room? Really, maybe his late night arrival was just the solution to your self inflicted problems. Is it even taking advantage of the situation if he asked you?

With strengthened resolve, you lean in conspiratorially. “Nothing I tell you can leave this room.”

---

As it turns out, Malleus does technically have access to his dorm’s laundry room. Technically.

He just doesn’t know where it is.

“Hornton, aren’t you in your third year?” 

“I’m well aware,” he shoots you a look. Man alive, is he pouting? “I just rarely have a reason to come do laundry myself.”

“It’s ok,” you tell him. Roaming Diasomnia’s halls in the wee hours of the morning with a trash bag over your shoulder filled with milk soaked sheets was never on your bucket list, but at least you have company! Even if the walls are tall and cold, Malleus is like a heater by your side. “We’ll find it together.”

The two of you, notably, do not find it together. 

In your defense, Diasomnia is big. Malleus might know his way around these halls, but you are notorious for your horrible sense of direction. Seriously, you might as well be in a corn maze. 

By the time you’ve scoured what you think is the entirety of the upper levels of Diasomnia, you’re about ready to throw in the towel. Far be it from you to ignore the sweet call of sleep. 

“Malleus, I think we should just leave it,” you murmur. “With the way things are, I’ll be ok sleeping on the ground.”

You would not be fine on the ground, actually. But you are nothing if not a liar and exhausted.

“I suppose we should check the basement before we give up,” he hums.

…

You do not want to check the basement. The apprehension must show on your face, because all Malleus does is laugh. This man laughs at you. 

“Worry not,” he breathes out between chuckles, “I won’t let any harm befall you.”

How comforting.

The door to Diasomnia’s basement is just like the rest of the dorm: cold and tall and imposing. When Malleus reaches out to open it, the door creaks open itself. Creepy.

“Can I let you go down by yourself and I stay up here with the living?” 

Malleus casts you a sidelong glance. “The safest place is by my side.”

You can’t even respond, snarky or otherwise, because he’s not wrong. 

“You go first,” you pat his arm. That way, if anything jumps out at you, he’ll get the brunt of the attack. “I’ll be right behind you.”

When Malleus takes the first step, you think you can hear an ominous thudding. But that’s probably just the paranoia speaking. 

Your descent down the stairs is marked by you cowering behind Malleus and jumping every time you think you feel something ghosting over your shoulders. On the bright side, the basement seems to be well lit with torches. 

When you make it to the bottom, you take a moment to examine your surroundings. It’s an open room, marked with chairs and a stack of baskets lined up against one wall. Along the opposite wall, however, stands the prize that you’ve been searching for all this time. Your long lost lover… 

A row of washing machines.

“Oh finally!” 

You don’t hesitate to run over to the first washing machine you see, tossing the trash bag you’ve been carrying over your shoulder onto the ground as you shed tears of relief. Not literally though, because you can only stand to embarrass yourself so many times in one night. 

Malleus hovers behind you while you punch in the code for the rinse cycle and load the machine. He offers to help, but drops it when you almost bite his hand. No way are you letting him in close proximity to your dirty laundry. Once you’ve finished loading everything up and have slammed the lid to the machine shut, you get up to face him again.

“Well Malleus, I think we did good here today,” you nod, satisfied with the outcome of your journey. “I’m glad we could discover the location of Diasomnia’s laundry room together.”

“Dismissing me already? Humans can be so cruel,” he offers his hand to you, leading you to the seats on the other side of the room. “I believe you still have quite some time left before this load is finished.”

“Don’t remind me,” you whisper. As soon as your back hits the chair, you’re slumped over. It doesn’t help that Malleus is so warm next to you. “I’m exhausted.”

Malleus hums. “Then rest. I’ll wake you when the time comes.”

---

You wake up to your alarm sprawled over Ramshackle’s couch, a gray quilt tucking you so tightly you almost fall off the couch trying to get out of it. 

On the table next to you are your clean folded sheets and a note. 

Thank you for the company last night… I enjoy our time together greatly. I suppose the time to wake you never came. Apologies. 

You don’t think he’s very sorry at all.

[double-u-qed]

10k words of sheer jazzprowl fluff. enjoy! ao3 link here. [which i recommend, seeing as none of my formatting transferred over here and i'm a tiny bit lazy]

Jazz doesn’t think he’s ever been so nervous before; his fingers keep tracing over each other, rubbing patterns into the metal. He trails them along the plates, tugs on some of the exposed wiring — a habit his mentor scolded him for often, always redirecting his attention to something else in an effort to make him quit it. But none of his mentors are here right now, haven’t been for a long, long time, so his fingers stay picking and pulling.

He’s never been to Iacon before, despite it being the capital city-state — the head of operations, so to speak. Home of the Primacy and Senate. It’s a hodgepodge of culture, mechs from far and wide settling down, so you’d think a mech like Jazz would have been there before.

But nope — never been.

So why the hell was the Prime himself of all people requesting his presence?

It didn’t make any sense. Well, it did, but — Jazz was just your regular ol’ cultural investigator, nothing special. It was just a fancy, self-given title as well; a way of saying he went to many places and dabbled in the various cultures, researching them (word to be used lightly). He had to make shanix somehow, and the music by itself wasn’t cutting it; it only made sense then to make a career out of what he likes to do best. It paid enough to keep traveling, to keep experiencing a little bit of everything, and that was what mattered to Jazz most.

How Sentinel Prime of all mechs caught wind of him and his work, he hasn’t a clue. If anything, he would’ve assumed the Prime would hear about him from his skirting of the rules before anything related to his work. He hasn’t exactly crossed that line just yet, but he’s not ruling out the possibility, either. Point is, he had trouble believing it when the message found its way into his inbox.

But as much as he tried, he couldn’t find any sign of forgery or tampering with the letter. It definitely looked legit — enough that, well. Here he is: surrounded by a bunch of fancy city mechs not paying him a lick of attention, optics glued to their screens even as the train halts to a strut-breaking stop. All in all, it’s pretty typical, but Jazz can’t help the nervousness he feels all the same.

How was one meant to conduct themselves in front of the fragging Prime? Closest Jazz has ever gotten is a Senator or two, and even then, it was mostly in passing. He hasn’t the faintest clue as to proper Iaconian etiquette. A smooth, charismatic talker he may be, a mistake is a mistake and would still be all too easy to make.

Too bad he doesn’t have more time to agonize over it. The train eventually reaches its station, the doors opening and mechs beginning to shuffle in and out. It’s a hectic mess, really, all kinds of pushing and shoving happening simultaneously. Jazz is just thankful that he manages to make it out in one piece, squeezing between two doorwingers, a litany of apologies on his lips as he wiggles his luggage through the swarm.

After wandering around lost for longer than he’d like to admit, he does eventually find his hotel. It’s not too shabby, but definitely… gaudier than it has any right being. The berth has little hanging crystals attached to it, strips of silver lining the sides. Jazz can’t help wondering if it’s all a show for tourists; give them a little feel of what it’s like to be so close to the Big Building (name pending) where the Prime resides. The streets were lined with his image, after all.

Thankfully, Jazz didn’t bring too many things with him, making the unpacking process easy enough. Unfortunately for him, that also means he has nothing left to occupy himself with; nothing to keep his mind off the fact his presence is expected real soon — less than a joor, his HUD ever so helpfully supplies.

As limited as Jazz’s knowledge of Iacon is, he’s heard plenty of rumors about Sentinel Prime and the company he keeps close to. (All in hushed whispers, of course; it’d be considered heresy to so loudly denounce a mech chosen by Primus Himself).

Sentinel’s… vain. Lazy. The type to shirk his responsibilities onto someone else, most meetings being conducted by his Right Hand more often than not. From what he’s heard, Jazz feels sorry for the poor mech, even if he was constructed during Zeta’s time for the sole purpose of being an attendant. Can’t be easy being stuck to a mech that doesn’t seem to take anything too seriously.

Speaking of which… slag. The Prime’s personal attendant had plenty of rumors surrounding himself too, none of them too kind. He was apparently a real stickler for rules and regulation, no doubt a fault of his pre-programming. He was detail-oriented, a go-getter, the type where nothing escaped his notice. He operates in the limelight and shadows both, the true iron fist of the Primacy.

If the rumors are to be believed—and they often are to be in Jazz’s line of work—then he’ll more than likely be working closely with the Right Hand for… whatever it is they want Jazz doing.

He was seriously screwed, wasn’t he?

“Oookay, Jazz-Meister; you’ve got this. Nothin’ a little sweet-talking can’t get you out of. Hopefully. I’m sure it’s nothing that important. They’d have the dogs on your trail and at your door in seconds flat if it was like that. Probably.” Thinking on it, there was no telling whether or not they weren’t scoping out the area for him already. Unlikely, but Jazz has long since learned to trust his instincts at the first sign of trouble.

It’s just that — they haven’t detected anything. And it’d be rude, maybe even enough for a court-martial, to ignore the summons even more than he already has.

Whining some more to himself, spark set on a path of shaky, nervous revolutions — he sets off for the biggest building of them all.

It’s… no better than his hotel room, adorned in gold and the shiniest of metals, the archways crystalline. Reaches straight out to the sky, proud and — intimidating. Foreboding and imposing, and any other words to say that it was fragging distracting as all get out. Two larger-than-life statues of Sentinel himself sat in the courtyard, of which is fenced off and surrounded by guards no doubt armed to the nines.

Jazz swallows down the bitter taste in his mouth, hands fluttering at his sides as he steels his resolve. They haven’t done anything, so surely that’s a good sign, right?

“’Morning,” he greets them, giving a nod. “I have an appointment with the Prime? Or one of his attendants, I’m not too sure, the letter didn’t specify.”

The guards stationed directly in front of the gate don’t move, but their optics do slide over to each other at the same time. Turning back to Jazz as one, they simultaneously ask, “Designation?”

Unnerved, Jazz stumbles over his words. “Uh, Jazz. Jazz of Staniz.”

“Designation acknowledged. Permission granted. An escort will be with you shortly; proceed.”

Thoroughly creeped out now, Jazz just flashes them a smile and pretty much scurries away, glad to be gone from their penetrating gaze.

True to fashion, the escort practically pops up out of nowhere, suddenly at his side and taking him by the elbow, leading him further into the—palace? It was practically a palace, all regal staircases and spacious rooms to host plenty of mechs in power. The front room alone was bigger than any place Jazz had ever stayed in, that was for sure.

“Wait here,” the small, red bot dragging him around says once they enter a conference-esque room. “Sentinel Prime himself will be here in a moment. In the meantime, do help yourself to any of the refreshments provided.” With that, they give a small bow before leaving.

“You call these refreshments?” Jazz asks no one in particular as he takes a seat. The treat in his hand is a spiky little thing, brittle and dusted with something he doesn’t recognize. Whatever it is, it sparkles and emits a soft glow. “How does a treat manage to be so flashy?”

Chucking it back into the bowl, Jazz leans back a bit, eyes roaming over the place. “Better yet, is everything just like that here?”

Somehow the place didn’t feel very lived in. It was personalized all right — you couldn’t take more than a few steps before running into various things with Sentinel’s image memorialized — yet somehow empty and devoid of life. Maybe that was just how rich mechs lived, with their big, fancy places.

Either way, it sure did make Jazz feel sorely out of place, shifting around awkwardly in his seat. Primus, was it ever quiet here. There was too much junk to make the noise echo, but the sound of his fingers tapping out a little diddy against the table still sliced right through the silence. Not in the good way, either, his fingers curling back into his hand after a mere klik or two of making noise. That left bouncing his left up and down and humming to himself, but even that got old soon enough.

The boredom was about to kill him when the door finally opened again, the mech of the hour and another strolling on through. Strange — Jazz would’ve expected more personnel to be by Sentinel’s side.

Ducking his head a bit to avoid Sentinel’s gaze as the larger mech seats himself across from him, Jazz’s attention is captured by the other mech that came in. He’s on the shorter side — still taller than Jazz, though. His posture belies his caste, all elegant and proud. His paints consist of white and black, his face covered by a full battle mask, and his doorwings fanned out behind him.

Now, Jazz may not be able to see much of the mech’s face, but he can make out the way the mech visibly hesitates for a moment when they make eye contact, doorwings going unnaturally still as he looks at Jazz. And he’s — glaring. He’s glaring, not just staring. His optics are furrowed, his hands suddenly being clasped together behind him as he stands by the door, turning his head to the side sharply, practically severing the contact.

Ah. The rumored personal attendant.

His behavior wasn’t too odd, then; Jazz was well aware of how he looked. His paint hadn’t been redone in a few orns, chipped and dulled all over. Public transit had never really been Jazz’s thing, deeming it a waste of good shanix, making both his modes rather susceptible to pieces of small debris scratching the surface.

Strangely though, Sentinel seems bothered by his Second’s hesitation, raising an optic ridge in his direction. He even eyes the mech up and down before rolling his eyes with an exasperated huff of air when his attendant failed to say anything. Huh.

Turning back to Jazz, the Prime is quiet for a moment. A long moment, actually. Too long. Uncomfortably long. Jazz just hopes his face isn’t giving away his building restlessness.

Sentinel places an elbow on the table, hand to his face as he finally says, “I’ll make this quick — I’m a very busy mech, after all. I need your expertise for the gala I’m hosting tonight. We’re attempting to establish better relations with one of our distant colonies; it’s said you know a thing or two about their customs. I’m sure you get where this is going.”

That — wasn’t quite what Jazz envisioned. He blinks. “I- yes? I think so?”

“Great!” The Prime gives the table a bit of a slap—Jazz can’t help his flinch—splaying his hands out as if to say problem solved. “Glad that’s been taken care of, I hate having to give long explanations. Always admirable, a mech that’s quick on the uptake. Now — you’re to remain here for the foreseeable joors until this whole thing is done with. Direct any of your questions to Prowl over there.”

That takes the other mech—Prowl—just as aback as it does Jazz. Only difference is the amount of exasperation the other manages to exude while somehow keeping his tone reasonably respectful. “You won’t be staying, Sir?”

Sentinel snorts. “Primus, no. You’re the one who recommended this mech to help us; you debrief him. I have a whole day spent agonizing over which of which looks better despite them being the exact same. This is why I hate galas so much.”

Unlike the Prime, Prowl doesn’t seem as keen on acting so lax and improper around an outsider. His words are carefully—and rather pointedly—chosen. “I’d hate to waste your time any further, then. Do take care, Sir; I’ll handle things from here.”

The Prime just raises his hand in a rather dismissive way of parting, the mech continuing to grumble to himself as he exits the room.

If Jazz was a lesser mech, he’s sure his jaw would be on the floor. As it stands, he whips his head around to stare at Prowl, disbelieving in what just happened. It- it all happened so fast. Jazz said less than a sentence! Sure, he was told that Prowl would be handling things, but that — that was just inconsiderate!

Undeterred, acting as if such a thing was a regular occurrence, Prowl takes a seat in the now abandoned chair, unsubspacing a datapad. He glances up at Jazz after a moment of simply scrolling, and it’s — tense? No, that’s not quite right. It’s… it couldn’t be. Could it?

Just as quickly, the doorwinged mech looks away, attention resolutely on the screen of his datapad as he begins to fill in Jazz on the full set of details.

“As Sentinel informed you, tonight is a crucial event for the establishment of our ties to other ruling colonies in the area. Any information you can provide would be deeply appreciated, seeing as we have had little contact with those a part of this colony ourselves.”

The cultural investigator tries to listen, giving his input here and there where needed, but his mind keeps wandering. He’d almost believed for a moment that the look from before had been timid, almost shy, but as the more time passed, the more he was certain he must’ve been mistaken. The rumors, as well; Prowl wasn’t nearly as cold as they made him out to be. He was just awkward if anything.

Only…

Prowl takes him all around the building, never once losing his rigid stance, doorwings not even so much as twitching. The most damning thing of all is his outright refusal to look at Jazz head-on. He’ll get close, their optics almost locking, before settling his gaze on something just a little above Jazz’s eyes. It’s puzzling if Jazz has to be honest.

But you didn’t get to be a cultural investigator without accepting the fact some people act in ways you might not initially understand, so he just chalks it up to being how Prowl normally is. Or maybe it’s a custom from wherever he’s from. That would make sense, actually. Ah, wait — did that make Jazz rude for trying to get the other to look at him? It probably did, didn’t it.

Feeling thoroughly chastised even though it’s just himself he’s arguing with, Jazz puts the matter to rest. He’s here on business, after all.

That’s why he is most definitely not staring when the other suddenly pulls up his mask in the middle of talking, revealing icy-blue eyes and a thin, narrow face. It just — surprises Jazz is all, considering he seemed adamant about wearing it the entire time before.

It’d be rude to stare, so he turns away.

Catching his eye, Prowl lowers his gaze, looks up at the lip of the mask still hanging overhead, casting shadows on his face, then stops walking, prompting Jazz to stop as well. “Standard procedure,” he explains, gesturing to his face. “It’s a safety precaution. Forgive me for not taking it off sooner; I have a tendency to get wrapped up in my thoughts to the point of being negligent of my surroundings. I didn’t realize it was still there until my fans pinged a warning about overheating.”

“’S all good,” Jazz is quick to assure, tapping a finger on his visor. “Just didn’t know if it was something cultural or not, didn’t want to assume or cause offense.”

Prowl seems to consider that in that silent way of his Jazz was beginning to pick up on. It wasn’t obvious that he was updating his files, if not for the way his focus seemed to dim, returning with a couple of blinks. Then he’s all nods, and they continue on their way.

The Prime’s attendant is once again in the middle of explaining something when he suddenly goes quiet, words trailing off. A frown mars his face, minuscule as it is. It’s contemplative, a stylus tapping against the screen of his to-do list. He closes his eyes as Jazz twists his body around to step in front of him.

“Something wrong?” asks Jazz when the silence stretches on.

“Not wrong, per se… Just.” Prowl’s face screws up, the most emotion Jazz has seen on it so far. He taps two of his fingers against his lips. “Sentinel decided most events of the banquet would be left to you.” Blunt, precise. “The event planning itself will mostly be done by himself, but matters are to be overlooked by you before being approved. It’s a lot of work.”

Those icy eyes bore into him, his words seemingly ending there.

Jazz stares back into those unblinking eyes, noting the way Prowl’s grip on his datapad has tightened.

Feeling brave and a little risky, Jazz asks, “Sentinel not trust your word on such matters?”

A bit of pride makes his spark spin a little faster when Prowl actually looks relieved, doorwings lowering a bit. “No,” he says, voice still monotone but holding a little mirth. “He doesn’t. Says a mech constructed cold wouldn’t know a thing about foreign matters, least of all me.”

That gets Jazz’s attention. “How so?”

“Lack of experience,” Prowl says, shrugging. “I was made with the purpose of helping out the Primacy shortly after Sentinel was added to their ranks. I’ve never had the time to experience anywhere but Iacon, really.”

“Not even Praxus?”

“Petrex, actually,” Prowl corrects, bobbing his head a bit as if he was used to having to say it. “And no, I’m afraid. So as you might imagine, there is some truth to Sentinel’s words.”

“But you have something to say anyway, I’m guessin’. Well, let’s hear it,” Jazz says, happily relinquishing some of the control and order over to the other. Planning’s never been his thing, and honestly, this entire thing has left him dizzy. It’s just a little too surreal to be real, no matter how often he bumps his leg against a wall. “Not like I have a completely clear idea of what I’m doing.”

He thought that was encouraging, but if anything, Prowl looked slightly distressed and put off by his words. He glances around them, chewing on a lip.

“Sentinel won’t like it,” he weakly tries to argue. “He doesn’t take too well to some of my ideas, despite leaving most of the work to me. I’d hate for you to be blamed if it doesn’t go over well.”

“You don’t stay as acting attendant for so many vorns without knowing a thing or two.” Jazz grins a Cheshire grin, gently tugging one of those white hands free of its death grip. “C’mon, I won’t tell. I’m sure that big brain of yours has already concocted a whole list of ideas on what to do, so tell me. I trust ya. Pretty pleeeease?”

The attendant stares openly at their clasped hands, making Jazz falter a bit in his enthusiasm, dropping it a little awkwardly. It’s — well, it’s not like he could read the other’s field before this, but now he can’t even get a single hint of what’s going on with him. His face is so impassive as he gives a small nod.

But even as everything seems all fine and business again, Jazz’s hand remains feeling a little cold, his stomach clenched in apprehension.

The gala comes and goes, miraculously being pulled off in the haphazard bit of time they had to spare. It’s not the worst party Jazz has ever been to, either. The foreign guests are a delight, laughing at his jokes and sharing bits of their culture with him that he commits to memory. The band Sentinel hired even lets him play for a bit, even if though it’s a less fancy and richly prestine song than they’re probably used to hearing.

It’s a good time overall, every mech looking happy. Even Prowl.

The battle mask is on once again, obscuring most of his face. But he’s so relaxed as he chats with his company, doorwings moving, even laughing.

He looks so… at home. So peaceful, elegant. Not at all stiff and awkward, adverse to any and all attention.

That is, he’s perfectly at ease until Jazz comes by, wanting to thank the mech for all of his help. Then, he’s a mirror of before; doorwings pulled up high, unmoving, face blank, but eyes furrowed behind the tinted glass of his mask. Jazz would almost think he’s concentrating, if it weren’t for the way his plating is pulled in tighter, tense.

It makes Jazz slow down a bit, his smile slipping. He’s not used to being hated — because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Him being hated. Prowl had no problems looking the other mechs in the optics, didn’t seem to care when one of the governors from the distant colony put a hand on his arm, tugging on in as they told a story. The only explanation then is that Jazz has done something to upset him. But he came over here for a reason, and he intends on seeing it through. It’d be rude of him not to.

“Thanks,” he says, getting closer. “Never did get to ask you why or how you chose me in particular for somethin’ as big as this, but — thanks. It was fun, if a little hectic. Not what I’m used to usually helping out with.” He chuckles a bit, hoping to ease the tension a bit.

The other’s words are much more clipped, precise and to the point. “I was only doing my duty. It pays to know who is skilled in what is required. You were a big help tonight, so it is I, who should be thanking you.”

Despite himself, Jazz can’t help grinning a giddy grin. He attempts to play it off, hiding it behind the rim of his drink, pretending to take a sip from it. He doubts he succeeds. “Skilled, huh. Didn’t think I was skilled enough for the Prime’s Second to know of me.”

It’s minute, barely there, but Jazz swears the mech manages to just — stop altogether, a little hiss of air being pulled in through teeth. No doubt, it only means something bad, Jazz’s posture slipping back into something only half-relaxed, all cheeriness gone.

“Yes, well,” Prowl’s once again not looking Jazz directly in the face, “as I said: it pays to know. As the one who oversees most of Sentinel’s duties, it is my job to keep track of any names that come up often in conversation.” Now he’s staring down at his own drink, scuffing his peds against the ground as his fingers fidgeted against each other. “Senator Shockwave speaks fondly of you,” he mumbles.

That surprises Jazz. “Really? We’ve only spoken a few times, though…” None of those times particularly stood out, either.

Prowl nods a little more eagerly than before. “Fleeting as it was, your interaction left an impression on him. He was quite impressed with your endeavors and accomplishments, awed with the amount of places you’ve been to.”

It looks like he wants to say more, subtly shifting his weight. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything more at all, merely dismissing himself politely with a bob of wings. It doesn’t escape Jazz’s notice that his doorwings only raise once he’s on the other side of the room, swept up in the crowd of mechs dancing.

And like that, Jazz sees no more of him for the rest of the night.

The next time Jazz met Prowl, it was long after Sentinel Prime’s reign. He’d almost forgotten about the mech entirely, but then, the war happened and things changed. Jazz changed. Mechs kept getting hurt, places kept getting bombed and raided. It hurt, seeing the people and planet he loved be torn apart. It was dying, their planet. Slowly poisoned and unable to sustain itself the way it used to, public transportation lines in ruins and whole cities demolished.

No longer could he safely travel from place to place, playing songs of old and new. There was simply too much death, too much destruction, no matter how much the newly-appointed Prime tried to avoid it.

He was a good spark, Optimus. Enough that Jazz felt sure in his sudden decision to enlist in the faction he had formed. He doubted there was much someone like him could do, but hey; it didn’t hurt to try. If he was truly so knowledgeable of their planet that even Sentinel Prime had paid some notice, he wanted to put those skills to use. People always did say he was a mech of the people, and maybe that was needed right now.

So here Jazz is, lined up and waiting for inspection. His application had already gotten him through the preliminary round, so now it was time for the real test to begin.

As he expected, Prowl himself was the one conducting the inspections, even though it was rather tedious, menial work. Not really something befitting of a mech perfectly constructed for a broad variety of political work. The sight of him and his datapad is enough to make Jazz’s lip quirk in a half-baked smile. Working with the mech even just once had taught him how important control and certainty were to him, down to the very last detail. Though in the case of Sentinel, that was probably more out of a necessity than anything else. Vorns of that kind of work probably left Prowl a little more than distrustful of their new Prime.

All the other mechs in line are nervous, some even mumbling rather profane things about the Second in Command, glancing at him from above cupped hands. Cowards are too afraid to say it any louder than a whisper though. What they didn’t seem to get, however, was just how sensitive a Praxian’s doorwings can be. Careless fraggers didn’t seem to notice the subtle twitches in Prowl’s wings, making Jazz’s smile turn into a smirk he had to hide behind his hand.

Staying in Praxus and other city-states predominately populated by door-winged mechs on more than one occasion had made him rather familiar and acquainted with the various tells of a mech’s doorwings. And boy were Prowl’s wings expressive if you knew what to look for. Jazz was pretty sure he was even cursing behind that stoic demeanor he seemed to be pre-programmed with, attention on his datapad as he cussed them out. Dignity and keeping up appearances were perhaps the only things keeping him from saying such things out loud.

When the Praxian gets closer to where Jazz is, the ex-cultural investigator sees the exact moment the other truly notices he’s there. Disappointingly, not much has changed. Only this time, Prowl doesn’t have a battle mask to properly guard the small changes in his expression.

His optics flickered to where Jazz was, his lips slackening a bit as he blinked. He tilts his head a bit — more when Jazz flashes him a million-watt smile with a coy little way. It’s hard to tell what, but Jazz sees him mouth something to himself before he—rather stiltedly—turns back to the mech he’s meant to be inspecting, blinking a couple times more. Jazz can’t help snickering.

It’s still pretty obvious he’s staring whenever he can, though, as much as he wants to act like he’s fulfilling his job perfectly. Not quite in an apprehensive way, it’s almost — curious? A little wide-eyed and innocent, even if the corners of his mouth are pulled in tight, riddled with stress, straining.

Maybe Jazz hadn’t been mistaken in thinking that night hadn’t been so bad between them, after all.

“Jazz,” Prowl says, bowing his head a little in greeting once he’s standing right in front of him. It’s the very definition of polite, if it weren’t for the datapad he’s ever so intentionally hidden behind, pretending to look busy.

Jazz can’t help the way his spark sinks a little at that. Try as he might, he can’t think of a single thing that would have the Praxian reacting like this in his presence. Sure, he probably wasn’t exactly Prowl’s typical cohort, nor first choice of company, and the mech didn’t seem very social by nature, but…

Whatever. One way or another, Jazz wasn’t going to-

“I see that you expressed an interest in covert operations. Special Ops. May I ask why?” Those icy optics pin him in place, glowing bright as Prowl’s eyes go a little wide, tiny rings of lenses rotating as he studies him.

“That’s not the type of question you’ve been asking the others,” Jazz notes, confused and a little shaken off course, something he isn’t used to. He’s always been known to blurt out rather careless things when nervous, which is exactly why he doesn’t do nervous, not in things like this. “Aren’t you supposed to like, ask about combat training? Background? How serious I am about this? Things like that?”

Oops. Was that insubordination? It sure sounded like it, no matter the fact Jazz wasn’t enlisted yet and this wasn’t his superior. Yet.

Jazz might even be fooling himself, but he swears Prowl’s death grip on his datapad tightens even further. The mech lowers his gaze, raising his datapad a little higher, hiding behind it. Perhaps subconsciously, he puts a bit of distance between them, as if literally trying to un-step over some unseen boundary. “Yes, that is normally the case. My apologies.”

That… that felt wrong. Prowl was in way too high of a position to be apologizing to him so — so submissively. It felt weird, not at all fitting in with the paradigm Jazz had shoved the other mech into. Plus, it’s not like he was offended or anything, he just wasn’t sure what to do with that outlier of a question.

In a rush, he struggles to get the other to stop subtly slipping away, to stop curling away from Jazz. “No, no, it’s- it’s fine… Just a lil’ confused, is all…”

It’s awkward. Primus, take him now, it’s so awkward. Why were things always chock-full of silences and the oddest of surprises when it came to this mech? Jazz never has trouble talking! Socializing is what he’s all about! He loves meeting new people, but this guy — somehow this guy takes everything off-course, which is a rather amazing feat for someone so structured.

Shifting on his peds, Jazz tries to spare the mech who has now begun glaring at some speck over his shoulder, looking… ashamed? Hell, was it ever hard to get a read on this guy. “I guess — I just thought somethin’ like that would be a good fit for me? Dunno if there was really a reason behind it. I know a lot about different frametypes, different people. Figured it’d be helpful in pulling off stealth missions to have a mech onboard that can give a few pointers like that.”

“An acceptable and admirable answer.” The way Prowl says it is careful, as if there were a million things he was trying not to suddenly blurt out. It almost sounds like the words were forcefully pulled out from between clenched teeth. It really didn’t suit him, nor the constructed image of him Jazz had once again formed from the many press conferences shared on the news. He always seemed so regal, so poised in those clipped, reciting lines like a mech made for the job.

From there, the rest of the inspection carries on pretty normal. Jazz even manages to impress the Praxian with his scores on the physical tests, even if he doesn’t say as much. It’s only the barest hint of a swooping motion in his doorwings that gives him away, and that probably only happens at all because Jazz is so far away — most wouldn’t have caught it from this distance.

Really, what does it take to get on this mech’s good side? The other mechs around seemed to be thinking something similar, elbowing Jazz and demanding to know what he’d done to get such a reaction. It’s all light-hearted, but Primus does it make Jazz feel a little miserable. They acted like this measly morsel of attention was the holy grail when, to Jazz, it was hardly anything at all. He’d seen what a relaxed Prowl was like, what he was capable of emoting.

Sitting on the sidelines as the inspections carry on, Jazz observes Prowl. None of the strange behavior is present when he interacts with the other enlisted Autobots, face light while his doorwings say all kinds of things. Some of it manages to get Jazz to smile. It’s a dry kind of humor and wit, the insults he says in everything but words. He’ll tilt his head slightly when someone asks a question he deems dumb; will close his eyes and stand up even straighter when disappointed in someone’s answer to his question.

A few times the Praxian glances Jazz’s way, unmoving as Jazz flashes him a smile just for the sake of being a little annoying. It’s there that Jazz decides he wants to understand this mech a little bit better, wants to make him shed that standoffish nature that seemed to have only gotten worse in the tides of war. He’s just so fascinating, not at all like any other Praxian Jazz has met before.

Inspecting his newly added badge in a mirror, he supposes he’ll have plenty of chances and many things to try.

More vorns go by, and Jazz’s progress is… well. It exists if you know how to look at it.

Prowl has clear, practically visible boundaries with the way he declines offers and separates himself in his office, and the last thing Jazz ever wants to do is cross those in his attempts to befriend the mech. So he starts slow, merely leaving cubes of energon on the other’s desk, nothing more. It’s a bit of a peace offering too, giving Prowl the chance to decline it and make it clear he has no intentions of becoming Jazz’s friend. If so, the saboteur will gladly back off. He might not be used to being hated, but he knows you can’t force these things.

Surprisingly, Prowl always takes him up on the offer, not quite smiling but tilting his head downward in gratitude, not really lifting it all the way back up until Jazz is gone.

His relations with the other Autobots weren’t terrible, but Prowl still didn’t seem particularly close to anyone. Solitude was what he preferred, though the line between voluntary solitude and pure negligence was a thin one. Mech tuned out the entire world when he became focused on something, snapping at anyone who dared pull him away. Not in an overtly aggressive way, mind you, but sometimes if someone pushed a little too far it got to that point. He was always like that when it came to solving any sort of puzzle or fully understanding something that caught his attention, and it didn’t matter if you were friend or foe.

It was rather odd; then again, maybe friendship was just defined differently in Prowl’s book as a whole. It was clear Ratchet, Optimus, and Red Alert all adored him in their own ways, and Prowl both respected and appreciated them in turn.

Ratchet would gently prod and nag at him, but treated him with kindness all the same, never raising his voice. He seemed to get that Prowl didn’t do well with loud noises, easily overwhelmed when there was too much stimuli to keep track of. It’s what made the medbay so hard for him, with its extra bright lights and thrumming machinery. Plenty of medics would try to get Prowl to come in for maintenance, but so far, only Ratchet had a record of succeeding.

Red Alert and him were cut from a similar cloth, meticulous and a little overbearing when it came to their work and protecting everyone. They understood each other without having to say anything, making each other’s jobs easier in a way that even Jazz struggled with.

As for Optimus… Optimus loved everyone, accepting their flaws and all. But he truly valued Prowl in a way that Sentinel didn’t never had, Prowl practically beaming in that subtle way of his whenever Optimus looked to him for input.

Why Jazz seemed to be an outlier remained unclear. And it continued to be murky, until the whole Earth thing.

Everyone got closer to each other the second they came back online and understood their situation, homesick and so small in numbers. They were all they had left of home. They were busier too, trying to maintain their fickle relationship with the humans in power at amicable status. Prowl in particular became swamped with work, prompting Jazz to increase his efforts to get the mech to just relax.

Thus lay the issue — mech didn’t seem to know the meaning of the word, continually rigid, words dismissive and solely professional when it came to Jazz.

“Is it just a Praxian thing? Or does the guy really hate me that much?” Jazz asks, voice pitching up into a whine as he drapes himself over Smokescreen’s desk, giving a big, feline-like stretch. “He hates meeeee… Wants me deeeeeaaaad.”

Looking up from his online game (which was a total violation of on-duty protocol), Smokescreen gives him a confused look of pinched face plates. “Who? Prowl?”

“Yesssss.” Jazz sinks further into the desk, becoming one with it. His words come out muffled, face pressed into the surface. “Talk about mixed signals. One moment I think he might like me decently enough, the next I’m certain he wants me dead where I stand. Is it me? Am I the issue?”

Smokey’s silent — too quiet. It makes Jazz roll over a bit, raising an optic ridge (not that Smokescreen can see it). That was a perfect opening for his friend to say, ‘always, Jazz. You’re the biggest nuisance I know.’ Smokescreen wasn’t one to pass on such openings, either, hence the confusion.

Smokescreen looks… full of mirth? His gaze is up to the ceiling, a hand covering his mouth, shoulders shaking a bit.

“Have you, I don’t know, tried asking him directly?”

Okay, that definitely sounded like stifled laughter in the other’s voice. Like the tone of a mech that knows more than he’s letting on.

Still, Jazz is feeling miserable, so he’ll gladly bite if it means getting the chance to vent a bit. “No,” he says glumly, kicking a ped against the desk for the added effect. “I thought about it, but it didn’t seem right. We’re Prime’s Third and Second, y’know? It’d be awkward, laying it all out. Can’t risk damaging morale if it ends up ugly. And he really does dislike me.”

No, Jazz wasn’t imagining it; Smokescreen snorted, pressing the hand a little tighter against his mouth.

“You’re… really not used to that, are you?”

And, well. That was a problem Jazz was trying not to address. Having it said so bluntly makes him pout a bit. “Maybe not before, but now it’s a little more common.”

Smokescreen sobers up a bit, field twinged with sympathy. “Oookay, that’s an issue you and I are gonna have to sort through at a later time. But what I want to know is, why do you care? What makes Prowl such an outlier you feel the need to sit here and whine to me about it instead of taking action?”

“I don’t know!” Jazz exclaims, plopping himself back down, raising his arms up to Primus Himself. “Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t try to hide it?”

“Hide what?”

Jazz scowls. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Yeup,” Smokescreen says, leaning back and grinning. “It’s annoying, isn’t it? Me making you admit that you’ve got a problem you don’t know how to fix.”

“I hate you.”

“Then get out of my office.”

“No,” Jazz says, all the world’s petulance in his tone as he settles back down on Smokescreen’s desk. “Your desk is a lot comfier than mine. And you’ve got games. Lots of them.”

“Am I at least an added bonus?”

“Not when you’re yapping and pullin’ my leg so much, no. Not even a little.”

“You wound me, Jazz,” Smokescreen dryly retorts, turning his gaze back to his handheld. When there’s the telltale death jingle, he merely sighs, putting it aside as he studies Jazz a bit. It makes the saboteur squirm, that level of scrutiny. More so when Smokescreen’s got that psychiatrist look to his eyes.

Giving up the charade, Smokescreen smirks, leaning in close enough to poke Jazz in the nose. “Oh, you cannot be serious. Who knew you of all people could be so dense.”

Jazz frowns. “What do you mean?”

But the junior tactician wasn’t listening, muttering under his breath, “Hate you?” He shook his head a bit, chuckling. “Jazz — the mech practically trips over his own peds whenever you enter the room. He’s a real bumbling idiot when someone so much as says your name, suddenly all eyes and ears like some kind of organic pet being brought food.”

The saboteur sits up straight, not caring at all that he manages to knock a pad clean off the desk. He ignores Smokescreen’s indignant little ‘hey!’ when it clatters to the floor. “No, that- that can’t be right. Prowl doesn’t—”

“Do romance?” His friend finishes, raising an optic ridge. His grin was still there, but it seemed slightly forced now. It’s that look he gets sometimes whenever he’s stepping on rough terrain, knowing a little too much about the bots on base. “Listen, Jazz — I know that you’ve technically known Prowl longer than I have, but you don’t work directly under the mech. And apparently, you’re fragging oblivious to what’s been obvious to us all.” When that only gets him a blank stare, he shakes out his hands for emphasis. “The wings, Jazz, the wings!”

“W-“

Jazz doesn’t get to finish, the door suddenly opening, stealing both of their attention. And low and behold, there was Prowl, nose stuck in reports as he swiftly made his way through, none the wiser.

“Smokescreen, have you looked over the governor of Oregon’s request yet? I-“

He pauses once he notices said person is in the middle of something. It doesn’t escape Jazz’s notice the way his gaze flicks to him, the way he’s seated, before going back to Smokescreen. It could be an illusion, but Jazz swears the mech takes a small shuffle backward, trying to shield himself partially with the report in his hand. His faceplates looked slightly darker too, optics giving a small flicker, in, out.

“Is… this a bad time?” He’s addressing Smokescreen when he asks, making a point of avoiding looking at Jazz. But his wings — those fucking wings!

Jazz’s jaw could hit the floor. It’s — it’s barely there, barely anything at all, but when you’re actively looking it for, it’s rather obvious; Prowl’s doorwings droop a bit as he says the words, his left foot pulled back as if to pivot on out. His helm is lowered and — yep; he’s sneaking glances at Jazz out of the corner of his eye, nervously tapping his fingers against the side of his datapad.

Oh, Primus — it really was rather obvious, wasn’t it? Like, really, really obvious. The mech was shy. Ridiculously shy. Prowl! That had to be wrong, right? Prowl didn’t- oh. Oh. He didn’t do romance because Jazz was there and not romancing with him. Prowl was rather old-fashioned in everything, so why not this as well?

Snickering quietly, Smokescreen gives him a hard clap on the back that makes him stumble and almost fall off the edge of his desk. He ignores the glare Jazz sends his way, his tongue sticking out. Turning to Prowl, he’s all smiles and politeness, cheeky fragger.

“Nope, not at all, no worries. Jazz and I were just discussing some business, nothing important. And as for your earlier question — yep! Looked it over and ran the numbers myself. Should be all good to go.”

“That’s…” Prowl purses his lips a bit, face pinched and crinkled in thought. It looked… pained. Like he didn’t really want to say the words coming out of his mouth. “That’s good. Thank you.”

“I- uh.” Jazz points towards the door, because it’s clear Smokescreen has no intention of helping him out. “Go.”

That same, little droop. “If it’s because of me-“

“Nah,” Jazz says, cutting him off. And it isn’t. Not completely. Just — not for the reasons Prowl might be thinking. “Like Smokey said: it wasn’t that important. Just a little banter. Your report, on the other hand…”

The tactician looks down at said report, almost as if he had forgotten why he came into the room at all. Again, his face screws up into something rather odd. Indecisive. “It-“

-can wait. But Prowler’s always been a logical, by-the-books kind of mech, never selfish. The words die there, his lips pursed as he stops himself, blinking harshly as he lowers his gaze.

It almost gets Jazz to stay. Almost. His head’s a little too full of discoveries for that, needing some space to simply breathe. Primus. How long had everyone on base known? And why didn’t they tell Jazz? It’s not like he was some serial dater or anything! He wouldn’t react badly!

But… how does he feel about Prowl? He doesn’t know. He’s never had to think past his own wounded ego before, so fixated on the fact the Praxian seemed to only treat him differently.

Maybe. Maybe that was part of the problem. If Prowl was really that shy, no wonder nobody wanted to spoil things for him.

Jazz pauses.

The mech had been flirting with him from the beginning. All those times he would suddenly blurt out an unrelated question, sheepishly apologizing when questioned about it. He was trying to get to know Jazz better.

That. That changed some things — a lot of things. It answered some things too, but that seemed rather trivial right now.

Prowl — Prowl had a crush on him. Him.

A hand comes up to rest against Jazz’s mouth, his head turned and making eye contact with his own reflection. He didn’t remember making it make to his hab, nor entering his washracks.

He was even more startled to find himself smiling.

Valentine’s was. A holiday. A great holiday, even. Jazz was always stoked for it, showing his appreciation for everyone on base in the little things, such as giving them little pieces reminiscent of their home back on Cybertron. From treats to playing music — he had it all. It reminded him what he had loved about being a cultural investigator so much, his spark full and warm whenever people thanked him.

This year… It wasn’t like Jazz was any less excited, far from it. The problem was…

“Woah, either you’re really deep in thought, or you want to kill Blaster right now. Which is it?”

“Thinking, so go away before I catch your disease.”

Smokescreen, damn him, only presses in closer, making an utter mockery of Jazz’s threat. “Hmmm, I don’t doubt that—the thinking bit, just to be clear—but it really does look like you want to tear Blaster apart right now. Last I checked, he was your second best friend—with me being the first, of course—so now I need to know why. Though,” he chuckles, “I might have a guess.”

Jazz sighs, focus thoroughly ruined now. “I’m not jealous.”

“Sure you’re not. Blaster just conveniently happens to be chatting away with your not-so-secret admirer that you may or may not have similar feelings for, all whilst you’re glaring at him. I’m believing you so hard right now.”

“Knock it off,” Jazz says, giving him a shove. “It’s genuinely not like that. I think-“ He hesitates, knowing the words will be very real once they leave the sanctity of his own head. “I think Prowl’s planning to actually confess soon.”

“Oh.” Smokescreen’s blink is audible as he turns back to study Blaster and Prowl from the other side of the room. “What makes you think that?”

“He’s been acting more skittish than usual, almost acting guilty anytime I walk in on the two of them talking. Mighty embarrassed too.”

“Okay,” Smokescreen says, slowly and giving an even slower nod. “I’ll pretend to understand the thought process here.”

Exasperated, Jazz huffs again. “Prowl doesn’t get embarrassed unless it’s something to do with — y’know. This.” He waggles a finger between himself and where Prowl stands. “Which, considering Blaster’s title of second place bestie—soon to be first, if you don’t stop poking me—makes me think he’s plotting something. Something big.”

“Ah.”

It’s quiet then, both of them just staring as Prowl eventually leaves the rec. room, wings a little higher than normal. In unison, their heads turn to follow him out, mouths pressed into lines.

Watching Blaster soon leave as well, Smokescreen drums a finger against Jazz’s arm, humming. “You gonna do anything about it? You want to do anything about it?”

“That’d be mean though, right? He’s obviously trying so hard…”

Suddenly serious, Smokescreen sits bolt upright, grasping Jazz’s arm a little too firmly. Urgently. “Jazz. Jazz, Jazzy, Jazz-meister. You don’t have to reciprocate or do anything if you don’t want to. I know I teased you a lot-“

“What? No.” Jazz wriggles out of his friend’s hold, raising an optic ridge. “I’m not- ah, slag. That’s not what I meant, Smokes. I just meant I don’t wanna rush him by letting him I’ve caught on or anything. It’d spoil his fun, right?”

Smokescreen studies his face some more, likely trying to parse through his words and link them back to his body language. When he’s satisfied, he smiles, leaning out of Jazz’s space once more. He taps all fingers against both knees obnoxiously. “Well, you might be right about that. He might curl in on himself and die if he feels like he’s made a fool of himself.”

And then, he’s wearing that professional, clinical look. He looks over to Jazz out of the corner of his peripheral view. As much as he is Jazz’s friend, he’s also the glue holding this base together, and—in his own way—Prowl’s friend as well. “I know it’s been a long, long time, but he isn’t used to — sincerity, I guess. He’s a little slow when it comes to processing emotions and putting them in the right little boxes he’s made up. Sentinel… had a lot of fragged up ideals, you know. Didn’t approve of being so affectionate with others and other junk.”

The tapping continues.

“Now, imagine living a life of seclusion, hidden away and made to perform only one task and having no other opportunities. The only person that pays you attention is someone who treats you like slag, though not as harshly as you know other people are capable of being. It makes you lacking in social skills, harsh and cold because you were programmed to be as such and nobody has given you anything more than diplomatic pleasantries. Suddenly, that’s gone and you’re surrounded by new, unpredictable people. They care about and appreciate you, but you were convinced such things weren’t yours to have. It goes on for years and years, and while it gets a little easier to believe, you’re still stuck being standoffish and a little alienated. How would you react if someone told you outright ‘I like you’ before you get to do it yourself?”

Jazz is silent for a long, long time. He thinks about it — really, truly thinks about it, hands clasped together, elbows pressing down into the armor of his knees.

Eventually, “I wouldn’t believe it. I’d think it’s some kind of joke to get a reaction out of me.” And Prowl is a very, very logical mech in all areas, except for feelings. There, he’s illogical as can be, as emotional as the best of them.

The Praxian clasps his shoulder. “Good.” Approval dyes his words in bright hues, a small smile on his face as he stands up with a groan, twisting. “Definitely sat there too long,” he grumbles under his breath, wincing as he rubs at his back.

It makes Jazz laugh, which might’ve been what Smokey was really aiming for all along.

He’s turning to leave when Jazz makes a grab for his hand.

“Thanks,” he says, meaning it to a degree words can’t convey. “And don’t worry.”

“Who said anything about being worried?” Smokescreen retorts, so gooey and fond.

Jazz has been avoiding the rec. room tonight, every revolution of his spark loud in his head. He can’t remember ever being this nervous before, practically giving himself a spark attack with the way he’s both giddy and filled to the brim with anxiety.

He can hear the sounds of the party going on even in his room, loud and positively thunderous, making the ground shake a little, depending on where you are. It’s exactly the scene of life he’s always loved, feeling at one with the beat and energy. It makes him remember days of a little town of nowhere, one small mech clinging to a pillar hidden in shadows as they watched a live performance. They were never meant to be there, having snuck in.

Every bit of it was worth it though, the music resonating and positively singing in his spark. It was heavenly bliss, enough for him to get lost in it, forgetting his place.

He expected the musicians to be upset at having discovered a little stowaway taking up their time. Instead, they had been delighted with how enthusiastic he had been about their music, jumping up and down.

It was the entire group that had given him a new designation then and there, taking him along and raising Jazz as their own.

The rec. room practically beckons out to him, but — he’s unable to stay still, so sickeningly worried. What if he’s wrong? What if he’s right?

Prowl was special to him — that much became so blindingly clear the moment he discovered the Praxian’s crush on him. It only made sense for him to be bothered when he thought the mech seemingly hated him — he wanted his attention! He just. Hadn’t realized that at the time. But now it’s so painfully there, squeezing his chest and pressing down until it hurts.

Lovesick — that’s what Smokescreen had called it. Kinda embarrassing, considering Jazz’s age. He’s much too old to be acting like a youngling having their first crush, writing away in this datapad and swinging their peds.

But here he is, virtually doing that very thing.

In, out. Round and round the air goes, flustered hands constantly in motion, checking all over himself for any unseen imperfection.

He wants this to be perfect. He wants-

Prowl. Wants to hold him and kiss him — eventually. He doubts the Praxian’s the type to move so fast, but hey, he’s surprised Jazz before.

All Jazz has to do is go out there and see. He’ll never know if he stays in here all night. Would Prowl be crushed if he did? He would, wouldn’t he. All assuming Jazz’s suspicions are right, of course, and Prowl really is planning something tonight. Primus. Jazz could be so very, very wrong. Prowl didn’t go to parties, what has him so convinced tonight will be any different?

But it’s also Jazz’s party and, well. He’s sorta obligated to show up no matter what.

Right.

Steeling himself, Jazz makes the oh so very scary decision of finally leaving his room, gradually approaching the ruckus of music, streamers, and a little bit of high-grade. Just a little.

The whole room is dyed red, many mechs dancing and laughing, loud, loud, loud. Too loud and totally not Prowl’s scene, Jazz really should just — he’s already said hello to like, five different people, surely — half of them were drunk off their afts already, they wouldn’t even notice-

Where is Prowl??

Jazz doesn’t even notice he lifted himself up to the tips of his peds until he’s lowering himself to the floor in disappointment when he’s unable to spot the mech he’s been both hoping and dreading seeing.

A shame, really, because Jazz really thinks he’s outdone himself this year with the amount of heart decorations and streamers. It’s practically a whole store’s worth of things.

Yeah. That’s the only reason he feels sad right now. The only reason at all.

He tries, he really does. He smiles, he waves, he even dances a bit. Does the things expected of him, acting like nothing’s wrong, nothing at all.

It doesn’t last, not completely. He doesn’t think anyone notices or questions his sudden departure, halfway out the door without anyone stopping him. But he does — stop, that is.

Down the hall, he hears it: a song he hasn’t heard in a long, long time.

Following the distant sound of music, Jazz finds himself in a more secluded section of the Ark, away from prying eyes. It’s not a very spacious room, but nor is it crowded like the rec. room. It’s quiet, save for the red boombox perched up on a small ledge.

“Blaster…? What’s going on?”

Blaster, predictably, doesn’t answer.

“I asked him to, considering he’s the only one with records of this song.”

Jazz whirls around and — there — there’s Prowl. Smiling that smile that he’s so fickle about sharing, saying it makes him look untrustworthy. Which was really just a fancy way of saying he didn’t like it, which always made Jazz sad because — it’s cute. Ridiculously so, the way it’s lopsided and shows a little teeth.

“Hey,” Jazz says.

“Hey,” Prowl echoes.

“What’s,” Jazz gestures to the small bit of heart streamers he’s only now noticed, “all of this?”

“What does it look like?” Prowl says, flashing more teeth as he playfully pokes Jazz’s arm. “Surely you of all mechs recognize a party?”

“I- I do, but-“

Oh, Primus. He really hopes he still looks put together right now.

“It’s my song,” he says, voice nothing more than a choked up whisper packed full of love and shock. “It’s the song my mentors played and re-named after me. I didn’t- I’ve never played this song for anyone before. How did you…?”

“Rewind,” Prowl answers, holding out one of his hands. And Jazz — he takes it. It doesn’t even occur to him why until they’re dancing. Not a formal dance or anything like that — it’s Polyhexian to its core. “He’s got a recording of practically everything, you know. Even of your mentors’ older performances.”

“And the — and the dancing?” Jazz asks, grinning like mad as Prowl leads him through the motions of a song and dance he knows by spark. He thinks he should be more shocked by this entire affair, maybe stuttering and disbelieving. But he knew Prowl a little better than that — knew his subtle cues and spark better than most.

Everything about this was so very Prowl; down to the way it’s a moment between them, and them alone. Minus Blaster, but ah well. Blaster was always good at keeping a secret.

“Blaster. I — apologize if it isn’t any good. I’ve never done anything more than the formal dances expected at political events.” And the thing was, it — well, it was awkward, the movements stilted and a little clumsy. Less than Jazz would have expected from Prowl, convincing him that it’s more about the dance itself than the action as a whole.

Funny, how Jazz wouldn’t have it any other way.

“It’s perfect. Just — perfect. You’re perfect.”

That makes Prowl — stop. Stop like Jazz had always interpreted as being a sign of discomfort.

His eyes go wide, mouth forming a little ‘o’. He ducks his head, trying to hide it in the crook of his neck.

“Aw, c’mon, none of that,” Jazz teases, putting his hands on either side of the Praxian’s face, turning him back forward. “I wanna look at’cha. I don’t get to do it this close, this often. I like looking at such a handsome face.”

“I’m assuming you knew, then?” Embarrassment twinges in Prowl’s field, twined with mortification and a bit of loathing. All making Jazz’s smile turn a little sympathetic, but above all else: full of love, love, love. Adoration for this shy weirdo of a mech he’s come to know and appreciation.

“Took me a bit,” he admits. “But once I caught on — oh boo, all subtly was off the table. You’re so transparent, but that’s something I love about ya.”

Prowl’s eyes are zeroed in on Jazz’s hands, sliding his own up until he’s clasping them. He rubs small, little circles into the palms, voice a little husky and shaky as he says, “Can I take this as a yes, then?”

“Yeah, Prowler,” Jazz whispers, voice equally shaky now, leaning his helm to rest against the tactician’s. “You can.”

[norristri]

landoscar fic recommendation

this wld be a full ao3 fic recos :D anw message me if u want your fic to be removed here thnx

that one from work can come over on monday night by higgsbosonblues 

tags: Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Slow Burn, Canon Compliant, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Miscommunication, Coming Out

mclaren 2023 season canon compliant ; i really really love the getting to know part even though you know each other all through out the years hahaha this fic gives me the "all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?" :DD this was such a fan read to me as a new landoscar shipper that time <33

purring in my lap ('cause he loves me) by nyoomfruits

tags: cat!oscar, as in he shapeshifts into a cat lmao, Crack Treated Seriously, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Miscommunication

oscat !! OSCAT !! OSCAT !! lando's "Over me? When the fuck were you even under me?" he's so so so funny and oblivious lmao and them being each other's comfort after a bad race :(( this was so adorable

#814 | Communication? The Kardigans | Long Gone | 4:18 by Anonymous

tags: Social Media, Implied/Referenced Sex, Lando I Don't Drink Norris Can't Hold His Alcohol Smh, Layout Is Entirely Social Media, Getting Together

i love LOVE social media format aus!!! so soo refreshing and creative the use of spotify playlist was GOLD and idk if it's a reference of gen z's and their spotify playlist for every situation but but!!!! i get it!! the name changes in every convo hahahaha they r so chaotic but at the same time so landoscar

from the start by tiredwishes

tags: modern setting, fluff, love confessions, getting together

this had me hooked so easily??? like i was just scrolling through the landoscar tag then i refreshed the page boom there's a new fic posted :DD the awkwardness, the ODDS!!!!!! i love how it has the dynamics of canon!landoscar :>> of them having the same people around them then boom they collided and the ending was perfect aaaaaa <33

for keeps by ipleadbritney

tags: spy au, fluff, light...angst? happy ending

read this after death and other lies bcos i can't move on LMAO took me a while to digest and it was honestly so good!! the humor was fantastic I DID NOT EXPECT EVERYTHING ABT LANDO landoscar

no proof, not much (but you saw enough) by ipleadbritney

tags: magical realism, pre-relationship, qatar GP '23

LOL THIS WAS SO FUN TO READ ??? lando's dramatic ass and him comparing themselves to BROCEDES ++ i like that it's magical realism but at the same time canon hehe :DD "He spent the majority of his junior years chasing after Lando Norris, a dream blisteringly quick and blinding in its brilliance." this line reminds me of, "Loving you is synonymous to breathing" :)

Death and Other Lies by finifugue

tags: spies & secret agents, mature, angst, hurt, comfort, happy ending

i love LOVE the world-building & everything!! prolly in my top 3 landoscar fics <33 the lando-charles siblings relationship had me SOBBING ;-;; “The things that we have lost were wonderful when we had them, do you not think? And that means they are not properly gone. And even if they are gone forever, that means that I can spend more time being sad in here, with you. And that is nice in its own way. We have not had a reason to go here for a long time, and it is more cramped than it was, but it is still good.” :) the twists, the turns, everything !!!!!! my friends were probably annoyed at me because i talked abt this fic ALOT lol i usually don't like spy aus bcos i don't like actions that much lmao but this??? THIS IS A MASTERPIECE sorry i cannot put how much i love this fic into words hashjdhasdjhsa BUT YOU GUYS SHLD READ THIS!!!!

scenes from a social media admin by ipleadbritney tags: social media admin!lando, driver!oscar, social media au, getting together

ipleadbritney your existence in this fandom is EVERYTHING !!!! lando's list of things.... lando's list of things he finds hot :>> this fic made me smile the whole day, hehehe :))

sink your teeth into me by nyoomfruits tags: vampire!oscar, werewolf!lando, soulmates, racing drivers

LANDO was so fcking oblivious *face palms* the travel coffin was my fave part hehe ok oscar is so vampire coded dhsjadhajshdas “Lando’s own driver’s room is right across the hall, stocked with his own hoodies and sweatpants, but those don’t smell like lemon and home, so he wisely keeps quiet and accepts the ones Oscar gives him.” :)) :)) I LOVE THEM maxiel tolerating lando's dumb ass HWJHAJS SO ENTERTAINING

note: will be updated !!!!!

[wrongcaitlyn]

okay fuck so i got an anon ask for solangelo fic recs and then i made a draft on my phone but then deleted it bc i wanted to type it out on my computer but then that deleted the ask too so!! hopefully this reaches the anon i apologize deeply for losing your ask😭

but anyway. SOLANGELO FIC RECS. ALWAYS. ANYTIME. I HAVE SO MANY

so first of all if you wanna check out my ao3 i have a bunch of recs in my bookmarks (57 solangelo ones im pretty sure)

but here are some of my favs

i'm put in awe (of something so flawed and free) by CordeliaRose (@cordelia---rose)

archaeologist!Nico & trauma surgeon!Will AU. this fic is. ohmgyod. nico's internal dialogue is just absolutely perfect in this fic and i laughed so hard and god it was just so beautifully written?? but also solangelo are literally so cute. like. ahglskdf. i gotta reread this actually but anyway (also anything by this author, absolutely hilarious, such good writing)

dumb, dumb love by thegoldenappleofdiscord

five times nico and will are dumb and in love, and the one time they are totally 100% dead serious. i love a good outsider's pov, and this fic is just gorgeous. it's a bunch of different perspectives into solangelo, and it's pure fluff, and it's got some of my favorite solangelo quotes (like, when i read fanfic i screenshot parts i rlly like and i practically screenshotted this entire fic), and their characterization is just so so accurate they're so so in love

paris by ethannku (@ethannku)

Nico has a travel YouTube channel. And a crush on one Will Solace. i'm such a sucker for socmed au's and this one is done SO so well. my all time favorite. and it's sequel too!! the formatting i am in awe of, but other than that, it's just a really good time and i just love all the little details. i've reread this too many times to count and was SO excited when a sequel was published, and i can only hope that there's more to the au in the future!! (also this author writes incredible solangelo fics and even more valgrace fics which i recently just bingeread and are soo good)

Perfect Places by buoyantsaturn (@buoyantsaturn)

“My name’s Will,” he started - so far so good - but then continued, “and I guess my favorite food to cook would be, um, frozen pizza.” Was Nico only attracted to idiots? this one's fucking hilarious. i can't even put it to words like their dynamic in this fic is so funny and yet so cute and nico is honestly just like. shocked that will is somehow still alive?? will's a safety hazard. but also piper and jason in this fic are so funny too, it's honestly just such a good, fun read (and, once again, this author's incredible. read everything by them)

I Can't Help It If You Look Like an Angel by the_oncoming_stormaggedon (@lordstormageddidnt)

Will Solace is a pre-med student whose friends run a true crime podcast called "Nothing to See Here". Nico di Angelo, despite not realizing he's a missing person, is the subject of one of the episodes. They meet by chance in a random bar, and shenanigans ensue. i mean, if it's got a taylor swift title, i'm already sold. and then it's part of a series called "Hey Stephen is a solangelo song and i will die on that hill" which is the realest thing ever?? but ASIDE from that, i could honestly rec this entire series (+ the other series it's a part of, "Nothing to See Here" which is all part of the same au) and also everything by this author - it's hilarious, i just love the premise, and the writing is so good!! and hey stephen is a solangelo song, thereby reinforcing my "fearless is will's favorite album ever of all time and i will die on this hill" argument

Even When the Music's Gone by the_oncoming_stormaggedon

It's the 74th Annual Hunger Games, and Nico and Will are the last two tributes alive. haha this is pure angst. just gutwrenching angst. love a good hunger games au and some MCD!

can i handle the seasons of my life? by buoyantsaturn

“I think that most people your age finished high school, and whether they knew what they wanted to do with the rest of their life or not, they went to college. That was their version of ditching everything they knew in order to find themselves. Maybe it’s time for you to stop taking advice from other kids who grew up the same way you did, and take it from someone who used to be normal.”  FAME AU FAME AU FAME AU FAME AU i mean, not REALLY about the fame aspect of it, but i still love it so so much. will's essentially a nepo baby turned not-nepo-baby turned college student and nico's naomi's driver, and there's even... there's EVEN A VERY BRIEFLY IMPLIED POLLEN. yeah they're relationship is just so cute in this and i love the au and i love how it's written and ugh i need more fame au's in my life

so it turns out teachers don't live at school by RegretfullyRegretful (@marbleheavy)

Nico's TA and students are determined to figure out something, anything about him. Of course, it would all just be a lot easier if they asked. Either way, Professor di Angelo is decidedly a lonely hermit. (Someone should really tell his husband and baby that) this was one of the first solangelo fics i ever read, and it's just. so. funny. another outsider's pov bc i love it, and just... the assumptions abt nico, the fluff of solangelo, and then their story of how they got together is so...ahhsdlkjs this author is just a master at tooth-rotting fluff go read everything they write

my lover's the sunlight by demigodbeautiies

Figure Skater Nico di Angelo has a run in with Ice Hockey Player Will Solace. It doesn't go too smoothly, but then again - when does it ever? OLYMPICS AU. FAME(ISH) AU. IM OBSESSED THIS IS WRITTEN SO WELL and like... the very brief part where it feels a lot like a fame au like i just i'm obsessed can you tell. the writing is just beautiful in this, i love nico's internal dialogue, and... i mean, it's an olympics au. ofc its perfect

The Stolen God by TsarinaTorment (@tsarinatorment)

Python is defeated. The prophecies are restored, and Nero has fallen. Apollo has not been seen since. His trials are over; why isn’t he back on Olympus? okay so. this is a bit of a longer fic. and it's a post-toa, pjoxmcga crossover, and it's not *entirely* focused on solangelo - but when i tell you that this fic, if i weren't reading it on ao3, i would truly and full-heartedly believe was a real life published novel - i am NOT LYING. i rec'd this to my friend right after i read it bc i was just like so so obsessed with it and it's literally just. the plot?? is insane. i'm in awe of the author, bc this isn't even the only novel-length fic that they've written with an insane plot too (their fic Eclipse is also phenomenal, but it's more focused on apollo and hades so i didn't rec it here) there's some fierrochase here, lester being lester, and some very very very cute solangelo! and meg! i think sometimes you read a fic and you're like "oh, shit, that could be a novel, and i would think it's better than some actual novels i've read" and this is one of them

(Please Don't Let Me) Fade Alone by TsarinaTorment

Please. Don't let me. the summary's really short here so it's basically that will gets very very very injured and then apollo saves him (rip, i'm sorry, i suck at summaries) once again this isn't necessarily nico focused... it's much more will & apollo. this author writes the absolute best stuff for the apollo cabin, genuinely, if you love will/cabin 7/apollo PLEASE read everything they've ever written but this is just so angsty and the hurt/comfort is so real and goddd it's so good

he was seen on occasion (pacing the rocks, staring out at the midnight sea) by stargirltv

Nico di Angelo is a completely normal eighteen year old. He attends high school, has a socially acceptable amount of friends for a social outcast and has been in a relationship for the past four years with the guy he’s pretty sure he’s going to marry. He also happens to be the world's biggest bedroom pop artist, ‘Hell’s Angel’, with a fan base that will stop at nothing to uncover his true identity and a Father that continually pushes him to be better. His boyfriend freaking out under every single one of his tweets is making it a bit easier for them to figure it out. so. fame au. y'all already know the premise of this is just absolutely hilarious and the interview?? the posts?? will just being will and i absolutely love his characterization?? and the friend group?? this is one of the funniest things ever but also just written so well anddddd yes yes yes it's a fame au POPSTAR NICO RIGHTS except he's not *really* a popstar in this one but like close enough oh AND it's a taylor swift title??? like this fic was made for me basically

okay that was MUCH longer than intended but i hope you enjoy some of the fics on here!! pls let me know if y'all ever want more recs i read literally so many fics - and if you guys ever want to give me any recs, feel free to do so! as of today, i have read *checks fic tracker bc i'm obsessive and need to keep track of everything* about 7.3 million words of fanfic this year. and that's actually less than normal (for me)

also if anyone reads patrochilles please read this fic it's literally been in my head nonstop for the past few weeks since i've read it and it's one of the best things i've ever read and like holyshit if you read patrochilles read it read it read it

[starryevermore]

the house of snow (5) ✧ coriolanus snow

the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au | pinterest board| ao3

pairing: king!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

series summary: the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his. 

chapter summary: snow does not like the idea of others playing with his toy.

word count: 2,665

series warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later

chapter warnings?: jealous!coryo, pet name (petal), not proofread

“How does it feel to be Mrs. Snow?” Clemensia Dovecote asked as one of the maids poured you a cup of tea. 

You watched the maid glance at you, curiosity evident in her eyes. Though you trusted your own lady’s maid with much of your thoughts and feelings you thought best to keep hidden from everyone else, you knew that maids in general liked to talk. Or, rather, people liked to talk. You had little doubt that your concerns in marrying Snow had spread throughout the working class. Had it been a mistake to even discuss your feelings, or lack thereof, for Snow with her? Perhaps. But you couldn’t keep silent about it. You had to talk to someone. 

“I am hardly Mrs. Snow yet. I am only engaged, Clemmie,” you said. 

Livia Cardew reached for your left hand. You allowed her to take it. She examined the ring Snow had placed on your finger with much scrutiny. It was a silver band with leaves snaking up to the center, where the silver was molded into rose petals. At the center of the flower sat a large, glittering diamond. Livia loved jewelry and all the finer things in life. She could appreciate a nice ring more than you could. “With a ring like that? The King is making a statement.”

“That I am his?” you clarified. It took everything in you to not roll your eyes. If Livia thought that you were not pleased with your engagement, it would spread through Panem faster than maids’ gossip. Who knew what Snow would do if that happened. Livia nodded. “I was already well aware of his interest, as was the rest of the ton.”

“Perhaps you should remind Lord Plinth of that, then?” Livia said. 

Your brows pinched together. Had she someone found out about how you once argued that you would rather marry Sejanus? Had word somehow spread? You knew Snow would say nary a word about it. At least, you would assume so from how he acted when you only mentioned Sejanus’s name. You tried to think back. Were there any maids or butlers around when you talked to Snow about this? When you talked to your parents? None came to mind, but the mark of a good servant is to not be noticed. (Or so your mother says.) It could be possible that you simply missed them?

You decided to feign ignorance. “Lord Plinth? What do you mean?”

Clemensia laughed. “We all saw how he looked at you while you danced at his mother’s ball! That man looked at you like you were made of diamonds.”

Livia crinkled her nose. “You may as well be, at least compared to him. I can still hardly believe the Former King Ravinstill ever granted that family a title. A dukedom at that! It just wasn’t right.”

You decided to ignore Livia’s ramblings. It was true that the Plinth family did not have the same sort of respect the rest of the ton, who had been born into their titles for generations and generations stretching all the way back to the formation of Panem. It was why your parents were so adamant that you not marry Sejanus. But he was a good, and kind, and gentle man.  “No, that cannot be. Lord Plinth is only a friend. He was the one who told me that…” You stumbled on the word. It felt foreign in your mouth. “…my fiancé was interested in courting me. Why would he do that if he would want to marry me himself?”

“Oh, you poor, naïve thing. It’s a wonder you even got this far in your courtship,” Livia teased. “He was hoping that you would swear off the King and marry him. An act of true love, or whatever the fairy tales say.”

Could that be true? Could that be why Snow was so irate at you speaking of Sejanus? But why would Sejanus ever reveal that to Snow? Snow was so possessive. He would hardly let such a slight go by unpunished. And, yet, Sejanus still lived and breathed. Maybe, then, Snow had deduced this all his own, just as Livia and Clemensia had done.

“Well, it hardly matters now. I am engaged now.”

“If the King is as smart as he was at the Academy, he would marry you soon. To dissuade Lord Plinth from arriving with any last minute confessions that might steal you away,” Livia mused. 

You looked out the window, where Coriolanus the Cat perched. In the distance, you could see the Royal Carriage being pulled down the road. It was nearly time for your daily luncheon with Snow. Though you would always dine at the palace, he insisted on picking you up from your home. To anyone who knew of the routine, it seemed like such a romantic ordeal. A man so desperate to spend time with his love that he would do the silliest things. To you, it was merely another way for him to attempt to control you. 

“That would hardly change anything,” you said. The carriage stopped outside of your home. The coachmen stepped down, then opened the door. Snow stepped out, his eyes immediately seeking yours as he looked up at the window. Despite the distance, you could see the smirk on his face. It made you feel ill. 

“Because you are in love?” Clemensia asked. 

You wondered if Snow could read lips from so far away as you repeated, “Because I am in love.”

Livia looked out the window as Snow walked up to your home. “Do you think he knows about Lord Plinth?”

You blinked. You were wondering the same yourself. However, you knew that this was a question you would probably never get answered. You hardly could even figure out how to talk to Livia and Clemensia about this. How could you ever bring it up to Snow, with his quick temper? “It has never come up.”

“And why would it? I’m sure they have much more…exciting conversations,” Clemensia said with a grin. 

Your heart thumped at the implication. Truthfully, you did not know what happened when a couple were married. Your mother only ever told you that, after the ceremony, the union ended in consummation and that that was where children came from. She always said she would tell you more when you were older, but that day had not yet come. “We…talk about our future together,” you said. 

Clemensia’s grin grew, but before she could tease you further on matters you didn’t have a full grasp on, Snow entered the room. “Good morning, Miss Cardew, Miss Dovecote. Good morning, petal,” he said with a charming smile. “What are we talking about today?”

You opened your mouth to answer, ready to say you were discussing your impending nuptials. You knew that would please him enough to put him in a good mood. But Livia beat you to it.

“Lord Plinth’s infatuation with your fiancé.”

Snow’s jaw ticked. For a moment, you wondered if his mask would fall. But he recovered quickly and said in a teasing voice, “Should I be worried?”

“No, they have deluded themselves into thinking he is interested,” you said, careful to not even refer to Sejanus by his last name. “I told them that it would not have mattered even if he was interested because—”

“Because she’s in love,” Clemensia interrupted, elongating the word “love,” making it sing-songy.

A more genuine smile settled on Snow’s face. His eyes flitted to you. “Is that so?”

But, for as much as you were attempting to placate him, you had to have your fun, too. So, you smiled, and said, “Oh? We were talking about you? My mistake, I thought we were talking about Coriolanus.” 

You picked the kitten from his perch on the windowsill, pressing kisses around his face. He purred, curling up in your arms. For a moment, you thought you saw Coriolanus the Cat look smugly at Snow. But, even if he hadn’t, the annoyed look on Snow’s face was joy enough. 

“She teases me too much with that cat—”

“—our son—”

“—our son,” Snow corrected. “I almost regret giving her the little thing.”

Clemensia laughed and nudged Livia. “They already argue like they’re married.”

“Well, as lovely as this was, we do have a luncheon to attend,” Snow said, holding his hand out for you to take. You moved to cradle Coriolanus the Cat in one arm and slipped your hand into Snow’s. He helped you to your feet, then flashed another smile at Livia and Clemensia. “And do let me know if you have anymore theories about Lord Plinth’s affections. I have to ensure I do not have any competition, don’t I?”

“Oh, stop being silly,” you protested as Livia and Clemensia nodded. 

At that, your mother, who sat quietly in the corner of the room with her sewing, rose from her seat and followed you and Snow out of the home. Since the engagement, she had hardly spoken a word when he was around. A part of you wondered if that was because she no longer felt the need to quiet you since Snow put a ring on your finger. Another part of you wondered if Snow had included her silence in the terms of the engagement. You would, after all, need a chaperone with you until you were actually married, but that did not mean that Snow would want to listen to her protest over every thing you did. 

When you reached the carriage outside, Snow helped you climb in. For a second, you wondered if he was going to ignore your mother. But then he held a hand out for her to take as she lifted herself inside, taking the seat across from you. She had learned after the first luncheon that the spot beside you was to always be occupied by Snow. 

Once Snow took his seat, the carriage began its trek to the palace. You tried to distract yourself, looking out the window and petting Coriolanus the Cat, who was curled up on your lap. But then Snow reached for your hand, which you allowed him to take. From the corner of your eye, you saw your mother wrinkle her nose. You weren’t sure it was inappropriate for him to hold your hand, but perhaps she knew so archaic social rule you were unaware of. Or perhaps she was regretting her scheming, you mused. 

“I do not want you to spend any more time with Sejanus,” Snow said. 

This got your attention. 

You turned to look at him, your brows pinched together. “Because of what was said this morning? Lord…he is a friend.”

“I believe Miss Cardew and Miss Dovecote were correct in their assessment. I do not wish for you to be around him.” At your frown, he added, “At least not until after the wedding. It will only be a month. Give me this.”

“I have given you so much already.”

Snow squeezed your hand, tight. You tried to pull away, but he refused to loosen his grip. He leaned in to you, his breath fanning over your face. You did not like how close he was to you. “I cannot tell if his intentions are pure. I do not wish for you to be harmed.”

“Sejanus would never,” left your lips before you could think of what you were saying.

Snow’s face turned red. “What did I tell you about—”

“He is a friend, Snow. He. Is. A. Friend. You cannot isolate me from my friends—”

“—not your friends. Only him.”

“—just because you have concocted this delusion he is trying to take me from you. Sejanus may act impulsively from time to time, yes. He may not always think matters through. But he is your friend, and he is mine. Do you understand? As far as he is concerned, we are in love. Even if he had been interested in courting me, he would not do anything to hurt either of us. He is not like you.”

“Not like…You are toeing the line, petal.”

“I am not going to stop talking to a friend, even if it is only until we are married, because you are insecure. Snow, have I given you any reason to think that I would not follow our agreement?”

“No.”

“Have I done anything, save for admitting that I once considered marrying Sejanus, that would indicate I have feelings for him?”

“You have not.”

“Then why are you acting like a petulant child whose favorite toy has been stolen away?”

You watched as Snow’s jaw clenched and unclenched. But before he could say any more, the carriage came to a halt and the door was opened. Your mother was helped out first, then you, and finally Snow. He said not a single word as the three of you were led into the palace toward the dining room. Not until you had passed Coriolanus the Cat off to the butler. 

“Join me in the library for a moment, petal,” he said. 

You caught your mother’s eye. Oh, how you wished for her to say something. But instead, she took her seat at the table and said not a word. Sucking in a breath, you nodded. Snow smiled and took your hand, placing it around his bicep. You had half a mind to dig your nails into his arm, hoping that it might hurt him. You were already walking on thin ice, and you could not imagine such an act would go over well with Snow. 

When you entered the library, Snow shut the large, oak doors behind you. Your blood ran cold. He had not done that the last time you visited the library. Had you crossed the line? Had you gone too far? You were not sure if Snow was a violent man. He had spent some months after leaving the Academy as a Peacekeeper. He was certainly capable of violence. But would he inflict it? On you? 

“Snow, I did not mean to—” you began to apologize, hoping that it might placate him. 

If you thought Snow had been too close to you before, it hardly compared to him grabbing you, one hand on your waist, the other on your face, his lips pressed against yours. You gasped, trying to pull away. This was not right. This was not…You were not even sure if married couples kissed this way. You had only ever seen chaste kisses, never something so…animalistic. You weren’t sure if Snow was kissing you more than he was trying to eat you alive. When his tongue darted out, swiping against your lips, you finally managed to push him away. 

“What the hell was that!?” you shouted. “You cannot just, just kiss someone! We are not married, Snow! You promised that you would not ruin me!”

“Did I? I only recall saying your reputation would never be harmed.” Snow reached for you again. You could not find it in you to push him away, not when he had such a crazed look in his eye. “And it will not be, I will promise you that. If I wish, however, to kiss my fiancée in private, I shall do so.”

“You only did this so I would feel guilty if I tried to leave you for Sejanus, which I have already told I would not do!”

“No,” Snow said. “I did this because you drive me mad.”

“Then lock yourself in an asylum. Do not kiss me.”

One of Snow’s hands left your waist. He reached up, caressing your face. When you did jerk away, he pinched your chin between his fingers. “You are to be my wife. You are to be the wife of a king. I shall treat you however I see fit. Do you understand?”

When you said nothing, he pinched harder. “Do you understand?”

“Only if you understand that I will hate you until the day I die.”

[withthewindinherfootsteps]

Wei Wuxian and Narrative Agency – Part Three

For Xiantober Day Five: Past and Present, in which the author gets very unhinged about what parts of the past are shown and how that’s affected by the present!

(Part One | Part Two | Full version on AO3)

The Power of Agency: Shaping the Narrative

When I've discussed Wei Wuxian's agency previously, I’ve talked about how what’s shown and omitted tells us about a character, and we’ve talked about the character himself. Though this is a niche topic, it’s not necessarily something out of the ordinary to analyse, and we can assume everything up to here has been in some way intentional.

This? Linking structure to a character’s in-universe preferences?

This is where we get unhinged.

Before I start, let’s quickly establish something which will be important later: although Wei Wuxian is the central character, MDZS isn’t strictly from his POV. While omitting events a character doesn’t like to dwell on and concealing things the character wishes to hide is common in books with only one narrator, MDZS has multiple narrators which it switches between relatively quickly. This includes Wei Wuxian, but it also includes nearly every major character that appears in the story, and omniscient narrator as well. As a default, this format doesn’t lead to this deliberate shaping and omission because of one character’s preferences, since we have many other sources of information and events – which is what makes Wei Wuxian’s influence over the narrative and structure so interesting. We could have access to a lot more information, and access to it at different times, than we do (and that’s not an insult, quite the opposite!).

To begin: we’ve established that times such as Wei Wuxian’s time on the streets, his three months in the Burial Mounds and his loss in the Siege aren’t shown because Wei Wuxian has little agency there. But that’s not the only special thing about them. They’re also the three most traumatic times in his life, and so moments Wei Wuxian himself either can’t remember, or doesn’t like to dwell on.

This is why discussing Wei Wuxian’s treatment of tragedy in his life was important. Firstly, it shows he doesn’t focus on the tragedy in his life, so the idea that the narrative not focusing on this tragedy relates to his character has merit; secondly, it affirms that this is not a passive trait, but a choice. Therefore, when the narrative omits events due to this aspect of Wei Wuxian, it’s respecting not only a character detail – which would be cool by itself – but also an active decision. One that shapes the story it’s made in.

In other words, its very structure is respecting Wei Wuxian’s agency!

Now, of course there are flashbacks to other moments of his past he probably wouldn’t like to dwell on, too. But within the structure, they’re only shown when Wei Wuxian is thinking about them (or when he has reason to)!

Wei WuXian hadn’t woken up yet. His eyes were still tightly shut, yet his hand didn’t let go either. He seemed to be dreaming, muttering, “… Don’t… Don’t be angry…” Lan WangJi seemed somewhat surprised. His voice was gentle, “I am not angry.” Wei WuXian, “… Oh.” Hearing this, as though he finally felt assured, his fingers loosened. Lan WangJi sat beside Wei WuXian for a while. Seeing that he was motionless again, he was about to stand up when Wei WuXian grabbed him with his other hand, hugging his arm and refusing to let go. He shouted, “I’ll go with you, quick, take me back to your sect!” Chapter 63, EXR translation

Which, of course, is him dwelling on…

Lan WangJi spoke one word at a time, “Go back to Gusu with me.” Hearing this, both Wei WuXian and Jiang Cheng were surprised. Quickly afterward, Wei WuXian laughed, “Go back to Gusu with you? To the Cloud Recesses? Why go there?” He immediately seemed to realize, “Oh. I forgot. Your uncle Lan QiRen hates crooked people like me. You’re his proudest disciple, so of course you’re the same as him, haha. I refuse.” Chapter 62, EXR translation

…the painful flashback immediately preceding this. The third set of flashbacks (which are also painful) are a similar case. Look at the contex:

He lifted the bottom of his robe, revealing a prosthetic leg made of wood, “This leg of mine was destroyed by you, that night in the Nightless City (…)” (…) “Wei WuXian, I won’t ask you if you remember or not. Both of my parents died by your hands. You owe too many people. You definitely won’t remember them either. But, I, Fang MengChen, will never forget! And never forgive you!” (…) “In the fight at Qiongqi Path, my son was strangled to death by your dog Wen Ning!” “My shixiong died by poison, his entire body festering due to your cruel curse!” Chapter 68 (immediately preceding the flashbacks), EXR translation

And Wei Wuxian’s own thoughts and words:

Wei WuXian looked at the cultivators before the Demon-Slaughtering Cave. Their expressions were the absolute same as those of the cultivators from the night of the pledge conference, pouring their wine on the ground as they took the pledge to scatter the ashes of the Wen Sect’s remnants and him.  (…) Wei WuXian, “Now it’s time to ask just whom it is that treasures it so much. It’s like Wen Ning. Back then, some certain sects or so were scared to death of the Ghost General. They said they’d kill him on the surface, but behind their backs they hid him for over ten years. How strange. Who was the one that said his ashes had been scattered back then?” Chapter 79 (immediately succeeding the flashbacks), EXR translation 

Once again, Wei Wuxian’s own thoughts relate to the flashbacks we’ve just been shown. And, as I previously mentioned, though all the events which are shown are tragic, they’re also events which Wei Wuxian’s own choices and actions shaped – which he has this to say about:

“The things I did, not only do you remember them, I remember them too. You won’t forget them, and they’ll stay even longer in my mind!” Chapter 82, EXR

Admittedly, this applies more to the third set of flashbacks than the second (which is still fitting as the third set was the most recent), as in the second, although he still had agency within and influence over his circumstances, the majority of the pain was caused by others’ actions (excluding, of course, the Golden Core transfer… which is something we know stays for a long time in his mind, albeit with a caveat we’ll soon discuss). But it’s still important to note – especially considering that otherwise, focusing on this very painful time in his life wouldn’t seem like something very in-character for Wei Wuxian to do.

Of course, this can all just be explained by good writing. It is best to insert flashbacks when they’re relevant to the characters and events in the present day! But it is interesting to compare these to the start of the (not painful) Gusu flashbacks, which open this way:

At a later time, Wei WuXian pondered upon the reason why his relationship with Lan WangJi wasn’t good. Getting to the root of the matter, everything started when he was fifteen, coming to the GusuLan Sect with Jiang Cheng to study for three months. Chapter 13, EXR

Again, considering the circumstances around which these flashbacks take place – returning to the Cloud Recesses for the first time since the lectures, and meeting Lan Wangji once more – it makes complete sense for Wei Wuxian to be thinking about these events*. So it does fit the pattern of Wei Wuxian dwelling on something, thus leading to the narrative dwelling on it, too (and being shaped by his thoughts)… but there’s another layer to this. Importantly, it is the only flashback where Wei Wuxian’s present thoughts don’t lead to this happening, with his thoughts at an unspecified future time leading to it, instead. I like to interpret this as the text saying that, since these events aren’t something Wei Wuxian wouldn’t focus on in normal circumstances, he can dwell on them at any time. Therefore, they’re free to come up in the narrative at any time as well, even if he’s not dwelling on them in the present moment!

So, to summarise: Wei Wuxian’s decision not to focus on the painful times in his life directly influences the narrative to not focus on these times. When painful times are brought up and shown to us, it’s in the context of him thinking about them in the present day, and even then, his most painful moments still aren’t shown to us. His agency in this regard is still respected by the narrative structure.

This is the main way his agency influences the structure of the narrative, but I’d like to talk about the revealing and concealing of information, too. For example, I said I’d talk about the Golden Core transfer – though Wei Wuxian does think about this many times, as evidenced by his internal narration in Chapter 103. But unlike everything we’re shown through the flashbacks, this is something Wei Wuxian is actively trying to hide from others. And the narrative respects this choice (Wei Wuxian’s agency, again), never reveals it even when it would be relevant in the flashbacks, and we find out not through narration, but through a character’s dialogue!

And to clarify – I know these aspects may not be in the book for this exact reason. Showing flashbacks in relevant moments is good writing, concealing an important plot point you want to do a reveal for is necessary writing, and MXTX has said she didn’t want to write about Wei Wuxian’s time in the Burial Mounds, due to not liking to write transformation sequences (and also because it would not be pleasant at all, which likely also applies to Wei Wuxian’s death). That doesn’t prevent it from also being intentional – MXTX’s intelligence is shown in many aspects of this book, and there’s nothing disproving it – but there’s no proof for either option, so I won’t pretend there is. I bring this up because I know this feels like I’m overanalysing, as I feel that way as well.

But, whether it’s intentional or not, it exists in the text, and I adore it – so, regardless, it’s something I’ll explore. Because taking this into account… We aren't just told about Wei Wuxian having agency, we aren’t just shown it in the text, we aren’t even just shown it through which parts of his past are shown and hidden in the structure of the text (as I talked about in Part One). The parts of the past that are shown and hidden also have an in-universe reason for being shown and hidden, this reason being the choices he makes! Agency is the ability of a character to influence the story they’re in, but Wei Wuxian’s agency, as a property of a character who only exists in-universe, shapes the out-of-universe structure as well! That’s how we’re shown its importance! How cool is that?

At The End Of The Road: Summary and Final Thoughts

In this essay, we’ve covered how important Wei Wuxian’s agency is not only to the events of the plot, but to the structure of the narrative as well. The narrative omits periods in which Wei Wuxian has little or no agency, in favour of showing us periods in which he does, even when important events happened in the former. This indicates that who Wei Wuxian is without agency isn’t important enough to be shown to the audience, and therefore that his agency is an integral aspect of his character in MDZS. We’ve discussed how both in-universe and out-of-universe, tragedy does not define him – out-of-universe, the tragic events in Wei Wuxian’s life are used not to build sympathy but rather to show his strength of character and who he still is despite going through them; and in-universe, he chooses not to focus on the negativity and resentment caused by his circumstances or others’ actions, instead staying true to his moral compass and enjoying his life in the present day. Finally, we’ve also explored how this choice is another reason for the omission of certain events from the narrative, resulting in his agency shaping the story in a very literal way – it affects the out-of-universe structure, as well.

It’s quite fitting, for a story whose essence is about defying a conventional narrative – that of righteous clans rising up and defeating a great evil – and about a character who defies many conventional narratives on his own – that of status defining how skilled you could be, that for a golden core being necessary for cultivation and other paths being unavailable, that of a tragic but complete story of someone killed for staying true to their moral code (instead, that character returns to life and has a happy ending) – to have its own narrative play a role in such an important and interesting way.

(Or, if an image would be preferable:)

Thank you for reading!

(Part One | Part Two | Full version on AO3)

--

*This strong relation to the present day circumstances is another reason I love the flashback placement so much (and why I think it’s such a loss both screen adaptions altered it so strongly)! 

[muzansfangs]

Not perfect, yours.

Starring: Tomioka Giyuu x f!reader;

Format: one-shot;

Warnings: nsfw, fluff, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, body worship, spoiler regarding Giyuu’s past, scars from battles, learning self-love, comfort sex, creampie, enstablished secret relationship, mentions to injures, post traumatic stress disorder (flashes about Sabito’s death), nipple play, praise kink, slight choking kink;

Plot: You have learned to love yourself by loving him. Living a life of danger, wearing the scars of your fights with pride, you would have never thought someone was going to love you. When you met him, when he opened his heart to you, though, everything changed. Protecting what you two had was your priority. As you shared a night into a Wisteria house with him, you finally let yourself go. You trusted Giyuu with your whole life, you loved him more than anything else on this world;

Author note: it is rare for me to put the author note on top of a one-shot, but in order to prevent possible drama to happen, I needed to clarify a thing, or two: this fic is an old work of mine posted on my old Ao3 account and my old Wattpad profile as well. While I cannot log anymore into Ao3 for some reason, I can still log into my old Wattpad profile and I will try to gradually delete my old works as I fix and rewrite them! Do not worry and enjoy this little scrap!

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The bittersweet scent of the wisteria filled the room, a gentle breeze blowing from the window making the atmosphere quite peaceful.

Sitting onto the tatami floor, you ran your fingers absent-mindedly through your hair, glancing at your reflection in the mirror in front of you. You looked battered. A constellation of scratches and bruises of various colors, mostly purple though, adorned your skin. Your hair, despite emanating a sweet porfume from the oil you had been kindly provided by the old keeper of the Wisteria house were still a mess. You had not got much time to trim them as of late.

What did you expect, though? This was your life and your day had been spent in a draining battle against a demon. Nothing new under the sun. You were used to look like this, to look kind of repulsive or unattractive for most of the male population. Or those were the words you had frequently heard people tag you with.

You were beautiful, your eyes glowing in passion, your features and curves making some Oirans turn pale. Yet, you had chosen a path that made you collect scars over your body and that caused every man you had met in your life to scrunch their noses in disgust, whenever you tried to strike up some basic conversation.

No one seemed to like a woman who lived the life of a warrior.

No one except him, the Water Pillar, Giyuu Tomioka. You two were considered the outcasts of the society. You were a rather unconventional woman, he was a lone wolf barely talking to people. Too reserved, too detached from the world, too sensitive too. Yet, you somehow found love in his solitary heart.

Glancing back at him from above your shoulder, your gaze trailed towards him, laying on the futon behind you. He was shirtless, his ocean blue eyes locking with yours before travelling down your own body. You watched how his pale cheeks turned red and you smiled faintly at his innocent reaction. His gaze was not lustful, it was one of complete adoration: a timid attempt to make you feel appreciated.

You were not naked, you still had the pants of your uniform hanging loosely on your hips and your chest was still covered by the straps of your worn-out bendage bra. However, that was the first time you had been stuck in the same room together, barely wearing clothes.

This was a new experience, a level of intimacy you both had been looking forward to. Something you coveted for months.

Seven months had passed since your first date. It had taken you less than two months to realize how deep was your love for him, how strong was the connection binding you to his heart. You still vividly remembered the day you two kissed for the first tims. It was a starless night at the Butterfly Estate and you were recovering from your last mission.

Giyuu blamed himself for not having accompanied you and kept on self-deprecating for always making the same fatal mistakes. The mistakes only you knew about.

“I could have lost you. Just like I have lost him” he had bitterly uttered, teary eyes inspecting your beaten visage. Countering back something was pointless. Giyuu never displayed emotions around other people. But he did with you and you knew that nothing could have truly made him change his mind, therefore you had boldly cupped his face in your hands and captured his chapped lips with yours. Amazement, awe, the feeling of floating and being loved for the first time ever engulfed you two.

The monsters keeping him awake at night, the guilt of having had his life spared by fate, or better, for having left Sabito alone in the wood had temporary evaporated.

You had fallen asleep in his arms that very night. It had became a habit of yours, slumping down next to him and nuzzling your face onto the crook of his neck. It was hard resting without his body keeping you warm at night.

And just like you always did, that night you walked up to him and straddled his lap. By the look in your eyes and the way Giyuu swallowed forcefully, you could tell something was different, though. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down, when you shifted slightly to adjust your position on him. You felt his breath hitching and you batted your eyes closed for several seconds. You could feel the spark between you two, the air getting thin. It was suddenly so hard to breathe.

“Giyuu” you called out his name feebly, making sure he was fine.

It took a moment for him to answer, his hands resting comfortably on your hips to make sure you were really there “I need to know that whatever is going to happen in the future, you will always remember this moment”he softly said then, sending shivers down your spine. How could you ever forget it?

A small smile crept on your lips, half-lidded eyes peeking at him as you cupped his face in your hands and planted a chaste, brief kiss on his parted lips “I could never forget it. Not even in another life” you breathed out, fueling his confidence. You were the only one who had ever managed to make him appreciate himself, as much as it was possible. You knew that some wounds could not completely heal, but you had always tried to mend them, you always did your best to soothe him and save him from the demons pestering his mind.

Saving him somehow meant saving yourself.

The Water Pillar sighed and smashed his lips against yours, earning a breathy gasp from you. Your fingers tangled in his silky, black hair, tugging at them slightly to encourage him to deepen it. It was passionate, emotional even, and you felt your heart burn in your chest, when Giyuu wrapped his hand around your wrist and led it down.

You frowned, eyes opened in curiosity, until you realized that he had settled it to lay flat over his bare chest. You blushed and you could tell he was worried, maybe. You could feel his heart thrumming rhythmically underneath his ribcage, a lullaby you had learnt to fall asleep to through the months.

“Are you sure that you want this?” the Water Hashira mumbled, drawing invisible patterns with his thumb over the back of your hand.

You smiled and nodded your head vigorously “With every inch of my heart” you confirmed.

Giyuu squeezed your hand gently, his heart-rate increasing notably at the sound of your voice “Does it mean that you trust me?” he asked, staring deep into your glimmering eyes.

Your heart ached at the sound of his voice, so uncertain, so thready. Years spent in believing you do not deserve to be alive, undergoing degrading profanities thrown at your face, and enduring loneliness without anyone to stick by your side could deeply demage someone. Given instance, Giyuu Tomioka was broken beyond repair.

“I trust you” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his one.

Words became unnecessary, at this point. You believed in him, you trusted him wholeheartedly and that was already enough.

In a nick of time, his calloused fingers undid the bendages around your torso and your breasts were exposed to his soft eyes. Your nipples stood uptight, as the cool night breeze coming from the window pierced and bit your exposed skin. It was such a delightful sight to behold for him. You let him explore your body, his fingers roaming down your curves and his lips planting wet, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone, until their grazed your nipples.

You moaned, batting your eyes closed as the tip of his fingers traced the irregular outlines of the small scars you had collected during years of slaying demons. You flinched under his touch, your eyes watering as he praised your beauty continously under his breath, your skin a canvas for him to print kisses over.

“Are you sure I am desirable?” you asked him, burying your face onto the crook of his neck.

Giyuu snorted and grasped your chin delicately, forcing you to look at his face “You are a goddess. Don't you dare claiming otherwise” he deadpanned, cutting you off with a kiss before you could have the chance to retort something.

You flushed in embarrassment, one of his hands working on his belt to unbuckle it hastily. He wanted you, but above anything else he felt the urge to let you know how much you worthed, how deeply he loved you and your glorious body. Giyuu was rather quiet, sometimes it was better for him to act than translate his feelings in words.

In a blink of an eye, you were laying on your back, your pants now discarded somewhere behind you. His cold hand slided underneath your panties, goosebumps raising on your naked legs as he approached your aching core. It felt right. Giyuu was the one.

Blue eyes met yours and you squealed out in pleasure, when his fingers drew figures eight on your bundle of nerves. He was nervous, yet gentle and, when he saw he was successfully pleasuring you, he grew more confident in his actions.

He shot you a knowing glance, before slipping your panties off and, when you bit your lower lip nodding at him, he wasted no time in accomplishing his duty of a caring lover. Anything you wanted, he was going to give it to you.

“Gorgeous, just gorgeous...” he whispered again, his index grazing down at your entrance. He had always felt out of place, as if he did not belong anywhere, but right now the center of his world was right in front of his eyes. You were his happy place in the world. Therefore, for the first time ever, he felt home.

You mewled under his touch, rosy cheeks and shaking legs waiting for him to make his move, to mark you as his for there was nothing more you desired more.

The raven-haired man smiled weakly at you and slowly slided his finger into your aching core, earning a strained moan from you. It was a blissful moment, a glimpse of the bright future laying ahead of you two. You had no idea for how long you were going to be together, considering the life you had chosen to live, but it would have been such a miraculously blissful and dreamy journey.

When he decided to add another finger to stretch you out better before the act, you sighed in content and bucked your hips up in frustration. You yearned for more, for him, for everything.

“Giyuu, please... – you whined, gripping the bedsheets underneath you so tightly that you thought you were going to rip them – I want you” you said, out of breath, eyes glistening in sheer lust and love.

Giyuu obliged to your request and, resting his elbows at each side of your head, he shoved his lenght inside you. A throaty moan fell from his lips, resounding into the bedroom of the Wisteria House you were currently quartering in. He filled you up completely, your walls squeezing him perfectly, as he conquered you inch by inch. Conntected, at least, for the very first time.

You had never seen Giyuu in such a miserable condition. He was barely keeping himself together, sweat beaded his forehead as he stayed still to let you adjust to his size. Your needs came before his ones. The look of adoration in your eyes, the way you kissed him lovingly, wrapping your legs around his waist, made him lose his cool, though.

He did not speak, instead he pulled out of you until only his tip was still buried in your heat before snapping his hips forward again. Your toes curled and you let out a sinful moan of ecstasy, eyes rolling back to your skull.

A few slow and deep thrusts followed, eliciting grunts and pleas from you. You were a moaning mess underneath him, his slow and passionate rhythm sending you to cloud nine. Was it possible falling in love all over again, every second you spent with the same person, with him? It was and it was pretty clear how deeply you trusted him, when, before you both got to reach your climax, you allowed him to wrap his hand around your throat.

Lewd noises and sacrilegious moans filled the air, but you had never felt more alive than now.

He came into you that night, collapsing beside you, drained, and unusually happy because you made him happy.

He turned towards you, silence swallowing you two for a few minutes. He was lost into a whirlwind of emotions, contemplating your weary face affectionately. You were the center of his Universe.

“I love you” he breathed out then, propping his head on the palm his hand to stare at you.

You chuckled softly, reaching out your hand to ruffle his hair jokingly before you spoke out your feelings once again “I love you too, baby”.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hello there! The urge to show love to this man was eating me up from the inside and therefore I am, fixing a relatively old work of mine. As per usual, likes, comments and re-posts are greatly appreciated.

Until next,

x o x o

TAGS: @electronicwitchcollection @shonen-brainrot @ladytamayolover @speedykittenpainter @youdidntseemehere21 @xxfelix-nightxx @doumadono

[becsabillion4]

take it out on me (carmen berzatto x reader)

so this is my first time posting a fic of mine on tumblr since i was 14 and i'm slightly terrified by the formatting but i posted this on ao3 yesterday and someone told me to post here too (<3) so i hope you all enjoy it as much as i enjoy the thought of getting pounded by carmy in the walk-in

pairing : carmen berzatto x f!reader

summary : Carmy is having a terrible service, and you're sure some time in the walk-in will help him cool off (although it gets hotter in there than you might think).

word count : 4,410

tags: SMUT, rough sex, angry sex, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, choking, semi-public sex, ending with soft carmy which makes it all okay, 18+ only

note: this is explicit 18+ only and also this is NOT an advert for safe sex, it is merely a fantasy i have been playing with since my own days as a waitress and carmy has helped me to realise it. also i'm obsessed and i know y'all degenerates won't send help so instead i ask that you send me asks so i can write more about this wonderful man

Disorienting. Overwhelming. Stressful, painful, unrelenting. Burning your hand hard enough for it to stick to the pan, hard enough that you know on the way to the sink it’s too late, that you’ll bear the scar of that mistake for the rest of your life. Knives slicing always so close to your skin, living on the point of pain, focus trained so hard on the blade you can’t even blink. Shouting, screaming, the place could be on fire, and you wouldn’t look up from the art you’re creating. Flames licking at your apron. Beautiful.

Kitchens are the prison and the heart of a chef, and the one at The Bear is currently the pride and the bane of your life. Plating up your one billionth focaccia of the evening as Marcus rushes by holding a tray of cannolis aloft, you try to tune out Sydney shouting instructions to the new servers, trying to drill something, anything, into their panicked, under-developed skulls. 

But none of this worries you. What worries you is the ominous, creeping silence from the station to your right, where you know Carmy is cooking up not only the best food you’ve ever tasted, but an internal storm that is going to be unleashed any, second, now-

“Chefs! Where the fuck is my garnish? Tina, are you dead? ‘Cos you need to wake the fuck back up.”

Tina is already by Carmy’s side with the garnish, but the damage is done. She doesn’t bristle at his words, but shoots you a worried look as she slides by, murmuring, “Sorry, Chefs. Behind.”

Since you started working at The Bear six months back, you’ve witnessed a rare few Carmy outbursts, and you know everyone feels the same way when they happen. It’s like the moment you miss a step on familiar stairs, stomach lurching and fear sweeping through your body. Carmy is this kitchen, and his boiling point is the moment things tend to spin out of control. 

And yet, Tina’s reaction is everyone’s; disappointment in herself, instant forgiveness because she knows Carmy is doing everything he can for this team. Last week, after you and Sydney spent the evening getting wasted on her couch, she’d confessed to you how hard Carmy took his notorious opening night failure, and how he’s been struggling to make up for it since then. And it’s been working; his kindness, patience, and passion for elevating those around him have always outshone the occasional harsh word during service.

But this service is just bad. It’s been bad since 5AM, when you got here to take in the delivery and found out that the grapes needed for the welcome broth had somehow been left off of the order. It’s been bad since Marcus ruined three batches of cannolis in a row, and when Sydney tried to touch his shoulder and ask him what was going on, he stormed out. Since Sydney snapped at Richie for singing Taylor Swift badly during family. The hundred little underlying frissons of tension that normally dissipate as soon as service rolls around have congealed today, like oil in balsamic vinegar, rubbing together but refusing to meld into the team you know everyone can be.

And you know Carmy can feel it. His anger is a physical thing beside you, like standing next to a hot pan with too much oil in it and just waiting for it to start spitting at you. Knowing you have to keep stirring it anyway.

“Four top, two steak, one bucatini, one fish,” Sydney rattles off, and everyone responds “Yes, Chef!” a little too loud.

“Can I get some hands for this focaccia,” you shout through the din, pushing the two boards forward, but nobody responds. “Hands, please, get these off my station before I eat ‘em!” you call, trying to bring some levity to the atmosphere before-

“Hands, fuckin’ hands, Chefs, FUCK!” Carmy explodes, appearing by your side so suddenly you almost jump. His hands hover over the foccacia boards like he wants to adjust something on them, fix something, but you know as well as he does that they’re perfect already.

And of course, this just makes things worse.

Carmy properly looks up for the first time, straightening out of the “chef about to have an aneurysm over plating this fish” posture and into his “everyone here is about to get fucked” pose. “These are good to go, why are we not? Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. Go fuck yourselves-” one of the new waitresses approaches with trembling hands and Carmy pushes the boards at her, disgusted, almost taking them over the edge of the pass, “-all of you, what is the point of any of us being here if nothing is leaving the fucking kitchen!”

“Carm, it’s okay, they’re going out,” you can’t help cutting in, but you should know better than to try to soothe a wild animal. Carmy doesn’t say anything, turns back to plating up his fish, but his beautiful artist’s hands, which you often find yourself trying to draw in the margins of inventory checks, are shaking now. You’ve never seen him this bad. The whole kitchen waits on a knife edge. You glance up, watching the waitress leave with your focaccia, and have a brief but fervent desire to be her as the doors swing her out of this hellhole.

The fish is beautiful as Carmy puts the finishing touches to it. A server steps up to take it as other dishes for the same table coalesce at the front of stations, all elegant, all perfect, all more than worthy of the restaurant’s Michelin star.

Carmy is completely still. Staring. And you know it’s too late.

Plunging his fist down, he crushes the fish into sea-scented pulp. The shells of oysters, hand-selected, crack into broken-mirror shards; the sauce is peppered with shoddy scraps of lobster tail.

It’s still not enough for Carmy, as he picks up the plate and sends it spinning into the back wall, narrowly missing Sweeps’ head. “ Shit, ” Carmy mutters, turning back to his station and searching for more things to destroy. You watch him contemplate the knives, and you can’t stay out of it any longer.

“Carmy. Chef. Carmy,” you say as you reach out to grab his muscled arm, pulling him round to face you. You can feel the tension corded deep under his skin, see the sheen of sweat coating his tattoos. Normally, any skin contact with him sends your brain into overdrive, but you can’t afford to be anything but calm right now.

His eyes are wild, but you watch him steadily, and he watches you straight back. You’re not sure why, but the moment reminds you of how you felt on those rare occasions he invited you and Syd over to brainstorm new recipes in his cramped kitchen. Especially that time Sydney couldn’t make it, and you were midway through describing your idea for a yuzu-infused scallops course to him - “with maybe, like, a garnish of broccoli just absolutely smothered in hollandaise” - when he reached forward, tucked a scrap of hair behind your ear, and the very idea of food whisked straight out of your head - but you still felt hungry. And whilst he’d tried out your broccoli idea over and over again that night, you found yourself blushing every time he passed you a spoon to taste it. 

You never could get that dish right. Every time you thought about it, you couldn’t separate the flavours from the curious look in his eyes, the way he drank in your ideas, absorbed them before he responded, how his eyes tracked every thought that crossed your face.

Now here you are again, staring at that measured, thoughtful man turned savage, and you wonder if you have the guts to do what you’ve been thinking about doing for a while.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you murmur beneath the clatter of plates behind you, just for him. You don’t look away even when you hear something shatter. You move your hand from his arm, up over his shoulder, push your palm into the curve of his neck and hold it there. 

Then you wait, feel his shoulders jumping up and down with his rapid breathing. Wait until he leans into it a little, chasing your solidity, and it’s all the response you need.

“Come with me.” It’s not a question, but he nods anyway.

“Sydney, you got this?” You ask, never taking your eyes from Carmy’s face, worried that if you do, you’ll lose whatever grip you have on him right now.

“Yes, Chef,” she replies, and you feel her edge round the side of Carmy to put another fish on rapid fire. He catches her eye as she passes, and brings his hand up to his chest, rubbing it once in what has become the team’s official way to apologise during service. She responds in kind, and he lets you drag him off the station, past the others shooting him worried looks, straight into the walk-in.

You shut the door carefully, recalling the stories of Carmy’s previous imprisonment. It’s still securely closed, giving you both some calm and privacy to cool off.

Except cooling off is not really what you have in mind.

You turn to see Carmy slumped in the corner, curled in on himself and running his hands through his already-chaotic hair. He stands again suddenly, bracing his hands on the wall behind him as if to remind himself they exist.

“Carmy.”

“Yeah, shit. Sorry, I just need a second. It’s just, I didn’t sleep at all last night. I was thinking about doing something with ceviche, but I couldn’t figure out what fish would work best, and then that sorta spiralled into a panic attack which kept me up whisking eggs for something until three, and then-” You watch his eyes darting over the shelves around him as he talks, and you realise he’s taking stock of what’s there. Even during a full-blown meltdown, he cannot stop working, stop thinking. He starts pacing.

“Carmy,” you say again as you try to catch his eye. He’s staring at some spare T-bones like they’ll explain to him whatever dish he was whisking eggs for last night. Fuck it. You grab his chin, tilt it until he has to look at you.

“D’you know the best way to calm down?”

“Lock yourself in the walk-in for three hours?” He’s trying to relieve some tension, but you have other ideas on how to handle that.

“Sex, Carmy.”

There. You’re terrified that you finally acknowledged it, finally confessed to what you’ve been thinking about for months, but thank God it’s out in the open. You’ve been blushing at his compliments on your food for far too long, ignoring how good he looks in a white tee for even longer. And today has been such a shitshow it can’t possibly get any worse by admitting to this too.

You wait for Carmy to shut it down, laugh it off, maybe even fire you, but he just looks shellshocked. Then again, that is his default look.

“I, um…” He rubs a hand over his forehead, glances up at you almost shyly. “I mean, um. What?”

“Listen, you’re fucking up service. You’re distracted, tired, stressed beyond belief. I want to help you, and I won’t pretend it’s just out of the goodness of my own heart. I’ve been interested in you for a while, Carmy. You can take that or leave it or kick me out of this walk-in if you want, but I’m here. I want to help you work through things, through all this anger. And…I want you to know you can take it out on me. And maybe even feel better at the same time.”

Carmy is flushed, and you’re all out of words. You kind of wish he was still looking at the T-bones.

“We, uh, we can’t.” Carmy leans back on a freezer for support, crossing his arms in a pose you normally associate with him working something out in his head, deciding what a dish is missing or what it needs to take it up a notch. “I mean, not now. Not here, at least. And I don’t know, we work together. I’m your boss. It’s not a good idea.” He reaches a hand round to his back, starts massaging the strain away there. It’s an especially effective position as he doesn’t have to look at you as he does it, as he says, “Sorry.”

You shrug a little, smile. Try to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Keep it professional, or as professional as you can get in a kitchen. “Hey, it was worth a shot. Get some sleep, Chef.”

You turn to go, hoping that stirring and slicing and plating up will shake off the embarrassment currently burning through to your bones.

But you don’t live to regret the offer as Carmy grabs your arm, spins you and shoves you hard enough into the walk-in door that it rattles on its hinges.

“Hey, everything okay in there Chefs?” you hear Marcus call, and it’s a reality check you absolutely don’t want right now. Carmy doesn’t even seem to have heard him, trailing kisses down your neck, collarbone, shoulder as your body arches into the feeling. You’ve had one too many fantasies about this walk-in since you started, but the actual feeling doesn’t begin to touch the dream.

“Yeah, all good Chef!” You manage to reply, but you barely get the ‘Chef’ out before Carmy’s lips slide over yours, pushing, demanding entry as his body keeps you pressed up against the door. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place, is all you have time to think between kisses.

There is no room or time for playing around. Carmy needs this, and you intend to provide, but you’re damn sure getting everything you can out of it just in case it never happens again. One of your hands curls deep into his hair, pulling his head back as your teeth click together in the ferocity of the kiss. You swear you can taste blood, but neither one of you pulls back, the saltiness only urging you on. Your other hand is busy loosening his belt, and you tug it hard to pull the silver prong free of the leather, hard enough that his hips jerk forward into yours and you moan, long and low.

Gravity suddenly spins on its axis as Carmy lifts you, turns and drops you down onto the freezer Fak installed last week. And for once in your life, thank you, Fak. The movement seems to shake Carmy out of it for a second, and he pulls back, hesitates. A hand curves around your cheek, and you can feel an apology coming, see the reticence forming in his eyes. And honestly, fuck that.

You hook fingers through his belt loops, dragging him closer and then using them to tug his trousers down. You’re not gentle as you reach into his underwear, wrap a hand around his cock, and you can tell that’s what he needs as he hisses, his head drifting back.

Removing his hand from your cheek, you guide it slowly down to your neck. His head snaps up, and there’s a darkness, a need, that wasn’t there before as you move your hand slowly, torturously, down his length.

“Hey,” you whisper, reluctant to interrupt the low grunts spilling from him with each of your movements. “I’m not going to break.”

You squeeze his fingers around your throat a little tighter, and it’s this that has him surging forward, messy mouths pressing together again and everything condensing into a rippling, burning, rightness as the fingers of his other hand shove themselves between your legs.

He lingers there for a moment, breaths short and sharp in your ear as he breaks free from your kiss and whispers, “If we had more time, I would clean up the mess you’re making all over my freezer, Chef.”

“My apologies, Chef,” you pant, the sweetness of the apology marred slightly by your fingers tugging hard through his curls. Then you’re pushing up his white shirt at the back, reveling in the heat of him, the muscles straining under your touch. “What’s my punishment?”

Carmy hesitates, then withdraws his fingers from you slowly, and it feels like the calm before the storm. One hand is still pressed loosely around your neck as he brings the other up to your face, runs the edge of his still-wet fingers over your lips. Asking or demanding, you don’t know, but you’re happy to comply. His pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the blue behind them, and when you slide your mouth over his fingers, taste yourself on him, he closes them in momentary bliss. And it’s so beautiful to see that you can’t resist pulling him in to share.

A Michelin-star chef with one of the most sophisticated palates on the planet. A renowned food critic once wrote of him, “In my next life, I’d like to be just one of the taste buds in Carmen Berzatto’s mouth.” And here he is, savouring you, tongue searching out every corner of your mouth as if he wants to figure out each and every component of your taste. Add the recipe of you to his menu, and make it every night.

You’re both done waiting, and the clock is ticking. You can faintly hear Sydney calling orders through the wall, although she sounds steadier now. You don’t know whether anyone out there knows what you’re doing, but a rampaging elephant couldn’t stop Sydney when she’s on a roll.

Carmy pulls you closer to the freezer’s edge, jeans and underwear falling to his ankles and suddenly he is right there, and-

“Oh, fuck,” is all you can say as he pushes forward in one swift, animal movement. And oh, pain flickers down your spine as he slides almost free of you and thrusts back, relentless, and this is exactly what you signed up for.

“ Fuck ,” he echoes, hand sliding down your neck to settle over your racing heart. “Fuck, you…I don’t know how you do this to me,” he pants, and you try to keep your moaning down so you can hear as words spill from him, “When you come in with your hair down before a shift, when you - ah - when you borrow my knife and I see you using it all service, when you let me light your fuckin’ cigarette for you. Shit. You drive me crazy on purpose, and you wanna know what the worst part is?”

You can’t breathe, let alone answer him.

“The worst part is I eat that shit up every time, ” he snarls, punctuating every word with a short, sharp thrust.

This is the animal you saw tonight, spitting curses, destroying his own food, all sharp edges and uncompromising will. Grunting as he bottoms out inside you, fingers clenched around your upper thigh hard enough to bruise, littering bites over your neck as if your colleagues aren’t an unlocked door away.

But the animal isn’t the end of Carmen Berzatto. There is more to him than the bear, and you intend to remind him of that before you’re through.

“Look around you,” you pant as he thrusts again, harder, sweeter, and you have to get this out before you tip over the edge. So you risk bringing the hand you were using to support yourself forward to turn his chin towards the walk-in’s walls, to beyond them, to the restaurant hard at work and the satisfied diners metres away who have no idea what’s going on in here, and fuck if that doesn’t make it all the more delicious. “Look what you made. Look who you are.” You watch his flushed face, hope he understands the praise, but you can’t hold on anymore to see your words land.

“You’re fuckin’ unbelievable, Carmy,” is all you manage to choke out as every muscle in your body lights up, tenses and releases in a flood so strong you wonder if you’ll ever surface, and if you even want to.

Carmy fucks forward into you twice more, and his head drops onto your shoulder as he groans, shudders, relaxes fully for what may be the first time in his life.

You stroke a hand over his head, pull him closer. You’re not quite sure when this stopped being a no-holds-barred quickie and became a quiet, intense embrace, but it feels right. All the desperation, the keyed-up energy, is gone from him. And if he never wants anything more than that, even though the idea is more than a little disappointing, you can take consolation from the fact that you at least managed to stop a raging Carmy in his tracks.

Although it is a little quiet.

“Carmy?” You ask, hesitant to break the silence. Thankfully, it still sounds like it’s all bustle outside. You wonder how long you’ve been in here, and try not to think about how you’re going to emerge with any shred of dignity intact.

Carmy pulls back, and you can’t define the look on his face, but it worries you. His eyes shine slightly, and his gaze skips across your face, down your body, not holding your stare.

“Are you okay?” You ask, praying this isn’t about to get really awkward really quick. The man’s still inside you, for Christ’s sake.

“Yeah. I, um, I should be asking you that.” Carmy’s hands skim down your sides, fingers pressing in randomly as if to check for bruises. He tilts his head to look under your chin, as if to check he hasn’t caused any permanent damage to your neck. “Jesus. Are you alright? I’m sorry, that was rough.”

“I’m totally fine.” You don’t know what to do to reassure him, so opt for two big thumbs up. “See? Voice working and everything.”

Carmy chuckles unevenly, takes a careful step back, and you try not to consider how empty you feel and how cold and slippery the freezer now is underneath you. You hop off, catching yourself on the side when you realise just how shaky your legs are. When you glance up at Carmy, he’s just staring at you, which is, frankly, unnerving.

“Do I look that bad?” you ask, pulling your hair out of what’s left of a ponytail to start again.

“No. No, I’m just…I’m just taking you in.” The raw honesty in his eyes pins you in place for a moment. But of course, Richie shouts “ Cousin!” before you can read into it too much.

There is a moment of panicked dressing and clean-up, a nod to each other to confirm you both look relatively sane and not totally fucked (even though you doubt it), and then a collective deep breath as you push open the door of the walk-in.

You don’t catch anyone’s eye for a second as you head to your station, Carmy’s presence like an open flame behind you.

“Corner. Corner. Behind, sorry Chefs,” you call as you slide back into place. Two quick glances calm you; one at the clock - seventeen minutes - and one at Sydney, who doesn’t look like she’s about to throw up and only has three tickets in front of her. You spare a final one for Fak in his position by the door, who you are positive would be grinning gleefully if he, or anyone else in the kitchen, knew what just went down in the walk-in.

“What do you need, Syd?” you ask, picking up the familiar back-and-forth of the kitchen again with some relief.

Carmy is quiet, focused, for the last half hour of service, but you can’t keep your mind clear. As soon as last orders are sent out, you slink to the back for a cigarette, hoping the smoke will at least wipe out your brain fog. It does the exact opposite. When you let me light your fuckin’ cigarette for you. You exhale, waving the smoke away as the words churn through your brain. I eat that shit up every time.

“Hey,” you hear, and you’re almost thankful to speak to the real him just to distract yourself from thinking about earlier.

“Hey.” You offer him a smoke, and he takes it, sinking onto the step next to you. The brush of his leg against yours is a lot more comforting than you expect it to be, relaxing a secretly worried part of you.

He takes a long drag, the kind of drag you only take when it’s been a shitshow of a day. “I just want to say I’m-”

“Sorry? It’s okay. It doesn’t have to happen again,” you finish for him. It hurts less that way.

“What? No.” He looks at you until you reluctantly meet his gaze. “Not for that. I’m not sorry about that.” He lets that hang there for a second, holds your eye. “But I’m sorry for losing my shit earlier. Nobody deserves to be around that, and…I want you to know I’m working on it. I wanna be…I wanna be good at this.” It’s a stilted apology as he thinks through every line, and it feels all the more sincere for it.

“That’s okay. I know. We all know.” You reach a hand out to touch his arm, and after a second, he lowers his head to rest on his knee, although his face is still turned towards you. You see his eyes flicker from your hand on his arm to your face.

“Although that wasn’t exactly how I expected that to go by the way,” he says after a moment.

You don’t try to pretend you don’t know what he’s referring to. “What, in the walk-in?”

“Oh, no, I’ve thought about it in the walk-in.” You ignore a pulse of feeling at his casual confession, at the idea that he’s thought about you. “I just didn’t imagine it so…heated, I guess.” Carmy raises his head again, traces a finger along your hand where it rests on his arm until you shiver. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it.”

You hesitate for a second before replying. Before extending the branch. “Well, I’m sure there’ll be other times, Chef.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and it’s your turn to watch his thoughts flickering there, watch as the fog clears, the idea forms, and he says, “Yeah. Next time.”

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

wow guys thank you for reading i pray through the act of writing this that my jeremy allen white obsession will calm the fuck down, but i fear i've made it worse

if you'd like to keep up with me on ao3, you can find me here and please do send me any comments or feedback or prompt ideas, i would love to hear them <33 thank you!!

[larothoughts]

anti-ship adjacent ships: liujiu and qijiu

so there's this weird thing that's happening in svsss of all fandoms that reminds me a lot of voltron's klance and sheith fiasco AKA the formation of what i like to call anti-ship adjacent ships

basically, when someone's favorite ship is more indicative of them being an anti-shipper of another ship.

i've had to start excluding liujiu in my ao3 searches because more often than not, the fics that come up are yqy-bashing and what?? this is svsss, right? mxtx's trashiest, most problematic, harem-bicycle-shen-yuan svsss? what is this moral outrage doing in my degenerate danmei fic space, and why are you mischaracterizing yqy just to make an excuse to hate on him??

i've had a few thoughts on the rising dichotomy of shen jiu sympathizers both validating sj's bad behavior and hating yqy for enabling the same behavior. and then shipping him with lqg because liujiu is 'less toxic.' As an old lady fanfic reader who's trawled through all the godforsaken dead dove ships of the old livejournal kink_meme, i'm writing these out because making sense of things helps me cope and i am too old for this shit

(this is actually more 'why anti-qijiu' word vomit than liujiu specific--it just so happens that so many liujiu fics are bizarrely anti-qijiu.)

narrative reasons for anti-yqy liujiu fic:

aka why an author finds it easier for the plot to bash qi-ge

accepting either romantic or platonic qijiu means trying to fix qijiu. this is hard. yqy and sj already have a proven history of failure, while sj and lqg (aka author's ideal white-knight love interest) would be the perfect do-over. making yqy a clear abusive villain sj must cut off ties with 'for his mental health' solves the problem without having to fix things. it frees the author to write what they thought qi-ge should have done to 'save shen jiu right.'

on the same note, liujiu have nearly no canon crumbs. the author can write them however they want without being constrained by their canon relationship.

why lqg over other possible ships? other than yqy, lqg is one of the few characters with any sort of previous relationship with sj. lqg is canonically hot, has strong (even if negative) feelings towards sj, and has no textual or subtextual canon ship (beyond a one-sided crush on shen yuan, with lbh getting in his way lol.) he is also the same generation as sj and thus avoids any age gap squicks like with sj's other ship partners (looking at you tlj)

yqy is the only person in cang qiong with higher authority than shen jiu. while other peak lords are antagonistic, all are ranked lower and can't get in liujiu's way the same way as yqy can as a sect leader. not even the old palace master has the same power because he's the head of a different sect. so if you really want to write a villain abusing their (implicit) power over shen jiu, yqy is the only one that fits the bill.

lbh, as sj's disciple, does not fit the same abuse of power trope even if he becomes an op demon lord. as for bingjiu, lbh's brand of diabolical stalkerish yandere is so over-the-top it's hard to equate him to any real relationship. it's easier to twist yqy's passivity to villainy because it's closer to reasonable human behavior.

if one is coming from the tgcf fandom, yue qingyuan is the closest junwu-adjacent character in terms of personality and rank (on the surface.) so it's easy to transfer any junwu hate to yqy by giving him all of junwu's worst traits and making him 'junwu-lite'

same thing as above but with mdzs and the lan xichen hate for his inaction regarding his own little meowmeow (jgy).

personal author-reasons for anti-yqy liujiu fic:

aka when the character himself doesn't matter

let's get a silly one out of the way: maybe the author only headcanons top shen jiu and most qijiu has sj being a bottom. lqg gives off better hot twinky bottom energy than submissive-but-still-tops yqy. this does not explain the anti-shipping though.

less silly: an author is projecting either themselves or other people in their real life onto their fic, and changing the character's personalities to match their real life projected counterparts (even if ooc). sj is a clear abuse-survivor insert, which shoe-horns other characters into roles that real people in the author's lives have. i think yqy is often seen as the insert for someone who 'could have helped but didn't.' there are many valid reasons why someone would be more mad at the person who averted their gaze rather than their actual abuser, but that doesn't change the fact that qijiu's relationship in canon is so much more complicated.

(it's easier to hate enablers instead of abusers, because hating abusers and inviting confrontation is dangerous. most of the time, enablers won't hurt you directly. they are the safer person to hate.)

an author thinks they could have saved sj better, that qi-ge had more than enough time to fix things and his failure not to do so must be punished by taking away his sj-simp-card and throwing him into the villain bin. this is similar to the phenomenon where an author hates the wife of canon anime couples b/c the author could clearly wife him better. and then writes a fic bashing said wife.

an author sees a messy relationship and equates messy with abusive. in reality many relationships can be messy but not abusive, messy but still fixable, but due to their personal experiences they see any attempt to do so as toxic. in this scenario yqy is often the abuser-insert and his ooc characterization takes after the author's own abuser.

specifically in fics where lqg has the personality of a cardboard cut-out: using liujiu to tell others they are still pro-ship, when in reality they dislike qijiu for their own reasons (and can't help but write it in their fic). it really reminds me of middle school lol like kids trying to find their identity by hating another identity. the whole 'ew pink is overrated, i hate preps which means i must be a nerdy rebel' and then two years later you realize you're not a nerdy rebel after all, you just based your entire identity on what you thought was the opposite of what you hated.

why i try not to read anti-qijiu liujiu fics:

aka write whatever you want, but sometimes i have to choose not to read

authors can write whatever they want. we're all doing this for free, so it's expected that a lot of fanfic have venting and some self-imposing onto a fictional character. i don't expect authors to NOT put themselves in their fic in some way. at the same time, however, i hope authors are self-aware enough to not bash another character just because that character reminds them of someone irl.

aka i get uncomfortable when i read a fic that has an author's obvious real-person insert. i'm not reading svsss fic anymore, i'm reading the author's version of punishing their abuser using fiction. i love transformative media that adds onto the canon! i love different interpretations even! but i'm here to read svsss? where are the svsss characters??

i'm not into character-bashing in general. i think the point of svsss and all of bingqiu's misunderstandings is the fact that good/evil is not a binary. sy spent the whole series fearing the 'evil' binghe despite the fact that post-abyss binghe was a complex person, causing a chain reaction of disaster. hell, shen jiu is the king of gray characters! he is a scum villain, evil and misunderstood, to be a sj-fan means to understand that no one is entirely good or evil. so it's even more cognitively dissonant when a pro-sj fic is so categorically anti-qijiu, as this often paints sj as good/misunderstood and yqy as bad.

(the only character-bashing i don't care about is the old palace master mxtx clearly wrote him to be bashed so throw him in a fire)

i don't mind liujiu actually, i think the dynamic has potential (see all the sj harem fic i've read lol) but qi-ge is such a big part of sj's character that vilifying/getting rid of him does sj a disservice too? sj has a shit ton of bad coping mechanisms, these aren't going to be magically fixed if yqy gets his limbs chopped off as 'just punishment' (??) for not stopping sj from abusing his own students (????)

in conclusion

there is no point to this rambling, and you don't need to agree with me on anything. these are just thoughts i had when trying to figure out why anti-ship adjacent ships even exist. the moral outrage is giving me war flashbacks of anti-sheith klance fans using their age gap as justification for their own ship, rather than liking klance for... being klance.

(I briefly considered going over all liujiu vs qijiu morality arguments, but if you're an sj fan i feel like morality arguments are pointless. he is an angry feral scum kitten who hits kids, no sj-fan has the moral high ground here.)

it's always unfortunate to see so much anti-shipping spilling into fandom, since by default most of us are living in the fringe minority anyway. further dividing us is just going to sink the whole ocean ala the death of livejournal and chinese ban on ao3. there's no point in ships if there ain't an ocean to sail in! aren't we all here because we are fans of these stories???

bonus

to make up for what must feel like a huge anti liujiu wall of text, here are some of my general thoughts on how their relationship would work. i'm more familiar with sj so most of these are from his pov.

while sj often has schemes upon schemes upon schemes, when it comes to anger/criticism/negativity, he's scathingly honest. lqg, a fellow honest asshole, is often on the same wavelength. once misunderstandings are cleared up and lqg realizes sj will do whatever it takes to protect big bro yqy (and thus the sect), they're able to work together as a ruthless team against cang qiong's enemies.

let's also assume fixing sj's emotional issues stops him from the worst of his scumminess aka whipping his disciples half to death.

teamwork -> enemies to lovers -> only one bed trope???

sj needs someone who will overtly believe in his goodness, and lqg, once he realizes the mistakes in his assumptions, is a loyal wall of support. unlike qi-ge who must always play diplomat, lqg blazes over all social cues. who cares if this looks bad on cang qiong, he'll throw down with anyone if his boo is insulted.

lqg is upfront and honest. there are no hidden plots for sj to be paranoid about in lqg, he's a Good Man through-and-through. if lqg has problems, he'll tell him. if he needs to apologize and sj tells him why, he'll do so. and if sj asks him a question, he'll always do his best to answer.

while lqg knows sj has trauma and a dark past, he will never truly understand what it was like. and that's exactly what sj wants. he likes how lqg knows him more as he is now in the present vs. someone who has lived through the same past. being with him is a reminder that he is now a powerful peak lord, not the starving street rat he once was.

for lqg, sj is like a complex puzzle box. an enigma so outside of his understanding of how the world works, he can't help but be drawn to it. he used to equate scheming with evil, but once he realizes much of sj's scheming was for the good of the sect, he lets himself be impressed by sj's intelligence. the fact that sj became a peak lord from nothing shows a certain type of strength-- and lqg has always appreciated strength.

a big roadblock in their relationship was sj's antagonism towards yqy (their sect leader whom lqg respects.) once qijiu reconcile (or sj stops being so disrespectful to yqy in public) lqg is better able to see him as an ally vs. an enemy.

sj rewards this loyalty by taking care of lqg's hidden enemies, because straightforward brutes are especially susceptible to devious snakes like that. sj would know. whether or not he tells lqg can go either way. he tells lqg if only to stop lqg from hearing it elsewhere and assuming the worst; or he doesn't tell lqg because he knows lqg trusts him and confusing his mind with schemes would just make him grumpy for not understanding.

...even if he's cute when he's grumpy.