#impacted things between them irrevocably

[venstm]

every single day I am haunted by the fact that diluc does love kaeya, that’s his brother but he’s repeating this act of penitence by maintaining that distance between them.

[yeyinde]

when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog.  Of course he's going to take a bite.  He thinks you ought to have known this by now. 

SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.

AO3 MIRROR

John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His. 

And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts. 

It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him. 

It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain. 

He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it. 

And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious. 

This is, and always has been, about yearning. 

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go. 

Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity. 

Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it? 

And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?

The child would never write him out, either. 

Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool. 

Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way. 

It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm. 

Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.

Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.  

But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners. 

The rest, though? Spare parts. 

(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—

His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)

But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible. 

It's why he isn't married. 

Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface. 

But the real reason is because he knows better. 

He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own. 

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all. 

(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes. 

They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.

A pair of packless, stray dogs.)

But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face. 

It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child. 

It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy. 

Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge. 

He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction. 

And really—he’s just not a good man.

He thought you'd have known this by now.

He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet. 

(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)

Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—

It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head. 

He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber. 

You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—

Who was he to deny you? 

Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating. 

He let it. Encouraged it. 

“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you. 

And, oh—

The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment. 

Fuck. Fuck—

John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead. 

It worked. Works—

Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—

His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth. 

“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”

(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—

But—you do know that, don't you? 

Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)

“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”

He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?” 

“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.” 

His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”

You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”

And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, ��right?” 

Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement. 

He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps. 

“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape. 

He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants. 

There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills. 

John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled. 

The little seed that started germinating blooms. 

He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black. 

“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being. 

Your dyadic has always been built on permeance. 

John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy. 

Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two. 

“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.” 

He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.

“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.” 

You smell it, and shiver. 

It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite. 

And so, of course he does. 

John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up. 

Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—

Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy. 

He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips. 

There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title. 

This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander. 

(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)

In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills. 

It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—

A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing. 

That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—

You're a dog just like him. 

In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection. 

And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct. 

You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs. 

So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants. 

John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind. 

(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)

It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you. 

He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash. 

That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—

You turn to him instead, knuckles white. 

“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped. 

He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—

John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed. 

His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath). 

The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in. 

You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat. 

This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood. 

He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—

He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective. 

Seven pills in a row. 

He files it away, lost in thought. 

The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath. 

When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper. 

You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down. 

(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)

“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.” 

John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish. 

It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether. 

As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off. 

That, too, he files away. 

John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion. 

There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him. 

(Only him.)

He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it. 

So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too. 

John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn. 

(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)

It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression. 

But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs. 

But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you. 

That's all for him. 

(Nasty old bastard.) 

And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him. 

Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it. 

(Nasty, nasty—)

But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't. 

And that simply won't do. 

So, he plots. Plans. 

The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it. 

He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No. 

He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way. 

Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up. 

It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb. 

And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through. 

“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine.” 

And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty. 

(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)

John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb. 

It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—

He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence. 

“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”

His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust. 

But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent. 

What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—

He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue. 

“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”

“But, John—”

The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick. 

And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after. 

“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”

You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease. 

But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape. 

He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace. 

“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.” 

“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed. 

You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot. 

John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed. 

You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—

There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin. 

“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.” 

You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep. 

(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)

“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill. 

“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.” 

“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.” 

He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat. 

“Could stop taking it.” 

It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud. 

You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins. 

“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”

You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—

A boomslang. 

One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike. 

Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world. 

“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”

He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead. 

“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”

Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is. 

“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in. 

You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—

You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts. 

Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—

His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum. 

It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments. 

You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans. 

He decides on a different route to the same end. 

Damnation at your own hand. 

John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face. 

With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this. 

And one with more opportunity.

Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up. 

He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip. 

The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.” 

“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste. 

With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper. 

You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea. 

He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim. 

It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle. 

You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him. 

“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image. 

He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart. 

“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”

You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle. 

You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear. 

With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside. 

It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—

He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it. 

John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you. 

When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below. 

He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it. 

The push-pull of this little game stretches on. 

Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.

The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual. 

And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—). 

He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing. 

In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all. 

The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break. 

You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar. 

John notes it down. Tucks it away. 

And then he amps up the pressure.

John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it. 

He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now. 

Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic. 

“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?” 

It's a tease. A test. 

He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him. 

This will be your cacoëthes. 

He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this. 

This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining. 

You want this. He wears the axiom like armour. 

And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat. 

The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess. 

And fuck—

The thought alone makes him throb. 

He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper. 

John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart. 

He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick. 

Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for. 

He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing. 

He can't wait to ruin it. 

If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs. 

Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new. 

His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it. 

“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt. 

His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls. 

You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—

The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it. 

Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—

As many as you'll let him.

And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent. 

The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva. 

“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation. 

To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh. 

He tastes salt and sin on your skin. 

(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)

“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.” 

And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds. 

But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart. 

Like this, though—you melt. 

All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock. 

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”

(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)

He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”

It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it. 

“Fuck—”

He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more. 

But even with the respite, he knows he won't last. 

John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down. 

Go easy on your pretty cunt.

(As if.)

John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape. 

Reshape.

He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you. 

“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”

You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat. 

He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout. 

Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—

“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”

“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”

You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—

“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”

He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—

As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone. 

(His, his, his—)

When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead. 

“Are you okay, John—”

He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach. 

He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape. 

“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.” 

“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk. 

“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”

It does. Of course it does. 

He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—

“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more. 

“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat. 

There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound. 

“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”

Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs. 

You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”

He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.

Cheeky little—

“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.” 

The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.

In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing. 

Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today? 

He just needs to wait things out. 

But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week. 

Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time. 

He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home. 

It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home. 

His bones ache for it. 

Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan. 

While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual. 

Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.

You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.” 

He tucks it away, lets the matter drop. 

If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff. 

“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”

He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this. 

A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown. 

It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—

Yet. 

You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank. 

He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call. 

But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.

It eats at him. 

He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in. 

His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you. 

An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie. 

He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank. 

His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used. 

Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars. 

He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next. 

Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt. 

His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew. 

Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks. 

A card, and—

His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular. 

—a pregnancy test. 

He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning. 

A pregnancy test. 

Fuck—

(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)

He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing. 

“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”

“Something bad happen?” 

His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”

It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—

Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt. 

In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured. 

Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything. 

She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”

“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”

It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.” 

“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”

“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”

“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.” 

“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin. 

“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.” 

“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”

“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.” 

Lucky him, indeed. 

On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog. 

Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.” 

He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't? 

Oh, fuck—

You better not be. 

But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel. 

This is happening, then. 

You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack. 

It shifts—

You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts. 

It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue. 

John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart. 

His. His.

—and then it all falls into place. 

Yours.

He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear. 

A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need. 

Until it becomes too much. 

“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”

“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, no… please take your time.” 

Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more. 

John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned. 

“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.” 

He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—

His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise. 

Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—

A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat. 

Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take. 

His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins. 

John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play. 

Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.  

In the back of his head, the beast purrs.

“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.” 

You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.” 

More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart. 

“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”

Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”

He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated. 

When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away. 

A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.

Will help him fill. 

[kerosene-in-a-blender]

Something I keep coming back to is the idea that if the gods were killed/left Exandria, things would just go back to how they were before the gods arrived, because well, they can't.

The Primordials, who ruled Exandria before the gods arrived are gone. Only corpses and scattered fragments of their power remain. And regardless of whether they were created using divine essence or the natural spirits that already existed in Exandria, mortals DO now exist. Mortals exist and they have had and will continue to have a massive influence on Exandria going forward even without the gods. It was mortal wizard Laerryn Coramar-Seelie who destroyed the continent of Domunas to create the Shattered Teeth. And on a less massive scale, the presence of people in the world naturally has an impact on it. People build settlements; they manage ecosystems in order to better survive in them. Regardless of how one feels about the gods, it's an undeniable fact that their presence in Exandria has irrevocably changed it in ways that extend beyond themselves.

Even Ashton's idea that if the gods were gone Exandria would return to having "tiny powers", and thus the distribution of power would be more equitable, is fallacious both because as others pointed out there's still incredibly powerful non-god entities in the world (think Uko'toa or Desirat) and the power gradient between adventurers and average commoners is nuts, and also because what came before the gods was again the Primordials who seem to have been close to if not at the same level of power as the gods. The "tiny powers" never existed and can never exist based on the nature of Exandria as a D&D setting. And while there did exist an Exandria before the gods, it can never exist again because of how much has changed, and asserting that everything would be fine without the gods plainly ignores this fact.

[misc-obeyme]

THE THREADS THAT BIND

EPILOGUE

MASTERPOST for summary/info/chapter list

a/n: This spicy epilogue is dedicated to @silverrings-n-prettythings who offered to bare knuckle box an alligator for it... twice lol. Fortunately, no alligators needed to be fought, but without Silver's encouragement, it might not have happened. So thank you for always leaving such amazing feedback in the tags, it truly means so much to me!

PLEASE NOTE: This is an epilogue. You need to have read the rest of the story to get the full impact.

I also feel the need to mention that this is very feelings heavy because of the whole relationship build up that had been happening in the main story. It just felt right, since they just kinda recently admitted their feelings for each other.

Anyway, this is the last of the story for real. Thank you for coming with me on this journey!

GN!MC x Barbatos | word count 1,910

NSFW MDNI

Warnings: oral and penetration (reader receiving), pet names, uhhh definitely also some cheesiness, I'm sorry I can't help it lol

You startled yourself awake. Moonlight filtered through the large windows in Barbatos's room, casting shadows beneath the plants and in the corners of the staircases. Beside you, partially bathed in that silver light, Barbatos was slumbering peacefully. You watched as his expression grew concerned, as one of his hands reached out for you in his sleep. Between you, the bright teal of the thread glimmered gently.

It was so rare for you to see him at rest like this, hair disheveled, expression soft in sleep. And yet the last few days, you had seen more of it than he had ever shown you before.

Barbatos shifted slightly, as though he could sense the cold space next to him where your warm body had once been. His hand stretched even further, seeking your presence.

You took it and brought it to your lips.

Barbatos blinked his eyes open. You were confronted with the unguarded feelings that filled them when he focused them on your face, as he took in the sight of you with his fingers pressed to your lips.

Where so much was normally kept hidden, you saw only openness now. Here in the quiet of night, silver splayed and teal tinged, Barbatos looked at you as though everything he had ever cared for in his long life had culminated within your heart. He looked at you as though even when that thread was gone, he would still be irrevocably tied to you. He looked at you as though that was a choice he had made for himself, come what may.

No words passed between you because everything was held in his eyes and in the thread that lingered still.

As he watched, you spread his fingers and kissed the pads of each one, holding his gaze as you did so. His hand was so perfect, despite how often it was used to scrub dishes and pull weeds. The long elegant fingers stayed limp in your grasp until you had finished bestowing your kisses. And then they reached out, his palm resting on your cheek, warm and soft.

There had been a sort of unspoken caution between you as you learned your way through the new reality of honest love. A hesitancy that you both felt to ensure that you didn't make any rash choices, that you took your time, that you learned the nuances of each other.

All of that seemed to have vanished now. Because when you looked down into those eyes, there was only one thing you wanted more than anything else in the three worlds.

Barbatos likely saw that desire in your eyes.

He sat up to meet you, one hand staying on your cheek, the other going to your waist, as he kissed you softly in the moonlight.

You considered letting it stay soft. That despite what you were feeling, it might still be too soon.

But then Barbatos bit gently on your lower lip and any caution you had been about to employ was immediately abandoned. You opened your mouth for him, felt his tongue tracing your lip before entangling itself with yours. The grip on your waist tightened. Your hand flew up to grip the edge of his slightly unbuttoned pajama shirt, fabric twisting in your fist.

You felt the hand on your waist move to slide up your own shirt, fingertips tracing lightly across your skin. You broke away with a gasp, pulling your shirt over your head before undoing the buttons on Barbatos's shirt and pushing it off of his shoulders.

Barbatos followed your lead, helping you to remove the rest of your pajamas and his, before pushing you back gently on the bed.

Barbatos paused, poised above you. The longest strands of his hair brushed softly against your cheek as you looked into his green eyes. The slight glow of the teal thread stretched between your bare chests.

"MC," Barbatos said. His voice had a reverence to it and if he wasn't a demon you would have thought it sounded like a prayer.

You didn't have a chance to respond properly because Barbatos was kissing your neck, his lips pressing down your chest, his hands rubbing down your sides. He continued until he was tucked between your thighs, at which point he looked up at you, a question in his eyes. The thread trailed across your body, a tiny path down your chest and stomach, an almost perfect outline of where his kisses still burned against your skin.

You reached out your hand, nestling your fingers into his hair. "I'm ready," you said. "I trust you."

Barbatos waited for a few moments, as though he was giving you a chance to change your mind. When you didn't, he kissed your thighs, making his way to the throbbing space between your legs. You gasped when you felt his hot mouth on you, the expert way he used his tongue to make your limbs shake.

You couldn't prevent yourself from tugging on his hair as your fingers twisted in it, the feelings washing over you too intense for you to stop it. Barbatos didn't seem to mind, not even pausing although you were certainly causing him some pain.

"Ah, Barbatos-"

At this, Barbatos did stop, looking up at you from his position between your thighs. Your hand dropped to your side, letting go of his hair as he propped himself up to look at you properly.

"I-I'm sorry," you said, blushing slightly at his intense gaze.

His expression softened. "You needn't apologize, my love. All I want is to please you. Tell me what you would like me to do."

My love.

These words caused an echo in your mind, an echo of something Barbatos had once said about someone else -

It seems my love has found us.

You were reminded of that insecurity, the small piece of doubt that still remained, that couldn't be completely eased even though Barbatos told you how he truly felt about you. Even though he had also said -

I have never loved anyone in the same way that I love you.

He had said that to you, directly. Not in a vision of a future yet to come, not to a person whose identity he still didn't know.

Barbatos seemed aware that something was passing through your mind. He sat up, pulling you up with him, wrapping his arms around you, pressing you into his chest. Your eyes were so close to the entry point of the thread as it spilled out from his skin, creating a small U before looping back into you.

"Shall I find a different term to call you?" he asked.

The tenderness of his tone filled you with a softness unlike anything you had ever known. "Like what?"

Barbatos chuckled, his breath ruffling your hair. "My darling, my dearest, my everything, my sun and my moon…"

You laughed. "Okay, okay, stop, please!"

"My cupcake," Barbatos went on. "My muffin, my sugarplum…"

"I shouldn't be surprised that you have so many pastry options," you said.

Barbatos hummed contentedly, kissing your temple. "All you have to do is tell me your preference."

You sighed. "I don't have a preference, you can call me whatever you like."

"As you wish, my little tiramisu," Barbatos said.

You shook your head, laughing because you couldn't help it.

Barbatos pulled away enough to meet your eyes. "MC, if you will allow it, I would like nothing more than to finish what I have begun." His fingers trailed down your stomach, hovering just above the heat of your arousal.

A thrill ran through you when you saw the desire that had taken over Barbatos's expression. Where one moment he had been all softness, now he was all fire, a passion blazing there that ignited the need inside you as well.

You reached up, putting your hand flat on his chest right where the thread emerged. "I want you inside me, Barbatos."

Barbatos wasted no time. He was almost methodical in the way he retrieved some lubrication from the bedside table, using it and his fingers to make sure you were fully ready. You squirmed beneath his ministrations until you couldn't take it anymore, practically begging him to put his cock in you.

Barbatos's pace slowed significantly as he lined himself up, slowly pressing himself into your heat. You trembled beneath him, the exquisite feeling of him filling you up and making you shiver. You moaned once he was fully inside you and the expression of bliss on his face let you know that he was feeling just as good as you were.

You barely registered him asking you if you were okay, all you could do was wrap your legs around his hips, your hands clutching at his shoulders, as you moaned and gasped.

You were sure you said something, likely begging him to continue, but it was all lost in the heat and the feelings.

Barbatos was slow and sweet as he began to thrust, mumbling in your ear about how much he loved you. You mostly responded with moaning and gasping, but eventually you couldn't take how slow he was going and your words turned into begging him to speed up.

Barbatos didn't hold back for long, taking his cues from you and increasing his speed as you requested. You held onto him as he hit that perfect spot inside you over and over, the feeling of him moving inside you so sweet and so good, building and building.

Barbatos pulled away from you just a little, propping himself up to look down at you. You saw that blazing passion in his eyes and the reflection of the teal thread, that bounced now as it stretched between your chest and his. Your hands clutched at his arms. You cried out his name, your back arching, as you came hard, the feeling bursting within you from deep in your gut, exploding through every nerve in your body.

You watched as Barbatos came, too, his normally calm expression running riot with how good you made him feel.

Both of you gazed at each other, breathing heavily as you came down from the highs of your orgasms, feeling the warmth of the room settle around you, the gentle sweetness of intimacy bringing you even closer.

Barbatos kissed your eyelids, your cheeks, your lips, that place on your chest where the thread still connected you to him.

You found that neither of you needed to say anything more then. Barbatos was as efficient as always, taking care of cleaning things up before coming back to the bed. The moment he was beside you, you found yourself pulling him into your arms, pressing him against you, like you were scared he might disappear if you didn't feel him close enough. He sighed against your skin and wrapped his arms around you, tucking himself into you perfectly.

You didn't know it that night, but forever after Barbatos would use random pastries as pet names for you. It was almost always something different and it made you smile every time.

Sometimes, long after the thread had finally faded, often in the night when the silver moon cast its light into the darkness of his bedroom, Barbatos would speak gently and softly into your ear, making you shiver and reminding you of a truth he was determined to make sure you never forgot. In those quiet moments, he only ever called you my love.

masterpost | chapter one | chapter thirteen

masterlist | Thank you for reading!

[lowlylux]

Run With The Devil (And Dream)

1.1 | djdlqdjdlqdjdlqgrlwdjdlq

Word Count: 3k

Status: Ongoing

Ship: BillFord

Rating: M (graphic depictions of violence)

Description:

In the endless loops of time, Bill Cipher finds himself trapped in a cycle of death and destruction, orchestrated by the Axolotl, an enigmatic cosmic being who delights in his chaos. Each loop sees Bill wreak havoc on Earth, only to be reset when his plans inevitably fail. Despite his malevolent nature, Bill begins to sense the futility of his actions and the unchanging nature of his existence.

As the cycles progress, small changes occur—subtle shifts in events and new interactions with key characters that challenge Bill's perception of himself and his purpose. One particular loop introduces a significant change: Bill regains his empathy and ability to fall for another.

Based on the restoration AU by Nev_284

Ao3 link

The stars shimmer and sing, their celestial voices echoing across the vast expanses of countless universes. These distant orbs of light, bound by premonitions far beyond the grasp of mortal understanding, observe all with an eternal gaze. They witness the genesis and culmination of countless narratives, peering into dimensions unknown, silently bearing witness to the myriad forms of existence as they wane or clash.

To a star, death is an intriguing enigma. It is a certainty, an inescapable truth. Yet, given their enduring lifespans, entire species can vanish before their own light dims. Thus, the cycles of rise and fall among different beings seem particularly enchanting to them.

The stars, being passive observers, do not intervene. They watch with focused interest, drawn to the most captivating lives. Some existences are tragically brief, their lifespan far too fleeting for a star’s taste. In response, the stars revisit these moments repeatedly, delving into every tiny detail with unending curiosity. They seek new lives, hoping to find entertainment that rivals their previous fascinations.

Occasionally, they discover a being that seems perfect, embodying all that they yearn for. Their radiance intensifies with delight as they watch over this newfound source of intrigue. However, as with all things, the light of even the most compelling subjects eventually fade, either through the being’s own choices or external forces.

Being a star can be a solitary existence, yet it holds profound fulfillment when they encounter another who shares their quest for entertainment. A star’s role is to observe indefinitely, to theorize, but never to intervene. For any action would irrevocably alter their status.

There is a significant distinction between those who merely observe and those who actively shape events. While stars continue their silent vigil as their chosen entertainments perish, those who influence events face different fates. They may become stars themselves or gain the power to effect even greater changes.

Stars are significant, and those that fall are particularly notable. How can one craft entertainment without experiencing the thrill of watching other examples unfold? Thus, falling stars, whether fleeting or enduring, hold the potential to impact the very fabric of the worlds they long to create.

Their twinkling intensifies as their chosen entertainment returns, hoping it will persist for a while longer. Yet, uncertainty looms. Their universe—and their very existence—might be obliterated, leaving them to witness their own inevitable end. Stars remain solitary, awaiting the birth of new worlds, even as they brace for the inevitable destruction that will come.

Because once it’s gone, it’s gone…

Isn’t it?

-. . -..- -

Ever knowing, the Axolotl remains patient until the trial completes, the vents unfolding at a rapid rate. It sees everything, from the faintest tremor of atoms to the profound sorrow of the tiniest creatures. It senses the devastation sure to follow anything that lives for too long, as life itself has an expiration date. It hears the many followers it has accrued since its creation.

Yet, the Axolotl waits, fully aware of what is to come.

A creature appears before it, its yellow hue clashing with the Axolotl’s pink. This entity, composed of three interlocking facets, is a demon in fragmented form. Blocks build upon themselves, the form slowly repairing itself as much as it can. Yet the blue fissure prevents that from becoming a possibility. It threatens to completely tear him apart. The gash glows, casting a brilliant light into the Axolotl's gaze.

The Axolotl had been awaiting yet another confrontation with the demon. The terms of their arrangement were straightforward: the demon must prove that he can make a change. The Axolotl ensured that the demon’s memories were kept safe until he would inevitably return back. The sheer amount of defeats this singular demon has endured is simply beyond comprehension.

What usually resulted in the demon threatening the Axolotl was instead replaced with simple silence. The demon floats there, his singular eye vacant and void as he stares at nothing. The Axolotl finds this unsettling.

“I wonder,” the Axolotl muses, staring down at its friend, “have you shifted your perspective? Your melancholy speaks volumes.”

The stars above twinkle with more intensity the more distressed the demon looks, as if personally gaining amusement from his pain. They observe the scene silently, refusing to budge as they stay forever detached from the world that they observe.

The demon remains mute at first, still lost in contemplation. But he eventually looks up, staring at the Axolotl in complete and utter defeat. “Why?”

The demon’s singular, enormous eye fixates on the Axolotl. Overall, he looks rather panicked, the one with an all seeing eye having quite the dilated pupils, making the already black irises even larger than usual. The demon is bewildered, lost on exactly what he is continuously seeing.

“Hmm?”

“Why do they always help the others? I don’t…I don’t get it.”

The Axolotl nods knowingly, not quite expecting such a question but welcoming it nonetheless. If this inquiry is a step forward toward the demon’s salvation, he deserves to have answers to his questions without ridicule. The Axolotl is not so cruel to deny him, at least in this moment.

“Humans are capricious beings, driven by the innate kindness of their hearts. Why do you wonder? Bill, do you finally understand your mistake?”

“No.”

The Axolotl pauses, staring at the triangular demon with a measure of confusion. Given his preoccupation with the Pines family’s unity and their mutual support, why does he fail to recognize the truth before him? For a being with practically infinite knowledge, the naivety is shocking, even to the Axolotl.

“They will always aid those they cherish, even amid conflict. Expecting a different outcome after all this means you are only avoiding reality. Do my lessons hold no value to you? How many trials must you go through? This was meant to help, yet your previous convictions persist. Have my lessons truly been an unfounded attempt to assist you?”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to make different choices if I don’t have my memories!” The demon snaps out, immediately averting his eyes away from the Axolotl. “I don’t know if I would make the right choices even if I had them.”

He descends slightly, his floating form lowering a few feet. He cannot go far, the large gash preventing him from leaving the domain of the Axolotl. For it keeps him alive as long as he remains here. That is the deal, one forged in blood and flames. And if one were to go against their end, either side, devastation is sure to follow. Ruin would be inevitable.

Although, the Axolotl doubts anything like that will happen, especially not at the rate the demon seems to improve. It will be at least a thousand more incarnations before he even thinks about betraying the Axolotl, that much it is sure of.

“There is one way to find out. Your chances are not exhausted just yet. We can always attempt this again.”

“Do I have a choice?” the demon inquires with a hint of irony. He chuckles to himself at what he believes is a wonderful joke about the situation. The Axolotl remains silent, simply deciding to not encourage the demon with unneeded humor.

“No.”

“Amazing,” the demon responds bitterly. He crosses his arms, still in the midst of attempting to figure out the humans as best he can. The idea of them and their actions being far too complex then he wishes to admit to himself. However, it is not like it matters. He will not remember this conversation, therefore any of his ideas are lost until he no longer needs them. “Can I…stay for a few minutes? I want to think.”

The Axolotl ponders his request for a moment. It is a rare moment for the demon to actually think about his actions, at least reflecting thoughtfully. There has been an insurmountable amount of times where the demon has physically attempted to harm the Axolotl after all. This moment of introspection is unusual for the celestial being.

The Axolotl nods, granting the demon his request. It is a minor concession, not at all difficult to do, especially if the demon continues to be composed. So they sit there, the stars twinkling as they silently observe the two beings float in the infinite void silently.

Bill feels as though they are laughing at him and his misfortune.

-. . -..- -

Stanford Pines stumbles through the forest of Gravity falls with the ungainly grave of a sea creature stranded on land. Clutching his journal tightly, he scrawls hastily, desperately attempting to scribble all that he can into the pages. He is desperate to document every small detail, an indication of a mind that works far too well for its own good. Though his search for the Hide Behind had grown cold, Ford is not one to easily surrender.

He tracks the fleeting shadows, keeping a close eye on what is just beyond his eyesight. There are a few quick close calls, ones that cause him to swivel in the direction of his elusive target. But it does not work, his efforts are in vain. This creature, this unknown monstrosity, is beyond Ford’s reach and he knows that.

Driven by his ego, Ford presses on. He ignores how the terrain becomes far more dangerous. The path twists and turns, pulling him in every direction to throw him off. By the time he realizes that the Hide Behind has vanished, it is far too late to turn back now. This is an adventure, one he refuses to let go of just because he has lost his way. The adventure has become an obsession, and Ford’s egoistical brain will ensure he sees it until the end.

Seemingly hours go by until he is face to face with the entrance of a cave. Embracing the unknown, with resolute curiosity, Ford trudges forward, ready to jot down anything of interest. It takes a while, stalagmites obstruct his way. Ford is sure he will have strange cuts and scrapes from the rocking, yet he does not bleed. A stroke of fortune indeed.

But as he goes further into the abyss that is the cave, he notices the engravings. Though the language is unfamiliar, he is determined to learn or eventually. No, he knows he will learn it one day. He hopes he can return in the future, to decipher the ancient writings and learn the secrets of the cave.

He finds a circular carving adorned with eleven symbols. Ten smaller symbol as form a border around a central, prominent triangle—a large eye that seems to follow his every movement if he thinks about it hard enough.

Ford places a hand on the wall, his six fingers tracing over the ancient inscriptions surrounding the strange symbol.

“Triangulum, entangulum,” he murmurs, reading out the words etched in stone. He knows he shouldn’t, he knows he should turn around and get out. But he could learn so much from this if it is a summoning circle, exactly what he hopes it is.

“Meteforis dominus ventium.” Based on the carvings he can bring so much information and insight. The triangle floats above all, the symbols seemingly showing him as an equivalent of a divine presence.

“Meteforis venetisarium!”

The circle begins to glow.

“Egassem sdrawkcab!”

It’s like he feels insurmountable power, the rush of power enveloping him like a blanket.

“Egassem sdrawkcab!”

The air around him crackles with energy and prickles his skin, causing goosebumps to appear. The hair on his arms to raise, as if equally anticipating the end like he is.

“Egassem sdrawkcab!”

Everything in his entire being is telling him to stop, telling him that this is a bad idea. His logical brain warns him of imminent danger if he continues. But, his thirst for knowledge outweighs the fear, and truly is his one failing.

Perhaps not the only one.

“Egassem sdrawkcab!”

He’s nearly finished. Honestly, he’s shocked he is able to pronounce such ancient and arcane phrases. It is almost as if it is fate.

“Egassem sdrawkcab!”

Shrill laughing erupts from nowhere, the cave echoing the noises to the point of pain. Ford grips onto his ears, the pain from the laughs seemingly moving around in his head and refusing to leave. The laughing becomes him, wrapping around his very being and refusing to let go. He winces, falling to the ground, unintentionally kneeling directly in front of the engraving that caused all of this.

And then it stops as quickly as it started. Ford stares at the wall in confusion, completely dazed, uncertain if anything will happen. The cave remains silent. Ford is left with his thoughts, wondering if he was indeed an idiot.

And truthfully, he was.

-. . -..- -

Bill eagerly peers at his windows into Earth, now that the shaman’s spell is finally lifting. It has been far too long since he has last graced the minds of humans. He had anticipated a fool—after all, who else reads words on a cave’s wall? Yet what he finds is someone intelligent, at least by human standards.

Yet he is as much of an idiot as the humans who summoned him previously. An inflated ego overtaking everything, clouding his judgment, allowing the man to not think clearly. While Bill can appreciate a thirst for knowledge, this is utterly hilarious.

He has found the perfect human for him and his plans.

Clever enough to avoid portal radiation, but naïve enough not to betray him. From what Bill can see, the human even thinks that he was meant to read those words, as if he were special.

The notion of being ‘special’ amuses Bill greatly.

Indeed, he is special. He will be the one who causes the Armageddon. He will be the cause of the destruction of his world, as he will be the one who brought it. He will bring Bill and his Henchmaniacs to Earth, paving the way. And if Bill must pretend as if he were destined to do this, he will.

Destiny…it is just a humorous term for foolishness. The future is never set in stone, forever shifting and moving. Even Bill, who is able to many possibilities, is unable to truly see everything that will befall him. The all seeing eye is only as effective as the beholder, Bill being the best wielder.

And if he were to entertain the idea, he can easily be worshiped like the god he should be. Although he is an all powerful demon that is feared by many, he wants to rule his own world that is not collapsing in on itself. Yes, the stability of a new world is key. The Nightmare Realm is great, his child, his creation in its own right. But it’s flawed and failing. He needs a new alternative before he is consumed by the chaotic world of his own design.

And the idea of being a god, even to one, is tempting. Especially with how the human seeming perfected suited to be kneeling at his feet. If all goes well, perhaps Bill will keep him around. A six-fingered human is an oddity, even if the extra digits are nothing to Bill. He has always wanted a pet. If a human worships him enough, it could be a dream.

Stanford Pines…he is truly in for a world of chaos.

“You didn’t visit him?” Pyronica asks, gazing at the window with confusion. Bill looks at her, observing how the fire she wields threatens to burn him if he were not careful. But he is far too observant to let such a small issue affect him.

“It is better to wait.”

“But Bill-“

“Are you doubting me, Pyronica?” Bill questions, his form expanding to attempt to cease her ridiculous ramblings. He doesn’t like people doubting him, much less when it is a mere henchman. “I said we will wait.”

Pyronica averts her gaze, nodding in response. “Of course Bill, you know best.”

“Glad we came to an agreement,” Bill says with a laugh, his form glowing when he does so. “I sure do hate it when people act as if I don’t know what I’m doing.” Bill says, getting back to his normal size before staring her down. “Don’t you agree?”

“Bill I didn’t mean-“

“I suggest you get out of my sight,” Bill says callously, refusing to look at her. The demon nods, even if he cannot see her, before scurrying off to do who knows what. Bill does not care, nor will he ever. He stares at the window into Earth, his excitement growing.

Yes…waiting is the best way to go about this.

-. . -..- -

The Axolotl stares at the scene in growing disappointment. It had hoped that with Bill’s recent personality change after the last loop would carry over into this one, yet he continues down the same broken path. Death and destruction await him, that much is sure. If it continues, so will the loop.

The Axolotl wonders if it is time to put an end to such a farce. If Bill is truly incapable of change, what is the point of him using the Axolotl’s power for his own gain? It makes no sense. It just seems meaningless in the end.

Yet the Axolotl hesitates to bring it to a close.

It hates to admit it, but cheering for the demon’s growth has become a source of entertainment. It truly would not know what to do with itself if the loop would end. Would the Axolotl find another being to somewhat toy with? Perhaps one easier to manipulate?

It truly does not know.

The Axolotl can only hope that Bill will learn eventually. There are a few small changes to this cycle so perhaps this will be one of the most interesting. Perhaps it will launch a change in the demon.

But the Axolotl is getting ahead of itself, needing to wait for the two key players to interact for the first time once more. The stars overhead twinkle in agreement, waiting to see the story untold for their own sick satisfaction.

>> 02

Masterlist

[moreover-moreover]

One aspect I truly admire in Daredevil Season 3 is the careful rupturing of the work-life divide. It makes everyone more relatable, as they become well-rounded figures with backstories, histories, vulnerabilities and people whom they need to protect.

Although each of the characters try to inoculate those from their “personal” lives from the rough and tumble of their “work”, they find it’s impossible to do so.

Indeed, the choices each character takes on (Nadeem’s and Dex’s FBI job; Matt’s nighttime shenanigans as Daredevil; Kingpin rebuilding his criminal empire) have an irrevocable impact on the lives of their friends and family.

“How dare you bring this into my home?” snaps Special Agent-in-Charge Tammy Hattley to Nadeem when he tries to report his crime - a similar thought echoed by Seema later on, when she says bitterly, “You brought a gunfight into our home.”

The FBI storms Matt’s apartment; Matt and Nadeem break into Dex’s apartment; Dex intrudes on Nadeem’s family; Fisk’s men explode into Nadeem’s home; the last three-cornered fight between Matt, Nadeem and Fisk concludes in Fisk’s penthouse suite, the home that he tried to build for Vanessa.

A breach is always eminent, waiting - Foggy is targeted because of Matt; the church comes under attack; Julie Barnes is murdered; Seema and Sami endure a gunfight at home; Vanessa is almost killed by Dex.

The point the season makes is that, now, more than ever, we have to learn to trust the people around us.

Seema tells Ray that the reason she married him was because she thought he was a good man. Vanessa tells Fisk that the reason she married him was because she fell in love with his brutality and strength. Nonetheless, both want the same thing - honesty from their husbands; full disclosure - “to live inside [their] world, with [them]”.

As Matt and Karen eventually open up to each other, baring their shortcomings, they are finally ready to see each other as who they truly are. Matt no longer sees Karen as innocent and pure, to be shielded from the world, but someone capable of protecting herself.

Fisk, too, initially sees Vanessa as delicate, to be hidden away from his cruelties, but she insists that her hands have never been clean (similar, ironically, to Karen). He accepts her wish to be involved, and her brutality without question, when she orders the hit on Nadeem.

Relationships are at the centre of Daredevil Season 3, and the heart of the story beats stronger because of it.

[justfangirlstuffs]

Enticed

A what-if scenario; what if Eclipse had enthralled you instead of Sun and Moon? A quick and messy drabble inspired by @scarredlove

You x Vampire!Eclipse

Wordcount: 2775

Eclipse had been honest when he said he had no intention of stealing you away from Sun and Moon. It should have been his brothers to turn you. Unfortunately, circumstances didn’t always play out the way they should. He stared down at your crumpled body, envisioning the loss and desperation in his brothers’ eyes.

You were one of many, many humans who walked this earth, yet something about you had drawn his brothers’ attention. They’d tried to conceal it, but there was very little his brothers could hide from him. For all their bluffs and denials, he knew that you meant a great deal to them. He would not have the weight of your death on their shoulders.

Kneeling down, he touched a hand to your chest, sending a pulse of his magic into your body in an effort to restart your heart. Your body convulsed and a ragged gasp filled your lungs. Your eyelids fluttered open and you gazied up at him with barely lucid eyes.

“No…” you moaned, your body weakly shifting away from him.

“You’re dying,” Eclipse told you, as blunt as the impact that would soon be your end. Your body was broken, irrevocably so. There were only two options left for you. “I can save you if you wish to still live.”

“Sun… Moon…” You were delirious with blood loss no doubt. But he needed an answer. 

Grabbing your chin, he forced you to look at him. “Your time is short. Live or die. What is your choice, little bird?”

Your words burbled up gracelessly between choked gasps. “I… want… to live.”

“Very good.”

Eclipse bundled you up into his arms. You would need someplace safe while you underwent the change. In the meantime, he would decide how to break the news to his brothers. They would be angry, but if you really meant as much to them as he suspected, then they would thank him eventually. They would have no choice but to be grateful to him for saving you. And if it turned out that their desire for you did not run as deep as he suspected, then he would find a way to make good use of you.

“You better not disappoint, little bird.”

—

As you died, Eclipse haunted your dreams. Sensations of him carting you away to an unknown destination. You tried calling out for Sun and Moon, but they never came. And the hallucinations of them never stayed for very long. Any time you were cognizant, your body was in a state of agony so profound you couldn’t even cry out. During these times, a large shadow loomed over you, as a clawed hand would brush over your heated skin. The coolness of the touch brought you a modicum of respite from the fever that felt like it would burn you alive. A low rumbling voice urged you to be strong, to fight.

Every part of you ached, but your heart was the worst of it. Like someone had plunged their hand into your chest and was squeezing tighter and tighter until you would finally perish. But you didn’t perish. Surely, death shouldn’t be this painful. Surely, death would be far more peaceful than this. Yet, you shied away from that promise of quiet and instead fought through the agony that was becoming your entire existence.

Then you awoke. Fully awoke. Your body still ached, feeling stiff and strange. Like you were wearing someone else’s skin. The first thing you realized was that you were not in your room. The burgundy sheets you were swaddled in were far too luxurious, the bedframe ornately carved and the stained wood richly colored with polish. The room you were in was practically furnished, though had a very rustic feel to it. A full-sized wardrobe stood in the corner of the room, the handles looking to be solid bronze.

That was when you noticed that, there was very little light in the room, yet your eyes were taking in shapes and details just fine. What you had first assumed was sunlight peaking in through the windows, was actually a full moon against a starry backdrop. Squirming out of the covers, you stood on shaky legs and hobbled to the window, unlatching it and pushing it open. You stepped out onto a balcony of what was… unmistakably, a castle. An actual flipping castle. You leaned against the stone balcony to gape at the expanse of endless forest surrounding you as far as the eye could see.

“Quite the view, isn’t it?”

Thankfully, you fail to leave your skin behind as you jump nearly a foot in the air. Spinning around, you find Eclipse framed in the doorway of your room. No, NOT your room but the room you’d awoken in.

“Where the fuck am I?” you demanded. Your teeth ached, feeling weirdly too big for your mouth. You swallowed, the motion leaving you feeling painfully hungry. No… thirsty. “What did you DO?”

“Mind your manners, pet,” Eclipse tutted disapprovingly. “You are in my home, and I merely did what you asked.”

Your body trembled under that gaze that gleamed at you through the darkness. “Where are Sun and Moon?”

“You’ll see them again,” he said blithely. “When you’re ready. Until then, this is where you’ll stay.”

“Fuck you,” you growled. “I’m not staying here.”

His gaze turned scorching. He stepped towards you, each step was slow, deliberate. “What did I just say about manners?”

Shame bloomed in your gut, and an apology was on your lips but you bit down on it. Instead, you scooted back, wanting to maintain distance from him. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to go. Except down. Your back hit the stone barrier and for a terrifying second, you felt yourself falling backward.

Strongly hands caught you, stopping your lethal tumble. You sat trembling as Eclipse hovered over you, all four arms holding fast to you, preventing your fall, and also any hope of escape. Eclipse regarded you with an almost weary fascination.

“Not five minutes awake, and already you’re proving to be a handful.”

“Put me down then,” you muttered, not liking how your heart was surging.

No, no, you were not happy about this. You nearly fell to your death. That was the ONLY reason your heart was going a mile a minute. One of his clawed hands brushed a few wayward strands from your face and you hated the fluttering that erupted in your gut from the contact.

“You do not give me orders, pet.”

“Fine, hold onto me forever for all I care,” you spat.

Eclipse chuckled, those wicked fingers combing through your hair, forcing you to fight back a shudder. “That is already a given.”

You bit back your retort, sitting quietly and just glaring at him. The tactic seemed to work as he set you back down on your feet with a thoughtful hum.

“Enthrallment suits you. You’re far more spirited since we last met.”

Oh, you mean when you threatened your way into my home, assaulted me, and then threatened my life? you thought acidly.

The gnawing hunger in your gut was growing sharp, and you had a wild urge to sink your teeth into… into…

Eclipse took hold of your face, squeezing your cheeks until your mouth opened. “Ah, no wonder you’re in such a lather,” he murmured. “You’re hungry.”

You squirmed away from his touch, and he laughed, the sound a dark and haunting melody, before stepping away from you. The lack of his touch and the distance created an odd sense of loss. You had the desire to reach for his hand but you clenched your fists and dug your nails into your palms.

“Stay here,” he told you dismissively. “I’ll have someone bring you up a meal. We’ll talk more after.”

The door shut and you heard the click of a lock. You were both immensely grateful and agitated by his departure. Your chest heaved as panic arose. You were trapped, heaven knows where with Eclipse. You desperately searched the room for your phone but found nothing. You weren’t even wearing your own clothes you noted with a wave of unease.  You needed to get out of here. Now.

As you moved to the window, you felt a weight pull down on your gut, slowing you to a halt. He’d told you to stay… So what? Maybe you should listen… Fuck that! Gritting your teeth, you pushed through the weird sensation that was causing your body to behave against your own will. It was like moving through molasses and your head was starting to ache, but you forced yourself to keep moving. 

Just beyond the balcony, there were thick swaths of ivy clinging to the walls. Praying they would be enough to hold you, you carefully clambered off the balcony and eased your weight onto the grow. Some of the vines gave way, causing you to slip and you desperately clung on as they snapped and peeled away from their tenuous purchase under your weight. You had just enough time to think that this had been a really stupid idea as you crashed down into a set of bushes.

“Ow…” You groaned, your body having acquired a fresh set of new aches to contend with. Vaguely you felt like that should have hurt way more, but you just counted yourself lucky. Wobbling up onto your feet, you fled away from the building towards the forest.

The weird pull was even stronger now, like a dozen hands trying to grope you, turn you around, and force you back from whence you came. You pulled away from the influence, and you forced your aching and tired body into a run. Suddenly the word blurred and you ran smack into a metal fence. You clutched your throbbing nose, rubbing your head as you gazed up. The fence was tall, but maybe if you scrambled up you could reach the top and heft yourself over.

“Hey, stop!” someone called out.

Panic resurging, you didn’t even stop to look at who or what was calling to you. Bending your knees, you jumped as hard as you could. Imagine your shock when you nearly cleared the fence entirely, however, your wild flailing caught you at the top. You scrambled and then promptly fell over onto the other side with a thud. Adrenaline was your best friend, spurring you up off the ground and into a dead sprint. The world once again went into a wild blur and everything lurched forward.

When everything snapped back to a standstill, you were surrounded by trees and the smell of wood, sap, and greenery. Your stomach heaved and you kneeled down into the grass and twigs to vomit. You were shaking and sweating, but you pushed yourself back up onto your feet. You had to keep moving. You had to get away. I should really go back… NO!

Sun… Moon… where are you? They had always seemed to show up whenever your hours were at their darkest. So why weren’t they here now? They left you, remember? They cut you out of their lives. No! No no no! Tears sprang from your eyes as you stumbled through the trees, over rocks and branches. The pull was becoming unbearable now, pressing down until you were on your hands and knees, clawing at the ground.

You didn’t get much farther before you collapsed onto the ground. Your body was exhausted and ached horribly, and that gnawing hunger was a knife in your gut. Curling up on the forest floor, you closed your eyes, wishing you could go to sleep and wake up from this nightmare.

At some point, you must have dozed off, because you felt a hand stroking your head. “Such a wayward little bird, can’t even follow a simple instruction. Putting yourself in danger. You’re lucky I found you before something else did.”

Don’t touch me, you wanted to shout. But the touch seemed to ease some of your physical misery. Even though it did little to soothe the raw ache in your chest. You pushed yourself to sit up and found Eclipse knelt beside you with the countenance of a disapproving parent. Yet still emitting an odd comforting warmth you wanted to indulge in.

Eclipse was like a wave beating against your defenses, steadily wearing them away. He spoke to you amicably, acting as though he was safe and not the creature who had threatened to ‘drink you dry’ in your very own home.

You weren’t sure why you had this strange compulsion to touch him, to be near him, but you were determined to ignore it. He shouldn’t be radiating such an inviting aura that made you think of lazy summer nights when you wanted to just close your eyes and relax under the stars.

“Are you done with your little tantrum?”

With an animalistic snarl, you threw your fist at his face. It struck, though, just barely. Eclipse’s hand gripped your wrist, having stopped the blow from making its full impact. His amber gaze seared into you, and every instinct you had screamed at you to bow your head and beg for forgiveness.

“I will overlook this once, and only once.” His voice was calm, but there was a very real threat in his next words. “Raise a hand against me again, and there will be consequences.”

You tried to pull out of his grasp, but you were too weak. Too exhausted from running. Your last resort was barbed words. “I hate you.”

Eclipse effortlessly scooped you up from the ground, your thorns doing little to dissuade him. “You can hate me all you want, but ultimately, you chose this, my little Nova.”

A full-on shudder rocked through you at the given name, like you were the earth and Eclipse’s voice was the shockwave pulsing across your entire being. “I’m not yours.”

“You are.” The words were a rumble against your cheek as you were cradled against him. One of the arms wrapped his cloak around your shivering body, enveloping you in a heady smell of smoke and spices. “It is my blood, my essence that remade you. Gave you new life and new breath. Your existence is now intertwined with mine. You can no longer be without me. Stray too far for too long, and you will wither and die. That is what it means to be enthralled.”

“You… you did what?!” you exclaimed.

“It should have been my bothers to turn you,” Eclipse continued, ignoring your outburst. He began walking with you, his gliding gate moving easily over the even forest floor. “Unfortunately, they were interrupted by hunters. Thus, I assumed the responsibility. No doubt they are currently mourning you. What a nice surprise it will be for them, knowing you still yet draw breath.”

“I don’t want this,” you mumbled fiercely, wanting to reject it, reject him, with every part of your being.

“Would you rather I left you to die, bleeding out in the cold?”

You didn’t have an answer for that. 

“I thought so. Now, tell me you won’t run off again.”

Clenching your teeth you stayed silent, swallowing back the desire to agree. A squeak left your lips as you were suddenly hoisted up so that his sharp smile was inches from your face.

“Perhaps I should leave another mark on you, to remind you who you belong to.”

Another mark? What? Your head was dizzy. Hot steam ghosted your skin as teeth grazed your neck. You squirmed in his grasp, but you didn’t have the strength to break free. “N-No.. please, I’m sorry! I won’t run off again.”

Your heart pulsed in your throat as you felt the light pinch of fangs and braced yourself. Instead, there was a soft, moist brush of warmth against your skin. Heat flooded through you boiling your blood. At last, he showed mercy and pulled away with a low, melodious chuckle.

“Should you go back on your word, you will be disciplined,” he warned and continued to carry you back to his castle. “Behave and you’ll be well cared for.”

You were too tired to argue, too tired to fight back. So, you resigned to save your strength for a later time. You weren’t dead, you were still alive, and that meant something. It meant you could still see Sun and Moon again, though your heart once more twisted at the thought. Bitterness tainted your otherwise sweet memories of them. The more you thought of them, the more it hurt. So you stopped thinking. You closed your eyes, and soon the rocking motion of Eclipse’s arms had you fading back to blissful unconsciousness.

[drearymondays-05]

Drunken Confessions

Jily Week August Day 3: In Vino Veritas

@sunshinemarauder and @kay-elle-cee

The house remained standing in an isolated area, somewhere near the fringe of the forest. It built up the mystery and allure of that singular building which appeared to be deserted. If any person were to try and open the locked gate, it would not open up. The gate was resistant to even some of the most advanced magic. Only a handful of people knew the way in. The atmosphere inside the house was in stark contrast to the outside. Loud music, tabletops filled with foods and drinks and the merry laughter of people brought into life the worn-out walls and clipped wallpapers. Some people were drunk, some lost in thoughts.

James continued his perusal of people till he caught a corner filled with his heart. Sirius and Remus were up to their debates, Peter was looking morosely into a tumbler and Lily was about to fall if her slipping away from the sofa was any indication. He made his way to them leisurely. He was bone-tired after patrolling the entire day at the Department of Mysteries as Dumbledore had asked of him, and then there was the altercation with a small group of Death eaters. This made him late to the party at the Order safehouse.

“There comes our hero of the day”, Sirius announced when he reached there. James sent him a mock salute and proceeded to make himself comfortable. Remus started asking him about the fight. Just as he was talking with Remus, he saw Lily had fallen asleep. “She started getting drunk as she waited on you. She was worried about you,”, Sirius replied when he saw James looking at Lily. James felt a spark of hope and quashed it immediately. Of course, she was worried about him. He was her friend after all. How long till he realized that it was all he would ever be?

Once upon a time however she was his girlfriend. Few months after the beginning of their seventh year in Hogwarts, they had started dating. For James, it was a dream come true moment after fancying Lily for a really long time. He felt like winning all the Quidditch trophies at once, flying high and soaring in the air. All the things in the world could still not compete with the giddiness he felt while dating Lily.

He just did not know that those days were numbered. He could still clearly remember the doomsday. It was a Hogsmeade Saturday when the first attack near Hogwarts took place. The chaos, screams of pure agony, terror in little eyes, and weight of responsibility on his shoulders were new to him that day. He saw how ugly war could be from closer quarters. It strengthened his resolve to take the final step in their relationship by saying ‘I love you’ to Lily. He could not pretend to not love her anymore. He loved her, irreparably and irrevocably. He loved her when her green eyes would search for him across the room and smile that pretty smile of hers just for him, when she would visibly light up in his presence, when she absentmindedly ran her fingers across his palm and all the moments within and in between.

When they met after a bit of calm in the castle from the attack, Lily seemed tensed almost. He saw determination fill her as she took sure steps towards him. “We should not be together anymore”, she had said. James had felt his heart stop with those words. “This is not the time to be dating when muggle-borns around us are dying. I should have been working harder towards stopping this fight not frolicking around as if the world around is roses and sunshine. I need to do more James. I am, I am sorry I cannot continue this with you. Don’t ask me of it.”

James had not. He could not find it in himself to convince Lily to not stop living her life because of all the shit going around. He knew the impact the attack had on her. He saw the fire and thirst in her eyes to actually do something. He did not want to take that away from her. Most of all he understood she needed to fight the war on the frontlines till her need for vengeance and justice was quenched. And also, that she would feel guilty about her cause if she rather spent time with him. And James had wanted to be many things but never a page in Lily Evans’s regret diary.

Sirius had given him serious flak over the stupidity of their break up and that he should have said something. But he could not explain to Sirius that during his time with Lily he saw things he never knew of. The difficulties of just surviving as a muggle-born in their world, the smaller things, the covert judgements daily, snide remarks and the alert even an accomplished witch like Lily had to be in. So, a muggle-born fighting the war was a powerful statement to the world that they could fight their own battles and need not rely on others for it.

So, he had kept quiet and just nodded that day. His ‘I love you’ had died a swift death before even getting its voice. He had sworn Lily that they would always remain friends.

If that wasn’t the most difficult promise, he had made someone! Being Lily’s friend tested his self-control at times. Times when he wanted to kiss Lily with desperate abandon after she returned from Order missions, times when he wanted to hold her in his arms and never let go. It became increasingly difficult to keep his feelings at bay. He just wished Lily would sooner realize that falling in love during this time was not a crime.

Back to the party, James sighed and asked his friends to turn up for the night. He carried Lily up the stairs to the bunk. Once he had tucked her in, he tried getting away but a hand snaked around his wrist. As he turned, he saw Lily smiling at him dreamily. “Lils……” he tried saying but Lily sat up and put a finger on his lips. Merlin save him, that simple touch set his heart racing. “Hey, James!” “Hi”, he managed to say. Lily then went on to do a thorough survey of his face. When she returned to look back into his eyes, she panicked, “Are you hurt? Christ, why do you have to always play the hero? Did something happen?” James managed to soothe her down while murmuring, “Look who is talking.” She evidently paid that no mind as she took his hands in hers, “I am an idiot.”

She started talking to herself, “What did I even gain by pushing you away? It was so stupid. The war is still going on….. Why did I ruin the best thing that happened to me? Stupid, stupid, stupid. …………..” Then her mumble turned her incoherent. James on the other hand was undergoing a kaleidoscope of emotions as she went on. Sorrow, grief then sudden delight, and bliss were all warring inside him. Amusement took the prize whatsoever. Drunk Lily was adorable.

All of a sudden, Lily turned her ire on James, “You knew that, didn’t you? You could have stopped me from breaking up. Why didn’t you?” She pointed her accusatory fingers towards him. “Do you not fancy me anymore?”, she lamented. The corners of his lips turned up into a smile.

She was turning sleepy. He pressed her into the bed and said, “Sleep sweetheart. We will talk tomorrow.” She went to sleep obediently but asked before closing her eyes, “What if I forget?” “I will remind you”, James promised and pressed his lips to Lily’s forehead.

This time he planned on freaking following through on that promise.

[sleepymccoy]

One spones thing I like writing is them figuring out where the boundaries are. Cos they fight all the time, but clearly aren't just cruel or they wouldn't be able to work together. So I like watching them figure out how to undo an accidental insult or apologise for going too far without noticing.

But forgetting that I like writing that dynamic, what's also fun is them just being so 100% in sync that they've never accidentally gone too far on anything. Sure they've gone too far, but they fully know what they're doing when they do.

But also, one fight is much like another from an outsiders pov

Like, they're on the bridge having a normal squabble about space for Jim's benefit when McCoy, who is nursing a hurt feeling from Spock ignoring him at breakfast, just steps his professional disagreement into an opinion the devoids Spock's recently submitted for approval research paper. And Spock doesn't admit to feeling vulnerable about anything, but the period between submission and approval is a sore spot. So it's like

"the asteroids do not require significant gravitational adjustment as they are buffeted by the slightest impact "

"but the longer we wait the closer they are to the planet!"

"we are not waiting, we are aligning ourselves with the prime opportunity to interfere, and-"

"unless DeVahl is right about gravitons"

"...is this about breakfast, doctor?"

"not unless you were reading DeVahl's paper at breakfast"

"I was not."

"then-"

"sorry, what the fuck are you two talking about? Tell me about the asteroids. Bones, d'you really think we're putting the planet at risk?"

"no, Jim, I don't. I'm sure Spock's always right about these things. I'll be in mebday."

And like. No one even clocks that that was a genuine fight. But two weeks later they just about have a screaming match in the corridor about petri dish storage protocol and love every second of it. But that day people think they're irrevocably falling apart and Jim rocks up to like counsel them back into getting along.

I just like the idea of them knowing each other perfectly from the word go. And also weaponising it cos god knows they don't treat each other like they're made of glass. But also noticing when someone else goes too far, like how Spock can take teasing on Vulcan stuff just fine but when it steps into racism he doesn't stand up for himself. Or how McCoy sometimes gets genuinely pissed off at starfleet's protocols and needs some time before he can approach talking about them in a productive way

[umbral-reign]

There is a post that comes across my dash every so often which talks about the two fundamental kinds of tragedies: the story that is tragic because it was always going to end in sorrow; and the story that is tragic because it didn't *have* to end in sorrow.

The latest episode of Wheel of Time (2x07) is, I think, an example of the latter - and yet, at the same time, I think it was a tragedy that was *destined* to happen.

I know there are theories concerning Compulsion having been used on Siuan (and possibly some other theories about why she acted as she did in Cairhien), and I do not at all want to discount them because honestly it would make sense. But, taking the events of the episode at face value - as much as I hate it, and as much as I personally wish it had gone a little differently, I do think that the way Moiraine and Siuan's conflict culminated was a horrible, tragic example showing just how toxic, damaging, and outright dangerous the fundamental traditions of the White Tower (and even culture of the Aes Sedai) are and have become.

But I'm getting a little ahead of myself.

I do think that this episode, more than any of the others yet, suffered from the limited episodes Rafe/the writers were given to work with. It felt rushed, and we didn't get the chance to breathe with any of the characters in the really intense and honestly critical emotional scenes (e.g. the scene at the beginning where Moiraine and Siuan talk).

And it's there - the first scene with Moiraine and Siuan - that I think the tragedy that was to come was irrevocably decided. Because if Siuan had stopped, had listened, had given Moiraine the time she needed to be able to talk about what was happening, I think the whole mess could have been avoided. But Siuan didn't.

And I understand why, I think. Siuan was afraid and hurt. To her point of view, Moiraine had made it clear that she had cut her out of her confidence and counsel. Moiraine had been purposefully neglecting to share critical information with Siuan, and that information was very impactful on her ability to fill her role in the plan. To Siuan, I'm sure it absolutely looked like Moiraine had already broken faith with her - had already decided it wasn't *them* trying to find and protect and ready the Dragon Reborn, but *Moiraine* alone. Whether Siuan thought that choice was made from pride, grief, or Moiraine distrusting/distancing herself from Siuan, I don't think it would matter really. To Siuan, the outcome was the same.

It wasn't her and Moiraine against the world anymore. It was her, and Moiraine, and the world.

And Moiraine had proven herself incapable - at least, that's what it looked like.

There were plenty of ways that this could have been avoided. Moiraine could have been more open and forthright. Lan could have told Siuan about his suspicions regarding Moiraine's stilling. There are likely things that Alanna or even Verin could have said that would have inclined one (or the other, or even both! all three of them!) to have made different choices.

But there, I think, is the reason that this tragedy, while it could have been avoided, was destined to happen all the same - in one form or another, even if not that exact time and place and between those very specific women.

Because the Aes Sedai value secrecy and personal agenda above all else. Even if those secrets and those agendas are in the service of something else, something greater - a perfect example, of course, being Moiraine searching for the Dragon Reborn - the Aes Sedai do not trust each other. They cannot. Because their lives, their very society and community, is built on secrecy, on lies-spoken-as-truth, on politics and power and hidden agendas. They are at war against themselves, and not just because of the Black Ajah. They are at war against themselves because the White Tower does not allow honesty, trust, or open loyalty between its Sisters - ever.

And that is why, in the end of it all, I think the White Tower and the Aes Sedai, at least as they exist right now, need to be razed. Because how are those who are meant to protect and guard and guide the world able to do so, if they cannot even trust *any* of their own sisters to do the same for them?

That is why, while the tragedy of this episode could have been forestalled, maybe even avoided - it was destined to happen all the same.

But it hurts - so goddamn bad - that it had to be here, and now, and between Siuan and Moiraine.

[profoundbondfanfic]

Our 4x01 celebration comes to an end but we hope you liked the fics we reviewed this last week in honor of Cas and Dean's first meeting.

In case you missed any, here are the 6 we've decided to review for this occasion.

Grey by Valinde (Valyria) [Explicit, 65k words]

In a world where people don’t see in color until they find their true mate, the first thing Dean sees when he pulls himself out of his grave is the blue sky. When Castiel raised him from the Pit, he inadvertently claimed Dean as his mate.

heard from your mother (she don’t recognize you) by rupertgayes [Mature, 538k words]

A man named Cas wakes up in 2003 with no memories, but he’s able to piece together a few things: Supernatural creatures exist, and most of them will hurt innocent civilians if he doesn’t stop them; he has abilities that no human hunter should have, but he knows enough about human hunters to keep that to himself, and finally; he keeps running into another hunter named Dean Winchester, who must be as lonely as he is if he’s willing to put up with those former facts long enough to help Cas unravel the mystery of who (or what) he really is. For his part, Dean’s still (not) dealing with Sam’s departure to Stanford, and figures distracting himself with a bit of mystery and intrigue is as harmless as it gets, right? Right.

Lazarus Needs a Robe of Scarlet Thread by HerRosesNeverFall [Explicit, 90k words]

Three weeks ago, Dean woke up in a pine box. He thought dealing with the nightmares was going to be the most difficult part of his new life after Hell, but at least they were something he could understand. Something he could deal with. Something he deserved. Then he began having agonizing visions of crucifixion. Wounds appeared on his body out of nowhere. Wounds that refused to heal and coated his skin with the sickly sweet smell of roses. Stigmata are said to be the marks of saints, but Dean is not a saint and the wounds are only the beginning.

psalm 40:2 by unicornpoe [Explicit, 44k words]

“How the fuck do you know my name?” Dean hisses. The man doesn’t look scared. He is watching Dean like there is nothing else worth watching, lips a little parted, eyes a little soft. And blue. Real blue, like the ocean on a postcard. The ice spreading down Dean’s spine makes him shiver. “I suppose you could say I’m your guardian angel,” the man murmurs. His breath fogs pale between them. All of him is unnaturally warm, like Dean’s touching somebody with the sun sewn up beneath their skin. “I have known you, Dean Winchester, for a very long time.” Dean meets an angel who says he’s from the future. It all gets a lot more complicated from there.

Saved From Hell, Cast From Heaven by bizarrestars [Mature, 13k words]

Cas is going to rebuild Dean. He’s going to make Dean again, and Dean doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to separate, even for a moment, even to be made. He doesn’t want Cas’ touch to ever leave. He won’t let Cas let him go, and Cas cannot stay. (Dean doesn’t know, but this will be the reoccurring dynamic between them both for years to come.) Here and now, he has to let Dean go, but Dean thrashes under his loosening grip, only soothed when he leaves the imprint of his touch behind, a scalding reminder that makes Dean scream, that makes Dean moan with relief, and then— Dean wakes up with a burning shoulder.

The Sharp Edge of Earth by dotfic [Teen, 29k words]

Having sold his soul to save Sam’s life, Dean finds himself in Hell at the mercy of the demon Alastair, who is intent on breaking him. But all that Dean was and is, everyone who’s had an impact on him, are still a part of Dean, and he won’t break easily. As Dean takes refuge in his own mind to escape the torture, angels gather, ordered to undertake an unusual mission: rescue The Righteous Man from Hell. Castiel knows an invasion of Hell will be difficult, but he has no idea how much this mission will demand of him, how wrong the best-laid plans can go – and how much everything is about to change irrevocably. Meanwhile, Dean’s defenses and his hope start to fail. He thinks no one is ever coming to save him. He’s wrong.

If you'd like to check more fics like these, check our tags coda, early seasons, and pre canon or the 4x01 celebration tag for everything related to this celebration.

Thank you for the members @casblackfeathers @casloveshisfreckles @dothwrites @kitmistry @peanutbutterjelly-pie and @valandrawrites

[bluestar22x]

Finding Eden: Prologue

Summary: The story of how it all began

Pairing: Zach Wellison x F!Reader

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Political talk, nuclear war, civil unrest, rebellion

Word Count: 500(ish)

Author's Note: This is all just background set up. Reader and Zach will be introduced in chapter 1.

xxx

You still remember a time when people used to speculate over a nuclear war occurring and the devastation that it would spawn, mostly focusing on the results from the actual dropping of the atomic bombs.

The blasts, the innocents who would be vaporized or irradiated on impact, the generations of increased birth defects and cancers that would follow later on.

They hardly ever discussed the cataclysmic political, civil, and economic consequences that would sprout after the bombs fell, after the resulting war, after the world embraced chaos.

It started on December 21, 2012 with the early morning bombing of Washington D.C., a declaration of war not just on the United States, but on their allies and humanity in general as well. The use of an atomic bomb in modern warfare was considered vile, barbaric, and inhumane - yet someone still pressed the button to fire back, commencing one of the bloodiest wars in modern times, and one of the most inevitable, both sides too stubborn for quick compromises.

The countries that joined the fight on either side were plentiful and useful. They hit hard. They fell hard.

World War III lasted a measly eight months but it was long enough for the modern world to suffer greatly.

It didn't matter that the Allies had won once more, most especially in the United States.

See the U.S. was already torn by political controversy long before the annihilation of its capital, leaders and civilians alike arguing over their differences like toddlers that had never been taught to play nice. There was no seeing things from the other side, no olive branches broken out, and the fractures in the country's society only compounded after the loss of Washington D.C. and the economic hardship that resulted during the war.

Fingers were pointed without hard facts to back up the reasoning, without understanding the circumstances of decisions that were made, for better or worst.

The blind led the blind. Grief and mistrust bloomed into anger. Anger grew into fury.

People took to the streets in rage, and a civil war unfolded once more on American turf. Except this time it wasn't a war between the north and the south, but between neighbors. In the disarray, anarchy rose up.

Violent mobs of opposing views took part in raiding stores, lighting cars up on the streets, and hiding homemade bombs in unexpected places. The military and police forces that were sent in to put an end to it all only served to rile them up even more.

They all subsequently found middle ground in the red slick that stained the streets.

An outside enemy had taken out the capital, had crippled the country, sending it into a deep depression, but it was the toxic relationship between the surviving members of the US government and its civilians that was the final nail in the country's coffin.

United we stand, divided we fall.

Irrevocably damaged, without aid from its allies who were licking their own ugly wounds, the United States of America was no more.

No man's land was all that remained.

Or so you thought.

xxx

Tagged: @harriedandharassed @morallyinept

xxx

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

xxx

[des-no9]

on Gith, Vlaakith 1 and Zerthimon

My mind's been whirring a tonne about the og trio the past several days because of @gothyanki and @nothingimportantanywhere so this is all thanks to them, their ideas and I just need to write some of this down.

It mostly stems from our desire to make more of Gith, of Vlaakith 1 and why she did what she did rather than the classic FR evil because evil.

However, thinking more on my githyanki language of love and affection and how too that impacted on their culture, and how they could have been, once, a more family, emotionally connected and caring within eachother, race.

During the uprising and gaining their freedom from the Illithid, I HC that Gith, Vlaakith and Zerthimon grew close and worked together for their people, becoming these revered figureheads for everything they achieved.

Gith the charismatic, powerful, furious leader; Vlaakith almost devotion to her, initially. A quieter presence of the three, but intelligent, scheming - close to what the githyanki of today see as gish (assassins and spies). Where Zerthimon was a balance between the three. Strategist, speaker. And they were all messily in love.

They formed (what they thought) unbreakable bonds between the three of them from the strife, the pain. Enduring slavery, breaking their shackles, and becoming their own people.

And then once freedom, the purpose of gaining that freedom that bound them all together is no more and changes. It's something else now. Survival; beginnings; hope; creation; domination; power; celebration. Whatever it means, not all three of them end up sharing the same vision. Because going through something like that changes you, irrevocably.

And some point through it all, there was Orpheus.

And for me, I think he could have been a catalyst for a lot of the breakdown of the three.

I like to HC that he's the son of Gith and Zerthimon, and initially while gaining their freedom, he was raised between all three, but when they saw he'd inherited his mothers powers too (they'd desperately hoped. I think this is a big reason maybe why Gith had a child. A failsafe, just incase the worst happened to her and there would be someone else to carry on where she left off) Gith and Zerthimon started to train Orpheus to hone his skills and powers so he could be the heir Gith wanted.

And Vlaakith watched most of this from the sidelines, feeling more like an outsider everyday. Resentment building that she wasn't, and couldn't truly be part of Orpheus in the way Gith and Zerthimon were.

(I need to be inside your son the way you are, my lover, but can never be. Vlaakith a little unhinged. Gith and Vlaaktih the original toxic yuri write that down)

She helped train him too, but Orpheus preferred his fathers skills and ways, and what psionic power Vlaakith had paled in comparion to Gith's. She was a shadow to so many, but she never expected she'd start becoming one to the two most important people in her life.

(re Orpheus knowing about both his parents: I'm unsure how explicit I want them to be about that with him or how much he or they cared to tell him the specifics of his dad. I think it's pretty obvious, but the significance of them being a 'unit' rather than just, Zerth being an imporant 'figure' in Orpheus' life idk. I'm fully on board with (fuck) Boy Prince Orpheus era where he's a little high on my power and status lording over all you losers. But that comes more once Gith's ascended the throne)

Anyway. So post-freedom, post Gith on the throne and Vlaakith becoming her right hand, Zerth doing his thing and they kind of....really started to fracture in their ideals and ways.

Gith became obsessed with never being a slave to anyone again. That fear drove her almost mad, I think. And so did Zerthimon turning away from her own vision, especially since they shared a son. He was the future, the security, the power and promise of their people, of her vision, and freedom.

She saw it as a betrayal. As him lying down and quashing that rage he should feel after all they'd been through. Why aren't you angry, why don't you want to rage across the endless and all after what happened to us and rip apart the planes which are now ours?

He tried, consistent at her side to sway her. But the uprising had changed her. Broken her in a way he'd been too close to see. Now stood back, the cracks were like maws.

Vlaakith stood fast by Gith during the civil war. If she doesn't want you anymore, Zerth, then she'll only have me. But Vlaakith's jealousy over Gith's power, how the people revered her, Orpheus - fucking Orpheus - and once more, Vlaakith was the shadow, the second glance, third.

(Orpheus' thoughts on the civil war are for another post because hoo boy that'll be a long one too)

Everyone wanted Gith. An audience, honour to view, to speak to witness their breaker of shackles.

Everyone took a piece, while Vlaakith was losing hers.

Obsessiveness consumed her to the point that 'if I can't have you anymore, no-one else will'.

So fast forward to their visit to Tiamat, and Gith being the offering for the dragons, and Vlaaktih sitting upon Gith's throne, becoming her.

I can't have you, so no-one else can-

I can't be you-

I can be you, watch me.

Then, with Oprheus, it's only sensible to her that she imprisons him. But that takes time. Patience. The shadows she's so used to, and ultiamtely, sealing Gith's power in a neat little box until that day she figures out how to consume Orpheus and his power for her own, and there will be nothing left for Gith then, but her.

Then from Vlaaktih, broken and bitter and twisted by so much, this bleeds and breeds and spreads and beats into the githyanki culture and the githyanki we know today, with so much less love, no family, empathy-

-just paragons of rage, power, hate, I take what's mine, I keep it, I am what I say I am, i conquer worlds, I conquer you.

[piro-piroooooo]

okay so, I first watched Sailor Moon at like 13 or 14, in YouTube. I was already a teenager, I didn't really understand the impact this franchise had on popular culture. Because of this I feel my experience with Sailor Moon lacks the element of nostalgia it has for so many other people who watched the series on TV in the 90s or early 2000s.

Lots of people who exist in the world know that Sailor Moon exists just because it is so ridiculously popular. And there's this, like, image of what Sailor Moon is as a pop culture element. She is a character and an image that is often used as a symbol of "girl power" and many cite this as the way they realized as children they could be powerful and strong AND be girly and cute and sparkly.

This is good, it's fine. It's great.

But also it somewhat different from the experience of actually being INTO Sailor Moon and knowing the lore and having watched more than a few assorted episodes of the first 90s series. And I'm kinda scared of saying this because I REALLY don't want to sound like a snob.

A few years ago I got a madoka fan into Cardcaptor Sakura. He really enjoyed it. He was the kinda person who liked Madoka because 'it made magical girls dark' but hadn't really ever watched magical girls before. He said to me that after watching Sakura he appreciated Madoka even more because he now knew what it was building upon.

The thing is, magical girls were always kinda dark. Sailor Moon solidified the fighter magical girl, and it was already dark. It never needed deconstruction or whatever Madoka was trying to do. But people perceive works like Sailor Moon, Cardcaptor Sakura and others as just girl power sparkly shows because they have been turned into pop culture elements for ads and merch using the nostalgia people have for them.

And again, that's not a bad thing on itself, I'm not gonna force anyone who has a Sailor Moon sticker on their laptop to watch all series and read the manga and watch the live action show.

I just wish that more people knew these series are so much more. Sailor Moon tackles so many interesting themes, just from the top of my head: girlhood as an irrevocable enormous responsibility one cannot escape, subversion of dynamics on romantic relationships, girls being forced to grow up and take on responsibilities so much bigger than them, growing up in the shadow of your parents, the conflict between feelings and duty, HOW TO MAKE PEACE WITH THE CYCLICAL NATURE OF EXISTENCE AND THE INESCAPABLE SUFFERING OF LIVING.

Well I don't really know how to end this post. Thanks for reading haha.

[blackkatmagic]

Hey, blackkat!

I've been reading your star wars fanfictions for a while now and I'm seriously intrigued by all of them. My favorite is running with lightning feet and I'm currently reading efface the footprints in the sands--poor Master Kolar...

Anyway, I really wonder how you approach writing. You seem to be able to write very consistently and keep track of many stories all at once, which are things I admire very much about you. Would you be able to give some advice on that?

Also, I very much love your characterization of more 'minor' (less appearance in canon) characters and how you breathe life into them with your dialogue. Really make me wonder how you make that out--what do you consider, or do the characterization/dialogue just pop up, fleshing themselves out?

Yeah, I really hope you don't mind me asking these. Again, love your writing very much. Would continue to read your stories always~~ Thank you for sharing them (and putting all your effort into writing them!)

Hi! I definitely don't mind, and I've answered similar questions before in my writing advice tag, if you want to scroll through some other answers that might be worded better.

For how I approach writing...the inconvenient answer is that it's mostly practice. I've been giving myself a goal of 500 words every day for the last....10-ish years, probably? Just consistently sitting down and doing a thing, writing without worrying about quality and only quantity, with lots of WIPs always going at the same time, really helps in figuring out how to juggle them. I usually keep a file of vague notes, one doc for each WIP with a bunch of keywords and ideas I want to hit eventually, and plot twists I'm aiming for, though I don't ever really outline things, and that helps a lot with keeping track, too.

As far as characterization of minor characters goes, that's the part I enjoy most about writing, and it's one of the easier parts for me, so I'm not sure I'm the best at putting it into words. But basically, you have to get to the very core of how you see the character - what their baseline personality is, what motivates them, what their goals are. It's something that can change between fics (which I think is one of the joys of minor characters; you don't have to stick to one defined interpretation), but it is something you have to nail down, imo. It also takes some filling in the gaps with headcanon and some leaps in logic.

Take Agen for example: canon gives us the information that he lost his padawan on Geonosis, incorporated Tan's lightsaber crystal into his own, and is an incredible swordsman but too blunt and aggressive to be diplomatic, while still being very loyal to the Council/Order. He gets called "the Council's attack dog" in the comics. Also, in the wider universe, we know that Zabraks have a reputation for being aggressive/warlike, and at one point Qui-Gon calls Maul it, even though he has to know what Zabraks are.

Those are all the canon facts. If you go back and fill in the gaps: Agen is someone who's grieving deeply, and he's incredibly devoted. He uses Tan's lightsaber crystal against Palpatine, which means he's sentimental, and he's not willing to speak against the Order in public, so he's at least that tactful. At the same time, he has no patience for people who get in his way, and he's willing to use force to cut through them. He believes in other Jedi until they irrevocably prove themselves traitors, and then he's stern and willing to remove them by whatever means. At the same time, he's very aware of his reputation, and he knows what people say about him/other Zabraks, but he's stubborn enough (at peace with himself enough) that he's not going to change.

From that sort of character summary, you can figure out the way Agen talks pretty easily. He's blunt, and he doesn't always think about the impact of his words, but he can be compassionate and thoughtful, particularly given his own grief. He's willing to defend anyone, and he doesn't make a fuss but always tends towards action - that means short sentences, usually directly to the point with no niceties. He's polite, because that's usually the fastest way to achieve something, but he's not overly deferential. He has a sense of humor, but most people miss it because he's so blunt.

Taking a character and dissecting them like that is something I have a lot of fun doing, which, well. I'm a therapist irl, so that probably helps. But I think it's very much just about breaking a character down into component parts and applying them to whatever you're writing - if you understand why someone reacts a certain way, it's a thousand times easier to figure out how they're going to react in a new situation. And after that, getting them to sound right, getting your dialogue to fit - it's all about practice.

[aihoshiino]

What are some aspects you dislike (or decisions which you feel are weak) in Oshi No Ko? And what hopes do you have for the future of the series?

Disclaimer before I get into this that obviously I am deep in the paint for Oshi no Ko or I would not be here LOL but chewing on stories I like and engaging in critique is how I have the most fun! I've also talked about this stuff before to varying degrees in other metas enough that it would be redundant to mention every time it's the case, so please bear with me if you see me repeating myself.

These also aren't, like, in any kind of order necessarily unless I specifically mention so, it's just whatever order they came to me as I was typing.

That said, this first one is the manga's biggest problem imo and it's simply that it's super unbalanced, at least past the prologue arc. The story initially presents itself as being about Aqua and Ruby as co-protagonists who are both equally important to the story's ideas and themes. This results in that nice pingponging rhythm you get up to about chapter 30 where the story switches focus between them at pretty natural feeling intervals, even if they aren't necessarily really rippling out and impacting each other. Things are still weighted more towards Aqua given that he's the POV character for the most part and we spend the most time in his head but tbh given the comparative dramatic intensity of his goal Vs Ruby's, I think that's fine. Once we move into Tokyo Blade, though, the balance irrevocably tips in Aqua's favour and Ruby basically becomes a guest star in her own story. Even as black hoshigan Ruby. That whole arc in hindsight really just ended up feeling like filler to pass time until The Real Protagonist could come back. It results in this feeling of not really knowing Ruby well or making her seem like an underbaked character because we have such little direct insight into her thoughts and feelings in comparison to Aqua or even Kana and Akane.

Spinning off from that point, the way Ruby is treated in the series more specifically is a huge issue. Up until the start of the Tokyo Blade arc, Ruby was actually one of my favourite characters and I think she was a really great contrasting point to Aqua in the story's themes. While Aqua drags people along through manipulation, Ruby's genuine kindness, enthusiasm and love makes her a bit of a guiding star for everyone else in her orbit. She isn't necessarily the deepest or most complex character at that point but like... I don't think she needed to be? Sort of similar to Memcho, I think Ruby in that first stretch of the story has a really fantastic "flat" arc in that while she herself goes through minimal development, the strength of her character inspires positive changes in the people around her. That's great!

It also just unfortunately completely falls off during Tokyo Blade. She vanishes during this arc more or less completely and even though B-Komachi are the focus of the following arc and we get time with black hoshigan Ruby... that's it! Black hoshigan Ruby gets literally one entire arc to herself to shine and do anything meaningful to the story (the Mainstay arc) and even though she's supposedly even more in the revenge sauce than Aqua at this point... she doesn't do anything! Her scheming literally does not impact the revenge plot at all! It's fucking AKANE who finally uncovers the father's identity and passes this info to Aqua and literally nothing Ruby does contributes at all to the scheme before Aqua gets back into the driver's seat.

And I'm gonna be honest: I really hate how Ruby has been handled since the mutual past life reveal! I hate that an arc that was setting up to be about Ruby untangling her long held maternal trauma got thrown aside in favour of incest bait and I absolutely despise the way the story since then retconned and diminished the importance of Ruby's connection to her mother in favour of framing Gorou/Aqua as her sole important person. This is made ten times worse by the fact that the only insight we've gotten into any of her feelings about this change is her going "omg Sensei squee" in a way that is clearly comedically exaggerated. In general, the story feels like it has a really major lack of respect for Ruby's feelings unless they can be voyeuristically oogled at and mined for sympathy points. This shit sucks!! Justice for Ruby!!!!

Ruby isn't the only character who, imo, suffers this issue of revolving around Aqua to the detriment of her own arc. I've talked in a lengthy post before about my issues with the way Akane has been written post LoveNow and while I am not going to reiterate everything in that massive post (this one has already taken so long oh god forgive me anon) it does give me an opportunity to segue into one of the other major issues with the story, which is its weird reluctance to commit to the effects of big status quo changes.

In Akane's case, this is visible both in way her suicide attempt is just completely swept under the rug and never addressed again without any focus whatsoever on Akane's healing process and the total absence of the persistent online negativity we were promised even in places it should be extremely relevant. The one time Akane ever talks about this is like 50+ chapters later where she vaguely goes "oh, you know how it went with Love Now" in a tone of someone recalling an embarrassing flub and not a harassment campaign so persistent and vitriolic that she almost took her own life.

In general, the story has a bad habit of dropping any hanging plot threads when it moves into a new arc as opposed to tying them off or letting them naturally evolve as time goes by. This results in a story where major upheavals to the status quo and character relationships are *shown* to happen but ultimately do not result in that many meaningful or observable changes within the story, especially ones that might be inconvenient for where the plot is supposed to go. This valuing of convenience over writing that is verisimilitudinous (i'm so fucking sorry) to the previously established characterization and world combined with this tendency of abandoning lingering plot threads rather than resolving them is, imo, why the movie arc feels so weird and all over the place. BUT this post is long enough and wtfever is going on with the movie arc is worthy of its own ramble at some point so I'll cut myself off here.

As for my hopes, I really want us to loop back around to having Ruby address her lingering trauma over Sarina's illness and abandonment. That felt like an arc that was sooooooo long in the making for Ruby and having it just swept off the table is really frustrating. Other than that, I don't have any really big hopes for the future other than just hoping everyone's arcs tie off nicely.

In particular, I hope Aqua's arc has some good resolution... my son has gone through it and I do really just want him to have some happiness at the end of the day. Please let my boy smile, Akasaka!!!