#if you actually manage to read all this i love you

[zomboivex]

Getting personal for a moment. But I feel it’s important to share, anyways.

When I was married, everyone in my life gaslit me to believe I was terrible with managing my money. Any personal expensive was noted as frivolous and wasteful. Bought some fabric for my hobby of dress-making with money I earned from a bonus?

That could have been used for the water bill next month!

Had a $1000 bonus? No. That’s for the house mortgage that he didn’t let my name exist on even though I paid for majority of the renovations because he was content letting the kitchen sit in disarray with thick dust in the air. Causing me to have severe allergy attacks every day.

Called off sick?

How could you? We have bills to pay!!!!

Go through extreme harassment at work?

No. You’re making it up. It’s an excuse to take a day off and relax.

Ignore the fact that he called off regularly because he had headaches while I was shamed into going to work despite having the flu.

Set up a joint account where only I contributed to put money in for bills to pay. Because he would pay from his account. Then he’d constantly drain the joint account for ‘bills’ and then spend his money on who even knows. We had 2 maxed out credit cards in his name.

But this was so normal to me. Because I grew up like this. I grew up with my ‘support system’ telling me this is normal. Telling me that I am the problem.

And I believed it.

I believed that everything that was wrong was me.

I didn’t know he was $7,000 in debt until our divorce where he was demanding I pay it off.

I never did find out what he used that money on. I suspect it was on his gaming addiction and my alleged ‘best friend’ he was sleeping with.

When I finally got out of that relationship, I was in financial ruin. I had nothing in my name. At 30.

I lost everything. (Except for the car that I begged for him to let me take and 3 of my 4 cats).

I lost the house I lived in for years. It was all in his name. There was nothing I could do about it. Because we were ‘only married for 3 years’ despite being together for 10.

I had no furniture to take with me. Save for a couch. That I couldn’t actually take because I had no place to go. I was couch surfing or sleeping in my car at this time.

I lost my dream job because my ‘friend’ worked there as well. And while they were beyond accommodating to my situation, I could no longer mentally handle being there nor could I handle the hour drive once I did find a place to live.

$1000 down on a new apartment.

Car broke down a month later. $1000 down on a new car.

Said car was stolen twice. Can’t even begin to tell you how much money that leeched out of my savings.

$23,000 (with health insurance) for surgery due to appendicitis.

All in a year after divorce.

It was defeating. It was so fucking hard.

In a span of a year I went through multiple life crises events. I can feel how it physically changed my ability to process information. In a way, I’ve become ‘dumber’ because of it. I can’t hold onto information. I have a hard time reading and staying focused.

Only reason I was able to even financially get through all of that was because I had some money saved from a lawsuit at the job that was harassing me that I wound up winning after the divorce. That and I finally caved in and got a credit card (my credit score was good) and a couple of personal loans.

I’m still paying it all off. It has been so fucking hard.

And I’ve been going through waves of hating myself for being so naive to feeling terrible for what I’ve been through because I didn’t see anything wrong with what I experienced as it was happening. And I’m finally coming to my own form of peace with this. But it was hard.

I had been with him for 10 years.

I don’t love easily. But I did love him. Even if I showed it in odd ways. I wouldn’t have married him, otherwise.

And then when everyone around me said I was the problem, I believed them.

Even now, I have an incredibly hard time understanding when I am truly in the wrong with a situation or if my reaction to things are justified.

I didn’t realize I was being put through mental and financial abuse by so many people around me.

I wish I could hug me from a few years ago and let them know they are so strong for going through all of this. But that they shouldn’t have had to be so strong for so long.

I wish I could hug every woman on the planet that has been through anything where they had to ‘be strong’ to survive while thinking it’s normal.

Baby, it’s not normal. You deserve so much more in this world.

You deserve your own freedom and a support system that values you and lets you know when you’re going through actual bullshit instead of painting you as the villain.

To all the women out there who go through these things; I love you. I see you.

maybe i’m a joyless bitch but i actually do NOT think it’s funny to see women being like “the house is just in my husbands name” or “my husband makes all the money” or “i don’t even know who our mortgage is with” or “the only bank account/credit card is his and i get an allowance” like i do NOT find that cute or romantic and i am begging these women to Stand Up. you should at least be named on the deed to your house and the title to your car and the bank accounts even if you don’t pay for them/earn all the money. you can’t stop existing in the eyes of the law and the credit unions simply because you have a husband. if you’re raising his children and washing his socks half of everything he’s got is yours and it needs to be yours LEGALLY BY NAME. "he takes such good care of me :)" girl you are a PRISONER!! that’s all

[zepskies]

HEADCANON: Man Flu

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader || Beau Arlen x Reader || Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader || Boaz Priestly x Reader

HC: When Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Boaz Priestly get sick, how would they act when you (try to) take care of them?

AN: After reading I Got You by @bettystonewell (Dean x Reader) and The Best Kind of Medicine by @lamentationsofalonelypotato (Soldier Boy x Reader), I realized that I've never actually written a sick-fic before. Here it is in headcanon form, since you guys seem to like these! lol 💜

Also adding Priestly to this lineup for the first time because some of you have been requesting more of him recently. 😉

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, hurt/comfort, sick-fic, some needy affection-starved men who don't want to admit they're needy, lots of fluff.~

Dean Winchester

He's not sick. Because he doesn't get sick.

Dean claims he has the constitution of a horse, but you still take the beer out of his hand before he can take a sip at 10:00 a.m.

He's too busy interrupting himself, namely by coughing half a lung, wheezing, blinking teary eyes -- the whole phlegmy nine yards.

Sam shakes his head, casting you a look that frankly says, Good luck.

He knows his brother is stubborn as hell, and one of the things Dean dislikes most is being fussed over for "no reason." Being seen as weak. Not being able to just shrug his shoulders and shake it off.

To be fair, Dean tries. Except this time it's accompanied by a body shiver and a reluctant sniffle. His pallid face is drawn, and his usually strong and solid frame looks unsteady as he leans a hand on the War Room table.

"Okay, come on, Rambo. Let's get you back into bed," you say, guiding your boyfriend back to the room you share with him.

"I'm find," he insists, even as he begrudgingly accepts the gentle pressure of your hand on his back and shoulder, pushing him down to the bed.

"Sure you are, baby," you say with a smirk. "You're in the primb of libe."

Dean shoots you a narrowed look. Damn you for forcing him to binge-watch all those episodes of Friends late at night when you both can't sleep.

Right now he's Monica, trying to convince you he's in tip-top shape, while you're Chandler, just trying to get him to use tissues instead of his flannel sleeve to wipe his runny nose.

After taking his boots off, you get him to change out of his jeans and back into his sweatpants. Then you manage to get him to lay down under the covers with the promise of coming back with medicine and soup.

"I don't want soup, damn it," he grumbles. You just roll your eyes and rub his arm.

"Just rest. I'll be back with the Vicks."

As you might expect, Dean is not an easy patient.

He refuses to drink tea, but he does down the pills you bring for him, with a measured toss of his head that still makes his head swim. He groans.

He swallows a couple of cautious spoonfuls of the soup, pausing when he realizes that its warmth actually feels good down his sore and scratchy throat. It tastes pretty good too, especially with the warm, buttered slices of bread on the side.

"You made this?" he asks.

"Mhmm," you nod, smiling. If nothing else, good food will pacify this man. "Chicken and wild rice, made especially for you."

"Hmm. S' good," he nods in reply. He manages to finish the bowl.

He has to admit, if just to himself, that he does feel like shit.

He won't admit that the way you're rubbing his back, the gentle pressure of your nails between his shoulders and down his spine relaxes him, makes him feel better.

He knows that you care about him. That you love him. But this is one of those moments where it hits him, just how much.

It's a little overwhelming. A heavy swell of pressure fills his chest, so he tries not to let himself think about it for very long.

(He fails.)

After he's done eating, you take the plates away and help him back into bed. You linger there, slipping your fingers through his soft brown hair and pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead.

"I really need you to rest, okay," you say quietly. "If you need anything, just text me or Sam. Don't get out of bed."

Dean grasps your hand before you can move away from him. Since you're probably going to wash your hands anyway, he lays a kiss on the back of your hand.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

Beau Arlen

Sheriff Beau Arlen is the type to run himself into the ground because he's so damn into his work.

He wants to do well in his station of responsibility, and he feels like he has to make up for his performance during the summer madness of Buck Barnes and Avery...and everything in between.

You just have to make Beau realize that he needs to slow down, before he well and truly burns himself out.

You put your foot down one morning.

He tries to get out of bed but has to pause, his head swimming. He takes a couple of steadying breaths while sitting on the edge of the bed.

You notice with a frown. "Hey, you okay?"

"Fine. Just fine," he answers a little too breathlessly. He raises a hand to his head. His throat is sticky and coarse. He wrinkles his nose when he also feels a sneeze coming on.

"Just need a...a...mugh-ah-ha-hugh."

His coughing sneeze makes you grimace. You didn't even know someone could sneeze and cough at the same time.

"Aw, babe. You're sick," you say as you move over to him, resting a hand on his back. He shakes his head and groans.

"Nah, can't be sick. Gotta lot of work to do today," he says. His voice is like gravel blended with broken glass. It would actually be sexy, if for the distinctly un-sexy way he tries to clear the great wad of phlegm from his throat.

He tries to rock himself onto his feet, but there he sways on the landing. You hurry out of bed to grab his arm and steady him.

"Oh no, you don't. Back into bed," you say.

"Aw, sweetheart. I'll be fine--"

"No. Lay down. You're not going in today," you say more firmly, all while you tuck the man back into bed with the blankets covering him.

"All right, all right. No need to be so pushy," he can't help but tease.

It earns a small smirk on your face. It seems like his man flu hasn't yet deprived him of his sense of humor.

"I thought you liked that though," you reply. You sit on the edge of the bed and rub his chest. He groans in defeat.

"Can't believe this," he grumbles. "Today of all days--"

"There's always going to be another case. This is your body telling you that you need to slow down," you tell him. "So how about this. I'm gonna call in one of my sick days, and we'll bunker in together."

You stroke his bearded cheek. He quirks a smile, grabbing your hand and squeezing warmly.

"How long until I'm allowed out, warden?" he asks.

"Until you can stand without keeling over," you dryly reply. A smile tugs at your lips. "Remind me to stop by CVS to grab you a Life Alert."

"All right, har har haugh--" His sarcasm ends on a very real, wheezing cough. Your amused smile drops. You relent from your teasing and stroke his chest once more.

"Okay, just rest. Let me get you some actual medicine and I'll be right back."

He stops you by grabbing your wrist. "Hey, uh...can I have some chicken noodle soup later?"

"Of course, baby. I'll swing by the store now and get some stuff for you."

"And some saltines?"

"Saltine crackers on the side. Got it."

You're about to head to the bathroom to brush your teeth before you start getting ready to go to the store, but once again, Beau's needy hand stops you.

"Before you go, some tea with honey and lemon would be good. Just something for my throat," he croaks.

You smile and nod. "Yeah, for sure. That'll be better for you than coffee."

"Oh, and can you gimme that quilt over there?" he asks, pointing to your favorite knitted blanket at the edge of the bed. You graciously lay it over his form and drop a kiss onto his forehead.

"And some cough drops. Thank you, darlin'," Beau adds.

Your lips begin to press together, but you nod and continue getting dressed.

You can already tell this man is going to settle into you taking care of him just fine.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Neither of you thought it was possible, considering his super genes that allowed him to eat and booze and drug harder than Andre the Giant and Keith Richards put together.

But one day, your over six-foot super soldier goes down hard. The warning signs came the night before, when you could hardly sleep with the way he was snoring like a grizzly bear.

In the morning, he wakes bleary-eyed with a runny nose and a coughing fit hard enough to shake the bed.

"Fuck," he groans, dragging a hand over his face before he turns onto his back. "This's gotta be some kind of bullshit hangover."

You move over to him in bed and feel the intense warmth of his clammy forehead. Your brows draw together in concern.

"No, I think you're sick."

"Not possible," he grumbles. "I haven't been sick since..."

Well, since he was a kid, probably. He won't admit it, but he's surprised he still has that memory lodged in the back of his mind.

It comes to the forefront now: your hand on his cheek unknowingly mimics his mother's gentle touch, her soft, kind voice.

"Aw, my sweet boy. Let's get you feeling better."

He can almost recall the floral scent of her perfume, echoes of it in the shampoo you use.

Ben claims he's fine, that he doesn't need your help or want the medicine and tea you bring for him. (He tries the tea, grimaces, and spits it out when you're not looking.)

He's a sourpatch grumbly patient who only begrudgingly stays put in bed when you ask him to. He doesn't mind lying around and watching movies all day, not to mention episode after episode of Below Deck. It reminds him that he wants to get back into boating.

"Hey, sweetheart," he calls to you from the bedroom, his voice croaking all the while. "I'm getting you a yacht for Valentine's Day. You want it all white, or throw in a bit of gold? Actually, check out this one with the navy trim."

You roll your eyes to yourself when you step back into the room. You're carrying a tray with a large bowl of soup and a fifth of whiskey. He claims the latter will help soothe his throat, and you don't have the heart to argue with him when he's clearly feeling so shitty.

"You mean you're getting you a yacht," you reply wryly. "We live in the city. Where the hell would we put a boat?"

"In a yacht club, where it belongs," Ben retorts. He hooks an arm around your waist and peruses what you've brought him on the tray. He doesn't look all that interested.

"Look, I know you're not exactly a soupy kinda guy, but this'll make you feel better," you say.

"Why can't you put some fucking steak in it or something?" he grouses. He tries and fails to hide another wet cough.

"Why can't you just eat what I lovingly made, just for you," you snipped back.

He rolls his eyes at your attitude, but he pipes down. In that silence, he's conceding that you have a point. There was a time were all he had to do was glance in someone's direction, and there'd be some fucking moron to fulfill his every whim.

Now, you're probably the only one in the world that would actually do what you're doing...

Cooking for him, putting your heart into it, for the simple reason that you do care.

Ben takes the bowl of soup from your hands. Raising a brow, you offer him the spoon as well.

He eats without further complaint.

You smile and reward him with a sweet kiss on his forehead, brushing his hair back as you do so.

"See? That's not so hard, huh?" you can't help but needle him. "It's okay, baby. I'll take care of you."

He eyes you dryly, but he won't admit that there's a different kind of warmth coiling in his chest.

Boaz Priestly

"Uuuughhh, babe," he groans. "I feel like death on toast."

You're standing beside the bed with a smile playing on your lips. You brush back his for once un-gelled hair back from his face. It's weird to see it all limp and lifeless, slightly damp with sweat.

"Unironically, I should make you some toast," you reply. "What kind of medicine do we have?"

Priestly unearths his head from under his pillow to look up at you with miserable red-rimmed eyes and a sniffling, stuffy nose. "Can we count the tequila in the mini bar?"

"Maybe later," you laugh. "How are we on groceries?"

Priestly struggles to think. He takes your hand and rubs it back and forth across his chest. Maybe your sweet, loving touch has the power to clear away his congestion without him needing Vicks. Too minty.

"We have that pastrami I brought back from the shop," he says.

"That's six days old already," you shake your head.

"Aw, that's still good," he argues. "But uh, other than that, I think I have half a cheeseburger left from last night."

Last night's date at TGI Friday's, he means.

You heave a sigh. "Okay, clearly I'm going to the store. You just stay in bed and rest. Drink your tea."

He grimaces like a child. "I don't like tea."

"I know you don't like tea, but you need to drink it. It's good for your throat and your immune system."

He groans and flops back over onto his stomach. You bite your lip against a smile. He's such a whiny baby when he's sick.

Talk about Man Flu.

"Come on, be a good boy for me," you say, smacking him lightly on the ass. "Soon enough you'll feel better."

A smile creeps across his face where it's pressed against his pillow.

"Know what would really make me feel better?" he hedges. He tries to guide you down to him by tugging on your hand, but you resist him.

"Oh, no. You're not gonna get your germs all over me," you say.

"Hey, what happened to in sickness and in health?" he croaks. Even while under the weather, he's still plenty strong enough to grapple with you. He manages to yank you down. Laughing, you stumble into a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Huh, I don't remember exchanging any vows. You see a ring on this finger?" you tease, flashing your bare hand in his face to try and distract him and weasle out of his grip. "I can jump this ship anytime I want."

Priestly pouts. His arm hooks tighter around your waist. "Huh, guess you got me there..."

He turns his head and coughs roughly into his arm. Your amusement fades into concern and sympathy. You lay a hand over his chest while he struggles.

Once again, he clasps his free hand over yours. He glances up a bit hesitantly into your eyes.

"Well, maybe it's time there should be something on this finger," he murmurs.

You blink your eyes wider. Your head tilts, wondering if you just heard him right. Is this delirium fever talking, or is he serious?

"O-Oh yeah?" you ask.

Priestly tries to gauge your reaction. Seeing your face break out into a cute, shy smile raises the corners of his lips. Hope blooms in his chest, right beneath your hand.

"Yeah," he says, trying to clear his cracking throat. "I mean, if you're okay with that. If it's not too soon--"

You slip your fingers over his plush, chapped lips, and your smile brightens.

"When you're feeling better, you can ask me that question properly."

AN: 😆 I hope you liked the first ever addition of Priestly!! It was so fun to try and write him again (it's been a while lol). Feel free to imagine this vignette in the same storyverse as The Miracle Man and Code Red.

But I also hope you enjoyed the "Big 3," as I call them, even though Russell is starting to give Beau a run for his money on one of those slots. 😂 Let me know which guy you had the most fun reading on this one! 💜

And if you want even more fluff before Valentine's Day, check out my friend @waynes-multiverse who just posted her set of V-Day headcanons with Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau, and Russell: Headcanon: Valentine's Day 💕

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

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@siampie @rubyvhs @winchestergirl2

[savnofilter]

I know you did somno headcannons but what about pro hero’s and villains fucking the reader to sleep. Like just a tired reader who feels so safe and good that they doze off during sex. (Twice, Aizawa, dealers choice)

                twice | aizawa | dabi x [fem]reader

warning(s): sexual content, semi-somnophilia (?), fingering, p in v penetration, groping, cuddling, side position, mating press, fingering cum back into you (🤭), pre-established relationship.

read more: masterlist | adult masterlist | drabble masterlist

a/n: ughhhhh i hope these werent redundant! i actually had a bit of a spark to get this done so here it is. 🥴 thank you, anon!

                     jin bubaigawara.

sweat breaks onto his forehead, but his pace slowly and surely comes to a rhythmic pace.

hard, accurate, but all so slow and gentle at the same time. the sounds that Jin's cock manages to draw out of you makes him want to speed up, but quite frankly you two had been at it since early this afternoon.

after spending time away from each other proved that not only does distance make the heart grow fond, it was everything in his right to prove that.

you mewl feeling his hand shift to grope your right tit as your languidly laid on your side, eyes fluttering and hips trying to fuck yourself on him. his moans and grunts are ever so present in your ear as its aggression softly lulls you to sleep, the type of lewdity that you missed from the days you two were separated for. he chuckles, breathlessly, as he looks at you trying so desperately to cling onto consciousness when everything in you was battling to do the opposite.

a soft 'shoo' slips it's way between your teeth and barely escapes your plump and bruised lips (from his kithes). once his hand that was once fondling your breast instead move to press it's large palm onto your lower abdomen, successfully making you painfully aware at how deep he reaches.

in a shameless bit to finish yourself as you were right there, your hand dj's your clit and does the job for you. it takes only but a few more thrusts for you to freeze and tighten up around his cock, a pathetic moan sounding from you as you finish. he wraps his arms around your waist and knocks his hips more ardently this time, wanting to finish, too. just the thought of you using him to get off was the kick-start to his own climax he was chasing.

soon enough in your now sleep state, the welcoming feel of his load paints your skin. he's biting, kissing, and muttering all sorts of praises of, 'i love you's' into your skin as you safely dose off into his arms.

you two would just do it again tomorrow if need be.

                     shouta aizawa.

with your thighs pressed so firmly to your chest, and hands firmly pressed to the back of your knees only from the strength of your lover's hands.

it was cozy the way he was sloppily fucking himself into you. there was a squelch from each impact that would've embarrassed you if you were new to this. your gummy walls were almost too tight for his comfort, but Aizawa was never one to complain much. a grunt is all he combats the frustrated energy with as he attempts to speed up pace.

his eyes are glued to where you two meet; eyes so entranced at how pretty your pussy looks when it expertly takes his cock that he has to remind himself to look up every once in awhile to check on you to see if you were okay. dont get him wrong, he didn't think you were fugly or anything, his mand simply wanders in lust if he can't help it.

as his eyes trace it's way to your face as it gets on its journey to search your eyes, he can't help but notice your pretty lashes seem to stare back at him instead. he gives your hands a reassuring squeeze to check on if you're still with him, delighted to hear a distinctive—very slumber like—hum in acknowledgement. he's quick to swoop down and plaster a kiss onto your parted lips, tongue finding its way to pry at yours.

the intrusion has your eyes fluttering open again and focus starting to align itself with him. it's as if you regaining attention brings you to a full stop, mouth falling open and hips bucking him as you squeeze your eyes shut.

"cumming, cumming...!" you whimper. the short notice dully noted as you take your hands from underneath his and pull him into your body instead. he abandons the pose from earlier to let you wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in with nowhere else to go.

tirelessly he emptied his spunk into your cunt, and shamelessly does he snuggle himself into you as he relaxed against your body.

he'd have to switch to a better position soon, but tonight you'll sleep being full of him.

                   touya todoroki.

"you tired?"

is heard through your sleep like state, body fueled with pleasure and drowsiness fighting tooth and nail to pull you under. you defiantly hum, "no", your brattiness bringing a smile to Dabi's lips.

he had just pulled out of you, wet length pressed against your bum and your half naked body snuggled into him. in an effort to entice him once more, you try grinding back into him, the gesture earning a playful spank from him. you whimper in protest.

"one more..." you lazily lift your head as you try reaching behind you to find his length. he half-heartedly chastises you with the call of your name, swatting your hand away despite your efforts.

he pulls you closer though (somehow it was possible) and he wraps his arms around your waist. he presses his face into your hair, inhaling your musk and closing his eyes in comfort at the familiarity of it all. his free right hand starts to roam your free skin, hand tracing the skin of your hip and thighs, surely taking it's time to get where it needs to.

unmistakenly you can still feel everything. his calming warmth, his calloused hands and his half-baked boner. you chuckle seemingly at the conclusion but quiet when his hand finally finds his way back between your thighs. you slightly open your thighs to help with his venture, softly humming at pressure of his digits palming your still slick folds.

your mouth drops open as he softly massages your pumpum, taking it's time with toying your nerves. he hums lowly when he withdraws to look at his digits glisten in the moon-lit room before taking them to his mouth and sucking on them for himself. it's sickening how his eyes roll back instinctively as he could never get tired of your taste, now wanting nothing more to fuck you again for the nth time tonight. instead he takes his hand back to insert two fingers into you, and smirking at the moist sound that comes from it.

some of his cum from the last round spilled out and it made no sense for it to go waste. he notes the way you slowly drift back into slumber and doesn't prolong the process. with utmost care, he stuffs the load back into your willing cunt. after a few pumps his hand finds itself wrapped around his abandoned cock and aligns his swollen tip to your hole. in the most gentle way possible, he thrusts himself in and reclaims his hold around your body again as Dabi drift off to sleep.

all rights reserved © do NOT steal, alter, translate or copy this work.

[moonydoodlez]

Little White Lies

Pairing: James Potter x Slytherin!Reader

Summary: Reader smells something that's vaguely familiar in the Amortentia but can't quite figure out who it is.

Warnings: Use of y/n twice

Wordcount: 1,149

A/n: Reg, Barty, Evan, and reader are all not friends with snape or mulciber

Hogwarts at spring was always your favorite. The bright sun warming your skin, lovely meadows dotted with flowers. Classes always seemed a little easier, everything just felt lighter.

You longingly stared out the window you were sat next to. Fingers tediously playing the with quill that was in your hands, destined to stain your fingers black. God was it too perfect of a day to waste inside.

A few giggles surrounding you suddenly broke you out of your daze. Your eyes darted around the room when suddenly they fell on Professor Slughorn. His eyebrow cocked up and a playful glare on his face.

"Am i bothering your nap time" He jokes. "Or shall I continue"

"Yeah sorry" You smile nervously, setting your quill back down on the table and adjusting your position to actually pay attention this time.

"Like I was saying Potter and y/l/n" He reads off your names, before just as quickly moving onto the next pair.

Your head whipped to the left to find James and the rest of the marauders already glaring daggers into your head. You weren't one to hate many people, despite what nonsense the green that adorned your body put into peoples head.

James and his co marauders however had become the exception over the years. You had never spent much time with them but you were one of the many who were prime targets for their pranks.

The first two years of school you managed to get away from their mischievousness, and you even thought it was funny. Especially when they went after Snape and Mulciber. Who even you could agree were utter twats.

However when you became friends with Regulus, Barty, and Evan you began getting lumped into the 'bad slytherins' group. Which was weird considering Barty wasn't even in your house.

Time had passed and everyone had expected the boys to get over their childish antics. Yet even in your sixth year they seemed to cause a daily quarrel amongst everyone.

You sighed and look back down at your quill and parchment, wanting to no longer think about the boys who were definitely still staring at you.

"Can anyone tell me what this is" Professor Slughorn asks, pointing at the large cauldron with a bubbling pink liquid.

A Ravenclaw who sat next to you quickly shot her hand up answering.

"Good, yes it's amortentia" He smiles proudly. "Does anyone know what it does, and or the side effects of it" His eyes trail around the classroom before finally landing in you. "Y/n"

"It's a love potion but it causes obsession not love" You answer making sure to keep your answer short and concise.

In the corner of your eyes you could see blonde curls shaking around. Your eyes wandered to Evan smiling putting both thumbs up. You tilted your head at him giving him a confused smile. What a weirdo that one was.

"Correct, it also is extremely powerful" He adds. "Now if everyone would please find their assigned partners we can get started.

You waited until the majority had already found their new spots before stalking to the other side of the room where James was standing looking into the bubbling cauldron.

"Goodluck" Barty smiled pushing his shoulder into yours as he walked by. You were going to need a lot more than luck. A gun maybe.

"Potter" You snarled looking up at the boy.

"I don't want to be around you any less than you don't want to be around me" He looked up and down slowly before his eyes settled on the front of the classroom.

"Alright now I want everyone to smell what's in their cauldrons and discuss what it is you smell" He smiled. "However do no drink it or touch it, or anything that seems stupid" He added.

Nobody missed the pointed looks that found their ways to the marauders from others in the class and Professor Slughorn.

You watched James lean slowly in closing his eyes as he took a whiff of the potion. Slowly pushing his messy curls back in precaution. You hated to admit it but you understood why girls seemed to flock to him.

His lips parted for a moment before his eyes opened again.

"What are you smiling at" He huffed staring at you.

You quickly straightened up, your slight smile dropping as quickly as it had formed.

"Move let me smell" You grunted slightly pushing him out of the way. Closing your eyes you inhaled the scent.

Broom polish, tangerines, and a faint smell of what you think is coconut oil.

You pulled away, a slight frown on your face, the smell felt so familiar like it was something you had smelled a million times. It felt like you should've been able to guess it instantly. Yet you couldn't

"What did you smell" James asks. Moving his hands to the table and leaning a little closer to you.

For a moment you're confused because he almost actually seems interested in what you have to say. God were you tempted to tell him but who were you if not petty.

"Tell me yours first" You challenge.

James began saying the first thing he smelled before Sirius laughed loudly and there was a large noise from behind and suddenly James was no longer by your side.

You rolled your eyes giving one last smell. Letting the flavors mix and you felt so close to figuring out who it was.

When suddenly like a bird hitting a window, it hit you.

Shit.

...

"He is so infuriating i don't know how i am going to be able to stand him for the rest of another year" You groan throwing yourself onto Barty's bed.

"You could always murder him" He suggests, not a single ounce of sarcasm in tone or face.

"Yes Bartimaeus that is a wonderful idea, thankyou for your input" You sarcastically smile at the boy before it instantly falls.

"It's okay babe you tried to help" Evan smiles sympathetically at Barty who is wiping fake tears from his eyes. "We can murder someone another time" He coos, rubbing his hand up and down his back.

You rolled your eyes, covered your face with a blanket to block out the light. You heard footsteps before there was a dip at the end of the bed. The smell of expensive cologne filled your sense as you closed your eyes.

"You know it could be worse, you could've been paired up with my brother" Regulus added.

"Well I guess that's true" You replied.

"So what exactly did you smell" Evan asked before rolling over on top of Barty and stuffing his head into the boys sweatshirt.

"Oh um i don't really remember" You giggled nervously.

They all looked at you, a weird look on their faces. One that clearly read that none of them believed you.

"Hmm must've been Snape" Barty laughed.

taglist: @chososrightpigtail

Masterlist James Potter Masterlist

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

P*rn ☆  Epilogue

Masterlist Word count: 2.3 k Sylus x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have been following a spicy content creator by the name of Red Crow for some time now. Nothing could’ve prepared you for what would happen when he moves into the apartment next door.

Author's note: That's it guys. Thank you so much for reading and all the sweet comments. I've had a blast writing this story<3

Warning! This story is meant for mature audiences. It contains sex, swear words, porn, smoking, intimate piercings, mentions of drugs, alcohol, mentions of domestic abuse, and other mature themes. Do not engage if you are under 18.

Mature content under the cut.

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'So tell me, Rafayel, did you actually set them up,' Zayne asks with a smile as he looks at the happy couple. Rafayel frowns at him. 

'No. Why would I want them to move in together? That's less rent money,' he says in an annoyed, whiny voice. But then he sighs and rolls his eyes, making his annoyed façade a lot less believable. 'I guess they look good together though.' 

'That they do,' Zayne agrees, smiling as he looks at the happy couple entering the ballroom together. 

Today, he had had the great honor of being your best man with Tara by his side as your bridesmaid. He doesn't think he's ever been prouder than he was seeing you walk down the aisle in your beautiful wedding dress with your hair and makeup all done up and the biggest smile on your face.  

It became even more beautiful when he heard the softest sob coming from the man standing there waiting for you. Tears of joy freely flowed down his cheeks as he wore a smile as big as yours. 

He's glad you've found your forever person and couldn't be happier for you. He gets to watch you grow happier and happier each and every day, gets to see you with a partner that allows you to be yourself fully and give yourself fully without taking too much. By now, he loves Sylus like a brother and can't imagine his life without him. 

As he watches Sylus and you sway over the dance floor, your first dance as husband and wife, it brings a tear to his eyes. When the song ends, you approach him with outstretched hands. He takes a quick peek behind you at Sylus to check if it's okay. Sylus nods with a calm smile as Zayne takes your hand. Together, you sway across the dance floor with Sylus gentle eyes on the both of you, smiling contently. 

'Zayne, I don't think I can ever thank you enough for everything you've done for me, for us, but still... Thank you.' 

'I'd do it again a million times to see you happy.' You smile and lean your head on his shoulder. He looks over at Sylus, who is still happily looking at the two of you. It is truly a gift that you two managed to end up together like this. The happiness that has been granted to you is a gift from the gods, truly. He can only hope he'll find something like this for himself. 

'Remind me to introduce you to one of my colleagues,' you say with a cheeky grin, 'I think you'll like her.' 

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'Wait, stop,' you giggle, pushing Sylus off you. The man has been leeching on your neck ever since people started leaving. He pouts at you but lets you do what has to be done. Which is unlocking the door to your shared apartment. When you push the door open, he picks you up and you squeal. 'What are you doing?' 

'Carrying my bride over the threshold,' he states proudly as he walks into the apartment. He closes the door with a kick and carries you straight to the bedroom where he gently puts your back on your feet. 'Would you grant me the honor of taking off your dress?' 

'If you promise me we'll take a shower after.' His pout reappears. The man was banking on something else happening, but you have been in a heavy dress all day and you truly want to wash the day away. It was beautiful and a memory that you'll never forget, but you can almost feel your skin itch under your makeup. 'Please?' 

'Anything my wife wants, my wife gets,' he agrees and walks around you to busy himself with the beautiful pearl buttons on the back of your dress. 'You were enchanting today. Truly in my top five of your most beautiful moments.' 

'Top five? Is it even number one?' 

'No, number one will always be when I woke up with you after we finally had the talk. But it's a good number two.' You giggle as you feel his hands gently work your buttons. Each inch of freed skin is kissed lovingly. 

'What are the others?' 

'Five is when I saw you for the very first time. I was having a terrible time setting up my apartment and you came over with that bottle of whiskey.' You let out a chuckle. 

'You were so rude to me.' 

'I was, but you were beautiful. Even if you did look annoyed,' he adds and continues his list, 'number four is the first time you let me eat you out.' Another chuckle leaves your lips, but then you feel his hands on your hips as he kneels down onto the floor. 

'And number three will be waking up with you tomorrow. The first time waking up with you as my wife,' his voice sounds a little wobbly. When you look over your shoulder, you can tell he has tears in his eyes. With the last button undone, you turn and kneel on the floor with him, taking his face in your hands. He instantly leans into your touch, eyes closing to focus on the warmth you spread through his body. 'I could've never imagined we would've made it this far if it hadn't been for your stubbornness.' 

It almost sounds like a joke, but he means it wholeheartedly. 'And I would do it again and again, a million times if I have to, if that means I get you as my husband,' you tell him, not a trace of uncertainty in your words. His eyes open again and he looks at you, taking in your figure. The dress draping off your shoulders, your makeup so perfectly done, the honestly in your face. 

'I don't know what I've done to deserve you, but it must've been pretty damn good,' he tries to joke, but a tear slips out. Your thumb wipes it away and you lean in to press a kiss on his lips. It's searing hot, a burning promise to stand beside him whatever may come next. 

As lips part, he seems much better. You smile and get up from your knees, offering him your hand. 'Now, I think it's about time we consummate this marriage.' He takes your hand and gets up, pressing a kiss on your cheek. 

'Sweetie, I know you're tired. Let's just take a shower.' 

'Fine,' you pretend to be annoyed, but he sees right through it. 'I'm waking you up with a blowie though.' 

'If I ever say no to that, shoot me.' 

∘₊✧───────────────────────────────────────✧₊∘ 

Despite both being drained from the wedding, you talked for hours. About the past, the present, the future. Little things you hadn't admitted to each other, like Sylus secret love of Fleetwood Mac and your extreme love for- and fascination with sunsets. By the time you both fell asleep, it must've been three or four am. So you aren't really surprised that you wake up with the late morning sun bathing the whole room in a warm orange. 

However, you could've slept for much longer had it not been for a certain someone sucking hickeys on your thighs. With a sluggish movement, you pick up the covers and see Sylus between your legs. Each of his arms wrapped around a thigh, your underwear nowhere to be seen, and a cheeky grin on his lips when he meets your eyes. 

'I thought I said I was going to give you a blowjob.' 

'Well, the day is still young,' he rasps, his voice still full of sleep, 'and I intent to show my wife how much I love her first.' My wife. The words make his stomach tingle the same as they do for you. 

'Okay, but push the covers off. I want to see my husband.' 

'Yes ma’am.' He throws off the covers in one swift motion and plunges right into his breakfast. Right away, flattening his tongue against your clit and licking a thick stripe. Your back arches as you whimper his name. After that, there's no stopping him. 

He plunges two fingers into you and eats like a man starved, like he needs your pussy to stay alive. His fingers pump and curl deliciously inside of you while your body moves uncontrollably, only staying in place because of Sylus’ tight grip on your thighs. The room is filled with moans and whimpers of Sylus’ name. He revels in it. 

Before you know it, your orgasm washes over you. As you try to steady your breathing, Sylus moves from his spot which is slightly uncharacteristic for him. Usually, he tries to get you on the edge of a second orgasm first. 

'My beautiful wife, would you grant me the honor of fulfilling a fantasy of mine,' he asks between kisses as he makes his way slowly to your mouth, placing a loving kiss right on your lips. You wrap your arms around his shoulders to hold him close to you. 

'And what would that be, husband?' 

'Remember that video in my bathroom of me jerking off?' You nod. 'That was the evening after the party. I heard you masturbating and I started imagining being with you. Holding you. I'd like to fuck you how I imaged I would.' 

'Is this something we need a traffic light system for?' He shakes his head. 

'No, none of that. I just want you to stay laying here, just like this and,' he gently lifts your legs until your feet are planted on his mattress, thighs far enough apart to allow space for him. He takes your hands and move them into the hair on the back of his neck. He spreads his legs, sitting on his heels as he gently lines his length up to your pussy. 'Is this alright for you?' 

A smile spreads across your face. This is nothing special. It almost makes you blush that he would imagine such a normal scene and get off so hard on it. You nod and pull on his hair. 'Fuck me, Sylus.' 

He slips in gently and leans closer to press his lips on yours, setting a gentle pace as he kisses you deeply. But you quickly get enough of the slow pace and pull his hair again to separate his lips from yours. 'Quicker, please,' you beg, looking desperate and longing for release. With a smile, he starts driving his length into you at a quicker pace. An orchestra of the little sounds you make fills the room once more. It's so much more beautiful than he imagined back then, so much more beautiful. Your eyes are focused on him and only him. 

'You're absolutely stunning, sweety,' he tells you as he leans closer, wrapping his arms around your body to pull you closer, his lips exploring the expanse of your neck and shoulders. Your hands slip out of his hair and onto his back, your nails leaving works of art on his back in despair. One of his hands leaves your body, moving between the two of you to rub your bundle of nerves, helping you closer to a state of ecstasy. 

'Sylus, you feel so good,' you manage to moan out, clawing your way as close to him as you possibly can. In response, he pulls you up into his lap and holds you close to his chest, as close as humanly possible, while picking up the pace and drilling into you. 

Your moans become louder and you are so grateful the bedroom doesn't border on another apartment as you hear the bed creak pitifully. In a terrible attempt to silence yourself as you rapidly get closer to the edge, you bite down on his collarbone. He groans out your name in a mixture of pain and pleasure. The feeling tips him over the edge. 

His hands grab your hips so hard you're sure it'll bruise, severing you the same mixture of pain and pleasure to help you tip over the edge and fall into the abyss with him. Your teeth let go of his skin as you whole body shakes in pleasure. Sylus holds you close, his arms wrapping around your body like a safety net whilst his hips jerk up to help you ride through your orgasm. 

When he feels your shaking subside, he gently lays you down on the bed and slips out of you. A pathetic whine slips from your lips as your face contorts in disagreement, but all he can see is his beautiful wife. His absolutely perfect wife who is so willing to give herself to him. 

He lays down and snuggles up to you, arms wrapping around your body like they're meant to be there. 'You did perfect.' 

'Sylus?' He hums in response, eyes already closed again, ready for a nap. 'Can I say that I am absolutely flattered that this is what you thought of doing with me the first time you met me?' 

'You can, but do remember that I first fell for you because you were being a brat,' he retorts. There's a chuckle in the back of your throat, but you force it down and huff instead, pretending you're that bratty again. A rumbling laugh goes through his chest. 'I'm joking.' 

'You're really not.' 

'No, I'm not. I still love you though.' The biggest grin spreads on your face, basking in the bliss that this beautiful man loves you. It's something that you didn't see coming, but when you first saw him it hit you like a semitruck. You truly couldn't be happier than you are when you're with him and you hope you'll ever find the words to truly express that to him. 

'I love you too.' 

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Previous - Fin. - Back to the start

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Taglist

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@waowo

@mrskuran13

@minnie-min

@blue-sky336

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[bitchface24-7]

hi! i’m currently really sick and i just need something to read… gn/m reader x viktor or both jayce qnd viktor sick comfort? thank so much and have a great day <3

MY POOR DARLING - VIKTOR X READER

synopsis: you’re sick, unfortunately. A basic cold, but you feel miserable. Your nose is clogged, your head hurts, you’ve got a nasty cough. Good thing you’ve got your boyfriend to take care of you.

warnings: common cold, being cared for, fluff, Grammarly is my beta

genre: m/f or m/m

p.s. It sucks that you're sick, my mum is currently sick too. Hopefully it’s not too bad and you get better ASAP!!

Being sick is horrendous. You knew you were in trouble when you woke up and your nose was clogged, you couldn’t stop coughing, and you had a pounding headache. You were sick.

You just groan in frustration and plop back down into your bed, wanting to sleep the sick away.

Your plans get interrupted by your loving boyfriend walking in and seeing your pitiful state, he smiles lightly, “You sick?”

The grumbled and whiny no that escapes you actually convicts you. You’ve just confirmed his suspicions.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

With that, he leaves you alone for a few minutes. You’ve almost drifted back to sleep when Viktor returns with a sweetened tea and some medication.

You shuffle slowly to sit up and sluggishly take the pills, popping them into your mouth and taking a mouthful of the perfectly warm tea; gulping down the two pills with ease. A small smile graces your face, “Thank you.”

A small huff of amusement escapes Viktor as he looks down at you, he lightly cards his hands through the hair at the base of your scalp, “No problem, darling. Now I’m going to effectively quarantine myself and try my best to care for you.”

A startled laugh escapes you before coughing over takes you, “Aren’t you sweet?” You sleepily bring the mug of tea up to your lips and drink slowly, trying to stop the coughing fit.

Viktor casually takes a book from the shelf and sits down at a comfy chair in the corner of the room, your own personal library. He opens the book and starts to read aloud. His smooth melodic voice filling the room.

You can’t help but smile as Viktor reads to you. You’ve always loved Viktor reading to you, it makes the books even more interesting. So having this sweet treat as you’re sick makes it that much better.

Eventually you fall back asleep, the medication, tea, and Viktor’s voice lulling you to sleep.

When you do wake up, hours later, it’s to the smell of chicken, spices, all around a delicious scent. It’s even better when it’s brought to you on a serving tray.

“I hope you’re willing to eat, or I just made my homemade chicken noodle soup for nothing.” Viktor jokes, his tone light and eyes sparkly. You giggle at him, “I’m starving. Luckily I'm not nauseous, so I'm going to devour it. Put it down pretty boy, stop teasing me.”

Your pretty boy quirks an eyebrow at you and does as you command, a chuckle escaping his plush lips.

He takes his seat back and re-opens the book, continuing to read to you as you eat your soup.

Being sick sucks, but Viktor makes it manageable.

Tis’ the season! I hope everyone is okay and if you're not, I hope everything gets better soon! My mums sick so I’m trying my best to stay away, or vigorously wash my hands after I hang out with her LMAO

[ktyekmrf30]

I was so upset about it yesterday because that's it. They are acting. The entire cast and crew love this show so much, they put so much effort into it, they are literally the only ones promoting the show every friday on social media, interacts with fans and making content and gives us commentary about characters' inner thoughts. That's literally what this post was about. About their work, about art of love of two people, about characters.

GMMTV gave them the bare minimum for promotion and all the events and offers they are getting now are all due to the actors work. Its their hard work and the amazing show that people noticed and that's why they became popular. GMMTV literally did nothing because even the casting was handled by P'Mui and Pardbee, she was the one who wanted William as Thame and saw Po in Est. Est said that he signed contract with GMMTV because of the leading role in ThamePo. That means GMMTV didn't sign him for a role in Beauty Newbie and Frenemy, he was casted like an outside actor for these series, but he need to be signed as GMMTV actor for a leading role. And that's what he did. He signed with them and he puts his soul into this character alongside with William.

And one of the disgusting things is how these people in qrts tried to act innocent and speak FOR William and his parents about how William wasn't actually asked for consent for this scene (bullshit) and how his parents are probably against these scenes (even more bullshit). William was THE one who talked nonstop about this episode the entire week before because he was so proud of his work and the effort he put into it. Not to mention that actors read the entire script before filming and do a screenplay so they have time to back out if they wanted to, and there is no way that William's parents, who btw in a few days will no longer be responsible for William's documents, were against this show or any of these scenes. His parents are literally the most supportive people in the world, constantly liking videos of the show and videos with their son and Est and even Est's solo videos. But these people tried to speak for them to make it fit their "opinion" and insult Est.

The way these people are trying to make William look like a child, making themselves as his real mother's protege - and again his real mother doesn't see a problem with any of it - and the whole mommy culture in Thailand needs to just go away because babysitting grown men is not okay.

Every friday ThamePo fandom has to deal with William's haters, LYKN fans who are either asking for William to be kicked out of the group or making the show look like a burden to group when the main problem is the agency's poor management, and solo stans, and now it's all mixed up with this random homophobic shit about how William is a minor and actually shouldn't be acting in a BL show! So, next Friday is William's birthday and he will be an oficiall adult. We're about to see the new excuse to hate on them because the previous reason will be invalid!

And the way GMMTV quickly hid all the videos and deleted tweets with ThamePo even when there weren't that many of these comments? It makes me angry. Even thai fans were shocked. As a company that produces LGBTQA+ content the way they allow haters and homophobes to speak louder than the fans or community is simply unacceptable. Although what am I talking about when this company continues to employ homophobes and misogynists. But it was just... So disrespectful to William, Est and Pardbee team. It looks like they panicked but later returned most of the content but only when people start speak about it and make trends. Like why you did that in the first place? You literally were the ones who accepted the scenario and agreed with the cast.

The saddest part of it for me? Both William and Est 100% saw this because they know everything what's going on and Est was online when this whole thing started. I was so happy that he didn't delete this post because there literally nothing to be ashamed of, it's part of their hard work. I was a little bit afraid because today was WilliamEst event with fansign but you know, they were all lovey-dovey and Est wrote that the most impressive thing William has done to him is him being protective.

Also one of the fans asked them about their favorite kiss scene. It was a chance for them to do the funniest thing ever and guess what? They did it and choose THE kiss they got crucified for by homophobes the day before. Kinda iconic if you ask me.

In case you are wondering all EP9 content regarding the kiss/nc scene have been wiped off GMMTV's social media accounts.

Why? Did you see the tweet of Est I posted about the NC scene?" Well...

People being blatant homophobic here and I am also angry at GMMTV giving in to those people. This will just set a future present.

[bluespiderlully]

KNY - Fix it! AU (+ My Characters) Canon Hashiras

This is the first post of the modern AU series, where I'll share with you moodboards and headcanons, for this post I'll cover just the canon Hashiras and in the next ones we'll see the non-canon and the OCs ones. A little warning: some of these headcanons are angsty but the concept I want here is of course hurt/comfort and it's a "bad things happened in the past but things aren't going bad now, we're all friends" kind of things. Anyway angsty headcanons aren't the majority.

🌊 Giyu Tomioka

Knows how to play piano, likes classical music a lot

60s/70s/80s sci-fi books reader, would probably start a conversation about a random book he red and end up talking about philosophy, religion and politics (Enmu and Harriet are the only ones to have actual conversations about the topics and don't just stand there confused).

Loves marine biology but never succeded in making a goldfish survive for more than one week.

🌫 Muichiro Tokito

Definitely a cat person.

Suffers from sleep paralysis and nightmares but draws anything disturbing he sees as a copying mechanism, Giyu thinks his art is pretty cool.

Super skilled at snowboarding and skateboarding.

🌪 Sanemi Shinazugawa

Overprotective with everyone he becomes friend with.

He always has rage issues, but they used to scare Ayumi off so he started working on it and managed to become calmer.

He doesn't listen to music, he listen to NOISE, if a vocalist doesn't sound like a clogged sink he doesn't listen to it.

🐍 Obanai Iguro

Has a Glasgow smile after surviving a serial killer attack. In this AU he wears a mask too, he just doesn't like to show the scar. He doesn't eat in front of people for the same reason.

Owns a black ball python and a white hognose snake and spends a lot of time decorating his terrarium (but he is careful with the hognose one, he doesn't want him to get stuck stucked as they always do).

Interested in occultism, reads a lot about it.

🌸 Mitsuri Kanroji

She does ballet since when she was 4.

Very good at baking sweets, but likes few of them so she always ends up giving them to others.

Makes friends easily and very quickly, her and Kyojuro are best friends since they were at kindergarten.

☄️ Tengen Uzui

When he was a child he wanted to become an astronaut, now he found out about planetary defense and wants to become part of that organization because "diverting asteroids is cool".

Got in every kind of trouble at school.

Drives like he could respawn infinite times.

🦋 Shinobu Kocho

Could talk about chemistry for hours.

Listens to metalcore and hyper pop and ends up hyperfixating with a song and listening to it until she ends up hating it.

Friends with Obanai, enjoys spending time with him and helping with his terrariums.

🔥 Kyojuro Rengoku

Eats a lot but would set the kitchen on fire if he tries to cook anything.

Couldn't get a driving licence and gave up on trying for his and others safety lol.

Cancer survivor but still feels insecure about his scars and about the fact he has some extra weight. He doesn't like talking about that.

Parts: | 1 | 2 |

[utilitycaster]

I love the current discourse because a "woman with a crippling traumatic pasts, gets help of her party to heal from it and spends the rest of her life living a simple quiet life with her lesbian partner" is not the problem, and it has been done before in CR, it's Yasha

If you think about it, Laudna and Yasha's characters mirror each other in more ways than just a monochromatic palette, but one wound up being more interesting and earned her epilogue better and it's not the one that was present for all 100+ episodes of her respective campaign

Yeah; this has come up a TON but like. I have watched/listened to all or part of the following actual play series:

Critical Role (almost everything barring a few one shots, mostly from C1-era)

TAZ (afaik everything except a couple of the most recent episodes)

NADDPod (everything)

RQG (only main campaign and main-campaign canon sidequests, not one-shots, but I listened to all of that)

Relics and Rarities (all)

D20 (most)

Desiquest (first 2 episodes)

Into the Motherlands (first 2 seasons)

Burnt Cookbook Party (haven't listened the last few months for life reasons but intend to catch up, was otherwise caught up)

WBN (first 3 arcs, intend to catch up)

I also am a regular listener to NADDPod and Critical Role's talkback shows. I've been a regular DM since 2020 and had DM-ed one shots prior; I've been playing D&D and occasional other TTRPGs since 2016. I've read a number of articles on the topics of actual play as a form and TTRPGs and discuss it with friends. I'm saying all of this to make it clear: people can tell themselves that I'm stupid and uninformed and don't know what I'm talking about, and I think we all know they're just mad I disagree with them and am a better and more convincing writer to boot, and they're entitled losers who want me to write posts that make them feel good solely through what I'd call bullying but really it's more like if someone tried to shove me in a locker and accidentally gave themselves a concussion running headfirst into a locker, and I filmed it.

ANYWAY getting to the point yeah Yasha tells a story that hits the same core beats while also being a superior character on every level. She also had a difficult and abusive childhood (starting from a younger age) and experienced great loss and injustice, and also committed great harm. In her grief she was taken advantage of by sinister forces that sought to use and control her, and while she was able to escape with assistance, the bindings followed her. She continued to experience loss, and despite fighting back succumbed to her past controllers until her friends - not some stranger, but the people she'd met, coupled with her own abilities - broke her free, and she was able to meaningfully and rewardingly end her servitude. She messily worked through her feelings and in the process found love, and, having been forced to be a weapon and killer, made a choice to set that aside and find her own identity.

Any claim that Laudna's story manages to touch in a meaningful way on the same notes, when she never takes charge of her own destiny and simply drifts and flops about through various paths of least resistance until settling back in a rut, is a desperate and sad lie told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

I say this as someone who thinks that Critical Role campaign 2 is the best longform campaign of D&D I've seen, and that Candela Obscura Circle of Needle and Thread, Moonward, and EXU Calamity are all some of the best shortform campaigns of actual play: there is nothing I can think of that Campaign 3 does, across the board, that something else in actual play (ie, in this improvised format) doesn't do in a far superior fashion. That's really it. It's mediocre at best. None of these were the casts' strongest character nor relationship and it's certainly Matt's weakest plotting. If you liked it, that's great, but yeah there's nothing special about it.

[slippinmickeys]

Funfetti

Love this series

Quonochontaug family vacation and finding a puppy

The call of a gull, the low rumble of surf, the screen door whacking into weathered shaker siding. It felt like 1973 all over again. If he looked in the loft, Mulder was half-convinced he’d find Samantha up there, twirling her braid in her fingers and reading Charlotte Sometimes. 

“William!” Scully hollered from the deck, hand hovering over her brow to block the glare. “You need sunscreen!”

From closer to the roar of the waves, Mulder heard their son shout something back, and Scully wandered back into the cottage, a sour look on her face. 

Mulder sidled up to her and pulled her in for a low body hug, leaning forward to collect a kiss. 

“He’ll be fine for a little while without it,” he said. 

“He has my complexion,” she replied. “He won’t.”

“Let him get a few ya-yas out first,” Mulder said. “He’s excited. That’ll dim. He’ll be complaining that he’s bored in less than an hour.”

“He’ll be red as a lobster in less than an hour.”

“Then he’ll have something else to complain about,” he murmured into her lips, collecting another kiss and lingering for a moment before Scully pushed him off of her. 

“Go,” she said, shooing him away. “We have a lot to unpack.”

A week in Quonochontaug with a newly minted ten year old, the start of summer break. Scully actually agreed to five days off the clock, a record as far as Mulder knew, though he’d have to clamshell her laptop onto her fingers a few times to get her off her email. Then he’d have to hide her charging cord. 

They’d broken the drive in two, the meaty chunk having been the day before with an overnight in New York City–William’s first time. A long day in the car capped off with an early dinner at the Palm and the Lion King on Broadway. Mulder had shown William how to tie a Windsor knot, and when he thought back to the moment, his throat closed up a little. 

“I’ll get the groceries from the car,” he volunteered and ducked out the back door to the car port which was surrounded by overgrown hydrangea and woodsy, unproductive lilac. Out on the road behind the house, the mailbox listed tiredly, the faded stickers with the family name missing the R. 

It had been years since he’d been here, not since William was little. He paid a local vacation home management company to turn on the water and drive by every few weeks. There were still sheets to pull off of furniture and it needed a serious airing out. There were shadows lurking in corners. And memories. And a bullet hole in the old wood paneling. 

A scattering of small stones pulled away Mulder’s attention and Will came bounding up to him from around the side of the house. 

“Dad!” he said, out of breath. “Look what I found!” 

The boy held up the carapace of a small horseshoe crab, his face full of wonder and delight. 

“Nice,” Mulder said. “Though don’t bring it in the house, it’ll stink the place up.”

“More than it already smells?” William joked and tossed the dead creature into the bushes. The house had a closed up redolence of mildew and stale air. 

“You have no idea.” Mulder popped the trunk of their car and pulled out a couple of fully loaded grocery bags, handing them over to his son. “Take these and put them in the kitchen, would you? And then I want you to go around and open all the windows. We’ll get this place aired out.”

William reached forward and took the bags without complaint. “Can I sleep in the loft?”

Mulder thought of his sister, of over-warm July nights bunked up with her because she was afraid of the sound of fireworks. 

“Sure, bud,” he said, his voice a little quiet. 

***

Scully at the sink, a billowing plume of steam over the carmine cap of her hair as she dumped a pot of spaghetti into a colander. Beyond her, in the kitchen window, sat a dusty bowl full of sea glass. Mementos were hiding in every corner of the house. 

“Should we eat outside?” Scully asked. 

Mulder had tongs in one hand and an ancient ratty oven mitt in the other, pulling a cookie sheet of garlic bread out of the tired old oven. The smell that wafted up and over him was heavenly. 

“I didn’t get a chance to clean the bird shit off the picnic table yet,” he frowned. 

“Inside it is,” Scully said, upending the dripping colander into a bubbling pot of marinara. “Will!” She called out. “I need you to set the table!”

Mulder ended up helping, the muscle memory of childhood reminding him what cabinet plates were in, which drawer held the serving spoons. The ice tray wasn’t frozen yet, so they sipped tepid water out of olive green glasses, and Mulder opened a bottle of Chianti, fortifying himself with its acidic dryness, warmth spreading through his stomach. 

Around a mouthful of spaghetti, Will piped up hopefully. “Can we go kayaking tomorrow?” 

“Sure,” Mulder said airly. They’d have to rent some. Maybe an ocean kayak they could keep for the week. 

“It might rain,” Scully cautioned. 

The light went out of Will’s eyes. 

“We’ll go rent one anyway,” Mulder said, giving Scully a look. She apologized with her eyes. “Even if it rains,” Mulder went on, looking at the boy. “That way you can go as soon as the weather clears.”

William perked up at this, and took a massive bite of garlic bread. 

“Slow down, William,” Scully said, then turned to Mulder. “Do they rent them at Quonnie Pond? I can’t remember.” 

Mulder shook his head. “There’s a place in Charlestown that delivers. I’ll call first thing in the morning.”

***

With the sunrise came the rain. 

Will stood in front of the sliding door morosely, complaining of boredom. 

Scully was curled up on the couch with a paperback and Mulder was so shocked by the sight that he was suddenly and quite determinedly of a mind not to let anything mess it up. Particularly tween ennui. 

“Grab your coat,” he said to his son.

“What for?” 

“We’re going into town. You and me.”

Will looked at him suspiciously. 

“What for?”

“I don’t know,” Mulder said, pulling on his own rain slicker and tossing his son’s to him. “Shopping. A tee shirt to prove you were on vacation. Ice cream. I don’t know. Maybe we’ll buy fudge. Come on.”

Scully gave them a Toodleloo wave without looking up from her book. 

As he and Will climbed into the car, he noticed the gutters were full and overflowing next to the house. He’d have to find a ladder and some work gloves. 

The idea of a second house, of a summer home, seemed romantic from the outside, but the logistics of owning two homes–even if his father’s estate paid the taxes on this one–were a colossal headache. And they rarely visited. But he couldn’t bring himself to give it up. It was a place that his sister had been happy. 

“Dad?” William said, his voice tinged in concern. 

Mulder gave him a reassuring smile and cranked the engine.

***

They were running out of shops and the rain was coming down harder, a gloomy June mist that brought with it a particular chill. Mulder had just bought a whale-shaped wooden cribbage board that William was less than enthusiastic about learning how to use. He dropped his change in a ceramic March of Dimes receptacle when the shopgirl gave him a friendly smile. 

“That’ll come in handy,” she said kindly. “There’s a chance it’ll rain all week.”

Out of the corner of his eye Mulder watched William wilt. 

The girl noticed. “Or not!” She backtracked as Mulder took his son by the shoulder and led him out of the shop. “Twenty percent chance of sun tomorrow!”

Will flipped up his hood as they stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Couldn’t we just play Uno?” he said glumly. 

“You’ll get sick of Uno,” Mulder told him. “And your mother tends to get persnickety about Mattel’s rule that you can’t play a Draw Two on a Draw Two.”

“It’s a dumb rule.”

“I agree.” 

They were crossing an alleyway on their way back to the car when William pulled up short and turned to peer into the murk. 

Mulder stopped a step and a half later and turned curiously to his son. 

“Everything all right?”

The boy didn’t answer.

“Will?”

William glanced briefly at his father and then back down the alley.

“Greyskull,” the boy said, distracted. 

Mulder instinctively reached to his hip for his weapon, but his belt loop was empty—he’d left his sidearm in a lockbox at the house. He wrapped the plastic bag tightly around his recent purchase and slid it into his back pocket. 

“What is it?” he asked, placing a protective hand on William’s shoulder. 

“I don’t know,” the boy said. “There’s something down there.”

“Something dangerous?” If there were, he thought, Scully would kill him.

“I don’t think so,” William said, then took a hesitant step into the alley. 

Mulder, not knowing the right course of action, decided to let the boy follow his instincts. 

After a few timid steps, Will began walking with more confidence, eventually stopping in front of a large black dumpster. Mulder waited warily at his elbow. 

“There’s something in there,” his son finally said, looking up at Mulder for guidance. 

After years on the job, Mulder’s first instinct was ‘dead body,’ followed by several other morbid guesses, each one more distasteful than the last. Without his son staring at him with baleful, please-fix-it eyes, he might otherwise have walked away and let someone else handle it. 

Mulder sighed and hesitantly lifted the lid, peering reluctantly into the fusty gloaming. A moment later, something in the darkness moved and Mulder jumped back, the dumpster lid slamming closed with a crack.

William’s eyes went round as saucers. “What? What is it?!” 

When nothing happened, Mulder, chagrined and more than a little embarrassed, licked his lips and stepped forward again.

“I don’t…” he started. “I don’t know.”

He girded himself, and lifted the lid again. This time he noticed—on top of several slimy black garbage bags and days worth of unidentified refuse—a damp cardboard box slumped against the dumpster’s nearest wall. And inside the box, movement.

Mulder swiped a hand forward trying to hook a finger on the edge of the box to pull it closer, but couldn’t quite get a purchase on it. He sighed, stepping away from the dumpster, his hand still holding up the lid. 

His eyes swept their surroundings. 

“Hey Will,” he said. “Grab me that plastic milk crate over there,” he pointed. “I need something to stand on.”

Will skipped over eagerly and came back with the crate, happy to have a job. 

Mulder set the crate upside down in front of the dumpster and scrambled on top of it. 

Movement again from the box, this time accompanied by a low, animal sound. 

Christ, if this was some batshit rabid raccoon, Scully would have his hide. Nevertheless, the added height made it far easier to reach into the mephitic brume of the dumpster, and he was able to grab a corner of the box and heft it up and over the side, depositing it onto the wet asphalt at Will’s feet. 

As he stepped down off of the crate, the boy was already bent over the box, peering inside. Before Mulder could bark some kind of parental warning, William was looking back up at him, his face showing a mix of surprise and delight. 

Mulder leaned over for a look himself. 

Inside the disintegrating box sat a curled-up shivering mass of damp off-white fur. Sorrowful eyes looked up at him, pleading and miserable. 

A puppy. Some kind of lab mix by the look of it. 

William reached into the box and the creature wriggled under his hand, its tail beginning to thump wetly against the cardboard. 

“Can we keep him?” Will asked with a kind of dulled hysteria to his voice, and Mulder instantly knew he had just unwittingly come upon one of life’s great reckonings. 

“No,” he said levelly, putting his hands on his hips and staring down at the conundrum in front of him. 

The puppy, after a couple of gentle pets from William, was already up on its back legs, its sharp little puppy-claws rapidly rendering the side of the box that contained it into pulp in its reckless enthusiasm to connect with its savior. The boy picked up the wriggling mass and instantly got a face full of enthusiastic kisses. 

Will turned a dolorous eye toward his father. 

“We can’t leave him here, Dad.” 

Mulder looked around helplessly, his options quickly winnowing down into his only real choice. 

He sighed again, looking down at boy and puppy. 

“Shit,” he muttered into the fetid air.

*** 

“Absolutely not!” said Scully somewhat shrilly when William walked into the door carrying the dog. They were not twenty feet into the house. 

William threw a look at his father. They had talked about this in the car, betting what Dana Scully’s reaction would be. 

“Your mom is going to kill us,” Mulder had said. 

“No,” William rebutted from the backseat, the puppy on his lap. “She’s going to kill you.”

If Scully’s eyes were any indication, the boy had been right. 

“Mom!” William pleaded. 

“Scully,” Mulder hoped to at least be able to explain the situation before his wife lost her shit completely. 

“Mulder, what the hell-”

Mulder turned to Will, who seemed reluctant to put the dog down, lest his mother march over and fling the poor animal into the wilds. 

“Why don’t you take him outside, Will. See if he’ll do his business.” 

If the dog peed on the floor, or god forbid, took a dump, the level of escalation Scully would take the situation was heretofore untested, as far as Mulder was concerned. And he’d seen her stand up to Congress. 

The second William was out the door, Scully whirled on him. 

“Mulder-”

He held up a hand. “Scully.”

“Mulder!”

“Dana!” she barked sharply.

At that, she pulled up short and closed her mouth. 

“Firstly, he already knows we’re not keeping it,” Mulder said, watching as her shoulders lowered from up around her ears. 

Mulder exhaled so he could speak more calmly. 

“We found him in a dumpster,” he said, trying to drum up some sympathy for the poor creature. “Someone had thrown him out like trash.” 

Scully’s eyes softened. “Why did you bring him here, though? Will’s going to get attached, Mulder. It’s going to be Mr. Bubbles all over again.”

Mulder thought briefly of their week as goldfish owners. 

“We would have gone right to the shelter, but it’s Sunday. It’s closed. We’ll take him over in the morning.”

Scully sighed. Lowered herself onto the couch. “What were you guys doing in a dumpster?”

“We weren’t,” Mulder said. “We were only walking by the alley.”

“Did you hear it or something?” 

Mulder shook his head, moved to sit next to her. “Greyskull,” he said. 

Scully turned to look at him. 

“He knew something was wrong. Could sense it somehow,” Mulder went on. 

Scully looked a little dazed. Mulder knew what she was thinking. William was a kind, empathetic kid. If he could sense the suffering of animals, people, bad situations, the world was going to be a very hard place for him to navigate. To live in. 

“I’m going to make some calls,” Mulder said. “Loop the Gunmen in, too. See if we can find someone to help him learn how to…I don’t know. Shield himself, somehow.”

Scully nodded, leaned back on the couch. “One day at a time,” she said, repeating a necessary family mantra.

Mulder thumped back into the cushions, himself. “Yes.”

“We can’t let him give the dog a name, Mulder,” Scully said after a minute. “Remember when he named those two lobsters we brought home for a Valentine’s Day dinner?”

“Horace and Petey.”

“He cried for an hour and swore off shellfish.”

Mulder remembered. “More Horace and Petey for us,” he said. “They were delicious.”

Just then, the door burst in on a gust of cool air. William trundled in happily, the dog at his heels.

“He pooped and peed!” he reported happily. 

“Nice work, pup,” Mulder said, smiling. 

“Oh,” said William, reaching down to scratch the puppy behind an ear. “His name is Krypto.”

Mulder could feel Scully’s gaze boring into the side of his head. 

***

The rain hadn’t stopped all day, and by evening, it had gotten downright chilly. 

Mulder threw another log on the fire, hoping the flue wasn’t blocked by leaves or a bird’s nest. Next to the fireplace, leaning against the couch, Scully sat on the floor, Krypto curled up against her leg, his little block of a head resting on her thigh. She was staring into the flames, absently running her fingers through the soft fur of the puppy’s ear. 

Near the door were plastic bags of various dog accoutrements; a small bag of puppy chow, a leash and a collar with the tags still on. Just in case. 

William had begged to let the dog sleep with him that night, but Scully had put a stop to the thought immediately, telling William that the dog was likely to need to get up and be let outside in the night and that she would oversee the process. He needed his sleep if he was going to kayak the next day. The boy didn’t like it, but he saw the sense in doing exactly as his mother said in their current situation. He’d gone to bed without a complaint or a plea for ten more minutes.

Mulder poked at the fire until it was burning to his satisfaction, and, confident the chimney was drawing properly, he lowered himself to Scully’s other side, draping an arm around her shoulders. 

“What time does the shelter open?” Scully asked, leaning her head back to rest against Mulder’s arm. 

“Nine, I think.”

“Hmm.”

Next to her, the puppy woke, stretched his legs out and yawned with a soft doggy sound. His sleepy eyes rove up until they connected with Scully’s, and his tail began to thump softly into the floor. 

“Another man unable to resist the exquisite Scully charm,” Mulder commented softly. 

Scully huffed a soft laugh and ran her hand over the length of the puppy, earning her a more vigorously wagging tail. 

“Krypto,” she said, shaking her head. 

The puppy wiggled more firmly into her side. 

“Superboy,” sighed Mulder.

Scully reached over with her other hand and squeezed his leg. 

“We talked about getting him a dog, don’t you remember?” Mulder asked. 

“When he was begging for a sibling,” Scully clarified. “And six years old.”

“Your argument was that he wasn't old enough for the responsibility.”

Scully rolled her head to look at him. 

“I’m not advocating anything here, Scully,” he said. “I’m just saying.”

Scully was silent for several minutes, and the dog eventually sat up. One second of eye contact with the woman before him and he climbed into her lap and licked her face twice. 

Scully reached forward, held the puppy’s face in two hands, gazing into his sweet brown eyes. 

“We’re not going to the shelter in the morning, are we?” Mulder asked softly. 

His wife sighed, still holding the dog’s downy white head. 

“God damn it,” she said. 

[autisticshadowthehedgehog]

A Cluster of Burning Stars - Prologue

{ao3}

“What do you think it’s like down on Earth?” 

“I bet there’s lots more places to run than up here. It looks so big. All the pictures make it look so open. So much bigger than this stupid ship.” 

“Don’t be rude.” 

“I hope it’s just like those fairytales you read me, Maria! With magic and destiny and true love…” 

“--What about you, Shadow?” 

“...it doesn’t matter. If we go there, we’ll go together, and that’s what’s important.”

“...”

“...”

“...Stop being a sap, Shadow, and tell us what you actually wanna see.”

“Fine. I wanna hold a spider.” 

“I knew it.” 

“Ha ha.” 

“Stop arguing, boys. We have to go back to lessons in a bit. Let’s just… enjoy the view.” 

“It… it is a lovely view.”

“...Yeah.” 

---

Knuckles the Echidna and Miles “Tails” Prower the Fox had been thorns in the side of Doctor Ivo Robotnik for way too long for him to not lose his mind the second he saw them during his most recent conquest of the planet. Of course, they wouldn’t have it any other way, this was pretty much how they get their kicks. It got a bit difficult sometimes, but that’s what the extended team was for. But for today, it’s just Knuckles and Tails. They should be fine for now. 

Today’s mission brought them somewhere strange, though. When Tails picked up the signal that Robotnik’s ship had reached the general area, he was worried that he was going to a deserted island in order to capture more flickies to turn into robots-- still hadn’t gotten tired of that, apparently. But when he picked Knuckles up from Angel Island and flew over, they had to engage stealth mode incredibly quickly, as they noticed the island was, indeed, not deserted. 

“Hurry it up, Tails.” Knuckles muttered, standing on the wing of the plane and staring down at the huge metallic facility taking up half the island. He could see a protected road and an arched, towering fence over it. It led a little bit off the shoreline, over to what seemed to be some form of landing pad. What drew attention the most, though, were the flashing lights and distant sound of an alarm. Robotnik must already be inside. 

“I’m working on it.” Tails muttered, giving him a quick glare. “It’s a bit hard to scan government files and fly a plane at the same time.” He put a hand to the communicator in his ear, and called, “Vector, Espio, you better be working, too.” 

He heard a few mutters of confirmation from the other end of the line. 

Knuckles glanced down at the land below, narrowing his eyes so the lights stopped bothering him so much. “This isn’t the kind of island I like being around, Tails.” 

“I know.” 

“I prefer silence. Nature. Solitude. No sudden noises.” 

“I’m aware… hold on, Vector got something.” 

Knuckles sighed and reached to his ear, turning on his communicator; he tried to keep it off, mainly, because the static when everyone was silent annoyed him to no end. But once it was on, he could hear the Chaotix from back in Station Square, scanning whatever computer they’d managed to snag. 

“–Prison Island,” Vector was saying, as Knuckles could hear Espio distantly chasing Charmy around the room; the bee seemed to have grabbed something from his fellow detective and was refusing to give it back.

“Prison Island?” Tails asked. 

“Secret Military Base.” Vector affirmed. “Research facility of GUN. There’s a ton of military facilities, but that big thing in the middle should be their prison. Six levels of security. Should be completely impossible to get through.” 

“Okay,” Tails said, “So how long do you think it’ll take us to bust after Robotnik in there?” 

“Less than an hour.” 

“Alright. We’re shutting off communications. Send the emergency alert if you need anything, you know how.” Tails switched off his communicator, and then said, “You ready to break into a government facility?” 

Knuckles finally smiled, and punched his palm. “When am I not?” 

---

Six levels of security, protected by the best technology and weaponry that the Guardian Units of Nations could offer, were never going to be a match for Dr Ivo Robotnik. He hadn’t even brought his best robots-- he sat in a simple Robo-Walker and blazed his way through hall after hall, hidden elevator after elevator. Security drones would come to attack, but of course they were no match for his technology. Robotnik was the genius of the century, at least according to him, so of course this would be no problem. 

There were six levels of security, he knew, and the files he’d spent days hacking into were a bit more correct than what Vector dug up in a few minutes. While each level had defenses, guards, cameras… everything stopped at Level Seven. GUN never assumed that anyone would be able to get that far, and besides, they didn’t like people knowing what was in there. 

Once Robotnik entered, he approached the large, shining computer in the center. And he looked underneath, to see the frozen tube, holding GUN’s dark, shameful secret within.

“So this is the military’s top secret weapon. A bit smaller than I expected.” 

He was not deterred; size was no guarantee of power. His own Bokkun messenger could carry a multitude of explosives, and that stupid fox couldn’t be over 3’0, and yet he and his echidna friend had been foiling his plans for far too long. Luckily, he had a solution, thanks to the hidden files, the buried research of his brilliant grandfather. And now that he had that information, he could finally defeat those dumb animals, and proceed with his plans for the Robotnik Empire. All he had to do…

“Enter user data, aha… enter password.” 

An easy password. Of course, GUN wouldn’t have guessed it. Robotnik had guessed it due to, as Tails would put it, his inflated sense of ego leading him to believe his family line was superior to all others on the planet. Robotniks had always treasured family above all else, but not always for reasons of superiority, something the girl he was using as a password had once understood. 

“M-A-R-I-A.”

The computer buzzed, and then all Robotnik had to do was place the key to open the chamber, a key that GUN had haughtily assumed none but them would ever be able to find, bring to the facility, and reach level seven to utilize. 

But being experienced at stealing these precious stones to power his machines (though Knuckles always somehow got them back, annoyingly), Robotnik simply removed the white chaos emerald from his pocket, and placed it into a console beside the capsule. It took only a moment before the distant hum and glow of the emerald began its work. Robotnik allowed the gunner machine he sat inside to step back as the capsule slowly began to rise, a small amount of smoke clearing from the platform. GUN and their dramatics… well, honestly, Robotnik could appreciate that. Presentation was very important.

The capsule finished rising, and lifted itself in a diagonal position, as if whatever was inside would need to sit up. Then, with another puff of smoke, the lid flipped open. 

And, in confusion, Robotnik watched as a black hedgehog climbed out, shakily standing. 

The hedgehog was still for a moment, eyes narrowed, clearly trying to figure out where he was. He then turned, seeing Robotnik himself. His eyes widened for just a moment, before the emotion was hidden again. Carefully, he observed the room, and then crossed his arms. 

Sensing he wouldn’t speak on his own, Robotnik prompted, “So. The military’s top-secret weapon is… a hedgehog.” 

The hedgehog continued to stare, and then knelt down. Eyes down, he said, in a quiet, dark voice, “My name is Shadow.” He looked up, then stood and crossed his arms again. “Since you were so kind to release me, my master, I will grant you one wish.” 

Robotnik took a moment, trying to decide if the hedgehog was joking. It seemed a bit impossible to tell. But, well, with an ego like Robotnik’s, it was quite easy for him to accept that, of course, this creature would immediately want to serve one as great as him. 

“Well, I could definitely use some assistance getting out of here.” Robotnik said, considering. “I’m sure GUN has already brought in more forces. And that silly echidna and his little friends will probably come in to ruin my fun.” 

The hedgehog once again had a moment where his facial expression changed, a glimmer of something behind his eyes. “GUN? We’re in a GUN facility?” 

“Where else would you be? If you are this ‘ultimate lifeform,’ you are a GUN weapon.” 

The hedgehog watched him for a moment, and then turned and began inspecting the room. He walked to the computer, running a hand across it, before he turned to his capsule. He peered inside, almost confused. 

“Is something the matter… Shadow?” 

The hedgehog looked up. “Am I the only one here?” 

“But of course. You’re the weapon, aren’t you?” 

The hedgehog blinked once. Then twice. Then he turned, so the doctor could not see his face. A small whisper. Tiny enough that Robotnik, who wasn’t paying much attention anyway, definitely wouldn’t have heard it– and if he did, he wouldn’t have known what to do with it, or with the break in the hedgehog’s voice as he spoke. 

“They killed them.” 

They wouldn’t have kept them separate, would they? They’d want all their eggs in one basket. That’s why they were all on the ARK in the first place. 

Maria died to keep them all safe. She died and they killed the others anyway. Of course they would. Of course they would, they’d always said that Shadow was the most useful. That’s why he’d had to protect them, that’s… that’s why it was his fault, he hadn’t protected them enough, and now they were all dead. 

GUN had taken everything. 

---

Shadow burst through everything in the facility, and when they reached the outside, and he stopped to take a breath, and he looked up at the Earth that had been denied to him for so long, denied to all of them, he held his tears back. 

Two mobians were there, species he vaguely recognized from their textbooks on the ARK. Fox? And… porcupine? Bandicoot? Echidna? Echidna seemed right. The red echidna turned to him, eyes wide with confusion and anger. 

“Hey, you!” he shouted, and Shadow resisted the urge to cover his ears, the noise of the collapsing building inside and the distant gunshots already thundering in his head. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The fox gave him some kind of chiding, but Shadow didn’t listen. He just gave them both a fiery glare. “I’m granting my family justice.” he whispered, not caring if they could or could not hear him. 

He leapt forwards, then, spinning and ramming into the echidna. It sent the red mobian flying back, and Shadow took no time in turning and swinging a kick, sending the fox flying away from him. He heard the echidna leap back up, shouting something in an excited tone– someone who liked to fight, then. The fox said nothing, but Shadow could see him get back to his feet, steadying himself. 

But as Shadow turned to continue the brawl, he wasn’t thinking about them. He was thinking about that first night.

“I can’t sleep.” 

“Why?”

“It’s a new room. I don’t know how.” 

“So why bother me?” 

“It’s your room. How do you sleep here?” 

“I just… do. Other hedgehog, help me out here.” 

“No, I’m with her on this. I feel weird.” 

“...you want to cuddle, don’t you?” 

Two little voices, muttering, “Maybe.” 

“Fine. Come here.” 

He remembered that feeling. He had to be ten years old then, they were all so young. He’d scooted back on the bottom bunk, and then the blue hedgehog had crawled up, cautiously curling up on the bed’s edge, but then the youngest leapt on, bounced, and dragged them all together. She laid inbetween them, hugging them to her, refusing to let go. She had her head on Shadow’s shoulder, then, and whispered, “Night-night.” 

Both of the others had been uncomfortable at first, not used to touch. But they’d realized fast that she needed this, and, well, maybe they needed it, too. Just someone to hold. 

I’m sorry. 

They were gone now. Because he’d failed them. 

I’m sorry, Maria. 

I’m sorry, Amy. 

I’m sorry, Sonic. 

I won’t fail your memory. 

---

Hundreds of miles away, on a deserted island, a second pod let out a long beep, before falling silent again.

[randomfoggytiger]

The Truth Is Out There: David Duchovny, Collaborator and Vancouver Captive

1995 David Duchovny was grimly resigned to five unexpected, grueling years in Vancouver. (Thankfully for philes-- and his pocketbook-- he stuck around and contributed heavily to the series, including the idea which connected Mulder's family to the Conspiracy.) He was also very chatty and very complainy; and, even then, tended to gravitate to lower-stakes projects that put little pressure on him (acting is, after all, something he wanted, even then, to remain "fun".)

Previous parts of Brian Lowry's Book 1 here, here, and here. Transcripts below will be fonted in italics.

BITS FROM THE BOOK

Before the [first] season began, Fox officials were clearly more effusive in praising "Brisco County" and its star, Bruce Campbell, than The X-Files. In that regard, when Grushow commented that he’d “eat my desk” if Campbell didn’t become a star, Duchovny’s competitive spirit was piqued, feeling like The X-Files was being dismissed and slighted. Carter remembers Duchovny returning from an event where Grushow made those comments and joking about serving him the condiments for that meal. The attitude, Duchovny says, was that Fox was touting the other show and treating their entry as an afterthought-- as if it were “and oh yeah, there’s this other little show called The X-Files.” 

The net effect, in fact, turned out to benefit the show on virtually every level-- creating, as Duchovny puts it, “a unique mythology for television.” The complex alien abduction/government conspiracy story that was concocted to explain Anderson’s brief hiatus actually solidified the Mulder-Scully bond, striking an extremely responsive chord with the show’s hard-core fans. As Duchovny points out, there were also parallels between Scully’s abduction and that of Mulder’s sister, giving their relationship even more emotional resonance. 

…One of those regularly contributing ideas [to the second season] is Duchovny, who’s become personally close with Carter (the two are occasional squash partners) and has shared story credit with him on certain episodes. 

The producer has no qualms about letting his star in on that process. “He’s got good ideas for the show,” notes Carter. “Why not use them?” As for Duchovny, he says that once it became apparent the show would be around for a while, he had an interest as an actor in making his character as interesting as possible to play. 

As for Duchovny, the actor had little enthusiasm about doing a television series at the time-- his feature career having taken a promising turn with "Kalifornia", which cast him opposite Brad Pitt. The X-Files turned out to be the only pilot script his manager decided to send him that year. “I read it, and I thought it was a really good story and that UFOs would get boring after three or four episodes,” Duchovny recalls. ‘I thought I could go to Vancouver for a month and get paid, and then go on and do my next movie.” 

“I love it!” Bowman proclaims as the scene ends, watching the shot through a monitor and lauding his star as “One-take Duchovny.” 

…Bowman has to deal with five actors (Anderson, Duchovny, and Gunmen Dean Haglund, Bruce Harwood, and Braidwood) in a relatively confined space, so the staging will be critical. After Bowman aligns them one way, Duchovny suggests an alternative in handling the shot, and various configurations are tried. As they begin rehearsing, everyone still seems a bit punchy, and the mood is light. Haglund keeps wanting to call a Nazi scientist “Kempler” instead of “Klemper”, and Duchovny has a hard time not laughing each time Braidwood (who comes up roughly to the actor’s chin) approaches him, with Frohike supposed to act relieved to see Mulder alive after the events that closed the second season. “Did you ever see the 'Star Trek; where Spock thought that Kirk died?” Duchovny tells him with his trademark deadpan delivery. ‘That’s what you want to be doing.” 

IN HIS OWN WORDS

…By virtue of starring in “The X-Files”, Duchovny also seems destine to have a shot at major feature-film stardom, but again, not via the precise route anyone assumed he’d follow. …Duchovny felt he was on his way and as a result had serious doubts about doing a television series. “It’s like a horse race,” he observes, enjoying a relaxed moment, clad in work shirt, boots, and jeans outside his trailer on “The X-Files” set in Vancouver. “You’ve got fifteen guys who are going to be ‘the next big thing,’ and three of those guys are going to finish.

“I was making a living,” he notes. “It seemed like I would get my shot at some point.”

Duchovny was willing to wait for his chance. He’d done some interesting features, and thanks to the vagaries of Hollywood, he knew a hit movie-- any hit movie-- would move him up to the next echelon of actors. “I always had an abiding belief that things would work out for me,” he says. “I didn’t know how. And then my manager, who was agreeing with me in that I didn’t want to do any television, sent me the script for ‘The X-Files’ because she thought it was a really good script. She read all the pilots, and that was the only one she sent me.” 

Duchovny remembers thinking he could do the pilot-- getting paid to spend a month or so in Vancouver-- and then be off to his next feature. In the midst of another 12- or 14-hour day, he can only shrug at the irony, adding with a sly grin, “It didn’t really work out that way.” 

…Prone to introspection as he is, however, Duchovny feels the weight of the expectations riding on him and wears the mantle of stardom uneasily, having found that sudden celebrity is not without its drawbacks on a personal level. 

…”Year one was just about survival-- am I physically going to survive? It’s what I imagine those triathletes feel: When you first start competing you just want to finish, then eventually you start wanting to get a good time. 

“There were many days the first year when I would just go home and think, ‘I can’t do it. I can’t go back to work anymore.’”

Although that situation didn’t ease much in terms of shooting requirements during the second season-- particularly with costar Gillian Anderson’s pregnancy compelling Duchovny to shoulder more responsibility for a time-- the actor found the show’s creative direction alone lightening the burden. “Last year I just think the work was so much better. That was kind of inspiring,” he says. 

Ever a tough critic, Duchovny felt there were some good episodes the first year and enjoyed doing something that was different from most primetime television shows. As for his contribution, he says he was “occasionally kind of happy with my work.” 

By contrast, in the second season, he believes, “we really became the best show on television,” saying he’s grateful that the series survived so its performers, writers and directors had the opportunity to mature together. The third season will be more of the same, he predicts, with trademark sarcasm, “before we slide back into mediocrity.” 

…Stardom does have some advantages, in that Duchovny has been able to add his stamp to the show creatively, providing story ideas and helping contribute to “The X-Files” mythology….

…Part of Duchovny’s goal has been to flesh out the character of Fox Mulder-- which, he points out, was understandably vague when the show began-- in order to make the part more enticing for him as a performer. “It’s definitely been exciting, just something added to my experience, in terms of being able to guide the destiny of the character,” he explains. “Because the character had no destiny. Like any TV show, you’re forced to eventually create a history for the character that it never had.” 

Once “The X-Files” had survived the initial Nielsen weeding-out process and he and Carter realized the show was going to be around for a while, Duchovny offers, “it became important to me as an actor to make that history as interesting as I could.” 

The second-season finale, entitled “Anasazi,” and revelations about Mulder’s family played out in the two opening episodes of the third season, offer such mythic highlights, exploring Mulder’s character and family history, down to his father’s role in alien experimentation. Those episodes also shed light on the abduction of Mulder’s sister, Samantha, which figured prominently in the character’s motivation….

Those episodes, he maintains, couple with earlier story arcs have “created a unique mythology for television in the character, and I’m really proud of that fact-- that I was conscious enough to say to Chris, ‘Look, I have some ideas, I want to be involved with the creation of this myth.’” 

Duchovny contends that Anderson’s pregnancy and brief absence unwittingly contributed to that emotional resonance. Having Mulder search for her echoed the loss he felt in losing his sister, while Scully’s abduction gave her an experience to draw upon-- all of which, in Duchovny’s eyes, provided “raw material to use in the future.” 

According to the actor, the depth of those episodes stands above “a kind of formula that we were drifting into the middle of last year” with stand-alone installments dealing with whatever monsters and/or paranormal phenomena the writers could dream up….

Now the show can go back and forth, delving into its mythology, then pulling back to do more standard and self-contained episodes. “The intensity’s too much, and it can get melodramatic,” Duchovny says regarding the need to break up the mythology segments, adding that the producers have achieved a “nice balance now” between the two. 

Seemingly as much of a perfectionist as Carter, Duchovny acknowledges that he occasionally bristles when he’s presented with a deluge of gobbledygook dialogue-- those sequences where Mulder launches into remarkably detailed explanations about some event or series of events from the past. “At first it was almost impossible-- it’s kind of a muscular thing,” he says. “You try and make it interesting from an acting point of view…. [But] sometimes it’s just like you memorize… and spit it out.” 

…Duchovny can be equally blunt in elaborating on his views regarding fame…. “Celebrity’s no fun,” he says flatly. 

“There’s really nothing nice about it. Celebrity is being known. It’s no fun to be known. I imagine it’s fun to be known for something good that you did, or for something noteworthy, but unfortunately the kind of celebrity television brings is monochromatic.”

…”I understand that it’s part of the territory,” he allows, “but sometimes it’s hard to be amused when you’re just trying to live your life and you don’t feel like people snickering or pointing. In this culture that we live in, everybody wants celebrity, everybody wants to be famous. If I’m going to be famous, I’d rather be famous ‘for’ something.” With a shrug of resignation, he adds, “I don’t think I have a choice at this point.” 

Duchovny’s comfort level with fame remains low. Asked the worst part about life under the microscope, he simply says, “It doesn’t leave you room to make mistakes, to do something stupid. Everything becomes kind of calculated in the worst way. You’ll have an impulse and you’ll go, ‘Can I do that? Is anybody watching me?’ It’s like being Catholic,” he quips. 

Not that Duchovny would trade in his ‘The X-Files’ experience. Far from it. “This is wonderful, and it affords me economic security” while hopefully creating the opportunity, he says, to do interesting feature-film work either after the series completes its run or during the hiatus period….

The travails of fame notwithstanding, things have certainly worked out, if not perfectly…. After all, how many people get to bring their dog to work with them? Duchovny’s pet, Blue, a well-behaved mutt with some border collie in her, is almost constantly at his side and less apt to complain than her master. “She gets excited to go in the car every morning-- much more excited than I do,” Duchovny says. “This is like her pack.” 

…Born August 7, Duchovny was so quiet growing up in Manhattan that his brother Danny, who is four years his senior, used to enjoy telling his friends David was “retarded….”

Duchovny admits to being shy as a youth, seldom dating during high school. His parents divorced when he was 11, and Duchovny has said in interviews those events may have contributed to both his drive to succeed academically and his personality, which at times can be construed as a bit standoffish…. 

In 1987, just short of gaining his Ph.D. at Yale in English (his dissertation topic was “Magic and Technology in Contemporary Poetry and Prose”), Duchovny began to truly pursue acting….

“It was never really a decision I made,” Duchovny says in hindsight. “I was doing both of them at once”-- teaching while working on his Ph.D. and acting-- “and I guess I just realized that I didn’t want to be a professor.” 

According to Duchovny, “Red Shoe Diaries” proved pivotal, allowing him to exhibit a different side of what he could do. In addition, he began to feel more comfortable as an actor, describing “The Rapture” as “a difficult experience” and “Twin Peaks” as an oddity. After appearing in low-budget films that put little pressure on him, “Red Shoe Diaries” also offered him his first leading role. “To see that I could do that was very important,” he suggests. 

In his customary manner, Duchovny would probably be the first to say the schedule associated with producing “The X-Files” is grueling and at times frustrating, but his faith in and commitment to the series’s quality pushes him along, much as he might like to grumble about the tongue-twisting dialogue and exhausting pace. As he puts it, in characteristically understated fashion, “It’s hard work to make a bad show, too.”

TRIVIA

[Duchovny meeting his girlfriend]: He was shopping for a suit (his first in many years), and asked Perrey Reeves, who had come in to shop for lingerie, which suit he should choose-- the gray one or the blue one? She told him to buy both. 

“Ice”: The Arctic-bound entry featuring a gruesome space-worm, which Duchovny has dubbed “the first really rocking episode.” David Duchovny’s own border collie, Blue, is the daughter of the dog featured in this episode. 

“The Jersey Devil”: The X-Files is filmed in Vancouver, so Mulder was not really in Atlantic City casinos. Instead, Duchovny was filmed in front of a blue-screen and stock casino footage was matted in later-- considerably cheaper than a location shoot in New Jersey would have cost. 

“Fire”: The famous “black silk boxer shorts” scene was originally a “Jockey underwear” scene….

“Genderbender”: During filming of the crime scene at the beginning of Act One, Mitch Kosterman (Det. Horton) flubbed his lines and said “chum chippy” instead of “some chippy.” For the rest of the shoot, David Duchovny joshed him about that line.  

“Miracle Man”: In an interview David Duchovny once said that he would consider Mulder Jewish until told otherwise.

“Darkness Falls”: Shooting in the forest near Vancouver, production was delayed frequently and made more difficult by heavy rains. “It was miserable,” Carter recalls, noting that the actors were soaking wet much of the time…. One saving grace was the casting of Jason Beghe…. A childhood friend of David Duchovny’s, Beghe had prodded him to pursue acting…. Having him on hand (at Duchovny’s suggestion) helped lighten the mood around the set, making the shoot something of a reunion and thus less of an ordeal for the cast. 

“One Breath”: The episode also lightly pokes fun at the show’s fans on the Internet, with one of the Lone Gunmen telling Mulder he should join them Friday in “hopping on the Internet to nitpick the scientific inaccuracies of Earth 2.” 

“Firewalker”: Gordon saw Trepkos’s obsession and the toll it exacted upon him in terms of losing someone he loved as a means of exploring the darker side of Mulder’s commitment to his search. “The natural endpoint of this quest for the truth is madness,” he notes, suggesting that Mulder’s decision to let Trepkos go at the end represents the bond in that respect between Mulder and Trepkos-- their shared ‘Heart of Darkness’. 

“Paper Clip”: …[Carter] also points to the mythic elements in Mulder being told that he has in a sense become his father-- one reason Duchovny has likened the narrative course of these three episodes to another trilogy, “Star Wars”, with a touch of “Sophie’s Choice”, perhaps, thrown in for good measure. 

BONUS

An excerpt from Brian Lowry’s second book “Trust No One: The Official Third Season Guide to The X-Files": 

Never one to settle for success, Duchovny-- who continues to play an active role in the series’s creative direction, working in concert with Carter and co-executive producer Howard Gordon on certain episodes-- is pleased with the third season but looks forward to expanding the show’s emotional range even further. Referring to one of the early second-season episodes, he notes, “I think when we did ‘Duane Barry’ the show became a really great show, and we maintained that level for a while, but we haven’t gone beyond it. I’m waiting to go beyond it. We won’t go beyond it technically, but we will go beyond it in terms of character, introducing a personal life of some kind. I think it’s inevitable. You have to do it.”

When it’s pointed out that the show’s most fervent loyalists, as well as Carter himself, have been especially vocal about not wanting to see Mulder and Scully romantically involved with anyone but each other, Duchovny simply shrugs and says the nuances he refers to don’t necessarily have to involved ‘romance’. “Give Mulder a friend. Give him a squash partner,” he suggests. “It’s got to happen. I really don’t care what anybody thinks we should or shouldn’t do.” Anderson remains more sanguine regarding such matters, though she indicates some interest as well in stretching the characters while understanding that such an evolution must occur within the show’s parameters. 

CONCLUSION

It's darkly comedic that Mr. Duchovny signed onto a (wildly successful) show thinking it would fail, only to be effectively held hostage for ten months out of twelve, 12- to 14-hours a day in a place that was completely opposite to the Cali weather he wished to sun bake in.

Also: props to him for contributing to the "domestication" of the show (more on that in future parts.) It's mind boggling just how much he contributed to The X-Files (and how much effort he put into later seasons together, despite his absence-- post here.)

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[cwgl418]

My mother taught me English on her own until I was 6. We used an English learning program called: “World Family”. It was an interesting program. Filled with songs, videos, and colorful textbooks to learn from.

Each of them had different levels. And if I pass the test, I could move on to a different level and I’ll receive a cap as an reward.

My mother told me, “We were learning English very optimistically when you were a toddler.” But I don't have any memories about that. The only thing I remember, is that she would yell at me, constantly.

Why? Because I couldn't remember the meaning of a word.

She would yell at me for the smallest things, I feel like her yelling could be heard for all of the neighborhood. And when she gets extremely mad, she would lock herself up in her room. I would cry and write an apology letter to her.

She would never hit me, she never did. Because she thought it was cruel and wrong. But what made this abuse worse was when she told me “That's enough, I'm going to move to New York and leave you.”

I knew my mother loved New York. It was her obsession. But she would never actually leave me, right?

Until I couldn't find her.

I panicked. I thought to myself, “Did she actually leave me? Is she really gone?” I searched for my mother, but she was nowhere to be seen.

So I took my grandmother into the night, being piggybacked by her, and searched for my mother.

I did find her eventually, I suppose she was just in somewhere in the house and I just happened to missed her presence.

Nobody remembers this. Not my grandmother, not even my mother. They think I made it up. I'm the only one who remembers.

Do I like English? I used to think I do. Because that's what I excel at. I even majored in English. But the truth is, I don't. It’s just my way to communicate.

Then why did I continued to learn English, you say? Because I was a fighter. I didn't wanted to just quit. My mother used to yell at me, “Then why don't you just quit?!” when I said, “I don't like this!”. But then I’ would yell back at her and reply, “No! I WANT to continue!” and that's why I didn't quit.

I graduated this program when I was 6 years old.

My mother wrote on the graduation paper magazine, that “They had moments when they cried and tried to quit, but they managed.” or something alongside that.

It's gone now, but I vividly remember reading that. That was my only evidence for my child abuse.

The thing is that, I was so proud of my English level. I was constantly being praised by my classmates and my teachers. I thought no one, no one could beat me with my English. Even the students who lived abroad would ask me, “Have you ever lived abroad?”

And oh, I loved that moment so much. I felt like I was the superior one.

However, I was such an anxious, shy child. I was always alone. I tried and make friends and have a conversation through my art. But I was always so anxious. When my teachers told me to make a pair or a group, I always ended up being alone. And then I would feel so guilty and think, “Oh no, I've intruded them. I know they don't want me in their group…”

But the moment when someone praises me for my art and English, I felt so proud, it almost felt like my personality completely changes when it came to something I excel at. Looking back, I was being so narcissistic. Maybe not as extreme as Narcisstic Personality disorder, but my narcissism was definitely there.

I wonder, how could these two personalities co-exist? But they did for so so long.

One day, in my adulthood, my mother told me, “The reason why I wanted to teach you English was because I had an English complex. I pushed my dreams onto you, and I'm sorry.” I didn't accepted her apology.

Do I hate her? Yes. But do I love her? Also yes.

I don't understand why I feel this way. My love and hate relationship of her is so so complicated.

At one hand, I don't forgive her for what she made me face. But then, I don't even dream about it or have nightmares about it. I barely remember my childhood. So does it even count as trauma? Does it count as abuse? I would constantly think and wonder.

And then there's part of me, that I'm obsessed with her. I would kiss her on the cheeks and hug her every single day. I would even age regress when I'm around her. I wonder if it's some form of trauma response.

I did read a similar experience in “My Lesbian Experience in Loneliness” by Nagata Kabi though.

I'm disabled and mentally ill. I have autism, OCD, Social Anxiety, insomnia, and Bipolar II disorder. I do wonder time to time it is the result of my abuse.

My mother is so overprotective about me because of that. She always try and do stuff for me since she loves to be in charge, but I feel like she overdid a lot. And the lack of experience makes me feel anxious when I try something new and legal, because I don't know how to act and where to start.

But on the other hand, I do feel like I'm safe with her and I’d rather stay with her and make her do everything for me since I don't even know what to do on my own.

Part of me is saying, “Lilith, you should leave her and try and live on your own and prepare to live without a family.” but the other part is saying that “No, Lilith. You need to keep depending on her. You don't even know what to do on your own. And what about your precious stuff? There wouldn't be any space.” My mind is conflicted.

I feel like I'm obsessed with my mother too much. But I do hate her for what she's done. And I do hate her some times how she tries and brush off her past abuse to me. So why do I keep staying with her? Why am I so obsessed with her? Why can't I be independent?

So I ask myself again, “Why do I hate and love my mother?”

I will never not know.

[belladonnadawn]

Sakuverse Philippines Uni Headcanons

Super random hc that I finally wrote. This is a headcanon where they studied, their course, and their college happenings. (Ft. Andrew Marston, Zaros Kymen Atha'lin, Kayson Mayer, Xanthus Claiborne, Dontis, Jonah, Isaac Rhoades, and Elias)

Andrew Marston

University of the Philippines

Bachelor of Arts in English Language

He aced the entrance exam with no sweat.

Reads at Sunken Garden after class. You would only see him there or the library.

People would find him very intimidating, but he's actually not when you get to know him.

Consecutive dean's lister.

His literary works were always published in University's publication.

Zaros Kymen Atha'lin

University of the Philippines

Bachelor of Arts in Political Science

Og "iskolar ng bayan"

Student council president, had to fight for the position he definitely earned.

Would tweet how much he hates bourgeoisie and how they're taking advantage of the system and he's definitely right.

Studious AND competitive.

Definitely a dean's lister.

Active in school organizations, he's popular because of that.

Isaac Rhoades

Ateneo de Manila

Bachelor of Arts in Political Science

Model student.

A part of him believes in school superstitions, even though won't admit that.

The type of student who never sleeps, but still looks good.

Either he'd order food using grab or he'd go to the nearest convenience store.

Somehow knows all the gossip surrounding the uni.

Had an alumni discount.

Xanthus Claiborne

University of Santo Thomas

Bachelor of Arts in Fine Arts

Would give the bare minimum, but he's locked in during midterm/finals.

Favorite place is National Museum of Fine Arts.

Would be the campus crush if he's approachable.

Only joined one school organization and it's Literary Society.

España lurker, loves the coffee shops near the city.

Benavides is his go to place.

Kayson Mayer

National University

Bachelor of Physical Education

"Let's go bulldogs!"

UAAP season is his peak, locked in as if he never locked in before.

Trust, he'll post a picture of him captured by the 551st media during his game with a fuckass caption.

Social butterfly.

That student who's barely passing but still manages to push through.

Loves college weeks because of the booths.

Dontis

De La Salle University

Bachelor of Arts in Mass Communication

Campus crush, not his fault they can't resist his charm.

Would have multiple absurd rumors about him around the campus.

"Last week he threw a party so loud they got arrested!"

"Wait, I thought he was in France last week?"

Loves theater and plays.

That student who seems like they don't give a fuck if they pass or not, but his grades are actually so good.

Jonah

Polytechnic University of the Philippines

Bachelor of science in computer engineering

That student who loves his course because he chose it out of passion (a rare privilege fr)

Tight knit group of friends that he plays valorant with after class. Also plays mlbb on his vacant.

Caffeine is ingrained in his blood at this point.

Stressed out during midterm/finals and insists that playing video games helps him relax, even if those games stress him out even more.

Elias

Ateneo University

Bachelor of Arts in Business Management

Only took the course because his dad insisted that it's good for their "business"

Barely goes to class because he's not interested in it.

He would mention to anyone that he's talking to how he wanted to study astrology, but his dad did not let him. (Let this man be happy omg)

He's the type of student who really tries.

"I know a spot,"

Course shifter.

Divider: saradika-graphics

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #04 死

† forest rendezvous †

"They say the most dangerous predators are the ones that make you feel safe before they strike. But watching him calculate each shot with deadly precision, you realize there might be something even more dangerous - the ones who warn you exactly what they are, and still make you want to stay."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 6k

rating: mature

content: forced proximity, piggyback, sniping, ominous threats, badmouthing, hinting at deeper wounds

☠ author's note ☠

A/N: Oh wow, apparently I even had author's notes saved in my drafts when I started writing this back in 2020? Past!me had *thoughts* and present!me is just here like (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻

So I'm basically taking those written thoughts and rechanneling them through my 2025 brain. And let me tell you, the cognitive dissonance is REAL. Like past!me was all "but it's a slow burn!" and current!me is just cackling in the corner because honey... you have no idea what's coming ｡･ﾟﾟ*(>д

I really debated on whether to include the piggyback scene or not. Had the whole thing pictured out a LONG time ago (we're talking pre-pandemic long, yes I am ancient, no I don't want to talk about it), but wasn't sure if I should add it here... you know, being a slow burn and all that jazz. But I think it works? They're both so against it that it's basically negative development at this point lmao.

Also, FORCED PROXIMITY MY BELOVEDS. If you think I'm not going to milk every single trope in existence, you clearly don't know me well enough yet. Just wait until we get to- *gets tackled by the spoiler police*

As always, thank you for reading! Your comments give me life and serotonin, which I desperately need because my caffeine addiction can only do so much. Stay tuned! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧​​​​​​​

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"Shit—"

The word slips out as you struggle to your feet, using Jeon's hand like some kind of reluctant lifeline.

That's when your ankle decides to remind you exactly how badly you messed up trying to ambush him earlier. The adrenaline's wearing off, leaving behind nothing but raw, throbbing pain that makes you want to scream. Or cry. Maybe both.

"I think I twisted my ankle."

Jeon drops your hand like it's burning him, his expression morphing into pure exasperation. 

"You must be kidding me." 

"Yeah, because I love pretending to be injured during paintball." The pain makes your words sharper than intended. "It's my favorite hobby, actually."

He presses his hand against his face and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. His expression shifts from annoyed to something more complex—like a storm trying to decide which direction to blow.

The silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable. You lean against the rock, trying to take weight off your ankle, but it just keeps t̶h̶r̶o̶b̶b̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶a̶ ̶b̶i̶t̶c̶h̶ hurting worse with each passing second.

Finally, Jeon clicks his tongue and strides over to you. Then he just... turns around. Stands there. Like you're supposed to know what that means.

When you don't move, he adds, "Hop on," in a voice that somehow manages to sound both annoyed and urgent at the same time. 

Like he's throwing commands to a dog.

You stare at his back, brain struggling to process what's happening. This is Jeon—Mr. Ice Prince himself—offering you a piggyback ride. The same guy who can barely stand being in the same room as you most days.

He glances over his shoulder, dark eyes meeting yours. "I said, hop on. We don't have all day."

"No way." Pride makes you lift your chin despite the pain. "I'm not getting a piggyback from you. I'll just... wait here."

His patience visibly snaps. He turns to face you fully. "You can't walk, and you'll be a liability." The words come out sharp and cold. "If someone from his team finds you, you're out. And now, you're on my team."

"What do you mean I'm on your team?"

"You ask too many questions." He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶'̶r̶e̶ ̶a̶n̶n̶o̶y̶i̶n̶g̶ done with your attitude. "Were you or were you not with my team when shit went down?"

"What does that have to do with—"

"It's an improvisation game. It's V's thing, stealth. Remember?" His voice cuts through yours like a knife. "Whoever's with me when V strikes is on my team. Same goes for him. It's really not that complicated."

He takes a deep breath, face muscles shifting to something more controlled. When he looks at you again, he seems determined. 

"I'm not losing to V, especially not because of you. So either hop on," the gentleness in his voice has an edge that makes you tense, "or I'll pull rank and make it an order."

Your blood boils at that. The audacity of this man, threatening to pull rank just because you don't want to get a piggyback ride like some kid. But he's right, and that just pisses you off more. Your ankle's screaming, and you're basically a sitting duck out here.

Fuck. 

You hobble closer, swallowing your pride along with a string of curses. The warmth oozing off his body envelops you swiftly, making your heart do weird things in your chest.

Getting on his back is awkward and t̶h̶o̶r̶o̶u̶g̶h̶l̶y̶ ̶h̶u̶m̶i̶l̶i̶a̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ uncomfortable, but he lifts you like you weigh nothing. His body is all lean muscle under your hands, which is just... t̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶t̶s̶ ̶b̶e̶g̶o̶n̶e̶ not something you need to think about right now. You kind of want to knee him in the ribs, just because you can.

You don't, though. Your ankle's already betrayed you once tonight—no need to make things worse.

He starts moving with careful, measured steps. Neither of you speaks. If he's as annoyed as you are about this whole situation, he doesn't show it anymore. His focus is entirely on the game now, eyes scanning the darkness, body tense and ready. Like a storm gathering strength.

And that just pisses you off more. Here you are, swallowing your pride with every step he takes, while he acts like carrying you is just another mission parameter to execute. The quiet forest floor suddenly seems way more appealing than being trapped in his personal weather system.

His breathing is steady, a rhythm that somehow makes the tension worse. Because yeah, he's helping you, but it feels like being rescued by a particularly moody thundercloud. The fact that you need him right now doesn't make you like him any better—it just makes everything more complicated.

Your eyes are dragged to the edges of his tattoos where they disappear under his shirt. Each one probably has a story, but good luck getting those out of Mr. Storm-and-Silence here. 

Still, you're curious. 

Are they about pain? Strength? Or maybe he just likes sitting through hours of needles because he's t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶k̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶m̶a̶s̶o̶c̶h̶i̶s̶t̶ that dedicated to his aesthetic.

The silence starts to feel heavy, pressing down like gathering clouds. All you can see is his back, and the closeness makes your skin buzz like it's charged with static.

"So where exactly are we going?" You break the silence because honestly, anything's better than drowning in his suffocating presence.

"Paintball weapon cache."

"Wait, what?" You can't keep the disbelief out of your voice. "I thought we were getting my ankle checked out—"

"This is a simulation." He cuts off. "V's games are unpredictable, but they mirror real scenarios. We adapt. We deal."

There's something under that icy tone—a competitiveness that makes you think this is more than just training to him. Your fingers twitch against his shoulders, and you try not to think about the muscle shifting under your hands.

"You do this often?" You find yourself asking, curiosity winning over irritation.

"Unfortunately." The word carries a gust of dry humor. "V likes his... creative training methods. Paintball, surprise drills, mock raids. He's impulsive, but effective."

"Sounds... fun?" The word tastes weird in your mouth.

"If you enjoy being perpetually ambushed." His dry tone makes your lips twitch despite yourself.

You fall quiet, thinking about these two forces of nature—Jeon's storms and V's thorny garden. Different kinds of dangerous, but both leaving destruction in their wake (duh, they're assassins?). One's all calculated precision, the other pure chaos—yet somehow they both keep the gang's deadliest division running. 

"So what's the plan now?" You try to keep your voice neutral. If you're stuck being his human backpack, might as well try to be useful.

"We arm ourselves." His voice gains a strategizing color. "It's not about having the most firepower. Real situations never go according to plan."

Something about his tone piques your curiosity even further. "Has he always been like this? V? With the whole paintball ambush thing?"

Jeon lets out a sound that's caught between amusement and irritation. "Yeah. You never know what to expect with that psycho. There was this one time when he—"

He cuts himself off abruptly. You can feel how his muscles tense against your legs, probably kicking himself for almost sharing something personal.

"When he what?" You can't help pushing. The rare glimpse behind his walls is too tempting to ignore.

"Never mind." His voice goes flat, that familiar coldness sliding back into place.

The silence stretches again, pregnant with all the things he won't say. It's strange, catching these tiny cracks in his perfect ice-prince facade. Makes you wonder what other stories he's keeping locked away.

As you move deeper into the forest, his competitive side starts showing through. He explains the rules like he's briefing for a real mission, all strategy and tactics.

"...And the objective?" You ask, trying to piece it all together.

"Last team standing wins." His voice rumbles through his back against your chest. "Or take out the opposing leader—me or V."

"Makes sense." You nod, hyper-aware of how his voice ricochets through you. "But why so intense? It's just paintball, right?"

The question slips out before you can stop it. But really—all this drama over some colored paint?

"It's never just a game." The edge in his voice could cut glass. "In our world, everything's a test. A challenge. We're constantly proving ourselves. You should know that by now."

His words sink in slowly. You do know—every day in this place feels like walking a tightrope, being watched, measured, judged. Even something as simple as paintball becomes another arena to prove your worth.

"This is exhausting," you mutter, and you actually mean it. The weight of constant training, constant proving yourself—it gets old fast.

"It is." Something in Jeon's voice makes you wish you could see his face. There's a pause, then: "But it's necessary. Keeps us sharp. Survival of the fittest and all that shit."

The bitterness in those last words catches you off guard. It's weird hearing him talk like this—like maybe he's not totally sold on the whole 'constant competition' thing either. The thought of Jeon having doubts about anything feels like finding a dent in what you thought was solid concrete.

He continues moving through the forest like he was born here, feet finding paths you can barely see in the dark. The trees loom overhead, their leaves whispering secrets you can't quite catch. Soon, you are opening your mouth again before your brain can stop you.

"How'd you end up here?"

His stride breaks—just for a second, but you feel it. The air grows heavy again, pressing down on your shoulders. 

"Circumstances. Choices." The words come out clipped, that familiar wall slamming back into place. "Same as anyone else."

You can practically taste the story he's not telling. Something dark and messy that turned him into this walking hurricane of a person. But pushing would be stupid, and contrary to popular belief, you're not that dumb.

"Right." You let it drop, focusing instead on how the moonlight catches on his silver chain when he moves.

Jeon picks up speed, and the trees seem to close in around you both. It seems to be a sign you are approaching your destination.

"So once we get the guns, what's the plan?" You try to break the weird tension that's settled between you.

"Find high ground," he says, voice low and focused. "Somewhere we can see everything but stay hidden. Sniping's all about patience and precision."

"And you think there's actually a spot like that around here?" You can't keep the skepticism from your voice. You've done your fair share of surveillance—good vantage points are rare as hell in this forest.

He just grunts, confident as ever. "I know this place like the back of my hand." He actually lifts one hand to prove his point, the moonlight catching on his rings. 

It shouldn't be as hot as it is. 

Silence falls again and the trees grow closer together, moonlight filtering through in weird patterns that make everything look kind of surreal. The darkness feels heavy, like it's trying to remind you both that you're not exactly on a fun camping trip here.

You watch him scan the forest ahead, all focus and precision. It hits you that this is his element—the quiet, the calculation, the waiting game.

"You really think this'll work against V's team?" The doubt slips into your voice before you can stop it.

"It's not about what works against them." He sounds almost philosophical, which is... different. "It's about playing to our strengths."

He pauses to lick his lip ring—a habit you're starting to notice—before adding: "Plus, I'm Chief of Tactical Assassinations for a reason. Best sniper in Kkangpae. Best in South Korea."

"Best in the whole country? For real?" You hate how interested you sound.

"Probably." His shoulders lift in a small shrug that makes you bounce slightly.

"Right." You roll your eyes. "Got any proof of that?"

"I do." The response comes quick, matter-of-fact. "They're all dead though."

A snort escapes before you can stop it. 

Shit. 

Okay. That may have been actually funny. But you're definitely not laughing at his jokes. He might have a sense of humor hiding under all that ice, but he's still an ass.

Jeon slows down as you reach what looks like the world's most underwhelming hideout—just a tiny hut tucked between the trees. His muscles go tense against your legs, like he's preparing for trouble. The way he lowers you to the ground is weirdly gentle for someone who usually acts like basic human contact might give him hives.

Your ankle screams in protest when you put weight on it, making you wobble slightly. Something flickers across Jeon's face—t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶m̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶c̶e̶r̶n̶ probably just annoyance at having to babysit you.

"You good?" 

The question catches you off guard. Since when does the ice prince care if you're okay?

You manage a nod, not trusting yourself to speak without letting out some embarrassing noise of pain. He turns toward the hut but pauses, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

"Tell me if you see movement." His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Any movement."

Then he's gone, slipping into the darkness of the hut. You hear him moving around inside, probably doing some super-professional sniper inventory check or whatever the hell he does.

When he emerges, he's carrying two paintball rifles like they weigh nothing. You try really hard not to notice how the moonlight catches on his arm muscles as he moves, or how smoothly he closes the door with just a flick of his wrist.

He hands you one of the rifles, dark eyes scanning the forest with the kind of focus that reminds you why he's chief of his division. Then he just... crouches down again, waiting for you to climb back on.

The sight of him effortlessly holding a rifle while offering you a piggyback makes something in your chest twist. How dare he make this look so easy? How dare he be this capable and t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ this insufferable at the same time?

You sigh, swallowing your pride along with several choice words about the universe's sick sense of humor, and climb back onto his back. His body is warm against yours and you hate that you notice. You hate even more that he's not even breaking a sweat carrying both you and the gear.

Stupid attractive jerk with his stupid perfect aim and his stupid strength. The least he could do is be ugly, but no—he had to look like that while being the most irritating person you've ever met.

Jeon stands like your weight is nothing—because of course he does. He adjusts the rifle with practiced ease, and you try really hard not to notice how effortlessly he handles both you and a weapon. It's t̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶b̶r̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶a̶c̶t̶i̶v̶a̶t̶e̶d̶ annoying how good he is at literally everything.

His movements fall into a steady rhythm as he walks, and you find yourself swaying slightly with each step. It's weird being this close to someone you can barely stand. The guy who's usually a walking natural disaster is suddenly all careful precision, like the calm before a storm.

The hill stretches up ahead, moonlight painting everything in silver and shadow. Somewhere in the distance, paintball guns are still going off. Sounds like V's twisted little game is still in full swing for everyone else who isn't stuck playing piggyback with their nemesis.

You watch the forest ahead, trying to focus on anything except how warm Jeon is against the cool night air. He moves through the undergrowth like he was born for this. The higher you climb, the slower he moves, until finally he stops altogether.

Without a word—because god forbid he actually communicate like a normal person—he crouches slightly. Your cue to get off this incredibly awkward ride.

"Here." His voice is barely above a whisper as he helps you down with surprising care. 

You scan the area, taking in the elevated position and clear view of the forest below. It's perfect for sniping, which makes sense given who picked it. But something about being this exposed makes your skin crawl.

"This is way too exposed." Your instincts are screaming at you to find better cover. The entire forest floor is visible from up here, which means you're visible too. "We need something more concealed."

Jeon turns his head just enough to catch your eye in the moonlight. "Trust me."

Two simple words, but they hit different.

Trust isn't something that comes easy in this life. Especially not between you and Mr. Hurricane himself. 

Yet here he is, asking for it like it's that simple.

You weigh your options, torn between your screaming survival instincts and his calm certainty. Finally, you give him a reluctant nod. What choice do you really have?

You can't help watching as Jeon sets up his position. The way he moves is t̶o̶o̶ ̶g̶r̶a̶c̶e̶f̶u̶l̶ irritatingly efficient, precise and purposeful. His eyes scan the terrain with a focus that makes your mouth inexplicably dry. 

Because it's weird seeing him like this. The usual cold, intimidating chief is gone, replaced by someone who moves with quiet, deadly grace. Every shift of his body as he positions the rifle speaks of years of practice, of countless nights spent perfecting each tiny movement.

The hurricane that usually swirls around him has settled into something different—a gentle breeze that makes your skin tingle. It's... weird. 

Almost peaceful.

You can't help studying him while he's focused like this. The way his dark eyes track every movement below, how his brow furrows just slightly when he's thinking. His silver piercings catch the moonlight when he shifts, and you find yourself leaning closer. 

Just to see better, obviously. For tactical reasons.

Movement near the cache catches your attention. Jeon goes completely still beside you, the kind of stillness that reminds you he's literally the best sniper in South Korea. You lean in further, trying to see what he's seeing, and suddenly realize how close you are. Your shoulder brushes his, but neither of you moves away. You're both too focused on the target below, who's digging through supplies like they've got all the time in the world.

"Wait for it..." His voice is barely a whisper, warm breath ghosting past your ear. His finger hovers over the trigger with the patience of someone who knows exactly what they're doing.

The poor soul at the cache has no idea what's coming. The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

Then—bang.

The shot is perfect because of course it is. A splash of neon paint blooms on the target's back like some abstract art piece. They jump about a foot in the air, spinning around wildly.

"Dammit, Jeon!" The shout echoes through the trees. There's only one person who could make a shot that clean from such distance.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. Even Jeon's mouth twitches at the corner—the closest thing to a smile you've ever seen from him. For a split second, a gentle breeze wraps around you both like a shared secret.

You nearly jump out of your skin when Jeon's eyes suddenly meet yours. For a heartbeat, maybe two, neither of you moves.

It's... t̶o̶o̶ ̶m̶u̶c̶h̶ weird. The way his dark eyes seem to see right through you, how his hurricane wraps around you like you're in the eye of the storm. Too close. You're close enough to count his stupidly long eyelashes, to see the tiny scar on his cheek catch moonlight.

Then reality crashes back in. Jeon shifts away so fast you'd think you burned him, putting blessed distance between you. The barriers slam back into place—he's your superior, you're just some annoying ensign he got stuck babysitting during paintball. That's all this is.

You lean back too, trying to ignore the way your heart's still doing gymnastics in your chest. It's unsettling, this weird moment of... something. Not respect, definitely not that, but maybe a reluctant acknowledgment that there's more to him than just being an ice-cold asshole. The way he handled that shot, the focus in his eyes, the subtle pride in his posture—it's t̶h̶e̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶t̶e̶s̶t̶ annoyingly impressive.

Jeon's already back in sniper mode, all business again like nothing happened. But the air feels different now. Like the air has picked up speed, swirling with renewed intensity as if trying to blow away whatever just passed between you.

You watch him work, wondering when exactly you started noticing things like how his jaw clenches when he's concentrating, or how his fingers move with such precise grace on the trigger.

You tell yourself the shiver down your spine is just from the cold night air.

"I should leave." The words come out low, almost like he's talking to himself. He stands up, towering over you, a dark silhouette against the forest green. "Won't take long for them to tell V where I am."

"What, you scared?" The question slips out before you can stop it. 

Since when does the great Jeon run from a fight? Especially with V?

"No." It's instant, defensive. His tone is laced with something like irritation. "With V, you play his game. I just landed a shot. He'll know exactly where I am the second he gets here." A pause. "That's why you're staying."

"I see." You answer automatically. Then your brain catches up.

Wait.

"Hold up—I'm what now?" The words come out sharp. "So I'm just bait?"

"Yeah?" He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like he can't fathom why you're even asking. "You'll draw him out."

"Didn't you literally just give me that whole speech about 'making do' and 'real situations'?" Your voice rises with each word. "And now you're using your teammate as bait? Real nice. Guess I was right—you are a hypocrite."

"Sometimes sacrifices are necessary." His voice is cool, professional. "Plus, between us..."

He looks at you then, really looks, and something in your chest goes tight. Those dark eyes of his catch moonlight like black ice, beautiful and deadly. His stupidly long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and when he blinks, it feels deliberate. Like he's giving you time to process what comes next.

"You're the expendable one. Here, and in real life."

"Fuck off." The words come out sharp and mean, exactly how you want them.

His eyebrow arches, silver beads catching moonlight like a warning. "Watch your tone."

You can feel the hurricane bearing down on you again. It sneaks through the cracks in your attire, scratching at the outer layer of your skin. It is oppressive, suffocating. Engulfs your whole being almost instantly, almost as if to blow you off balance.

"So you're really doing this?" Your voice cracks a little, caught between rage and something that feels too much like hurt. "Just leaving me here as bait?"

He doesn't even blink. Those dark eyes of his are cold and distant now, like you're just another variable in one of his calculations.

"It's strategic, not personal."

"Strategic." You let out a laugh that's more like a snarl. The thought of being nothing but a disposable piece in his game makes your blood boil. Being used by anyone would piss you off, but being used by Jeon? That's a special kind of infuriating.

He takes a step back from you now, creating physical distance as if he was uncomfortable. Maybe, somewhere under all that ice, he actually feels bad about this. But t̶h̶a̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶w̶i̶s̶h̶f̶u̶l̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ you're probably just seeing what you want to see.

"Stay low and keep quiet." His voice goes all authoritative again, his standoffish nature coming right back. "If V knows it's a trap, we lose our advantage."

You cross your arms, watching Jeon's figure fade into the shadows. Every cell in your body screams to call him out, to demand better than being left as bait, but...

What leverage do you have? The answer hits like a slap: absolutely none.

He moves like a ghost between the trees, that hurricane of his dissipating until you're left alone with nothing but forest sounds for company. His words echo in your head, each syllable of "expendable" burning like acid.

You try to shift position, searching for some way to sit that doesn't make your ankle scream or your pride hurt worse. Hard to do when you're officially demoted to bait in this stupid paintball game. 

Stupid Jeon. How can he turn even mock battles into some grand strategic play? 

Your jaw clenches. At least real bait doesn't have to deal with the indignity of knowing it's bait.

The forest is too quiet now, like it's holding its breath. You try to focus, to be the good little decoy he wants, but between your throbbing ankle and the rage simmering under your skin, concentration's a lost cause. Your thoughts spin like leaves in a storm, each one circling back to how much you want to punch that perfect face of his.

Then—something changes.

It's subtle. Just the slightest shift in the air, barely enough to stir the leaves. But every instinct you have lights up like a warning flare. You freeze, hardly daring to breathe as you strain to locate whatever's setting off your internal alarms.

That's when you feel it—thorny vines wrapping around your lungs, making each breath sharp and dangerous. V materializes from the darkness like he was born from it, moving with the kind of liquid grace that reminds you why he's chief of stealth. Before you can blink, cold metal presses against your neck—his paintball gun, a very pointed reminder of how screwed you are.

The speed of it leaves you breathless. Or maybe that's his thorny rose aura, squeezing tighter with each passing second. His mastery of stealth isn't just reputation—it's terrifying reality.

"Shh, shh, shh." His breath ghosts over your ear, playful and deadly all at once.

You hadn't planned on screaming, but the way his aura constricts around you makes you reconsider.

"Where's Jeon?" V's voice is barely above a whisper, but something in it makes your blood run cold.

You hesitate. Part of you wants to sell Jeon out—serves him right for using you as bait. But something in V's tone makes you think carefully about your next words. This might be a game to everyone else, but V... V plays different.

"He left me," you manage, voice tight. "Twisted my ankle."

The laugh that follows sounds wrong, like broken glass wrapped in velvet. His thorny vines squeeze tighter.

"Typical Jeon." The way he says it drips poison. "Once a traitor, always a traitor." There's history there, old wounds still bleeding. "Abandoning a teammate? That's cold, even for him."

The paintball gun stays pressed against your neck. Except... is it really loaded with paint? Your stomach drops as you realize you have no way of knowing. Not with V. Not when he's got that edge to his voice that makes you think maybe this stopped being a game the moment he spotted you.

Every instinct screams at you to run, but you're trapped between fight or flight, knowing either choice could end badly.

"He's not here then?" V sounds almost disappointed, like a kid whose favorite toy got taken away. "Pity. I was hoping for a proper reunion."

The gun against your neck suddenly feels a lot more real. You're not the target—you're just the bait. Again. Except this time, it's not just your pride at stake.

"Should've expected as much..." His laugh raises goosebumps on your skin. "No loyalty in that one, hmm? Makes you wonder what he'd do in a real bind. Leave you to rot, probably."

You stay quiet, letting V's poison drip. Each word feels calculated, like he's trying to infect you with his hatred for Jeon. His vines constrict tighter around your lungs with every syllable, and you can't help wondering what made these two hate each other so viciously.

"That's Jeon for you." The words drip with disgust, but V's smirking like this is all some twisted game. "Self-serving. Cold. Doesn't care who he steps on to get what he wants."

The way he's focused on his little villain monologue gives you an opening. Adrenaline floods your system as you make your move—one hard stomp on his foot. His yelp of surprise is almost satisfying.

You shove the paintball gun away from your neck, twisting out of his grip. For one glorious second, you think you might actually get away.

Then reality hits. Literally.

V moves like water, flowing around your escape attempt like he knew exactly what you'd do. Before you can blink, you're eating dirt, his weight pinning you down. The gun barrel presses cold against your forehead, and you realize just how badly you miscalculated.

"Not bad, dear." His grin makes your skin crawl. "But not good enough."

You're pinned, his weight heavy and his presence suffocating. His thorns dig deeper with each breath, and you can almost feel them cutting through your skin. 

You're trapped, completely at his mercy, but damned if you'll let him see you scared.

He leans in close. "Let me give you a piece of advice." His whisper raises goosebumps on your neck. "Watch your back around Jeon. He's more dangerous than you think."

The warning in his voice sounds too personal, too raw to be just another mind game. Like maybe he's speaking from experience.

"Oh, I'm counting on it." The words come out steadier than you feel with V's weight pinning you down. You manage to keep your voice even despite the lack of oxygen making it to your brain.

Something flickers across his face—confusion, maybe suspicion. Those stealth instincts of his finally catching up, but too late.

SPLAT.

Paint explodes across V's back in a neon burst. His whole body goes rigid against yours, muscles freezing mid-squeeze. The look of pure disbelief on his face almost makes this whole night worth it.

When he turns to look over his shoulder, you already know what he'll see. Jeon emerges from the shadows like he was born from them, rifle balanced casually in those tattooed hands. Even playing paintball in the middle of the night, he somehow manages to look t̶o̶o̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶ irritatingly put-together.

He runs his fingers through dark hair, pushing it back from his face in a way that's probably supposed to look casual but comes off more like a shampoo commercial. The silver in his piercings catches moonlight, and honestly? It's just rude how he makes everything look so effortless. Like being unfairly attractive is just another one of his many talents.

V's weight disappears as he stands, and suddenly his whole demeanor shifts. The deadly predator from moments ago vanishes, replaced by that familiar chaos-loving trickster. His laugh rings through the trees as he claps, adorned with delight instead of danger.

"Bravo, Jeon!" V calls out theatrically into the forest shadows where Jeon now stands revealed. "Always hiding in the shadows like the snake you are."

Jeon's face is blank, but there's something razor-sharp in the way he moves

"Far better than always playing the fool to hide your incompetence, if you ask me." Jeon retorts sharply, ice crystallizing each syllable.

"Incompetence?" V's laugh has an ugly edge to it. "That's rich, coming from you. Can't even follow basic gang rules, but here you are, talking shit."

Something flickers across Jeon's face—too quick to catch, but his expression grows darker, more intense. Seems like V knows exactly where to stick the knife.

"A gang built on backstabbing might want to rethink its rules." Jeon's voice could freeze hell over. It's like the winds around him whip faster now.

"See, that's your problem." V tilts his head, a mischievous, lazy grin spreading all over his lips. "When I stab someone in the back, at least I don't cry about it after."

The smile he gives Jeon is pure venom—like he's referencing something that happened between them, something that left scars.

"Right." Jeon practically spits the word. "You only get emotional when you're the one getting fucked over."

They stare each other down, and you feel thorny vines trying to pierce through howling wind and rain. Finally, Jeon looks away first, shaking his head like he's trying to dislodge memories he'd rather forget.

Jeon's eyes find yours, and it's not concern you see there—more like he's doing some kind of damage assessment without having to actually ask if you're okay.

You don't give him the satisfaction of a response. He left you as bait, remember? Used you like some expendable pawn in his little game with V.

But something annoying nags at the back of your mind. 

Because he did come back. 

The moment breaks when Jeon looks away, that weird tension snapping like a rubber band. His typhoon-self settles back into its usual pattern as he stands there radiating smug victory. The paint splattered across V's back is proof enough of who won this round.

"That's it then. This round goes to me." He says it like he's commenting on the weather, not like he just outmaneuvered the most dangerous man in Kkangpae.

There's something almost boring about how he announces his win—no gloating, no pride, just checking another box on whatever mental list he keeps in that pretty head of his.

His eyes flick back to you. "Time to get you to the infirmary—"

"Let's not pretend you've suddenly gone soft, Jeon." V cuts him off, setting down his gun with this little head tilt that somehow manages to be both playful and threatening. 

"Oh, please." The disdain in Jeon's voice is too evident. "She just needs to get her ankle checked, and it's not like she can walk there."

V steps closer, moonlight painting him silver. There's something otherworldly about him now—like some fairy tale creature that lures people into trouble with a smile.

"I'll take her to medical myself." His voice drips honey-sweet mockery. "Sounds more fun than whatever boring escort you had planned."

You watch Jeon consider this, weighing something in his head. After what feels like forever, he just... shrugs. Like he couldn't care less what happens to you.

"Sure." His voice is pure ice. "She's your problem now."

Then he just... walks away. No backward glance, no hint that he gives a single shit about leaving you with someone who literally had a gun to your head five minutes ago. The winds that seem to surround him dissipate with each step he takes, leaving you feeling weirdly hollow.

V turns to you with that signature grin of his—the one that's equal parts charming and concerning. He offers his hand with exaggerated gallantry, like some twisted prince charming.

He then scoops you up, bridal style of course because that's V for you, and you can't help but notice he's stronger than he looks. The transition from ground to air is smooth despite your resistance, but what choice do you have? Crawl to the castle?

Your eyes find Jeon one last time as V starts walking. Something in your chest twists when you realize he's not even looking back. You hate that you wanted him to fight this, to show something about handing you over to V. Your twisted ankle is his fault, after all.

But his face might as well be carved from stone. If he feels anything about this situation, he's buried it so deep even his hurricane can't dig it up.

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[doctorgirlsblog]

Merz Prinzessin vs. Dutch Lion (series)

Part 9: Bad Timing

"Lando?", she spun around, totally surprised to see him. He just smiled softly, shoving his hands in his hoodie as he came closer.

"Waiting for someone?" he whispered, eyes locked on hers.

"I..actually yes. Sorry, it is nice to see you, I just didn't expect it..not after what happened."

"Yeah.. I took some time to think everything through. I want to give this, us, a second chance Aria. Because I love you. And I don't care what happened between you and Max, as long as you choose me. I know that there somewhere," -he stepped even closer to her so they were chest to chest, before he put his hand gently over her heart,- "in that heart of yours, you love me too."

Before she had time to react, he smashed his lips on hers, kissing her like a man starved. Aria's eyes widened, as she gasped into his mouth, putting her hands on chest in attempt to push him away.

But what Max saw at that moment, standing above the pathway, looked completely different. With a disappointed shake of his head, he dropped the roses on the patio before turning around and leaving. As he sat back in his parked car, he could feel his eyes burning with unshed tears. He hit the steering wheel repeatedly, closing his eyes, his breathing ragged.

"Why?! Why would you do this to me?" He felt completely crushed by what he saw; their kiss played on repeat in his head.

He stayed still for a couple of minutes more before he started his car, driving back home, ready to drown his thoughts about her in alcohol.

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

"Lando, wait." Aria managed to push him away. Her lips were red and swollen and she ignored little devil on her shoulder telling her how good he felt. She couldn't, she won't do this to Max.

"Aria, what are you-?"

"Please wait. I don't want to hurt you again Lando. I'm sorry, I really am, but I can't be with you."

"What? Why?" Lando spoke sadly, looking at her like a kicked puppy, and she knew that she had to let him down gently, not wanting to sadden him even more.

She caressed his cheek with her hand, Lando instantly leaning into her touch, as she spoke gently.

"Part of me will always love you, Lan. But I can't be with you. I'm sorry; I have to go." And with that her touch was gone, and so was she.

As she neared the stairs leading to the parking lot, she stopped dead in her tracks. Blue roses lay scattered on the ground, petals crushed. She picked one up, her eyes already tearing up as she looked around the lot.

"Oh Max.."

Seems like not all fairytales have a happy ever after.

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

Max kept drowning his sorrows in all kinds of alcohol he had available, looking at his phone that hadn't stopped ringing for an hour. Funny, he thought to himself, how he had waited for those calls for so long. There were dozens of unread messages, every single one from her, and Max had to sustain the desire to read at least one.

"Never again, Aria. Never again."

And knowing Max Verstappen, that was a promise.

●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

Aria kept calling; Max's promise played on repeat in her head. Thinking back on how it must have looked to him, she understood why he wasn't answering. She kept trying, nonetheless.

The next race weekend arrived, but Aria felt like a plague in the paddock. Charlotte's inability to attend didn't help matters either. Lando was staying away from her, even though she caught him glancing at her sadly whenever she was near.

Max, on the other hand, was a menace. Angry since Thursday and media day, driving recklessly and reacting aggressively toward anyone who dared to say something. Still, he managed to drive perfect times, leaving Aria in second place, two seconds behind, in qualifying. Yet, when he did look at her, it seemed like he was looking at a ghost, because his eyes were dull and empty, not a single emotion showing on his face. It was like to him, Aria didn't exist anymore.

She kept staring at him from her garage, contemplating whether it would be absolutely crazy to go over to him. Someone tapped her on the shoulder, breaking her stare, so she turned around.

"Norris is here. Wants to talk to you." Elena said softly, nodding towards fidgeting Lando, standing in the corner.

Aria walked over to him, both already dressed in their racing suits.

"Lan.." she said gently.

"Um..I just wanted to see you before the race, to wish you good luck, like every one before. I.."

"I know. I miss this too. Maybe...we could..be friends?"

Lando smiled at her, his smile a little too sour to be sincere. "Yeah..friends."

Aria stepped closer to him, wrapping her arms around his torso, sighing as she cuddled more into him. At least she managed to make amends with Lando. He understood.

What neither of them saw were paparazzi, currently filming that friendly hug and Max's eyes darkening on the screen stream, before he pulled his visor down.

"I'd better go now. Good luck, Aria. Stay safe," Lando murmured into her ear before pulling away and smiling sadly at the girl.

"Good luck to you too, Lan. See you on the podium," she joked lightly, kissing his cheek. Lando couldn't help but remember all the kisses they shared before those races. Was it really all gone?

With the race about to start and only Max's car in front of her, Aria heard the radio crackle, and Elena's voice came through.

"Good luck Aria. You got this."

Note: The next part will be a red flag. A race flag. Stay tuned.

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