#in fact most of the problem lies in the fact that i have this long-running bedtime story i tell myself every night with lore

[fingertipsmp3]

Ughhhhhhh I hate writing and I hate not writing and I hate myself

[liberalsarecool]

From Professor Christopher Robichaud, Senior Lecturer in Ethics and Public Policy, Harvard:

“I'll say this, and then I likely won't be saying much more on here for quite some time, to the relief of some, I'm sure. But my farewell warning is this.

Everyone in the days and weeks ahead will use this loss as an opportunity to seek validation for their own hobby horse complaint. Harris lost because she campaigned with Liz Cheney. Harris lost because she didn't embrace Gaza. Harris lost because she didn't choose Shapiro. Harris lost because she wasn't progressive enough (possibly my favorite one).

Take a good, hard look at the map, my friends. Trump has won the popular vote. Trump ran the table. Explaining that with your hobby horse issue isn't going to cut it, tempting and consoling as it may be. The problem isn't the electoral college. The problem isn't that we didn't have a full primary. The problem isn't Harris. The problem isn't that Dems didn't have the right message. The problem isn't even inflation or the border.

The problem is so much worse than any of those things. Those are all technical problems, with straightforward expertise fixes. If only it were so! No, our problem is not technical. It's very much adaptive. A party that embraced the Big Lie, supported an insurrection, and has been selling conspiracy-addled madness for years, [which] was widely and enthusiastically embraced. Voter turnout was profound! People didn't sit this out.

Simply put, the problem--as some of you have rightly posted--is cultural. America, culturally, has completely abandoned a politics of decency and respect and has embraced instead a politics of resentment, revenge, false nostalgia, and bullying. And if you look at the demographics, you also won't be able to comfort yourself that it's just a white thing, or a working class thing, or an education thing. It's multi-class, multi-gender, multi-educational, and multi-racial. That's what winning the popular vote means. That's what running the table amounts to.

A culture that has descended to this level of debasement is not easily fixed. In fact it may not ever be fixed. The timeline for changing something like this is decades--at best--not two-to-four year election cycles. You can extend that in this case, because with the GOP likely controlling all branches of federal government and the courts, they will ensure that mechanisms are in place to keep them in power long after their popularity has waned. You can count on that.

The GOP evolved into a party of rage, lies, and revenge--and it correctly diagnosed that there was and is a large appetite for that. That's what the country wants. At least enough of the country wants it to ensure broad appeal and widespread electoral success. The old GOP will never return, and the Dems have nothing to say to American culture at the moment. Nothing. They've been speaking to a country that's gone, like dust in the wind.

And that's my final thought, which my posts last night alluded to. The America I knew and loved is gone. This new America--nah, I won't even bother. I will say that cultural change is less likely to occur in politics or in the academy. You're not going to get people to see how vulgar they've become through a clever argument or a nice campaign speech, that's for sure.

This would be time for the arts, broadly understood, to step in. The arts can change hearts and minds. Too bad the arts have been systematically dismantled in education in this country, and on the other end, the tech industry's assault on the arts through AI is sure to hollow out any good-faith efforts that might emerge.

And for the rest of the world, America's rightward lurch is, I'm afraid, bad news for you too. I know you know this. Because it's not isolated, is it? It's just at the moment the most prominent example of a burgeoning trend. And this will embolden others in other countries, to be sure. We need not speculate what happens when countries become mired in lies, embrace resentment, and savor bullying. We know exactly what happens. Bloody conflict and global destabilization.

The first quarter of the 21st century will, therefore, in hindsight, be viewed as the seed-planting stage for the absolute shit show that's about to unfold globally over the next two and a half decades. Count on it.

Adopt whatever coping and endurance strategies you have available. You're going to need it.

I think that's all I've left to say.”

The least evolved. The most paternalistic.

The bully. The liar. The most resentful.

This is the reality we are in. FOX and Republicans have been repeating the script for decades.

The Dark Ages are conservative aspirations.

The abdication of values/principles is complete.

'Good faith' no longer exists on the Right. The more reprehensible the action/person, the bigger the addiction. Trump proves this.

Anti-paternalism, anti-fascism and anti-bullying are my paths forward. Join me.

[vulnerary-prince]

From Harvard ethics professor Christopher Robichaud:

“Everyone in the days and weeks ahead will use this loss as an opportunity to seek validation for their own hobby horse complaint. Harris lost because she campaigned with Liz Cheney. Harris lost because she didn't embrace Gaza. Harris lost because she didn't choose Shapiro. Harris lost because she wasn't progressive enough (possibly my favorite one).

Take a good hard look at the map, my friends. Trump has won the popular vote. Trump ran the table. Explaining that with your hobby horse issue isn't going to cut it, tempting and consoling as it may be.

The problem isn't the electoral college. The problem isn't that we didn't have a full primary. The problem isn't Harris. The problem isn't that Dems didn't have the right message. The problem isn't even inflation or the border.

The problem is so much worse than any of those things. Those are all technical problems, with straightforward expertise fixes. If only it were so! No, our problem is not technical. It's very much adaptive. A party that embraced the Big Lie, supported an insurrection, and has been selling conspiracy-addled madness for years was widely and enthusiastically embraced. Voter turnout was profound! People didn't sit this out.

Simply put, the problem--as some of you have rightly posted--is cultural.

America, culturally, has completely abandoned a politics of decency and respect and has embraced instead a politics of resentment, revenge, false nostalgia, and bullying. And if you look at the demographics, you also won't be able to comfort yourself that it's just a white thing, or a working class thing, or an education thing. It's multi-class, multi-gender, multi-educational and multi-racial. That's what winning the popular vote means. That's what running the table amounts to.

A culture that has descended to this level of debasement is not easily fixed. In fact it may not ever be fixed. The timeline for changing something like this is decades--at best--not two-to-four year election cycles. You can extend that in this case, because with the GOP likely controlling all branches of federal government and the courts, they will ensure that mechanisms are in place to keep them in power long after their popularity has waned. You can count on that.

The GOP evolved into a party of rage, lies, and revenge--and it correctly diagnosed that there was and is a large appetite for that. That's what the country wants. At least, enough of the country wants it to ensure broad appeal and widespread electoral success. The old GOP will never return, and the Dems have nothing to say to American culture at the moment. Nothing. They've been speaking to a country that's gone, like dust in the wind.

And that's my final thought, which my posts last night alluded to. The America I knew and loved is gone. This new America--nah, I won't even bother. I will say that cultural change is less likely to occur in politics, or in the academy. You're not going to get people to see how vulgar they've become through a clever argument or a nice campaign speech, that's for sure.

This would be time for the arts, broadly understood, to step in. The arts can change hearts and minds. Too bad the arts have been systematically dismantled in education in this country, and on the other end, the tech industry's assault on the arts through AI is sure to hollow out any good-faith efforts that might emerge.

And for the rest of the world, America's rightward lurch is, I'm afraid, bad news for you too. I know you know this. Because it's not isolated, is it? It's just at the moment the most prominent example of a burgeoning trend. And this will embolden others in other countries, to be sure. We need not speculate what happens when countries become mired in lies, embrace resentment, and savor bullying. We know exactly what happens. Bloody conflict and global destabilization.

The first quarter of the 21st century will therefore in hindsight be viewed as the seed-planting stage for the absolute shit show that's about to unfold globally over the next two and a half decades. Count on it.

Adopt whatever coping and endurance strategies you have available. You're going to need it.

I think that's all I've left to say.”   

[loveinhawkins]

During the tail end of November 1984, the stars align in cruel and unusual ways: Eddie ends up sharing a compulsory Phys Ed. class with both Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove.

Eddie groans when he find out, slams his forehead against his locker when no-one’s looking.

And the thing is, Steve isn’t the problem, not really. In fact, if he had been sharing the class with Steve alone, Eddie might’ve even considered it proof of some benevolent God existing. He’d probably have a few stressful occasions of trying not to make a complete fool out of himself—team sports are truly the worst, although he’s secretly not that bad of a soccer player—but at least he’d have a… nice view.

But no. Instead, the almighty schedulers of the Hawkins High timetable have decided to light the proverbial fuse.

Because sure, Steve’s known for being competitive, even borderline pissy if things don’t go his way on the basketball court. One would probably be subject to his baleful eyes for, like, five minutes at most before he got over it.

Hargrove, on the other hand, is another kettle of fish. In fact, he’s in a completely different fucking ocean.

He stalks through the school like a bloodthirsty gladiator, treats the gym like it’s his personal Coliseum.

Eddie honestly doesn’t know what the deal is, but he only has to witness Hargrove stare at Steve once from across the cafeteria to know that he loathes him. And from the quietly venomous look Steve gave in return, the feeling is definitely mutual.

So now he’s got to suffer through an entire period of playing baseball outside with the pair of them glaring daggers at each other. In a hilariously misguided attempt at easing the obvious tension, the teacher’s put Steve and Hargrove on the same team: Hargrove’s a center fielder and Steve’s the pitcher.

It’s neck and neck. Eddie is the last up to bat.

He steps forward with sweaty palms.

He’s got absolutely zero interest in being witness to the Hargrove v Harrington dick-measuring contest for any longer than he has to.

Please just let the ball be caught immediately, Eddie silently prays. Make my execution swift and painless.

“Hey, batter, batter,” Hargrove calls with his usual menacing sleaze.

Fucking juvenile.

Annoyingly, when Hargrove predictably yells, “Swing!”, it still makes Eddie jolt, swinging the bat on impulse.

But Steve’s not thrown the ball yet; he’s still tossing it up into the air, like he’s got all the time in the world.

Okay, I know you’re pissed, but quit the mind games, Harrington.

Steve catches Eddie’s eye, gaze lingering too long for it to be a coincidence. Then he drops the ball.

Billy chuckles. “Still clumsy, huh, King Steve?”

Steve rolls his eyes. He bends down to pick up the ball.

Even from this distance, the fading bruise on his cheekbone is easy to spot.

Eddie doesn’t like to think about it too often, especially when paired with the nasty gleam in Hargrove’s eyes. It makes his stomach sink.

Steve picks up the ball with one hand, but he stays low, one knee to the ground.

And then…

When he speaks, his lips barely move. “Hey, Munson. Left-handed, right?”

Bewildered, Eddie nods.

Steve stands up.

Eddie’s expecting to be caught off guard, for the ball to suddenly spin towards him.

Steve shrugs one shoulder back, looks Eddie right in the eye.

He mouths, Ready?

… What the fuck?

Eddie nods again.

Steve throws the ball, and it feels as if it’s being drawn, like an irresistible magnet, right to Eddie’s bat.

Eddie swings.

Crack.

The ball soars.

Eddie sees Hargrove’s jaw drop, hears him swear as he dives for the ball. He misses, sprints after it as it speeds through the grass—

Steve laughs. “Dude, what are you waiting for? Run!”

Eddie does.

He hits a home run before Hargrove can even attempt to throw the ball near him.

Breathless and grinning, Eddie lies down with his back on the ground, as his teammates cheer.

But someone else is by far the loudest.

Eddie sits up to see Steve yelling in triumph, hands cupped around his mouth.

Then he winks.

And Eddie thinks he’s never seen Steve Harrington look more delighted to lose.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

You wouldn’t believe the things I have done for her (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Daemon lives a dangerous life. You wish you could find a way to protect him, but you are too afraid of guns. Lucky you, Daemon has a plan.

A/N: Do not try this at home. Requested by the lovely @avalyaaa I am sorry it took me so long, but I wanted to give your request the attention it deserved.

Warnings: Smut. Mafia! Daemon. Gun kink. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH: GUN KINK. Slight degradation.

You sit quietly in the back of the car. In the front seat sits Harwin, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. He is bored. You can tell by the way he keeps fiddling with things. Changing the radio station, messing with the AC.

Harwin probably misses his old work. It’s not like Daemon needs a bodyguard or a driver. You know it’s more for your protection than his. And while Harwin is no stranger to guarding people who don’t need his protection, you bet the fact that Rhaenyra was fucking him made the prospect much more agreeable.

The AC gets turned off again. You would scold him for it, were it not for the fact you are deadly bored yourself. Daemon’s quick meeting has turned into an hour long one, and you have been instructed to not step out of the car. The only entertainment you have is your phone, and you can only scroll through so many TikToks before wanting to claw your own eyes out.

Instead of continuing to refresh your For you page, you turn your attention back to obsessing over your conversation with Daemon. The shame from your stupidity makes your cheeks heat up.

“I don’t trust them.” Daemon had said, pressing a kiss to your cheek. He often avoided kissing you in the lips whenever you were close to his associates. As if not kissing you could trick them into thinking you were not relevant and convince them not to target you. “They are…. Not the most respectful with women.”

“You don’t trust me, you mean. To handle myself.” And by the Seven, it had even sounded bratty to your ears. You had not meant it like that at all. You had only wanted him to stop using that shitty excuse.

There were women who attended these meetings. You knew it. Hell, you had even met them. And these weren’t sex workers or strippers. These were women who held high positions in the organization. Rhaenyra, who was going to inherit it one day. Mysaria, who ran an informant network. Even Alicent pitched in from time to time. You were tired of being lied to. Sometimes, you craved the more normal boyfriend experience.

“I trust you. I don’t trust them.” Daemon had chuckled at your pout, and given you a pat in the head. “Behave.”

It had felt so dismissive. So humiliating. As if you were a child and not an actual grown woman. You hated arguing with Daemon. There was something about his tone, or his attitude, you were not sure which, that made him sound forever condescending.

You supposed inherited wealth was like that. The Targaryens had been running their schemes for nearly six generations by now. They were royalty by modern standards, even when you didn’t know about their more shady dealings.

It was no use, being upset over it. Daemon was too set in his ways to change. You needed to find a way around your problem, instead of charging right into it. But nothing comes to you at this moment, so you unlock your phone and continue your scrolling.

You save a few recipes you want to try, and like some pet videos. You are thinking of asking Daemon to adopt a puppy. A small breed would suit your apartment better, but you know Daemon. He will probably want the most intimidating dog he can get his hands on. A big, scary doberman could be something you could get behind. You had been feeling unsafe as of late.

A sudden, loud noise makes you jerk on your seat. You start to ask Harwin what’s wrong, but you don’t manage to even form the words. It's happening too fast.

“Get on your knees and do not get up until I say!” Harwin shouts. You do not need further explanations, understanding something is really wrong. You fall into the floor of the car with such haste that your phone is sent flying under the seat.

“…. Whisk the butter and the sugar…” You try to reach for it, but the space is too cramped, and suddenly the car is moving, throwing the phone around. Your knees throb from dropping yourself from the seat too hard, and you try to focus on that and not the way your heart feels like it’s in your throat. A gunshot, you realize. A gunshot. You should be used to them by now, but you still feel afraid.

Harwin drives fast and efficiently. It’s two full blocks before he orders you to get up again. You do so, legs shaking. There is a wet feeling on your knee. Blood. You had scrapped it when you threw yourself on the ground.

“What happened?” You ask him, smoothing your clothes down. Now that your panic isn’t as intense, you feel a pang of guilt. Daemon. Seven Hells, you had left him back there. “Daemon?”

Despite knowing that Harwin’s orders are first and foremost getting you out of danger, you can’t help but feel guilty. You had not even thought to worry about him. He is probably fine, considering the place was filled with Targaryens. He is also more than capable of handling himself. But to be so blinded by your fear that you did not even think of him…

“I got no fucking clue.” He asks, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “I’ll call Daemon, alright?”

“Yeah.” You say, quietly. You grab the seat’s edge and squeeze, as if you could will Daemon to your side by frustration alone. Harwin dials.

“Yeah, we are fine.” Harwin says, smiling at you through the mirror. You know he wouldn’t be so casual if something bad had happened, and so, you give him a thumbs up. Your guilt eases a bit, being replaced by relief. “She is fine, just a bit shaken up.” And he rolls his eyes because Daemon can be a bit overbearing.

“Just trouble with an errand guy.” Harwin explains, once the call is over. “He should be here soon.”

But despite how casual they made it sound, you couldn’t shake the fear and guilt away. It stayed on your mind, nestled like a worm, curling around your brain and threatening to choke it. When the night comes, and Daemon sleeps peacefully by your side, you still think of it. Of how you could die, and he could too. And there wouldn’t be a thing to be done.

You sit up on your side of the bed, letting the sheet pool around your waist. You hug your knees to your chest. The night is chilly, and the blackout curtains Daemon insists on having to ensure the room is pitch black. It only serves to disquiet you further.

There is a gun on Daemon’s nightstand. Should there be one in yours? His work is dangerous enough to warrant it. Enough to warrant you having a bodyguard, why not a weapon of your own?

You weren’t going to let him die. Nor were you going to leave him behind, like today. This was the twenty-first century, not the Middle Ages. You were tired of cowering back and acting the damsel in distress. If someone is going to try to hurt the man you love, you sure will fight back.

Daemon was yours. As much as you were his, and so, it wasn’t fair that only he protected you. You needed to be able to have his back, or at least, not be a distraction in a fight.

Your decision is not just something you can communicate to Daemon, though. He is not going to like it. You know him. Daemon is a bit old-fashioned like that. He likes gender roles a little too much for it. He is your protector and provider, and you are supposed to just be sweet and warm. The thought of you using a gun will probably cause him a heart attack.

And the thing is, Daemon doesn’t just style himself your protector. He does an outstanding job of it. He has managed to keep you away from the nastier side of his business. Never have you seen a dead body, or any of his associates beyond his family. So if you hope to achieve this, you need to be smart about it.

You decide you will tell him first thing in the morning when he is barely awake. He will be more susceptible that way. And happy with your plan, you finally manage to catch a few hours of sleep.

The next morning, you get started making breakfast with only one thing in mind. Convincing Daemon. You are barefoot, wearing only one of his shirts. It’s basic manipulation, and he will probably able to tell, but you hope it will soften him to your cause.

It’s when you are scrambling the eggs that he emerges, lured by the smell of fried bacon and a fresh pot of tea. Daemon wraps himself around you, still warm with sleep.

“Morning, love.” His voice is still a bit hoarse with sleep. He nuzzles your neck and hums, pleased. “Couldn’t I convince you to come back to bed?”

You laugh.

“Not really. The eggs are almost done.” You take the pan off the stove, letting it cool. “I would like to learn how to shoot.”

Daemon stiffens. You can feel him pull back from you. It’s not a physical thing, his arms remain wrapped around your waist, but his voice becomes colder and meaner. He is fully awake now.

“And why, in the Seven Hells, would you need to learn?”

“To feel safer.” You answer, keeping your tone steady.

“Do you not feel safe already? I could hire you another bodyguard.” Daemon hugs you slightly tighter. You lean into the counter a little bit, and sigh. Then, you detangle yourself from him.

“I don’t want a bodyguard. I need to learn how to shoot.” You state again, calmly. You turn to look at him. He looks more annoyed than angry.

“Sweetheart. You know that is not the best idea.” Daemon pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Why not?” You cross your arms over your chest.

“You are sensitive. You cry when animals die in movies.” He complains, stepping a bit closer to you. Daemon pours you a cup of tea and plates the eggs. “Go sit. I’ll wrap this up.”

You give him a sullen look but obey, watching him cut and toast the bread just in the way you like. You sit by the kitchen’s island, watching him work. Daemon is only wearing his underwear. You don’t think he owns something that resembles pajamas. Targaryens always run hot, or so they say.

Disappointing yourself, you let yourself be distracted by the view. You watch the muscles on his back shift and move as he finishes breakfast for you. You are mesmerized by the elegance of his every movement.

He is delicious, you think to yourself. You want to climb him like a tree. Despite the slight age difference, Daemon is more handsome than other men you have met. He is a bit vain, sure, but his efforts are worth it.

It’s only after he sits next to you that you remember what you were doing. You blame it on the lack of sleep.

“So?”

“You are my woman. It’s my duty to protect you. I’ll keep you safe.” Daemon rubs your shoulders, comfortingly. His voice sounds apologetic, a denial despite the soft tone he is using. “You know I keep you well away from danger.”

And he does. Not only Harwin and him have talked protocols, but Daemon has also ensured you would be protected even in the event of his death or imprisonment. You have numerous properties to your name, a few fake passports and three hidden bank accounts in different tax havens. None of which would be taken away if the two of you break up, Daemon has clearly stated. He loves you enough to want you to be protected even if you don’t love him anymore.

“I don’t like being powerless.”

“I seem to remember you do.” He squeezes your thigh, playfully. Your breath shifts despite yourself. You cover it by taking a sip of your tea and leveling a faux glare at him.

“I know.” Daemon kisses your nose. “I like that you don’t know how to shoot. That you are clean from this world.”

“It won’t sully me.” You argue because it’s a silly thing to think. It’s not like you are going to start shooting people or running illegal gambling rings. You just want to be able to defend yourself if something happens. And perhaps Daemon. If he doesn't feel too emasculated, this ridiculous man of yours.

“If I wanted a woman who knew how to shoot I would still be with Rhaenyra.” He complains.

“Plenty of women know how. I am not…” You rub at your eyes, tiredly. You want him to understand nothing is going to change between the two of you. “I do not want to go to your stupid meetings or meet your associates for dinner. I just want to know how to defend myself if something happens.”

“And I am saying you don’t need to because nothing is going to happen.” Daemon’s voice turns firmer. Now you can tell he is beginning to get angry, so you reach for his hand and squeeze.

“But if it does? If one night we wake up and there is a gun to our faces? Then what? Do I just let you die for me?” You allow your voice to break in the last part, letting him truly see your anguish. It is a fear of you that has lived on too long. You need this. You need to be able to defend both of you if something happens.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

It gets you to the firing range. Daemon takes you there in the middle of the week, hoping to inconvenience the least amount of people with him booking the entire place.

Your first impression of it is that it’s nothing like in the movies. There are neat little booths with circular targets instead of human shaped ones. You had expected only utilitarian decoration, harsh white lighting and white walls. Instead, the place looks well maintained and expensive. You should have expected so, considering this is Daemon you are talking about.

“Your first lesson…” Daemon says, eyeing you distrustfully. You stare right back at him. “Will be on safety.”

He takes two bulletproof vests out of a hanger, as well two pairs of earmuffs.

“These are protection gear, meant to be used each time you are practicing. And hopefully…” Daemon passes the bulletproof vest over your head. You let him do so, lifting your arms when he instructs you. The vest is heavier than you expect, and more solid too. It feels like what you wear when you are getting an x-ray. “You will use the vest too if you ever fire a gun outside here.”

“And not the earmuffs?”

“You should wear them to protect your ears, especially if you are firing many rounds. But you never see people wearing these because they are heavy-duty protection. In a real fight, you wouldn’t be able to hear your surroundings. Gunshots are pretty loud. So are gunfights.”

“Is that why you are losing your hearing?” You sass, with a grin. “I thought it was just your old age.”

“Oh, shut up. Little brat.” Daemon smacks your ass, playful. It doesn’t even hurt, but you jump and squeal in faux outrage. He laughs at your antics, and it does make you feel better about forcing him to teach you this.

“Should we do the whole…?” You gesture vaguely, trying to reference the classical movie or book montage where the female lead and the love interest stand very close, under the excuse to fix her posture. Daemon shakes his head.

“What is even that?” You would call him an old man for missing your reference, but you know he is sensitive about his age. Besides, you are not a great mime either. “No. You are going to stand with your legs and shoulders the same width apart and a proper posture. No slouching!”

“You know, not all of us grew up with a tutor chasing us and screaming for proper posture.” You grumble, but comply with his orders.

“Perhaps if you had, you wouldn’t need all those Pilates and Yoga classes you so enjoy.” Daemon argues right back. He circles you and pushes a bit at your hips. You try to loosen them. “Perhaps my cards would not explode then.”

“Shut up. It’s not like you don’t reap the benefits.”

Your good humor disappears when Daemon places a gun on the counter in front of you. You go quiet, suddenly unsure of your choice. He shows you how to charge it and how to put the safety on and off. You pay him all of your attention, feeling a bit numb. Most of the details about it fly over your head, despite your attempts to memorize them.

“Alright. I think you are ready for your first try.” Daemon says, handing you the gun. You grab it with trembling hands. You adjust your stance and ensure the muzzle is pointing down, and that you are not gesturing wildly with it. He puts your earmuffs on, and then his.

The world around you feels muffled. You swear you can hear your heartbeat, with how silent everything is. The gun in your hands is throwing you off. It looks odd. These can’t be your hands. You feel like you are not actually there, but watching the scene unfold from outside, watching someone else about to shoot.

Daemon adjusts your grip with his hands, casual about his proximity to the loaded weapon. You stiffen as soon as you feel him approach you, worried about accidentally shooting him.

“Come on.” He mouths, impatiently. You lift the gun, take the safety off, and aim. You pull the trigger, and it is with an awful noise and jerk, that you fire for the first time. The shot goes wide, hitting the wall next to the target.

Daemon taps your shoulder and gestures for you to go again. He watches your every move. His expression betrays nothing. If you are going at it the wrong way, you wouldn't be able to tell.

You repeat the motion, flinching at the noise. Even with the earmuffs it’s loud. It reminds you of that day in the alley, and makes your stomach clench. Daemon signals for you to put the gun down, and you do so, glad that it’s over. You can’t believe you thought you could actually do this. You feel so stupid. He was right, you are too soft.

Daemon can probably tell you are getting too in your head. He removes your earmuffs and pulls you in for a hug. The vests make it awkward, but you feel comforted by his solidness next to you.

“You did great, sweetheart.” He lies, and kisses your temple. You feel so disappointed you could cry. A laugh bubbles out of you, a bit hysterical.

Daemon tsks. He reaches for the gun and deftly discharges it.

“Come on.” He says, kissing your cheek. “I know what your problem is.”

“Yeah?” You ask him, a bit doubtful. You don’t want to feel any sort of hope, just in case that he is mistaken. Giving up so easily might be childish, yet you had not expected this to be so hard. After all, like half the people that Daemon knew could do it.

“You have to learn to love the gun.” He places it back on your hand and steps up behind you. It seems like you are doing the movie thing after all. He kicks your legs a bit, encouraging you to shift your stance.

“Love the gun?”

“You keep looking at it like it’s a weapon of mass destruction.” Daemon laughs, and mouths along your nape. You shiver. It’s an almost Pavlovian reaction by now. When Daemon’s voice gets all low and husky, and he holds you like that, your body knows it’s time for sex. It’s very inappropriate. But conditioned as you are, you can’t stop the throb of arousal between your thighs. “Stop looking like you are horrified by it.”

He fixes your grip around the gun. He steadies your hand.

“Shoot.”

You obey, pulling the trigger. The gun clicks, but nothing happens. It’s unloaded.

“Good.” Daemon says, and lightly bites your shoulder. “Again.”

You repeat the motion. He has you do it over and over again, until you no longer flinch when pulling the trigger. When you are fully desensitized to the sound, Daemon takes the gun from you.

“Great job.” He says, placing the gun right on your face. “Now kiss it.”

“Excuse me?” You stare at Daemon, sure that he must be joking. Kissing the gun? No way. But one look at his face, at the amused curve of his lips, and the mischievous glint in his eyes, tell you that he is serious.

“You heard me.” Daemon chuckles, a bit darkly. You understand then that this is both for his amusement and a punishment. He gets off on humiliating others, that you know. And he had not liked that you had forced him into giving you shooting lessons. He now intends to bring you down a few pegs. “Kiss the barrel.”

You scrunch up your face. You got your pride, too. Despite knowing that submitting to his whims is easy and will probably pacify him for a while, you can’t help but resist. Your whole body rebels at the idea of accepting such an obvious power play.

“Come on, don’t be like that. You owe me.” Daemon tilts your head up, placing a finger under your chin. He makes a show of cooing over your pout, before leaning in to kiss you.

“I don’t!” You move your head away, denying him. It’s a bit cruel, and it makes him frown, which you consider a win.

“You so do. I didn’t want to teach you, you know. At least give me good jerk off material.” He pouts at you, and you can’t help but smile a little. He is ridiculous.

It is part of why you love him. Daemon is young in spirit, if not in body, and he makes you feel younger too. Giddy and willing to do silly things. Silly things like leaning in and kissing the barrel of a gun.

The metal is cold under your lips, hard and unyielding. Daemon makes a pleased noise and pulls you in for a kiss. You can feel him smile against your mouth, before trying to deepen it. Playfully, you nip at him, until it is him who yields and opens up for you.

It is then that he presses the cold barrel against your nape. The feeling of the gun against your skin makes you tense and jerk, giving him once again the upper hand. With the control of the kiss back in his hands, he pulls you closer.

You feel yourself slowly starting to become aroused. One of Daemon’s hands finds your hip, squeezing the flesh there. His gesture is both possessive and greedy. Something swoops in your belly, dark and demanding. You want all his attention on you, you want him all for you.

Making out with Daemon is a full-bodied experience. It shouldn’t surprise you, then, that he starts to gently run the muzzle of the gun down your neck. At first, you don’t notice, too caught up on how close both of you are. Your chest is flush against his, and the feeling of his body against yours makes you whimper, before you realize what game is he playing.

“Daemon.” You warn, annoyed. He gives you a shit eating grin.

“I am just getting the two of you better acquainted. My best girls.” Daemon leans in and kisses behind your ear. He takes his time, making out with the shell of it. He is cautious to do all the right things to make you tremble against him. Yet, you can’t seem to forget about the gun, running down your sternum, between your breasts.

The muzzle gets caught against your clothes. Daemon uses it to push one of the sleeves of your top a little aside, to be able to lavish the skin there with kisses. You only feel the metal against your skin for a second, but it makes you think about how it would feel against your naked skin. Would the cold make your hairs stand up on edge, and your nipples pebble? Or would it warm up to your temperature?

The thought makes your breath hitch, and your panties even wetter.

“There is no one here.” You say, quietly. “If you were to take off my shirt…”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Daemon grins, encouraging you to lean against the counter of the firing range. “You devious little thing.”

He drops to his knees in front of you, carefully taking your clothing off. You watch him move between your legs, helping you widen your stance. Daemon kisses a path from your ankles towards your knees, mouthing along as if having the finest of banquets. His kisses feel scorching against your skin, and you can’t help but jut your hips slightly, trying to command him into touching you.

Daemon smiles at you, cheekily. He then bites your inner thighs, scratching just enough to make you arch in pleasure-pain. When you are just about to hike one of your legs over his shoulder, he sucks your clit inside his mouth, and it’s then that you feel it. The cold barrel of the gun, pressing along your inner thighs.

You moan. Daemon laughs.

“You little whore.” It sounds fond. He eats you out without any finesse, slurping noisily. The thought of anyone else being able to overhear this makes you embarrassed, so you try to keep quiet. Your eyes close, hands squeezing around the edge of the counter.

Daemon is not trying to bring you any pleasure. His movements and touches are too methodical for it. He presses a finger inside your hole, then another. Then it is scissoring them and shushing you with soft licks to your clit when you complain at the slight sting.

Any pleasure you get out of it is incidental. Instead, Daemon is getting you ready for something. And this time, you know it’s not his cock. The thought fills you with dread and arousement in equal parts. How will it feel? Metal doesn’t give the same way flesh does. But the thought of having a gun, Daemon's, inside you, makes your hips jerk.

“Impatient, aren’t you?” He pulls away, reappearing from between your legs. “Fuck. I don’t know if I want to see your face or your greedy little hole when I put it inside.”

You look at him. His hair is sticking up in all directions, but his smile is absolutely ferocious.

“My face. Just in case…” You reach for his shoulder and squeeze, gently. Despite how arousing you think the whole thing is, you are still hesitant. Sometimes, things don’t feel as you imagine they would. You don’t want this to be disappointing.

Daemon seems to understand, despite the fact that you don’t verbalize it.

“I’ll talk you through it.” He says, kindly. He then spreads your folds a little and presses the tip of the gun against your hole.

You yelp. Your grip on his shoulder turns punishing. It feels pleasant, as penetration often does, but there is a foreign quality to it as well. The gun is wide, and metal doesn’t give as flesh does. You feel as if you are rooted tp the spot by it, being impaled with each inch Daemon presses inside you.

“You are doing so well. Good girl. My little girl.” He presses a kiss to your stomach. He keeps rubbing at your clit until you relax around the barrel. It’s only then that he attempts to fuck you with it. You clench at his shoulders, overwhelmed, and moan.

It’s confusing. The ridges of it feel good, catching against your hole. The metal slowly starts to warm up, not feeling as strange as before. Daemon keeps steadily sucking your clit.

The pleasure builds. So does your need. You start to move your hips along with his thrusting, trying your best to reach your orgasm. So of course, Daemon pulls away from your clit.

“You are taking it so well.” Daemon praises, voice husky with desire. “Your pussy swallows the gun right up.”

You moan, almost without realizing. You are so close it itches. But moving your hips up and down isn’t enough. You need more.

“Daemon, please.” You beg, near tears. Never before have you been this frustrated.

“Who would have known? You are such a hungry little whore.” Daemon smirks. The crudeness of his words makes you gasp. You feel smaller than you have ever felt, yet somehow, it makes you feel deliciously dirty. He is not wrong. It’s embarrassing, how you are humping the gun he holds, but you can’t stop. “You don’t think, you are so desperate you would fuck anything. Do anything, just to fill your greedy holes.”

“Please. Fuck.” You sob. Daemon licks his thumb and starts rubbing your poor, abused clit. He keeps fucking you with the gun, building you up and up, towards the orgasm you so desperately crave. You come with a scream so loud, you thank he has booked the whole place for only yourselves.

Turns out, you don’t hate guns as much as you thought.

[crguang]

wasted with longing, part 2

You have never been so bothered in your life. Why? You refuse to admit it to yourself yet.

friends with benefits, afab!reader, gp!kafka, smut, mutual masturbation, facetime/video call sex, 6k words

A/N: after two whole months… we’re so back (im sorry). i giggled a lot writing this because the simple concept of fuckboy kafka is so ridiculous but i swear there’s a plot somewhere

part one part three

The bright light of your laptop screen starts to burn your retinas, and you blink quickly to chase away the fatigue building up under your eyelids. The words on the page stopped mattering over an hour ago yet you’re in no position to throw your work to the wind; you’ve already made it this far and this presentation is due in exactly 12 hours and 33 minutes. You’re at a stage where you blame everything and everyone that has ever contributed in leading you to where you sit against your bed’s headboard, lights dimmed low as your fingers brush over the keyboard in clicking sounds you’re deafened to. Your anxiety is the only thing keeping you awake, and if you cared about your job just a little less, you would have quit right then. You thought you’d left all-nighters in the past with boring college classes and tiny dorm rooms but life has an irritating way of repeating itself. 

You let out the hundredth sigh of the hour and take a moment to breathe in slowly through your nose, head tilted to the ceiling and eyes screwed shut, before exhaling loudly. You steel yourself for what you know is at least another hour of bullshitting statistics that you will do your best to present confidently this afternoon, but you can’t even pretend to like what you do anymore. Working in research has never been the most exciting career despite the occasional interesting discoveries you’ve been a part of. Still, you needed a job that would allow you to afford to live on your own in a city far away from your nagging parents and you were getting good at denying the fact that it is sucking the soul out of you. Your days are mundane, your routine unsatisfying, and you long for something more like most adults your age. You can’t quit until you find a better alternative that will pay you the same or more, so you bite back another exasperated groan and go back to your slides.

You wouldn’t be in this position eight days ago. You’ve had a week to come up with this presentation and instead of working on it like the diligent employee you usually are, most of your time was spent with your head in the clouds, preoccupied by someone who isn’t thinking about you. It makes you sick how bothered you are. It’s not like anything changed between the last time you talked and the one before that, and you were never as distracted by the lack of response as you have been this past week. You ignored your responsibilities, went out with friends four days in a row to convince yourself of your fake nonchalance just to find yourself in trouble that could have easily been avoided, anxious over the career you’ve worked so hard to earn.

Nothing good comes out of allowing that woman a bigger place in your thoughts than the three square feet corner she deserves, you know that. What frustrates you the most is that you don’t understand where this sudden concern for her lack of honesty comes from. Lies flow out of her like she was born with them on her lips; again, you know that. Then, what is the issue? Without identifying the root of the problem, you’re left a snowball of jumbled thoughts and insecurity steadily getting bigger as it nears the foot of the mountain until it inevitably crashes into a tree and falls apart completely. Why say things she doesn’t mean? Are you disposable? You hate her. Does she hate you? You should block her number. Why do you care? Screw her. 

…You wish you could.

Your laptop screen turns dark and snatches you back to reality. You got lost in thought again. You run a hand over your face, using two fingers to rub the inner corner of your eyes. You’re pathetic. Even now with this feeling of impending doom looming over you, your mind drifts to her and attempts to find reason behind her actions when there is likely none. Your work is important to you, she is not. Yet, you’re incapable of focusing on the PowerPoint in front of you. You start to wonder if you should lie down, rest your eyes for a few hours and finish the presentation when you wake up, right before you get ready to leave for the office. It would be cutting it extremely close, but you can’t think clearly anymore and the stress gets more paralyzing as the minutes go by. Another tired sigh escapes you. Maybe you simply need to relax a little, perhaps with some scalding tea. 

You push your laptop aside and stretch your body on the covers, arms over your head like a lazy cat. You’ll prepare a cup of tea to soothe your muscles then you’ll finish your work and go to bed. If you lie to yourself enough times, you believe you can make it. You straighten up and smooth down your hair. You’re about to stand up when a familiar ping! near you announces a new text message. You reach for your phone on your nightstand, thinking perhaps one of your friends got drunk again and needed a ride home, and tap the screen to open your notification center. 

You stare at the screen until it turns black, tap it so it lights up again and repeat the process a couple more times as your mind processes what your eyes are seeing and the implications behind it. You almost can’t believe the message you just got and have to click the notification to open up the private conversation; there, at 2:29 AM, Kafka sent you a video. You can’t make out much from the blurry cover, though the lighting seems low like it was filmed during the late evening. Your thumb hovers over it for a moment, wondering if she even meant to send that to you since she hasn’t texted or called since the last time you hooked up. In hindsight her behaviour is not so unusual, you thought you were used to her elusive ways but if the past week has taught you anything, it’s that you obviously expect something from her. Honesty, basic human decency— to not leave you feeling like a wet towel discarded in the laundry bin after she’s used it.

“…Fuck it.”

Your curiosity gets the better of you despite your self-pity at the prospect of always making yourself available for her no matter the time. It’s a coincidence, you tell yourself. The two of you have many of those. You press the play icon on the video and it expands to the full screen. The camera shakes a little, then steadies to show half of Kafka’s body from an inclined angle and part of her face, peach lips on display. She’s wearing a strapless dress, the kind only worn to impress, with a pearl necklace over her collarbone; it’s your first time seeing her in something other than casual clothes. You have to admit that you wish you could’ve seen the whole outfit, if only to… You don’t know. 

Kafka is sitting on a bed judging by the white sheets you can spot, and you blink several times at the unmistakable outline of her cock and hard nipples through the material of her dress. You watch in disbelief as she pulls the fabric up to her waist, revealing the garter belt around one of her thighs. Her hand slithers between her breasts and down her stomach to finally disappear under her clothes, but the way she begins stroking herself is purposely obvious. The head of her cock creates a tent meant to remind you of how big she is, and she pumps her shaft steadily, her lips parting slightly to let out low hums of pleasure. You stare, unmoving, unaware of your pulse’s quicker pace as Kafka jerks off on video, the erotic tone of her long moans filling your bedroom, and you don’t register turning up the volume a bit more. Her hand speeds up a touch, you think she must have already been hard before recording because she clearly won’t last much longer, but instead of rolling your eyes at the absurdity of it all, you find yourself hoping she’ll take off that dress and give you a real show. Kafka’s breathing becomes heavier, her moans less controlled, and from this angle, you notice the movement of her hips eager to meet each stroke along her cock. Her thumb swipes over her sensitive tip and her bottom lip is pulled between her teeth at the pleasant sensation. Not a single word is uttered, you can’t hear anything in the background either— not that you were listening for it— it’s just the sinful sounds of her throaty hums and her fingers around her dick. Half a minute passes before her breath hitches in a sharp gasp, and you know she’s going to come right before she does. Your thighs squeeze together at the breathy moan that spills from her mouth, her hand still gently stroking herself. Her lips stretch into that teasing smile you can picture with your eyes closed, and the video ends. 

You’re harshly pulled from the daze you were in, staring at your phone. You don’t know what to think, she ignores you for a week then sends you a video of her masturbating at two in the morning with nothing else attached. You can’t deny that it had the desired effect on you; your body feels hotter under your sleeping clothes and your thighs are still pressed together to ignore the throb between them, but once again you attempt to figure out the reasoning behind what she does and come up empty. There’s no use in trying to pry open a steel safe that is sealed shut, so why do you try over and over like you have nothing better to do? Why show up with blowtorches and lock picks when your presence is unwanted inside?

Kafka uses you for pleasure, and you use her the same. That is the nature of your relationship. So, you decide to take that video at face value and press replay. Leaning back against the headboard, you bite your cheek as Kafka’s hand travels up and down her veiled cock while your own restlessly traces shapes into the skin of your thigh. It wanders up your body to cup one breast under your shirt, thumb softly circling a stiffening nipple. You pinch it between two fingers at the same time Kafka lets out a pretty moan and you feel arousal dampening your underwear at the various stimuli. The video ends before you can move on to your thighs and you have to replay it again, and again, to properly build up your orgasm before you’re needy enough to slip a hand under your sticky panties. Your middle finger applies pressure on your puffy clit in tight little circles, jolts of pleasure shooting through you and tightening your stomach.

Eyes half-lidded, you forget all about your work to prioritize the need in your cunt, unconsciously matching Kafka’s pace and wishing she was there to take care of you the way only she knows how. Your hips move with the fingers that rub between your wet folds in a messy pattern. You breathe in sharply through your mouth when one of them finds your clit again and firmly toys with it. You’re so aroused, so wet and needy, but watching Kafka’s playful performance through a phone screen with only half of her body shown and her cock hidden from sight isn’t enough. Desperation builds within your lower belly as you inch a finger past your entrance, barely biting back a breathy moan at the feeling. It sinks in effortlessly, so you add another after adjusting to the slight stretch of it rubbing your inner walls. Your other hand holds the phone closer to your face like that will make Kafka seem more tangible. You pump two digits into your pussy, coating them in your arousal, and it feels so good, has your thighs spreading further apart, but it’s not enough. 

A frustrated sigh leaves you. You don’t think before exiting the video and pressing the video call button. The line rings once, twice, and your fingers slip out of you as you wait to see if it’ll connect. After a few more seconds, you choose to save face and go to hang up just as it connects with the other line and Kafka’s smirking face comes into view. You blame the stutter of your chest on your arousal. She blows smoke through her mouth and faces away from the camera for a moment to put out the cigarette you caught her smoking. She’s in casual clothes once again, and by the lighting, you infer that it’s likely afternoon wherever she is. That video she sent must have been filmed earlier than the time it was received, it might also be an older one from before you met. You mistake your disappointment for annoyance. 

“What is wrong with you?” Your stern voice has a shaky edge to it that Kafka definitely notices. Her smile widens an inch. 

“You look a little… flushed. Saw something you like?”

“Fuck you. It’s almost three in the morning.”

“Is that how late it is there? Mmm, it slipped my mind.”

“Like I’m supposed to believe that,” you put down the phone for an instant, pulling your pyjamas down your legs to toss them onto the bed. You bring the device back up and recline on the pillows, holding it high enough for Kafka to have a view of your torso and the stiff nipples poking through your half-ridden shirt. 

Kafka’s lowered gaze unapologetically trails down your upper body. You cup your breast, softly kneading the soft mound between your fingers, and watch her eyes darken with desire.

“I can’t come over.”

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t ask you to. Just need to hear you.”

“Cute. What if I’m not alone?” Her tone is teasing but she does look up from the screen as if someone could walk by and catch you touching yourself. 

“Figure it out.”

“Bossy… And so aroused, aren’t you? From a simple video, no less.”

You let the confident drawl of her words wash over you, ignoring her attempts at riling you up further to focus on the familiar pitch of her voice. It’s rough, intentionally slowed to keep people’s attention solely on what she has to say and control the pace of the conversation, dripping like syrup. You relax into the mattress and let your hand wander down the valley of your breasts, caressing the curves of your stomach. You’re already turned on and aching for release, each brush of your fingertips against your skin requires restraint not to slip a hand between your thighs and circle your clit. Your little show seems to give Kafka a taste of her own medicine, she observes you for a while, her gaze piercing through the veil of lust over her irises. 

“Enjoying yourself?”

“I would if you talked me through it,” you reply, expectant, lips parting as your hand teasingly disappears below the camera to massage the flesh of your inner thigh. 

Kafka hums, amused and intrigued. You’re sure she can tell how worked up you are and is debating helping you or leaving you wanting. Then she moves, the camera following her every step, and walks somewhere you hope is a secluded room. You don’t recognize her surroundings, she seems to be inside a building but the phone is too close to her face to show anything else properly.

“Did I wake you?” She asks on the way, barely looking away from the screen to watch where she’s going and instead focusing on how your hand travels back up your abdomen, lifting your shirt and revealing more of your chest as it goes. 

“No, but it was a welcomed distraction. Walk faster.”

Kafka laughs at your impatience, the sound lighter than her usual arrogant or mocking chuckles and betraying her genuine amusement. There’s a fluttering sensation behind the walls of your heart like the wings of a panicked bird. 

“Why? You in a hurry?”

“Yes.”

Kafka enters a room drowning in sunlight, brighter than wherever she was before. You hear the sound of the door closing, then a lock turning before she walks further into the room to sit at what you presume is a desk. The phone is placed far enough from her frame to allow you a full view of her upper body over the wooden surface and the twin-sized bed behind her. The covers are unruffled, the walls barren and white, and you think she might be in a simple hotel room. She leans back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other and resting her cheek against the back of her hand. The index finger of her free hand absentmindedly taps the desk’s surface, mirroring her steady heartbeat. She gazes at you like you’re the most interesting sight she’s seen in days. 

“You look so needy… desperate for my touch.” Kafka drinks in the image of you sprawled on your bed, the lower half of your left breast exposed to her hungry eyes. Her mind conjures up many ways she would touch you if she were there, feeling your stumbling breaths in the crook of her neck. “What’s the matter? Can’t come without me anymore?”

Irritation swirls in your gut, mixing with the arousal pooling in your belly at her nonchalant arrogance. Her self-assurance infuriates you mostly because it’s not entirely unfounded; you do wish she was present in person to fuck your worries away but she could be on the other side of the planet for all you know, doing Aeons know what. You don’t have a retort, and you’re in no mood to be teased any more than you felt watching that short video of Kafka stroking herself. 

“It goes faster this way,” you lie.

“Mmm… Show me how you touch yourself when I’m not there.”

Her words make your pussy throb. You bite your lip, adjusting your hold on the phone and lowering the camera so she can’t see past your mouth but has a better view of your body. From this angle, the waistband of your underwear is visible just under your stomach. Your fingers dig into your pliable breast, kneading the mound like she usually does to you, occasionally toying with the nipple for the pleasant sensation that ripples through you and causes your thighs to twitch. Kafka’s intense gaze, deeply pleased at your immediate compliance, excites you like nothing else. You know she’s not as unaffected by the sight as she seems to be, her finger drums on the desk a tad faster when you twist your nipple and part your lips to exhale audibly. Your hand leaves your chest and you lower your phone further to follow its path across your torso until it reaches the band of your already slick panties. You sneak a finger under the thin material and Kafka speaks up again.

“Take them off. Let me see you.”

Hesitation takes hold of you for a second, and then you obey her sultry command, shifting to pull the underwear past your hips and down to your ankles. You angle the phone to provide her with a clear view of your wet cunt, breath hitching as Kafka unconsciously wets her lips and the drumming noise stops completely. She’s a statue of desire on the other side of the screen, her heavy stare locked on your fingers spreading your lower lips apart, puffy clit on display. You don’t wait for any other instructions, your need is too great to go unchecked a minute longer; you use your index to circle the bud in quick, desperate motions. Your body’s temperature rises a few degrees and a short, involuntary moan spills past your lips. Your eyes are tempted to close under such stimulation but you want to see Kafka’s every microexpression, every twitch of her mouth and fall of her chest, the flex of her hand against her cheek and the movement of her irises following your ministrations.

“Are you picturing me? My hands on your body, touching you just how you like it?”

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth to seal another soft moan. “Yeah…” 

Kafka’s fingers are skilled and precise, stimulating the most sensitive parts of you, some of which didn’t exist before she touched you. She’s learned you by heart as one does a music sheet and makes you sing in a way impossible to replicate alone, an artist missing their accompaniment. You imagine her palms brushing across your chest, teasingly squeezing one breast while her lips ghost over the skin of your jaw, trailing wet kisses up to your cheek. You imagine her slender fingers sinking into your inner thighs to keep them spread before her, drinking in the erotic sight you create under her. You swipe at your clit, each breath heavier than the one before, and observe her body language; how she uncrosses her legs and her hand on the desk disappears beneath the surface, how she tucks away a stray strand of hair so it doesn’t obstruct her vision, the apparent lust in her eyes almost turning their color a shade closer to magenta. Her attention feels like the many cocktails you drank this last week, smoldering down your throat and intoxicating your every nerve. It tightens your lower belly and makes you throb, entrance gushing even when she’s likely thousands of miles away. Your orgasm builds and builds, pleasure steadily mounting and promising salvation the closer you get to the edge. 

If her camera was positioned better, you would have seen her pointer and middle fingers drawing circles on her thighs not unlike how you’re stimulating your aching clit, slowly inching higher until they softly stroke the prominent swell over her shorts. You would have been privy to them slipping under her clothes, past her boxers, to caress along her cock from tip to base and draw a sharp intake of breath from her. You’re too lost in the pleasure to notice her next swallow as she wraps a hand around herself and masturbates in tandem with your heavy exhales. Just as you did, she pictures your wandering hands, your warm tongue licking broad stripes up her cock and the quiver of your brow when you struggle to take her into your mouth. You look up at her prettily through wet eyelashes, eager to please, and you suck her dry as she paints your throat white. 

Your camera trembles, you struggle to keep it still while you work to make yourself come, digits stuttering on your clit with quiet moans on the tip of your tongue. You’re so close that you barely compute what Kafka is saying.

“You look about ready to come. Are you going to come just from the sight of me?”

She sounds way too pleased for your liking but you can’t bother to care at this moment, all that matters is your impending release. You nod quickly.

“Yeah? Let me hear you.”

“Fuck…” you manage to breathe out, hips desperately bucking into your hand, chasing relief from the pressure building in your belly. 

You don’t contain your pitiful sounds of pleasure at Kafka’s request and a soft cry rips from your throat as you finally burst. You come hard, thighs closing together and trapping your hand between them, jolts of pleasure running down your body like a thousand little shivers until you’re a shaking mess on the bed. Eyes screwed shut with the intensity of your orgasm, you miss Kafka’s parted lips and unyielding stare roaming over your arching form, her thumb applying mind-dizzying pressure on her leaking tip under her shorts to tease herself. You take a minute to calm yourself, she takes in the movement of your breasts rising and falling with your chest, imagining wetting them with her tongue so they glitter stunningly in the light when she pulls away. She strokes herself faster and the sound of her satisfied hum helps you realize what she’s doing.

“Hah… This is what you wanted, huh?” You bring your phone higher, circling your areola with two cum-coated fingertips and relishing in the way her eyelids droop. “Sending me that little video to tease me so I’d call and help you jerk off?” 

Kafka’s low chuckle turns into a pleased sigh at the end as she touches herself just right, smearing pre-cum all over her throbbing cock. 

“I wanna see.”

She picks up the camera and angles it so you have a view of her cock straining against her clothes. The silk of her glove is heaven along her skin, and with the microphone closer to her face you can hear the shallow breaths she releases on her journey to relief. No doubt the friction is dulling her mind, reducing her to her urgent need to come. Your tongue flicks over your upper lip and Kafka almost groans, still watching you intently like she’s making up scenarios of you on your knees with your head bobbing up and down her thick cock. The next time she takes you is already planned out in detail, you’ll be so utterly ruined that you won’t be able to beg her for more.

“I’d get you there quicker if you were here.”

“Mmh… Soon.”

You refrain from rolling her eyes at her obvious lie. Spoken words out of her lips mean nothing, especially with pleasure fogging her mind. Kafka’s following sharp gasp lets you know she’s close to falling apart; you lift your sticky fingers to your mouth, making a show of licking them clean how you would her shaft, and this time she doesn’t suppress the throaty, blissful noise that was sitting on her tongue. She sears your performance in the back of her eyelids and pumps her cock with purpose, orgasm imminent. Her hips jerk upward as her release crashes into her in toe-curling waves of pleasure, hand stuttering around her length and cum staining her underwear and glove. She moans unashamedly, knowing what it does to you, and her eyes flutter shut only for the instant it takes to compose herself afterwards. Her hand leaves her shorts, she brings her wet fingers to the light and smiles up at you. 

“Thanks.” Without any underlying cockiness, there’s nothing but appreciation when she addresses you. 

You don’t meet her gaze, averting your eyes while you sit up and smooth down your hair. Now that the tension in your muscles has dissipated, you’re reminded of why you were up this late in the first place and the work that still needs to be completed before work some hours later. You sigh tiredly, but your mind is clearer and you feel a spike of energy to finish your presentation, invigorated from your previous orgasm. Maybe you should be the one thanking her.

“What’s wrong?” 

You look back at Kafka. “I hate my job.”

“You should quit, then.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Isn’t it?”

“…And do what?” You ask flatly.

“Whatever you want.”

You stare at her momentarily, wondering what kind of reality she must live in where everything is available for the taking. Your studies were largely influenced by the constant pressure your parents put on you to get a sustainable income, and you were too preoccupied with your grades to ponder the what-ifs. They sacrificed quite a bit to have you enroll in one of the Intelligentsia Guild’s schools, your academic success was the least you could do to settle that debt somehow. You don’t care for mechanics but it was a relatively easy subject to study, so you picked it. You’re good at what you do, despite this job not being what you dreamed of doing for the rest of your life. Now, you’re not sure if you even have dreams. You have some skills, sure, but what do you want?

Kafka’s looking at you like she’s figuring you out. You don’t know what she aims to find but a childish part of you hope she likes it. You shake your head as if the thoughts would evaporate with the movement and stand from the bed.

“I should finish my work,” you say on the way to the bathroom, flicking the light open. 

“I need to go too.” Kafka pauses, seemingly considering something, then continues, “Do you have plans on Thursday?”

The question is unexpected, it takes you a few seconds to come up with an answer. “Apart from work, I don’t think so. Why?”

“You should stay home. Skip work.”

“Why would I do that…?”

“Do you trust me?”

“No.” The reply leaves you before you can think about it, but it’s the truth. Kafka has never given you any reason to trust her up till now, you don’t even believe half of the things she says. Trusting her for anything would be incredibly foolish.

Her eyes narrow a bit, though that small smile stays on her lips. Your confusion must show on your face, and you have the impression that her demeanor has gotten more serious. 

“Trust me now. I have to leave, but I hope you take my advice. If not… Well, I’ll see you soon.”

“Wh—?”

The video call disconnects. Did she just hang up on you?!

After a quick shower and a change of sheets, you end up completing your assignment in around 40 minutes and getting a few hours of sleep before you have to leave for work. The day is long, and your anxiety intensifies with each passing hour but you present your project idea with little to no problem. The rest of the week passes quickly with no further messages from Kafka, but you stop expecting her to hit you up for anything other than sex so you get better at hiding your disappointment, enough that you’re able to focus on your job like the development of the past two weeks never happened. On Thursday, you wake up for work and sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone open on the private conversation between you and Kafka, debating with yourself whether you should ask her to clarify her last words to you. You try to recall her expression when she said them. Reading her is hard, her behavior is too well-rehearsed to be peeled to pieces by anybody— and you guess that is what you are; anybody. You feel like an idiot as you dial your office to call off work. 

With nowhere to go, you spend the day at home watching shitty TV until the sky begins its descent in the sky, catching up on shows you previously had no time for. You do go out for groceries in the afternoon to cook something nice for yourself once dinner comes around, but your day is mostly boring and uneventful. You’re lying on the couch, half-lidded eyes barely focusing on the bright TV screen as it plays the same sitcom you’ve been watching for almost two hours when your phone rings. The noise wakes you, you blink rapidly and reach for the device, accepting the call without looking at the contact ID. 

“Hello?”

“Hey!” Himeko’s musical voice sounds from the other line. 

“Hime?”

“Were you expecting someone else?”

You rub your eyes with a hand and sit up to pause your show. “No, not really. How’s trailblazing going?”

“It was kinda tough the last few weeks but nothing we couldn’t handle. What about you? Last time we talked you were pretty busy too.”

“I’m good, work has been a bit demanding lately because of this secret project thing I can’t really talk about, but nothing eventful has happened, except…” You cut yourself off. 

“What is it?”

“You won’t like it.”

“Oh? Now I definitely want to know. Let me guess… It’s that lady again.”

“Lady?” You repeat with a laugh, “There is nothing ladylike about the way she f—”

“Ew. I get it.” You hear shuffling on the other side, like Himeko is walking from one place to another. “You were complaining about her last time, what happened now?”

“More complaints.”

“I can’t understand why you won’t end things if all you’re going to do is get annoyed every time you see each other. Learn to walk away from unnecessary grievances, they only pollute your thoughts.”

You stand from the couch and walk towards the kitchen, opening the fridge to pull out the stuff you’ll need for dinner. “The sex is really good. Like, great. Like, mind-blowing. Toe-curling, even.” You can almost hear Himeko’s eye roll. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, I don’t know why she has to be so infuriating. It’s obviously a case of big ego, but there’s something more in there. She just won’t let me see it.”

“You’re practically strangers. No wonder.”

“She’s been inside me. I wouldn’t call us strangers.”

“Do you know anything about her apart from her name?”

You pause with one hand around a carton of heavy cream. A door slides shut on the phone. You don’t have to think long to know the answer to that question, but you’re a little ashamed of it. Ashamed and disappointed, because it’s not by lack of trying; Kafka treats every attempt at getting to know her beyond the bounds of your relationship like a battlefield where she has to lie to survive. There’s a constant distance between you no matter how physically close she gets and it’s beginning to drive you mad. It was hot at first, the air of mystery around her is what drew you to her in that clothing store. Months later, it’s simply an obstacle you can’t jump over.

“Fine,” you reply with a sigh, closing the fridge and putting the carton on the counter, “you have a point. But it’s not like I haven’t tried, she just…”

“Doesn’t value you for anything other than sex?”

You don’t respond, mouth curving in a frown. That hurt your feelings, even though you know Himeko is only being honest because she hates this situation for you. She disapproved from the start, said you weren’t the type to have no strings attached, and she was right. You didn’t listen; Kafka is a splash of excitement in an otherwise pretty boring life, unraveling her takes skill and effort, and it is much more gratifying than a research well done. However… perhaps it’s time you do.

“Was that too far?” Himeko asks, voice soft. “I’m sorry. You deserve better than someone who brushes you off constantly unless they want something from you.”

“I know…” 

There’s a sudden knock at your door and you furrow your brows as you look at the time on your phone. You’re not expecting anyone and you’re not a fan of people showing up unannounced in general, still, you start making your way out of the kitchen to the front door. 

“We had an agreement, though,” you continue, “so it’s not like she owes me anything. I’m the one asking for too much.”

“You want to make connections with people and that is a beautiful thing. If she can’t see that, then she isn’t worth your time.”

You reach the front door, unlock it and turn the handle. “You’re probably r—”

The rest of your sentence dies on your tongue. In the hallway of your apartment building stands a panting Kafka, coat in one hand while the other is pressed hard against her bloodstained shoulder. Her white shirt is tainted with the seeping liquid which turns her glove a deep violet color, blood spatter over her torso and some spread onto her cheek as if she attempted to wipe it off. She’s hunched forward instead of her usual straight posture and the sunglasses over her tussled hair are cracked. You’re frozen where you are, a dozen thoughts buzz inside your head like restless bees and keep you from uttering a word; dread, worry, confusion, you can’t name them all. You have trouble computing what you’re looking at. Kafka looks up at you with the small smile she wears like armor. Even now, her nonchalance annoys you.

“Hey.”

The sound of Himeko calling your name over the phone and asking you if everything’s alright shakes you from your stupor. Your movements are slow, delayed, as you turn your head towards the device close to your ear and speak, “I’ll call you back.”

You hang up without hearing the response. 

[jetii]

the cross fic made me realize there's not enough tech angsty fanfics

how about a groveling tech trying to get femreader back like they were an item before order 66 tech broke things off, they reunite with the batch later but reader became a very sad person after all that time

an i lied because i thought you deserved better so i pushed you away situation ?

sorry if it's a long ask 😅 first timer here

I like your writing 💕

No worries! I love a detailed prompt.

Writing angst for Tech was harder than I thought it would be tbh. I think his direct communication style and self confidence make it especially difficult, so I took a slight detour here that I feel is more true to his character.

Piece by Piece

Pairing: Tech x fem!Reader

Words: 5,630

Tags/Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, allusions to torture, PTSD

Summary: Pushing you away was the logical decision. It was the right choice. But Tech never expected it to hurt so much, nor did he expect to reunite with you months after the rise of the Empire, broken and haunted by your time spent in Imperial custody. Now, he's determined to make things right.

Being in the same room as you is exceedingly difficult in a way Tech didn’t expect.

It’s been weeks since you returned, appearing like a vision from the Force to them, alive, and he still can’t quite believe it. His hands shake slightly when you look at him, his mouth goes dry. He still wants to reach out to you, hold you tight and never let you go, and it is agony to resist, to stand by your side and not be able to touch you.

You were the one who asked for space, time to readjust to being around them again. And he has respected that, despite the desperate, possessive urge to pull you back, to keep you close so you never leave his side again.

It makes it hard to concentrate. Hard to be of any use at all, really.

Tech knows this isn't healthy, the way his mind and body and emotions are behaving, but he is finding it difficult to control. He has a lot of feelings that he isn’t sure what to do with, a lot of emotions that he doesn't understand. Tech isn't one for emotional outbursts, for being ruled by his heart and not his mind. He is rational, logical, always thinking of the most efficient solution to a problem, the most practical way of doing things.

It’s what lead him to break it off with you, after all. He couldn’t afford to have his head in the clouds when so much is on the line, couldn't afford to be distracted by thoughts of you when they could be used against him.

But then you were gone, and Tech was left alone with only the cold reality of his own decisions.

He thought he had made the right choice. Thought he had been logical and sensible, thought it would hurt you less in the long run, if he pulled away. But Tech doesn't feel very sensible now, and it doesn't seem very logical that the best way to protect you would be to push you away.

You have been hurt more than enough. And even if you don't want him in your life anymore, even if you want nothing to do with him, he will never forgive himself for not trying to help.

The fact is, Tech isn’t sure what you want, but he is determined to make amends, to help in any way that he can. It might hurt, might cause him to feel pain at the distance between you, but he is willing to accept that, to live with it if that is what you need.

What he isn’t willing to live with is seeing you unhappy. And you are unhappy.

Your eyes are dark, hollow. Your face is drawn and gaunt, cheeks too thin, and when he sees you, your shoulders are slumped as though under an impossible weight. You barely eat, you barely sleep. Tech watches as you push food around your plate and drink only water. He notices how you keep to yourself, avoid talking and laughing and joking like you used to, and he hates that you have changed so much, that the Empire has taken that joy from you.

And that, more than anything, is what hurts him the most. The Empire took your light, the thing that makes you, you. They ripped your spark away and left a shell behind, and he is struggling to reconcile that with the bright and lively woman he knew, the woman who had such a profound effect on him.

"On all of us," Echo points out one night, as the rest of them watch you sitting alone.

Echo has become increasingly vocal about his feelings, something Tech is glad for. It gives him a chance to understand better, to gain perspective, and Echo has been the one to notice what Tech can't admit, the thing he isn't willing to think about, the thing that hurts the most.

You're suffering, and you're pushing them away.

At first, it seemed reasonable. You were gone a long time, and they hadn’t seen you. It made sense that you needed space.

But time has passed, and you're still not yourself.

Tech thinks back to your first night, how you flinched away from his touch, and realises how foolish he has been. He sees now how much he was hurting you, how much damage his words and actions were causing, and his heart breaks a little more.

It was never about protecting you. Not really.

Tech wanted you. He wanted you for so long, and when he finally had you, he was terrified of losing you. So, he pulled away. He cut ties, and told himself it was for the best.

Except now he has no ties to cut, no bonds left to sever. You're here, but not, and his chest aches as he watches you.

This isn't the way it should be.

Tech should be holding you, and you should be smiling. He should be telling you how much he loves you, how happy he is to have you back. He should be making sure you're comfortable and safe, ensuring that you have everything you need, everything you deserve.

Instead, he stands in the corner of the room, watching silently as his brothers try to coax you into eating, or drinking, or just saying something. Omega is the only one who is successful, who manages to make you smile.

Tech can't understand it. He tries his hardest, he does his best, and you always turn away.

And the more he tries, the more he feels the ache inside him grow, the more his feelings change, twisting and turning and growing, and he can't keep track of what's happening to him. All he knows is that the idea of losing you is the worst thing he can imagine, and the idea of being without you is becoming unbearable.

He doesn't know how much more he can take.

You've been avoiding him.

No, not avoiding. You've been staying away.

Or maybe, you've been ignoring him.

“She's not talking to me,” Tech admits one evening.

He's curled up in the corner of the cockpit, legs pulled up, head buried in his arms. The rest of the Batch have dispersed, going off to their own bunks to rest or to tinker or to read. Tech is usually the last to retire, but not tonight.

Tonight, his shoulders are slumped and his goggles are pushed up onto his head. He's been scrubbing at his face with the heels of his palms for the past few minutes, trying to work through the thoughts and emotions swirling in his mind.

You're not talking to him.

And yes, maybe it's because you're not talking to any of them, but it still feels personal.

You're not talking, not laughing, not doing anything, really. You’re just there, a shadow of your former self, a ghost.

Tech misses the woman who used to laugh and tease him, the one who could always bring a smile to his face and a blush to his cheeks. The woman who was a whirlwind of color and life, the one who lit up his world and made him see things differently. Who kissed him so deeply and passionately that it felt like his entire world was reduced down to the feel of her lips. He misses her warmth, her kindness, the way she touched him, looked at him.

He misses the way he felt around her.

He misses you.

Tech doesn't know what to do. He can't stop thinking about you, can't stop thinking about what he's done, what he could have done.

What he should have done.

Maybe if he'd tried harder. Maybe if he hadn't given up, hadn't let go. Maybe if he had listened to Hunter, had heard Echo. Maybe if he'd told you the truth, he could have stopped this.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He sighs, rubbing at his face. He feels miserable, and it's his own damn fault. He's the one who ended things, who pushed you away. And he can't blame you for that, not when it was him who decided that you weren't worth it.

That isn't to say that he didn't care. Of course, he cared. He cares now. So much it hurts.

You are the person he was in love with, the only one. But it didn't seem fair to ask you to share his life, his world, when he couldn't promise that it would always be safe, that it would always be stable. He couldn't give you a future, couldn't provide for you the way a proper partner should, the way you deserve.

He could give you the present, but he couldn't offer you anything else.

And yet, as Tech sits here, head in his hands, he can't help but think that he should have at least tried. If he'd told you how he felt, maybe things would have turned out differently.

“I only ever wanted you,” you had told him once, and Tech can't believe how stupid he was to let you slip through his fingers.

Tech isn't used to feeling helpless. He's used to knowing exactly what he's doing, to being in control. But when it comes to you, it's as if he's floundering. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to act, doesn't know what you want.

He’s tried everything, he's done everything he can, and still, you push him away.

You don't want his comfort. You don't want his love.

He doesn't understand it. You've always seemed happy around him, like his presence brings you some peace. But now, whenever he gets close, you move away. When he tries to talk, you turn your back. When he offers help, you shut him down.

Tech isn't sure why you won't accept his assistance, or why you won't talk to him. It doesn't make sense.

He can't understand, can't rationalize. And he's never felt so lost.

Tech groans, burying his face in his arms. He's being ridiculous, he knows, but he can't help the way he feels.

He misses you.

Tech misses the way your hand fits perfectly in his. He misses the smell of your hair, the softness of your skin, the sweetness of your lips. He misses the way your smile makes him feel like his heart is full, like he can take on the world, like he can conquer anything.

Tech misses the way your body feels against his. The way your fingers feel on his skin. The way your breath catches when he touches you, the way your heartbeat picks up, the way your pupils dilate.

Tech misses the way you made him feel alive.

Tech knows that he isn't worthy of your affection. He knows that he doesn't deserve your love. He's not a good man, not a good partner, not a good friend. He's not the kind of person who should have someone like you, and yet, somehow, you chose him.

But not anymore.

“I only ever wanted you.”

You said those words to him before, and they haunt him. You told him you didn't care about the risks, the dangers, the fact that he couldn't give you the future you deserve. All you cared about was him.

And he threw it away.

Tech isn't sure how long he sits there, wallowing in his misery. He doesn't move, doesn't speak. He just sits, and broods.

“Maybe she just needs time,” Echo says, though his voice sounds doubtful.

Tech shakes his head before pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead.

“She has made it clear that she doesn't wish to speak to me, or see me, or have anything to do with me."

The words sting as he speaks them. His throat is tight, and he swallows hard, trying to hold back the emotion.

"I doubt a little more time will change her mind."

There's a long silence.

Echo leans against the wall beside Tech, his arms folded. He's watching Tech carefully, his gaze piercing. Tech feels uncomfortable, and shifts, ducking his head. He doesn't like being scrutinized, doesn't like being vulnerable. He prefers to keep his emotions in check, his feelings close to his chest.

But he's finding it hard to hide them now, and his pain is obvious, even to himself.

“But she does,” Echo says finally.

Tech glances up, frowning. "Elaborate."

"She does want you," Echo clarifies, his voice gentle. "She loves you. She wouldn't have come back if she didn't.”

Tech doesn't want to admit it, but Echo has a point. If you didn't want anything to do with him, then you wouldn't have bothered to find him. You would have left, disappeared again, and never come back.

You wouldn't have risked your life for him.

Tech isn't sure if that makes him feel better, or worse.

Because it means that you do care, but it also means that you might be willing to sacrifice yourself, and Tech can't have that. He can't let you throw away your life, not for him.

Tech groans, burying his face in his hands. He's being selfish, and he knows it. You're the one who was captured, the one who suffered, the one who nearly died. And yet, all he can think about is how much it hurts.

He's been thinking about how much it hurts him. He hasn't been thinking about what you need.

"What should I do?" Tech asks, his voice small and defeated.

"Apologize," Echo replies simply.

"I have tried," Tech protests, lifting his head. "I have apologized countless times, and she does not want to listen. She doesn't want to speak to me."

"No," Echo corrects. "You've apologized for the wrong things."

"Wrong things?" Tech echoes, frowning.

"Yes, the wrong things," Echo repeats.

Tech isn't sure what Echo means by that, but his brother looks confident, sure of himself. Tech wants to believe him, but he doesn't know how. He's spent so long trying to convince himself that he did the right thing, that he did the only thing, that he can't help but doubt.

"How do I fix it?" he asks, voice quiet.

"That, I can't tell you," Echo replies. "But Tech, the first step is admitting that you were wrong."

Tech nods, letting his shoulders sag. He doesn't feel particularly good about the situation, but he's willing to try. It's not easy, admitting he was wrong. He's so used to being right, to having the answer, to knowing what's best. But when it comes to you, he has never felt so lost.

Tech thinks of the pain in your eyes, the way you flinched from him, the way you turned away.

He has to do better. He has to be better.

He has to earn your forgiveness.

"I was wrong," Tech says, his voice steady and sure. "And I'm going to make it right."

You're standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by medical supplies and overturned cots. Your face is pale, eyes wide and fearful, and Tech isn't sure what to do.

The voice of his brothers and Omega inside his head tell him you need space, but they also remind him that you need someone to look after you. That you need help. That you can't be alone.

Tech hesitates. He isn't used to this, the uncertainty, the not knowing what's best. He's never been particularly good at reading people, and even worse at knowing what they need.

He has never been more unsure than he is now.

He wants to help. He wants to take care of you, to make you feel safe, to give you what you need. But he's terrified of getting it wrong. Especially when you're standing in front of him looking like a startled animal.

You're shaking, and your breathing is fast and shallow. Your eyes are darting around the room, as if searching for something. Tech isn't sure what it is, or if it even exists. You look terrified, and Tech knows you have reason to be. The last time you were in a place like this, the Empire was holding you captive, and he can't blame you for feeling uncomfortable.

Tech has to suppress a shudder as he remembers the footage, the recordings they managed to get from the base. The screams, the cries. They haunted his dreams, and Tech can't even imagine what they did to you.

Tech wants nothing more than to run to you, to take you in his arms and promise that he will protect you. But he can't, not without permission.

Not when he isn't sure you'd even want him to.

So, instead, he stands there, watching. He keeps his distance, gives you the space you need. He's trying his best, but it isn't easy.

She just needs time, he tries to remind himself, but Tech isn't so sure.

He isn't sure if time is enough. He isn't sure if anything will ever be enough.

He watches as you stand there, your hands clenched into fists, your eyes still scanning the room. He watches as your breathing speeds up, your chest rising and falling rapidly. He watches as the panic spreads over your face, your lips pressed together, jaw tight.

You look scared, vulnerable, and Tech's heart breaks a little more.

“Cyare,” he calls out, as quiet and soothing as he can manage. You stiffen, and Tech curses himself for causing you discomfort.

He should have stayed quiet.

But then you turn, and your eyes meet his, and something inside him seems to settle.

You look so sad, so lost, and he can't help it. He walks over to you, careful and slow, making sure not to startle you. When he reaches you, he holds out his hand, palm up. He wants you to know that he is there for you, that he will not hurt you.

He will never hurt you again.

He waits, holding his breath. He's afraid that if he moves, if he speaks, you will run. So, he stands, motionless, watching as you stare at his hand.

Slowly, slowly, you reach out, your fingertips brushing his. The touch is gentle, tentative, and Tech is afraid to breathe.

Then, your hand closes around his, and he exhales.

Tech knows he's taking a risk, touching you, but he can't resist. He can't stand the thought of leaving you alone, the thought of not being able to help. He pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you. He doesn't know what else to do. He wants to hold you, to keep you safe.

He never wants to let you go.

You're shaking, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You're trembling, and Tech knows that this is a big step, that you're taking a chance. So, he holds you, and he waits.

Your body is tense, and Tech is worried that he's overstepped, that he's pushed you too far. But then, slowly, you relax. Your arms wrap around him, your head resting on his shoulder, and he can't help but sigh in relief.

The others are nearby, finishing a sweep of the facility. He should be helping, but he doesn't want to leave your side. Not when you're finally letting him be close to you.

So, he holds you, and he strokes your hair. He whispers quiet reassurances in your ear, tells you that everything will be alright, that he's got you, that you're safe.

He's not sure if you believe him, but he has to try.

He can't lose you again.

Tech is trying.

He's trying his best, but he feels like he's failing.

Every day, every hour, every minute, his mind is filled with thoughts of you.

He thinks about how you're doing, whether or not you're eating, sleeping. He thinks about the nightmares you have, the way your body shakes as you wake, pale and trembling, gasping for air.

He thinks about how his brothers can't seem to calm you, how only Omega is successful, her soft voice and gentle touch somehow bringing you some measure of peace.

Tech can't help but feel that it should be him. It should be him comforting you, not Omega. It should be him easing your pain, not his little sister.

It should be him.

He isn't sure why he can't seem to do anything right. After they left the facility, after you finally started letting him hold you, Tech thought things would get easier.

But they haven't.

You still seem so distant, so far away. You still refuse to eat, to sleep, to talk. And Tech isn't sure how much longer he can handle this.

He's frustrated. Frustrated at himself, at the Empire, at the galaxy. Most of all, he's frustrated at you. Not that he would ever admit it aloud.

You've been through a lot. More than anyone should have to go through. Tech understands that. But he can't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, if you'd been willing to accept his help earlier, things would have been different.

Tech doesn't mean it, not really. He doesn't think that it's your fault. He's just tired, and angry, and frustrated. 

And, if he's being honest, he's a little jealous.

You trust Omega. You open up to her. But you won't even talk to him.

It hurts.

Tech has spent the past few weeks trying to make things right, to show you that he’s changed. But you seem unwilling to let him in, to let him help.

It's infuriating.

Tech knows he shouldn't feel this way, but he can't help it. You were his girlfriend, his partner, his lover. And now, you won't even look at him.

He's trying, but he feels like he's getting nowhere. He wants to help, wants to be there for you. But he can't do anything if you won't let him.

“I’m not sure if this is a good idea,” Omega says, her voice uncertain. Her feet swing over the edge of the bunk across from him, and her brow furrows. “Won’t she be mad?”

Tech sighs, running a hand over his face. He knows that Omega is worried, but he can't sit around any longer. He has to do something.

"She is already upset. I'm not sure anything else could make things worse."

Tech tries to sound convincing, but the truth is, he isn't sure what the consequences will be. He isn't sure what will happen, isn't sure if this is a good idea. But he has to try.

“If you’re sure,” Omega replies slowly.

Tech nods, trying his best to look confident.

"I'm sure."

He isn't.

"Okay."

Omega pulls out her datapad and types the message. Tech watches as she hits send, then lets out a shaky breath. She slides off the edge of the bunk and hurries down the ramp, leaving him alone.

Tech waits, his nerves growing with each passing second.

You are going to hate him for this, he's sure.

But he has to do it. He has to try.

"Tech?"

Your voice is quiet, uncertain. You're standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around yourself, and Tech feels his chest ache at the sight.

You're here.

You're actually here.

"Hello," he says quietly.

“Where’s Omega?” you ask, your voice sharp. You step forward, and the light catches your face. Tech can see the bags under your eyes, the paleness of your skin. You look tired, worn down, and he hates it.

Tech winces. "She's not here."

"Where is she?"

You sound panicked, and Tech doesn't blame you. The last thing he wants is to make you more stressed. But he needs to talk to you, and this is the only way.

"She is fine," Tech says, trying to sound reassuring. "I asked her to leave."

You narrow your eyes, taking another step toward him. You're still clutching your arms, as if you're trying to hold yourself together. Tech wants to reach out, to take your hands, but he knows you'll pull away.

“What do you want, Tech?” Your voice is harsh, but Tech doesn't mind. You're speaking to him, which is more than he's gotten out of you in days.

"I, ah, I wanted to talk," Tech replies, his tone hesitant.

"About what?"

Tech swallows, his throat suddenly dry. "About us."

You frown, folding your arms across your chest. "There is no 'us', Tech. There hasn't been for a long time. You made sure of that."

Your words are sharp, cutting, and Tech can't help but flinch. He deserves them, he knows. But it doesn't make the sting any less. He takes a deep breath, trying to find the words.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was wrong. I shouldn't have ended things."

You stare at him, eyes wide. Tech isn't sure if you're surprised, or just angry. He can't read you, not anymore. He isn't sure if he ever could. He's always felt a little bit of awe, a little bit of fear when it came to you. And now, more than ever, he feels completely lost.

"So why did you?" you ask, your voice tight.

Tech sighs, adjusting his goggles nervously. He's not sure how to answer that. He isn't sure if he even has an answer.

"I was... afraid," he admits, his voice low.

"Afraid of what?"

Tech shrugs, looking away. "Everything. The future, the war, losing you."

You don’t say anything, and Tech takes a deep breath, forcing himself to continue.

“I ran an exhaustive cost benefit analysis, and I had determined that the risks far outweighed the benefits. I could not continue our relationship knowing that I would most likely hurt you. In my mind, I needed to end things before they went any further. Before you were able to become attached.”

"I was already attached," you whisper, your voice cracking. "I was already in love with you."

Tech's heart stutters.

"You were?" he asks, his voice quiet.

You nod, biting your lip. Tech feels his stomach twist, a mixture of guilt and hope rising in him. You were in love with him. You are in love with him. And he has hurt you more than he ever thought possible.

"I was a coward," Tech says quietly. "I knew if we had gone any further, and I were to hurt you, it would have caused me immense emotional pain. And, in the process, I would have risked my ability to perform at optimal efficiency, and that would have resulted in harm to the rest of the squad."

Tech looks up, meeting your gaze. "I didn't want to hurt you, and I didn't want to put the squad at risk. But in the end, I failed at both."

You frown, and Tech can tell that you're trying to understand.

"So, let me get this straight," you begin, your voice strained. "You broke up with me, because you thought it was the best option for everyone involved."

Tech nods, his expression pained.

“That’s not for you to decide, Tech. I can make my own decisions. And, I decided to be with you. But instead, you made the decision for both of us, and you didn't even bother to ask my opinion."

“I knew that if I had discussed it with you, you would have tried to convince me otherwise,” Tech explains, his voice soft. “And I wasn't certain I would be able to resist your arguments."

You shake your head, an incredulous look on your face. "So, basically, you dumped me because you couldn't trust yourself to make a logical decision?"

Tech's shoulders slump, and he nods, his head bowed.

"That is correct. It is also…” He looks at his hands, his expression pained. “For all of my unique modifications, I am still a clone. I am still expendable. But you, you are not. You are more important. You are special." He hesitates, swallowing hard. "You are irreplaceable."

Tech can see tears gathering in your eyes, and he feels a fresh wave of guilt wash over him. He never meant to hurt you, but it seems he has managed to do just that. And now, he doesn't know how to fix it.

"Tech, no." You shake your head. "You're not expendable. None of you are."

"That may be the case," Tech concedes. “But at the time I could not see a future in which the two of us could have a happy life together. Not with the way things were, not with the risk we faced. So, I chose the safest option."

"But we could have figured it out, Tech. We could have found a way."

Tech shakes his head, his expression weary.

"I was not willing to take the risk. I was not willing to gamble with your safety, with your happiness. It was a decision I had to make. For all of our sakes."

You are quiet for a moment, your expression thoughtful. Tech can see the pain in your eyes, the hurt and betrayal, and he wishes he could take it all away. He wishes he could erase his mistakes, undo his actions.

"You made the wrong choice," you say at last, your voice low.

"Yes, I did," Tech admits, his voice quiet. "I was wrong. About a great many things."

He looks up, his gaze meeting yours.

"But I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make things right. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to prove to you that I'm serious, that I want to fix things."

"Why?"

"Because I love you," Tech says, his voice breaking.

Your eyes widen, and you suck in a breath. Tech can see the surprise in your expression, the shock. He knows you didn't expect him to say it, to admit it. But it's the truth. And Tech can't hide it any longer. He can't pretend.

He has to be honest. Even if it means losing you.

"I love you," he repeats, his voice stronger this time. "I always have. I've never stopped. I didn't think I was capable of loving anyone, not like this. But, you changed that." He pauses, swallowing hard. "I don't want to lose you, cyare. Not again. Not ever."

"Tech."

You say his name softly, your voice cracking. Tech can see the tears welling in your eyes, and his chest aches. He wants to take you in his arms, wants to kiss away the pain, but he knows he can't. He knows he has to let you decide. He has to let you choose.

You step forward, and his breath hitches in his chest. You're so close, so near, and Tech wants nothing more than to hold you. But he doesn't. He stays where he is, waiting.

You reach out, your hand cupping his cheek, and Tech leans into the touch, savoring the warmth of your skin. You're looking at him, your eyes searching his, and Tech hopes that you can see the truth in them, the sincerity. He hopes that you can feel how much he loves you, how much he needs you.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice breaking.

You nod, and he can see the tears streaming down your cheeks. Tech wants to wipe them away, but he doesn't move. He stays where he is, watching you, waiting. You're still staring at him, and Tech feels a flicker of hope bloom in his chest.

"I'm sorry, too," you whisper, your voice raw. "I'm sorry I shut you out. I'm sorry I pushed you away. I'm sorry for everything."

You pause, biting your lip. "I love you, Tech. I never stopped. And, I don't want to lose you, either."

Tech's heart swells, and he can't stop the tears that come, or the smile that spreads across his face. You're looking at him with such tenderness, with such love, that he can't help but reach for you, pulling you close, wrapping his arms around you, holding you tight. You melt into his embrace, your arms winding around his waist, your face buried in his chest. 

Tech can feel your tears, wet against his skin, and he runs a hand through your hair, trying to soothe you. You cling to him, your grip almost desperate, and Tech feels his heart break a little more.

You've been through so much, endured so much pain, and he was part of it. He was responsible for it. And he doesn't know how to make it better. He doesn't know how to take away the hurt, the betrayal, the fear. All he can do is hold you, and promise to never let you go.

"Cyare," he breathes, his voice choked with emotion. "You will never lose me. I am yours. Always."

And then, you lift your head, and his eyes meet yours, and Tech can't stop the surge of emotion that rushes through him. You're so beautiful, so perfect, and he can't believe how lucky he is. 

You're the best thing that has ever happened to him, the only thing that has ever made him feel alive. And now, here you are, in his arms, telling him you love him. It's everything he's ever wanted, everything he's dreamed of. And it's real. You're real. You're here. And you're his.

"I love you," Tech whispers, and then he leans in, capturing your lips with his.

The kiss is soft, gentle, filled with everything he's feeling, everything he can't say. And when you pull away, Tech's heart skips a beat, and he wonders how he ever thought he could live without you.

"I love you," you whisper back, and Tech can't stop the smile that spreads across his face, the tears that sting his eyes. He holds you tight, and the world seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you.

He's never letting you go again.

[hopelessdelusional]

.・。.・゜✭・.✫・゜・。.

Ever since you were young, you always dreamed of having that special someone. Seeing couples everywhere you go, always giving your toys the most intense love stories. You were obsessed with having a soulmate, the person who got you, who could finish your sentences. 

When you got your first heartbreak, it shattered you, broke you. You were never the type of person to have people falling at your feet, so when someone did like you it was special. You thought that would solve all your problems, and for a while, it did. Until that relationship ended as well. Trying to find someone after your first breakup was hard, but you had to keep moving on. As you grew older, you dealt with a constant pain in relationships. Always being the person to feel the most no matter good or bad. You were empathetic, a curse and a blessing.

Never knowing what true love ever felt like, you trudged on in your journey for a real romantic relationship. Someone that made you shine, someone who made you feel good and at peace. 

Then, Katsuki Bakugou appeared. 

The clouds had parted, and suddenly you felt the warm rays of the sun soaking into your skin. Starting to eat healthy, go out into the world more, working harder; that was all because of Katsuki. He was there with you every second of the day, even if it was metaphoric. Your childhood perception of the perfect lover slowly transformed into reality. Katsuki was undeniably the perfect match for you, even on your darkest days could no one convince you otherwise.

So why were you running? Why did you deny the fact that you were in love with him for so long?

The two of you weren't friends, you were more than that. Yet, that feeing was denied over and over again, even to his face you denied the obvious. Hurt over and over again, too scared to go through the same pain you felt at your adolescence age. Such raw and intimate feelings would be able to be recreated, because it was Katsuki. Katsuki, the most stubborn and determined person you’ve ever met. He put his mind to have a future with you, it was apparent. After all the hurt his faith in you did not waver. The most perfect person for you, the person you'd been dreaming of.

And now, Katsuki was here, standing in front of you right now, holding flowers.

He was dressed nicely, just as he usually did when the two of you went out. Perks of being a model. Models get a lot of nice clothes and jewelry sent to them, and Katsuki used that to his advantage. His cologne overwhelmed your senses, not expecting such a familiar and comforting scent to throw you off so intensely. The worst part was his eyes, always his eyes. Blazing red orbs as intense as everything else about him.

What felt like another lifetime ago, you remembered the first introduction to him you felt as if those eyes were boring right through you. Now, those same eyes indulged in you, searching through every inch of your existence.

“I wanted to surprise you.”

His voice. It was always different with you. To others, it was curt and rough, always had such a strong and distinct tone. But with you, it was soft, almost shy. It was as if he was worried his natural inflection might be too brash for you. It was gentle, never failing to tug on your heart.

Everything about him was overwhelmingly perfect. Over time you had come to realize he was the missing puzzle piece that’s been missing for all these years.

Nevertheless you felt as if you couldn’t afford to let him in, to be selfish. Was that one step, worth the brick walls you’ve been building for so long worth any detrimental aftermaths? He was right there in front of you, despite everything. All the lies, secrets, and fights…he’s still here. Literally.

You stayed still, watching his every move. It wasn’t until his eyebrows burrowed that you softly smiled, reaching your hand out. Gently and hesitantly, he took your hand into his. Unexpectedly, it quickly took a turn when Katsuki pulled your body into his. All of your senses were completely and utterly engulfed in everything that was Katsuki.

Buried in his chest you could feel his heartbeat, running a lot faster than expected. You smiled, allowing yourself to become comfortable in his arms. Not that he was letting you go any time soon, his hands firmly on your waist and face resting on the top of your head.

“Missed you.”

The smile on your face stretched out, making you giggle. You felt giddy, your crush likes you back and he was holding you so tightly in his arms.

As much as you wanted to stay, you realized that you were hugging Katsuki in the hallway of your apartment floor and all of your friends were in the living room watching. (You didn’t have to look at them to know, you knew they were watching).

You pinched the blond making him yelp in surprise. Backing away you felt how wide your grin was and you were sure you looked lovesick but you just couldn’t help it. His eyebrows were furrowed in confusion but his eyes were still soft and kind. You cupped his cheek, making his blush spread from his ears to his cheeks.

“I’m guessing you have something else in mind for tonight then?”

There was a spark in his eyes, then a smirk formed on his perfect face.

“You know me too well.”

The two of you held contact for a moment, before you dropped your head and snickered. Looking back up you gently pried the flowers out of Katsuki’s hands, making his body relax. Turning around, you saw your friends all suddenly move and start talking to each other making you roll your eyes. You moved to the kitchen and put the flowers down so you could look for a glass to put it in.

“Hey Kacchan!”

The group all accepted Katsuki’s new presence, welcoming him into the small circle. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Katsuki ruffle Izuku’s hair making him yell out in protest. A comfortable conversation settled over the area as you filled a glass with your new flowers. You were starting to get nervous now that you were alone with your thoughts because being in Katsuki’s arms felt so right, but the two of you had a lot to talk out. There was so much to sort out, secrets to be explained and boundaries to be set. Did you believe that you are worth the work? Should Katsuki take the risk of loving you? He’s a model and you’re photographer you’re going to run into each other! Hitoshi and Kaminari are dating the two groups are going to combined, he’s Izuku’s best friend for crying out loud!

“Oi.”

A stern but comforting voice broke through your train of thought. The blond was standing with his hands on his hips, cocking his head at you. Of course he would notice that you started to get in your head, maybe you should try to make it less obvious next time.

“None of that idiot, we have plans.”

Switching moods quickly you moved over to Katsuki, wanting to leave the presence of your seven friends. However, Katsuki has always fit right into your apartment.

Seeing him in such a domestic setting has always made your heart feel an unexplainable infatuation. All you could imagine was the impossible, where Katsuki would wrap his arms around your waist and you would hold his warm, soft face. The more you looked at the man entering your kitchen the more you wished to reenact the night of the party that started it all.

“And what exactly do you have in mind Kat?”

You matched his energy; arms crossed, a single eyebrow raised, and leaning against the kitchen counter. That seemed to amuse him, because his eyes lit up and a smile formed on his face.

“You’ll see. Come on.”

Katsuki reached his hand out, and for the second time that night you felt frozen in place. You had to swallow your fear, because he was here despite everything. If Katsuki could risk everything about the relationship the two of you have formed, you could to. You kept reminding yourself that this first step was for him. It quickly became a chant, because you had to. You had to push yourself into the unknown.

So you take his hand, and you let him lead you out into the hallway with echoes of ‘goodbye’ and ‘good luck’ trailing behind you. You let him hold your hand all the way down the elevator and out of the apartment building until you made it to his car. You let him open the passenger door for you and you let him drive you to what you assumed was his home based off of the familiar route. You let him put on a playlist saved on his phone of all of your favorite songs, and you let him smile at you as you sang along with the music. When you got to his apartment, you let him open the door for you again and you let him find comfort in intertwining your hands together. You let him lead you all the way up to his apartment, and you let him make small annoyed comments about something wrong with his apartment complex or neighbors. He was only saying those things because he was nervous, tapping his fingers against your knuckles. And you let him.

When the elevator door finally opened you were smiling peacefully watching the blond squirm to get out of the small space. Katsuki looked your way and saw the small grin on your face, causing a deep shade of pink to form on the tips of his ears (hard to notice unless you're looking for it). Whipping his head away, he practically dragged you out of the elevator making you yelp out with surprise. Giggles from your mouth filled the hallway and you didn’t even have to see Katsuki’s face to know he was smiling wildly.

The door opened and closed in an instant, your body still being dragged around. It wasn’t until the two of you made it into the living space of his apartment that you were able to be face to face.

Once again you found yourself in complete awe of the man in front of you, and something told you that Katsuki thought the exact same way about you.

The warmth of his hand in yours must have become overwhelming because the blond started to pull his hand away. However, you didn’t want him to pull away, physically and mentally. You squeezed his hand into staying, and with a reassuring smile Katsuki stepped closer to you. You found his other hand to accompany your other hand as you stayed looking up at Katsuki. You knew his face and you knew what every expression he was making meant; he was nervous.

“Katsuki.”

It was barely above a whisper, your voice only meant to be heard for him. His expression morphed into concern which made you smile.

“I have to tell you something.”

Air felt heavy in your lungs as you waited to gain the confidence needed to say those three words. Every inch of you ached to tell him, to yell it off of the rooftops for everyone to hear. And yet your tongue sat heavy in your mouth.

Unexpectedly, those warm strong hands that rested in your hands quickly moved to sit on top of your hips. You searched Katsuki’s face to see what made him make such a gesture, and you were surprised to see such a soft expression on his sharp face. He was comforting you through his own nervousness. Knowing Katsuki, he was most likely worried about crossing any boundaries, along with his inexperience to any form of intimate affection. Nonetheless he was still giving you butterflies, and the newfound proximity wasn’t helping either.

Either you were imagining it or Katsuki was starting to stare intently at your lips. You licked your lips at the thought, and when you did Katsuki leaned his face closer.

Before you could fully grasp what was happening, Katsuki was pressing his lips firmly against yours. He wasn’t very skilled, so his movements were cautious and gentle. You were astonished such a driven and confident man could be so terrified of something as simple as a kiss.

Similarly you are just as terrified, but only of what happens after the kiss.

Katsuki was kissing you with the intent of having more, because he loves you, and he trusts you.

So you slipped your unoccupied hands into his hair, tilted your head and slowly began to find a rhythm in the movement in your lips. Surprised, Katsuki faltered for a moment before working his lips against yours. He was a quick learner, and from what you remembered of your first shared kiss he was doing much better comparatively.

The kiss started out slow, but just as Katsuki’s personality, passion and eagerness translated through your movements.

Katsuki gripped your body with more intention, drawing you impossibly close to where your bodies felt as if they were melting together. Your hands stayed where they were, and you took the moment to introduce your tongue which pleased Katsuki’s standards.

Instead of saying all that has been resting on your heart, Katsuki gave you the chance to show him instead. Through every moment of your shared kiss the two of you channeled months of unspoken words into each other’s bodies.

It wasn’t until you felt the emergent sensation of needing oxygen that you had to push Katsuki away. As if you didn’t already find the blond attractive, seeing him out of breath, wet lips, and a red coat of blush painting his face made him insufferably ravishing. He was equally out of breath, but clearly upset that your physical time together had been cut short. However, the wild grin that was placed on your face caused Katsuki’s form to relax.

“I love you.”

Voice raspy, you breathed the air out of your lungs as that long awaited phrase left your lips. Your eyes were stuck looking in the crimson eyes in front of you waiting, watching for him to convey some other emotion. Instead, his eyes stayed steady, and his hands grasped at your waist harder. It wasn’t until you let your hands drop down to his chest, pushing him away, that he reacted. His hands snatched yours in an instant, causing you to perk up and meet his fiery eyes.

“You mean it?”

Without hesitation you slipped your hands away and cupped his face. Katsuki’s face instantly lit up in a beautiful blush and you forced him to look at you to make sure he sees the determination in his eyes.

“Always have. I really do love you Katsuki. And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.”

A moment passed like that, hands holding his face until his now free hands pulled your body closer making you adjust to the new position. Tracing your hands on his tricep you watched as Katsuki observe you just as you did with him a moment ago. Then, you saw the blond realize that you were telling the truth, and to your surprise Katsuki smirked.

“Good, ‘cause I fucking love you too y/n.”

Before you could answer, he kissed you. He kissed you softer, but still full of compassion and adoration. Engulfing any anxiety of what lies ahead. Katsuki kissed you, and you let him.

Throughout life, Katsuki continued to love you, and you continued to love him. Fulfilling each other’s needs beyond any way you thought was possible. The love that you’ve been longing for all these years was in your reach, and for once in your life you reciprocated every ounce of love back without worry. You were no longer scared, and no longer felt the need to run. Katsuki was there to receive and give. You were finally whole.

After all these years, you watched all of your wildest dreams come true.

.・。.・✭・.✫・゜・。.

wildest dreams

aaaaand that's a wrap! but don't worry folks...

if you haven't alr noticed i've added extra content to first couple episodes, because I didn't feel like there was enough smau in the...smau so please go back and check that out it would mean a lot to me <3

now that the series is a wrap, PLEEEEAASSSSEEE send me prompts for either written stuff OR smau

i will be doing an account master list on there i will list all the fandoms i write for <3

big thank you to @kovu-bunnbunn for letting me use one of your lovely characters, i adore them 🫶

fun facts! ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

- no matter what you have gone through you will come to have the life of your wildest dreams. you will be loved and appreciated so much and you will feel at peace with who you are and the people around you. you are worthy of love, and you are an astonishing person.

← Prev┊˚✧ ┊Done

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ updates are no longer needed bc the series is done! thank you all so much for supporting me. Happy last wildest wednesday ✧.*

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ TAGLIST: @lovelytayy @0anodite0 @bakugouswh0r3 @amethyst123 @nijirosz @dabis-vigilnate-girl @allnamesredacted @ch3rryhaze @ectoplasmictoast @cathwritestragediesnotsins @tati-the-fangirl @autumnfay @call-me-prodigy @chuugarettes @sammyam @bubblewordsofsodapop @biggestbeequeen @tqnk @el-hart  @i-simp-for-mha-men @kovu-bunnbunn

[thebrightsilverlining]

P5X and the Importance of Community

There’s something interesting about how P5X is handling confidants. Obviously, I’ll have to wait until it gets officially localized, but there seems to be a running trend in regards to community.

See, X is different from P3,4, and 5 in that the protagonist did not move before the start of the game. There’s no adjusting to some new environment and meeting a bunch of people there. Wonder has lived here all his life. So making friends isn’t about becoming a part of a new place. Instead, it’s a signifier of Wonder’s change in attitude.

Wonder’s whole deal is that he was just kinda coasting through life. As the lyrics of Ambitions and Visions points out: “Act like I don’t care. Why even bother? That’s what I though then. Just another bluffer.” He was a go with the flow guy who couldn’t be bothered to put in the effort whose bitterness and lack of ambition was the reason why things weren’t going the way he wanted in life. A fact that he didn’t really want to admit.

But that changes when he becomes a Phantom Thief and he begins to actually put effort in and start caring. The whole idea of the Phantom Idols is that Wonder’s connection to the Sea of Souls allows him to see the potential in people. To see who they could be. Meaning he’s learning to shed his previous ambivalence and see people for who they really are and who they could become.

This becomes even more impactful, because he’s not in some new place with new people. He’s in his home, with most of the people having already been living there alongside him. So it’s not a matter of the world changing. It’s his perception of it that changes. It’s him realizing that the people he’d written off are actually pretty amazing.

So one of the confidants is his next door neighbor and his mom’s friend. Someone who was always around but he never bothered to really get to know. It’s his mom’s friend and they’re both old, what could possibly be interesting about that? They probably talk about whatever it is middle aged women talk about. Boring.

Except she’s not. Once he starts paying attention he finds out that she used to be a fashion designer. And she was good at it!? Not to mention those photos of her when she was younger. Who knew that Mrs. Tomiyama was COOL?!

And hey, did you know that she also has a nephew? Yeah, he’s only like a year older than you and he wants to be an actor someday. Gonna star on tv in Featherman and make so many people smile. If you’re getting to know Mrs. Tomiyama you should probably get to know him too. Who knows? You might even become friends.

And hey, what about that girl that’s always helping her father with running the local bar? You must’ve passed her by a million times by now and you’ve never spoken a word have you? Did you know that she wants to be a nurse when she grows up? Or that she’s planning to simply stay home instead so she can take care of her father with his back problem?

Or what about Yaoling Li? Did you even know that a college student from China had moved into the neighborhood? Right next to the Fujikawa residence! You know, where Yukimi lives? She’s your age, why did you never even try to become friends? But maybe it’s time to remedy that, especially if you’re both gonna befriend Yaoling, who is still struggling with the signage at the local market.

It’s all about the community. That community that’s always been there, that you just never bothered to pay attention to. The people so unique and varied, with dreams and aspirations and lives so complex you can barely imagine. That you could get to know, so long as you were willing to put in the effort to do so. And maybe, if you did, you might just find your life is better for it.

It’s a concept I find incredibly interesting, and one I really hope is done well in P5X. Because, if so, it might just be my favorite handling of confidants/social links yet.

[deramin2]

You are Vox Machina, and you've been sent by the prosperous and benevolent Emperex J'mon Sa Ord to the cardshark devil Zerxus Ilreze in the Nine Hells to retrieve a suit of armor made by the Dawnfather, a god Asmodeus hates.

Turns out the Emprex has a long-running gambling problem with the devil, and only a vast hoard of wealth stands between this being an inconvenience vs. Exandrian Uncut Gems. The devil then purposes a card game that's basically a mind games hard mode Go Fish hack. (Impressively abbreviated fast bluffing game.)

This servant of Asmodeus, whose name strikes fear into other denizens of the Hells, talks like a jaded former ex-military gay who got sucked into a violent conspiracy cult after becoming estranged from his family.

After upping the ante to the souls of the entire party (far more than Zerxus ever gambled), Pike tries to psych him out through asking for his life story. He tells a sob story about how his love and trust in his friends led to several colossal failures in judgement that destroyed the world. Then he lost even his surviving family who he’d given up everything to be reunited with. They never came back for him and they never tried.

Pike manages to read this correctly as his deep seated desire to have his family join him here because he can't leave. No matter what that does to them. He’s only focused on his own feelings and desires.

The whole time he is constantly repeating the most bad faith interpretation doomerist bullshit you've ever heard about how everything in the world is horrible and everyone deserves to suffer like he's suffering.

After all that, do you believe Zerxus is a reliable narrator of even his own history? Or is he telling you the version built on lies he tells himself because that's what he was manipulated to believe?

Personally I think Zerxus told us his interpretation of reality that he fully believes and shapes his actions around. But that doesn't mean he's correct. Especially about what he thinks happened in the absence of facts.

How often could he check on his family? What might might he have missed and then interpreted as never happening? How much did Asmodeus control what Zerxus saw, and his memories of it, through both manipulation and mind magic?

Right at the beginning of the episode, the Everlight warns Pike that beings in the Hells will try to corrupt her and redemption doesn’t exist for the people there.

Zerxus is an unreliable narrator, not a change in the story the audience knows. His narrative is a manifestation of his own corruption and his desire to spread it to others. Misinformation is the method the Lord of Lies uses to corrupt people.

[obsidianpen]

AITA Tom Riddle Style:

So there's this girl (23F) who I've (23M) known for around 4 months. We were together, but not exactly official, more like she understood that if she flirted with anyone else I would kill him. Bottom line, she was mine. It was a little intense but nothing too out there. We once had a sort of fight to the death in an alley but we both understood it was all in good fun.

Now, ever since I met her I’ve known she was lying about everything. I don’t mean little white lies or lies of omission either. I mean I don’t even know her real name. This is despite the fact that I’ve always been *totally* honest with her. I figured she’d probably killed a few people and would eventually tell me in her own time. I can be patient, no big deal.

Anyway. Long story short, she stole my two most prized possessions the same night I told her I’d kill whoever she wanted me to and that I’m obsessed with her and will keep her for all time whether she wants that or not. Obviously this theft came as a bit of a shock. I knew she was a liar, but a betraying bitch? That was quite the blow. I can’t exactly say what these objects are but it’s difficult to fully convey their importance to me. It’s almost like she stole a part of my soul.

Of course I’ve thought about killing her. I even made a fairly credible attempt, if I do say so myself, in the Romanian woods where not even the crows could have found her body. The problem is, she’s really hard to kill. And the worst part is it’s not even like she’s physically hard to kill, it’s more like my head just isn’t in the game. I don’t know, it’s weird.

So, here's where I may be the asshole. A few minutes ago I started to finger her against a wall, and it was really obvious she wanted to go further, but instead I cursed at her and ran away. AITA for not staying and giving her what she obviously wanted, then maybe trying to kill her again? I feel like maybe it was ungentlemanly to run away.

😂😂😂😂😂 now do hermione!!!!! 🙏

[atxxzist]

to hell with you | c.s (prologue)

series m.list

pairing: choi san x f!reader

word count: 4k

warning: y/n being a serial liar, manipulator & gaslighter. not 4 the faint hearted. somewhat suggestive

a/n: i already told y'all she's gonna b awful

you've had your fair share of disappointments in life--most of them from your parents, other family members who claim to care for your well-being, and some even from wooyoung.

there's only one person who you can ever really count on to not let you down.

"san," he introduced himself, just fourteen years old at the time and still oblivious to what he was getting himself into.

you admit that though you might not excel academically, never caring to go above and beyond and most of the times just barely passing your classes, you have a talent for reading people.

able to tell whether someone is worth your time from just being with them briefly, and choi san was definitely someone worth all the initial fake smiles and enthusiasm because not only did he keep you company because no one else wanted to, san was also quite gifted in the academic department.

as if cursed the day he was seated next to you, you figured out quickly how much of a star student he was, holding a prowess in almost any subjects that would've made your parents proud if he was their kid--and a fact you selfishly used to your advantage.

if it wasn't something coming up that was preventing you from doing your work, it was that you didn't understand the assignment and it'd just be easier if he did both his and your part.

and if it wasn't that, then you were mostly just copying off of him--another thing he made extremely easy because you also picked up quite early on that san likes you.

unfortunately growing up, you were never been one for romance, trashing the concept and rejecting every boys that has ever asked you out, your cousin was convinced at one point you were asexual.

even san, you didn't feel much different toward besides the very obvious facts he made school much easier for you, and that you had someone else to talk to aside from wooyoung.

still, you stuck with him all through high school and even learned to appreciate some parts of him even if they didn't necessarily benefit you in any ways, given the bigger picture was that he was more useful than useless.

san is the only person who has never said no to you regardless of anything, even if he has a hard time with it in general; you having seen first-hand the few times he'd let someone step all over him or be too afraid to ask for money back that was rightfully owed to him.

you had been the voice of reasons for most of those instances, stepping up in his place when he was too timid to do it himself, offended at the mere thought that someone else believed they could just take advantage of san's kindness.

it's incredibly ironic, you understand, because it isn't someone not paying him back or asking to copy a quick problem that's gonna hurt him in the long run.

it's his 'best friend' knowingly and fully aware of the kind of person he is; that maybe sometimes he doesn't say no not because he's afraid, but because he genuinely wants to do it... whether out of goodness or whatever other reasons he has--and exploiting this quality of him.

because you knew he couldn't say no, especially not to you.

not the first time when you lied about being sick so he would do your homework just because you didn't feel like it, and not the most recent when you lied about being away for some 'family business' when you really just flew out to jeju with your cousin for an entire week of vacation, leaving the bulk of your university assignments for san to figure out.

and the worst thing you've ever done according wooyoung, knowing san definitely wasn't gonna say no--asking him to have sex with you.

even if he wanted to, and even if it was consensual, wooyoung having grown a soft spot for the poor boy you've been stringing along--thought it was a horrible idea. he still does.

told you it could get messy quickly, adding something as intimate as sex into an already complicated enough situation when you planned on the relationship staying the same even after.

but you assured him as you always do, saying everything is gonna be okay because san seemed fine with it, and so were you. didn't stop him from saying the same thing he does every time.

"you're sure he's fine with it, or did you just assumed that?"

a remark that always made you roll your eyes, because you didn't doubt a bit that san was more than fine. he likes you, why wouldn't he wanna sleep with you? plus, the idea came up in the first place because it was a known fact between the two of you that you were both virgins.

"i'm failing to see what's the problem?" you shrug nonchalantly, having confessed the deed just the day after it was done and thinking wooyoung would understand, though you should've seen it coming at this point.

"i mean, isn't it better to lose your virginity to someone you trust?" you add, only to the look of disappointment on your cousin's face; the same one he's given you one too many times by now.

(also the same one he gave you after you fessed up about having lied regarding having no classes so you could take the jeju trip with him)

he shakes his head and let out a short breath.

"i'm not here to judge anyone's sex lives because there's a reason one night stands and friends with benefits are a thing, but it's a horrible idea because of the history between you and san. the feelings you know he has for you... you're kind of taking advantage of that."

but in classic you style, you usually don't wanna listen to wooyoung unless he's agreeing with you; letting out an annoyed sigh and making sure he hears it before crossing your arms.

"whatever," you mumble, though wooyoung hears it--not that you care. he's family, so whether you pisses him off or not doesn't really matter all that much.

he says something under his breath that you pretend to pay no attention to.

"you're literally a sociopath."

so maybe san's friends doesn't like you for a reason--not that you really care about that, too. after all, they're not the ones who's known you for years or getting asked for favors--most of which san does so contently, sometimes even offering it himself.

or maybe they don't like that you're always taking him from them, always catching the pure annoyance and eye rolls when you make the slightest appearance at their library table, knowing damn well the only reason why you're even here at all.

you can appreciate yeosang for keeping his composure and acting like he can stand you, even if you probably irritate him just as much as the other two who usually isn't as friendly and will let you know.

"guess who," you say in your sweet voice the same time you cover san's eyes with your hands from behind, nails perfectly painted and all, ignoring the side eye mingi gave you just a few seconds ago when he caught you heading this way.

"hey," san says, a small giggle accompanying his response, prying your hands from his vision gently and turning to meet the pretty smile on your lips.

"whatchu doing?" you ask, peeking over his shoulder that lifts your heels off the floor and makes your short skirt rise just a little, the fabric barely safe enough to cover parts of you that shouldn't be seen, especially in public, to see that he's currently reading through a textbook.

"just finishing up a chapter," he answers, much to the smirk on your lips that's about to say something, when mingi beats you to it.

"just cut to it. no need to act like you actually care about what we're doing, especially anything concerning school works," the boy says harshly, accustomed to your little routine and just how things work in your world, pretending to care about san and anything that doesn't involve you before it will eventually become all about you.

san opens his mouth to defend you, but you cut him off, also well-accustomed to dealing with people like mingi and yunho.

"of course i care. i mean, who wouldn't want to hear all about..." you pause to read the title of the closed textbook sitting in front of mingi, "the principles of physics," you say sarcastically with a high-pitched voice you know will tick his gears.

mingi's grip clenches, and this time, it's san that cuts him off before things can escalate any further (and they will).

he closes the book he was reading and grabs at his backpack quickly the same time he jumps onto mingi's words mid-sentence.

"okay! well we should probably get going," he says, looking down at you with a tiny smile that you return.

immediately, you latch your arm around his and wave to the group of very irritated boys; san barely managing to say a proper goodbye before you drag him away.

"sorry about that," san says once you're both out the library, his face as apologetic as they come.

"it's fine. you know i don't care," you reply, as if getting snide remarks and insults hurled at you is just something as casual and expected as having to eat or drink water everyday, though san tries his best to separate you from his friends because it's too many times that someone ends up with their feelings hurt; 9/10 times that someone either being yunho or mingi.

san nods it off, something seemingly on his mind.

"i-i didn't know you'd show. if i did, i would've suggested we meet out here, or in the dorms."

"i texted you in the morning. you didn't answer," you tell him, stating the obvious but his reaction is as if this is news.

"right. i apologize. i was going to, but i forgot."

you can't help but to crank an eyebrow at the strangeness of it all, but you don't get to linger on the thoughts because san's quick to break it.

"did you have something you wanted to tell me?" he asks.

"i was gonna ask if you'd be free to help me study this friday." as if you already don't know his answer. as if you care whether or not he has something else going on beside to clear all of his schedules at your beck and call.

but expect the unexpected, because san surprises you. he doesn't instantly nod his head or says yes the way you know him to.

instead, he asks in an unsure, almost disappointed voice, "this friday?"

"yeah. right now we're going through some really boring chapters in fashion class. something about the history of it and textiles fundamentals," you tell him, sounding as disheartened as you can, which is usually code for 'i need you to do the work for me basically'.

it takes him longer than needed to finally respond, as if his mind preoccupied and hesitating--a sight you don't think you've ever seen of san before.

"i might have something that friday, so i'll think about it."

and for the first time in your life ever since you've known him, choi san gives you a 'maybe'. gasp. the audacity.

you immediately cross your arms, looking him up and down as if interrogating, saying it playfully and mischieviously but definitely meaning the words coming out of your mouth, "you have something better that friday or what?"

san cooly plays it off and starts walking away the same time he answers, "i said i'll think about it." causing you to skip frantically behind him to catch up before stopping in front of him, the sudden appearance almost causing the two of you to bump into each other.

a stare-off and a couple seconds of silence ensues before you blurt out, "i'll fuck you if you come this friday."

he laughs, the dimples you hate to admit you love, shows itself along with the shake of his head.

"you'd fuck me either way," he says, to a teasing smile on your lips.

"maybe," you mutter, jumping to his side that second to wrap your arm around his again, this time leaning your head on his shoulder to look up at him through your perfectly curled lashes.

"please?" you say in the sweetest voice possible, a pout accompanying your lips to be even more convincing.

but again, he only chuckles it off, mumbling, "we'll see." leaving a permanent frown on your face the rest of the day, because no matter how much you pester him, he isn't moved the slightest.

you can't believe it.

san was a lot more compliant in high school, like he didn't live for anything else but to carry out orders from you. of course, it made sense because you were his only 'friend'.

then came college, the journey that had began a year ago, and within just the first few months, he was telling you about guys he met in his classes who seemed like they actually wanted to be his friends.

guys who shared all the same nerdy interests as him; nose either always in books or video games tournaments you don't really care too much for, though you tried showing some enthusiam whenever san talked about it.

the same guys who sits in the library with him everyday at 12 in the afternoon, probably whispering things into his ears about you and why he should hate your guts, too.

it's no doubt that could be why he's been acting so weird lately.

not texting you as much the past few days, and even completely scrapping the usual schedule you guys had after classes for an entire week now, telling you he and his friends are prepping for a gaming club of some sort.

and you can deal with a little change of behaviors; even some hesitation as long as he comes back around, but you absolutely cannot deal with san straight up telling you no.

"i can't," he says over the phone, his voice stern but still holding back some fear, afraid of your reaction.

"what!" you yell in disbelief. "san, you cannot be fucking kidding me."

this isn't happening.

"i'm sorry. i-i--"

"you what?" you cut him off, the pink in your room now turning red in your vision. "what other better things do you have to do?"

"i'll make up to you, i promise," he tries to reasoning, tone apologetic, but you're still not having it.

"you know what? whatever. forget about it." then you hang up. just like that. just like whenever things doesn't go your way.

what are you supposed to do now? study for your own classes and do your own assignments? unbelievable.

"yeah that's kind of crazy. having to do the work yourself? damn." wooyoung's sarcastic response fills the speaker of your phone, prompting you to roll your eyes.

"shut the fuck up, woo."

you let out a groan and slam the textbook shut, rolling your back onto the bed to stare up at the chandelier.

"i can't do this any second longer. it's pure fucking torture," you complain.

"it's only been five minutes, y/n," your cousin states the obvious.

"i know, and i hate it. why the hell do we need to learn about this shit when i already know all there is to know about fashion?"

"well if you supposedly already know everything, then shouldn't this be a breeze for you?"

"logically. but it's not. all these questions are too fucking specific."

since san isn't gonna be coming in tomorrow, you figure you needed to start ahead of time just so you'll have enough room to moan and groan, having to actually do the work yourself now.

"so what would keep him so busy on such a friday?" wooyoung asks after a necessary moment of peace and quiet in order for you to finish a paragraph.

"he wouldn't tell me, but it was probably something to do with his friends. they don't like me."

since you can't possibly think of any other bigger importance than you on san's list.

"anywho, either later tonight or tomorrow morning, he will most likely reach out again," you add, because that's how it works. that's how it has always worked.

you getting upset or ticked off when your plans fall in shambles, and san always apologizing even if he beared no faults.

but san is just full of surprises this week, because you wake up expecting his name on the screen of your phone given he didn't get back to you last night, but all there is are meaningless notifications from the few apps you have.

you could reach out first but why would you? that would ruin your entire brand.

so you strut to classes and think about the actual crazy possibility that san isn't gonna apologize; that he's actually ignoring you--all of which is hard to wrap your head around currently.

it's only 10 in the morning and it's already the longest you and san has gone without communicating.

you keep yourself busy between classes thinking back to wooyoung's offer last night and reconsidering it.

"now that he pretty much blew you off, why don't you come with me tomorrow? finish what you can tonight. you still have another week anyway. besides, it's better than rotting in your room alone on a friday."

but you had told him with the surest confidence that san was gonna call or text, and you two would've already made up by the time the party starts, so you were not gonna be able to make it.

you can't stand parties in general; the smell, the people, the noise, and just everything about having a bunch of teens and barely young adults in one place is incredibly tacky.

the first one you went out of curiosity, and the second one was because wooyoung, your cousin who's the life of the party, of course, dragged you to it.

he had wanted you to get to know some of his university friends, only for them to unfortunately not even make the event because something came up.

he said they're showing for sure this time.

you tell wooyoung if san doesn't get back to you by 3, you'll go; and you're currently getting dressed to head out with him because san doesn't fucking get back to you at all.

"fuck him," you curse as you plop down in the passenger seat, the offhanded comment causing a burst of laughter from wooyoung. "no, seriously, what the fuck could he be doing?"

san's pretty much ghosting you. your jaw is on the floor.

"okay but is it really ghosting if you haven't even tried reaching out at all?" wooyoung quips, raising an eyebrow at you, already able to see the disbelief currently painting your expression just from his peripheral vision.

"you're not making me feel any better, woo," you whine, crossing your arms and frowning like a child as you stare at the road ahead.

"i'm just trying to be rational here."

"sure, because it sounds like you're always taking his side."

"i'm not picking sides, and even if i am, i'll always try my best to stand behind who's family."

you scoff and roll your eyes, muttering, "sure."

a short silence fly by before wooyoung speaks again, "but if you really wanna feel better, you made the right choice in coming tonight."

but actually being there just makes you do a double take if this was indeed the right choice, because you currently feel suffocated being dragged through the crowd once again by your cousin as he tries to find an open space.

"think somebody tried to touch my ass," you tell him with disgust, patting your wrinkled skirt.

he opens his mouth to respond, but his attention's quickly taken away by someone else; the young man who just came out of nowhere goes to hug your cousin and the two engages in some bro handshake while you just stare, looking as out of place as one can be.

the stranger doesn't seem to notice you until wooyoung switches his gaze back and actually introduces you.

"right. this is my cousin i've been telling you guys all about," he says, nodding your direction that prompts the man to turn to you with an immediate smile.

"ah," the man churns. "y/n, right? i've heard you got quite the personality."

he holds out a hand and you return the gesture politely. if you actually gave a shit about guys, you'd say this man is actually quite pleasant to the eyes.

"oh, i'm curious about just what kind of things wooyoung's saying behind my back," you reply, a faint smirk already on your lips as you meet wooyoung's gaze behind this man.

"nothing but good things, of course," he cries dramatically, rolling his eyes simultaneously; the sight erupting a chuckle from the man whose name you still don't know.

"seonghwa," he finally says, the answer pulling your eyes back to his.

"seonghwa," you repeat to yourself with a tiny smile. "nice to meet you."

then comes hongjoong after; someone whose entrance is a lot bigger in comparison to seonghwa, something about the way he presents himself earning some respect from you--and you can't say that about many people.

seonghwa's a close second, but you probably like hongjoong the best out of wooyoung's friends.

but it's not even a competition regarding who you like least, because you know it the second you're left alone with him when everyone but you and him decides to sit out a drinking game (huge mistake).

"who do you think is gonna win?"

"that was so stupid, if i was playing, i would never do that."

"oh, i really like this song."

"people likes to tell me i got a talent for singing but i don't really know."

you appreciate him for trying to break the ice, but right now, you'd rather watch paint dry.

"look, i really don't care," you spit out, the first words you've spoken ever since the rest left you guys to be.

and you almost expect him to be offended, but you shouldn't have been surprised when he just gawks at you, seemingly unfazed. judging from his obnoxious personality, it only makes sense he has a higher than usual tolerance for someone like you.

"wow," he says casually. "wooyoung's right. you are mean."

you fake a smile and turn your attention back to the ensuing chaos happening in front, voice barely above a whisper but loud enough for jongho to hear, "perfect. i'm glad i got my point across."

"he also said it's best we don't get too close to you even if you're his cousin. but that's okay, i think you're totally hot."

the comment makes you snap your neck to him, a scoff escaping your lips and incredulity crossing your face because you can see his gaze lowering to the end of your skirt.

"seriously, fuck off before i hurt your feelings," you curse at him, rolling your eyes one last time and brushing past his shoulder harshly to get elsewhere, but the boy chases behind you much to your annoyance.

"please! i'm sorry! i didn't mean to!" you can hear him through the shouting music, but you're just dead set on losing him at this point, going everywhere and anywhere; the thoughts of san completely forgotten at the appearance of another problem, when the sudden pierce of a laughter reminds you of it all over again.

one so familiar and close as if you've been hearing it for years, swiftly turning your head to the source, and there he is. choi mother fucking san.

all the reasons and explanations for why he has been acting so strange, and why he blew you off this very night. all so he could come to this party with the very same bitch he told you he didn't care for.

now suddenly sitting across from her and fondly looking at her; a sight that makes your stomach queasy, you don't even care jongho has caught up to you as he bumps right into your back.

in the span of just a few days, san, for the very first time, tells you no and lets you down.

-`♡´-

a/n: i literally cannot use a divider or the post won't show up in the tags 🤡 but there it is, folks. the start of another mess. i'm a liar & for anyone waiting on sweetest lies, i swear i tried so hard to write the final chapter, it literally put me in a writing slump bc i was just not making any progress at all. i just needed to write something and writing this has got me out of the slump temporarily, so for you sweetest lies readers, pls wait just a little more 🙏

taglist: @sorryimananti-romantic @cherrychristie @santineez @barbielibra

[actual-changeling]

I was once again re-watching good omens, and I once again realized something incredibly painful, so welcome back to

Alex's unhinged meta corner.

I really need to make a masterpost at some point.

You see, the very first episode not only foreshadows their last argument, it also tells us exactly why it will happen and what problem/offer they will have to face.

We don't usually pay much attention to it because it's a) in the very first episode and then doesn't come up again and b) we know that Crowley would never accept it.

My realization is that Beelzebub's offer mirrors the Metatron's. Both Crowley and Aziraphale are given the same kind of opportunity—but one says no and the other says yes.

Let's have a look!

This is not going to be chronological but more of a go with the flow thing because the aspects are the same but they don't appear in the same order.

The most obvious part first: the job offer itself.

Beelzebub offers him a promotion and later on specifies that he can be a Duke of Hell, one of the few people in charge. I believe that if Gabriel and Beez' plan had been to run away together from the very beginning, ze would have offered Crowley zir own job as Prince of Hell. Still, being a Duke would probably put him in a standing similar to Michael or Uriel's.

The Metatron obviously offers him the job of Supreme Archangel, which is the highest possible position for an angel to hold, aka it's the same promotion, just different colours.

Both offers also stem from the exact same problem—Gabriel is gone.

Now, Beelzebub and the Metatron aren't stupid, they know that they need to convince them to take it, they have to embellish it and play with their wants and fears.

Beelzebub presumably makes the correct assumption that Aziraphale is hiding Gabriel or that the two of them are somehow involved (because they always are), and while ze uses it as a threat/warning, the Metatron takes what is now fact and uses it in the opposite way.

Additionally, ze trusts Crowley to not only deliver Gabriel back to zem but to take care of him until he's safe and sound with his partner.

'I trust you with him' -> 'He trusted you with himself'.

I will now do a little jump to the last part of Aziraphale's conversation with the Metatron right in front of the lift. Once again, they appeal to a characteristic Crowley and Aziraphale share.

'You know earth and that is a useful asset.' What has previously been punished and was seen as a weakness—what is he, he has gone native, you've been down here for too long—is now praised.

It's good that you know earth, we see that you are worth something, you are different but that is good now.

Crowley does not care about that at all, he gives exactly zero fucks about what hell thinks of him, but Aziraphale? Who has been trying to impress the Archangels for six thousand years and been humiliated by them during Armageddon? This is what he has been craving all along, respect for his job on earth and to be recognized as a Good Angel.

Well, that was the carrot, time for the stick: threats.

They remind them of their respective status—they're both traitors, personae non gratae, and they could still be punished for that. After the trial, they were largely left alone, but they drew attention to themselves again, they became a problem.

The Metatron is more subtle, as usual. He knows that Aziraphale lied his ass off several times, including directly in front of God. This is not a just compliment, it's a threat—I know who you are and I have the power to make you feel that

'You don't just tell people what they want to hear.' Again, they are sitting at this table and both know that the opposite is true, and the Metatron is both using it to threaten him and to establish the clear expectations he will have for him should he take the job. Also, by saying he thinks Aziraphale is those things, he gives him more praise, more respect.

Both sides know that Aziraphale and Crowley are each other's biggest weakness; they want to be safe and together. I think it is clear what kind of threat/danger Beez is presenting Crowley, but we rarely talk about the fact that the Metatron also threatens him, just not as explicitly.

Aziraphale will be destroyed if they find Gabriel with him, and Crowley cannot let that happen. However, contrary to heaven, hell has more or less known about the two of them for decades, and they never actually cared about the arrangement as long as the job got done. They punished Crowley when he did good deeds aka not his fucking job but the opposite.

'I know you care about him, he's at risk if you don't help me find him.'

The Metatron on the other hand makes it clear that HE specifically knows about him and Crowley, and Aziraphale did not know who exactly was privy to that information and if it reached the Metatron. Not just that, he emphasizes that he has been doing research on them, he can dig up whatever dirt he likes and then kill them both.

No one would be able to stop him.

This next part is going to be interesting because it is a parallel that Aziraphale doesn't and currently wouldn't be able to see, while Crowley does see it very, very clearly.

When the Metatron tells Aziraphale he can take Crowley with him to heaven and make him an angel again, that is good news to him! It is PERFECT! It would solve out of his problems, and who wouldn't want to be an angel, on the side of good?

Everything the Metatron did up to this point, from 'saving' them from punishment at the hand of the Archangels, over getting him coffee, to giving twisted praise, has had one primary objective: Get Aziraphale to trust him.

It worked. Consequently, Aziraphale does not question what he tells him now, and believes that he truly could take Crowley with him and make him an angel again. He has no concept of what falling actually means, and what it meant for Crowley in particular, so he cannot discern the threat within it.

Yet when he presents it to Crowley, who is horrified and rightfully so, we are once again shown that no, Aziraphale does not understand. Crowley does, though. That angel he was no longer exists, he cannot go back to it because they're gone, and he would not want to either. Everything they have built on earth their life, their existence, would mean absolutely nothing and cease to exist.

Do you see the threat yet?

Here is what Beelzebub tells him, and what we are told over and over and over again throughout the season.

Erased from the book of life, gone from existence, everything they were, had, owned, lived—gone.

Erased from the book of life vs. turned back into an angel that doesn't exist anymore, that CAN'T exist again.

Put the threat and the 'offer' next to each other, and Crowley sees the same fate in both: His existence will be destroyed. Aziraphale, like I said above, doesn't. The book of life is a threat, but turning him into an angel is a blessing.

Right now, it doesn't matter whether the book of life really exists or if a demon can be turned back into an angel. What matters is that they both BELIEVE those things are real and possible, because that is what they act on, belief.

Beelzebub sends him away with bad news, the Metatron pushes Aziraphale to tell Crowley good news. Same offer, same possible outcomes (either they get to live together or one of them/both get destroyed), but entirely different responses.

Crowley says no. Aziraphale says yes.

Aziraphale thinks Crowley should have said yes.

Crowley thinks Aziraphale should have said no.

So. We know what happens next and personally, combing through all of this in detail only made it hurt worse!! If it did the same for you—you're welcome, I love my job.

[thecampjuicebox]

I always wondered how the romanced companions would react if Orin kidnapped the player character. Any thoughts?

Be prepared for some angst because PHEEEEWWWWW

Astarion

At this point in the story, romanced Astarion and Tav are very close. He even states that Tav is the only person he's ever cared for, so I can imagine he'd be devastated if his beloved was taken by Orin. He'd take a relatively unhinged approach to saving them, running in with fangs bared. Daggers swinging. He'd make quick work of Orin, slicing and dicing to save his love. They've always done so much to save him so he'd feel it was his duty to do the same in this instance. Once he's able to hold them in his arms again, he'd allow himself to cry. Sob, even. He'd hold them close, smooth their hair back, bury his face in their neck to deeply inhale their familiar scent, but not until telling them how stupid they were for allowing themselves to be kidnapped by the shape-changer in the first place.

Karlach

Tav is Karlach's first taste of intimate touch in YEARS. Her first taste of love for as long as she can remember. When she finds out Tav is the one taken by the shape-changer, it would break her. Shatter her into a million burning pieces. Her engine would run hotter than the searing fires of Avernus. She'd yell and spit and grab the nearest bludgeoning object she could to absolutely decimate Orin where she stands. The pale eyed woman has caused enough problems and with Karlach's already crushed morale after seeing Gortash again, she'd go absolutely ape shit. She'd fall to her knees in front of Tav. Hug their legs. Cry as she rubs her nose across their thighs. Cling to them like a child. "Don't ever leave me again, Soldier. I can't bear it."

Wyll

First and foremost Wyll, I think, would be the most level headed in this situation. He'd quickly devise a plan to save his love. The Blade of Frontiers or the Blade of Avernus, either way, he'll prove his heroism and his devotion to Tav. No one lays a finger on his prince/princess. Their Devil in shining armor. He'd make an entrance similar to when Tav first encounters him in the Emerald Grove. Bold and brave, ready to dominate the fight. And once Tav is assured safe, he'd sweet them off of their feet. Shower them in love and praise of their bravery during this traumatic event.

Shadowheart

Shadowheart is very reserved and quiet about her feelings and thoughts. If her love was taken by Orin, I think she'd play calm about it while absolutely losing it inside. She's mentioned previously that she isn't one for romances, more just short lived flings. With Tav, however. It's incredibly different. She'd rally the other companions and rush into Bhaal's temple to find Orin. Slay here right there. And then take Tav into her arms and check them other, make sure the shape-changer caused them no serious harm. If she had, Shadowheart would heal them. Make them feel safe once more.

Lae'Zel

Lae'Zel's love of Tav goes from 0-100 real quick, and hearing that Tav was taken by an enemy, I think she'd LOSE it. Lae'Zel has not known love like her love for Tav. Tav showed her freedom and no one is going to take that away from her now. She's not known to show very intense emotions, but I think she would let herself cry this time. Lae'Zel is trained in combat so taking Orin down would not be a difficult feat with the help of the other companions. Once Tav is safe, she'd embrace them with all of her strength. Hold them close to her as she mumbles softly in their ear "Zhak vo'nfynh duj. Source of my joy."

Gale

Gale is such a soft lover. His prior relationship with Mystra caused a lot of trauma and I think his romance with Tav is his key to being happy again. With himself and in general. Even the threat of having to blow himself up is softened by Tav's presence. "One moment with you could sate me for a lifetime, and prise the fear from my heart." Once he learns that Tav was taken, I know for a fact he'd go into bad bitch mode. He'd storm his little wizard self right into Bhaal's temple and fireball the hells out of Orin before she could get a word in edgewise. Where'd all this courage come from? The lovely idea that after all of this is over and Tav is safe, they can return to the illusory scene of his tower in Waterdeep and reside there whenever the feeling arises. Not without a lecture on why it wasn't the smartest idea to get kidnapped, though.

[five-hxrgreeves]

Two Positives Equal a Negative (Or Something Like That)

PAIRING: adam warlock & fem! quill’s sister!reader

WC: 2.8k (again, a long one. I just can’t seem to write anything short!) 

SUMMARY: you’ve always had trouble sleeping thanks your numerous (unfortunate) life experiences. While he hasn’t lived as long as you have, Adam has a similar problem. Fortunately, a Terran phrase that your brother taught you might have the solution that you seek.

WARNINGS: slight gotg three spoilers, fluff, angst if you squint.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: okay, so I accidentally lied and I realized that my last one-shot wasn’t my first official one; I wrote a Natasha x reader several years ago. I just don’t post on here that often so I forgot about it, lol. Anyway, Adam Warlock currently has a chokehold on me so here’s another one-shot for him- the sequel that I mentioned on the last one. I’m tempted to write a Gally one/two-shot, but I’m not familiar with the TMR universe so I’m worried that I’d mess it up.

Also, I know that the phrase is actually ‘two negatives equal a positive,’ but I was drawing on the fact that non-Terrans wouldn’t really remember/understand Peter’s references, and since ‘you’ had only been to Earth during Endgame, you it mixed up.

Part 0 , Part 1

You’d always had trouble sleeping, especially on your father’s planet. There had just been a sense of. . . wrongness that you didn’t need Mantis’ empath powers to feel. It had made you on edge most of the time, alert for the unseen danger that you felt. While this might’ve just been your role as Ego’s protector speaking, you knew that your sister felt similarly. Mantis had once offered to put you to sleep using her powers, which you’d agreed to. Although it had worked, you hadn’t liked the feeling of your emotions being messed with, or the vulnerability that came with sleep. Even though you trusted that your sister wouldn’t hurt you, Ego was a different story entirely.

So, that meant that you were up most of the time with only catnaps and snatches of sleep when absolutely necessary. (Luckily your enhanced stamina helped in this case so it wasn’t terribly detrimental to your wellbeing.) It was hard to hide your unusual sleep patterns on the Milano with your new friends since there wasn’t space to walk around like there had been on Ego’s planet. But the Guardians all had various traumas of their own, so they understood the difficulty of getting peaceful rest. Some nights had even been better than others as Peter would teach you how to play Terran card games, which would then include the rest of the Guardians once you’d learned.

You also liked to sit in the pilot’s chair late at night and watch the darkness of space light up around you. It was funny, really; everyone expected space to be a dark, black vacuum of nothing when it was actually just the opposite. Sure, there was no physical form of life, but space was alive in its own way. As the Milano sailed aimlessly through the stars, you’d pass the orange-red clouds of dust and gas— nebulas. Or the brilliant white-blue of a dying star, or the different hues of blue-black that surrounded you. Space was truly beautiful, which was something that you never tried to take for granted.

But now you were stuck on Knowhere. There were no brilliant colors of space to distract you or friends to play card games with. Mantis was gone— your only source of comfort on those long nights when you’d served your father. You were alone, with nothing but a Zune to distract you as you sat, bored, in the kitchen late into the night. You’d decided on some calmer tunes and were currently listening to the Frank Sinatra playlist you’d curated. A warm mug of tea— which Peter had also introduced you to— sat between your hands as your eyes glazed over, getting lost in your music.

--

As it turned out, Adam wasn’t that great of a sleeper, either. It always felt like there was too much energy running through him to be properly restful— not to mention that, whenever he closed his eyes, he saw his mother waiting for him as he flew desperately towards her. And then the explosion would come, jolting him out of sleep as a reminder of his failure.

With a sigh, he pushed back his covers and stood. Since he was already dressed (his mother had always told him to be ready for anything), he made his way to the kitchen where he’d baked cookies with you. It hadn’t been that long ago, but he already missed the comfortable, homey feeling he’d gotten as he formed the batter into spheres with you standing at his side. You had yet to talk to Rocket about how his comments made you feel, but he knew it was because you respected your teammate and didn’t like making a big deal out of things. Thinking about you now, he sort of hoped that he would see you in the kitchen when he got there— but that was a crazy thought; it was the middle of the night! Any normal person would be in a deep sleep by now.

So, it was definitely a pleasant surprise when he came upon you, sitting at the head of the table. Your earbuds were in your ears, as usual, and you seemed to be deep in thought as you absentmindedly traced the rim of your mug with your finger. He was comfortable enough with you to approach you without hesitation, so he took the chair next to yours and nudged you gently to get your attention.

You jumped, startled by the unexpected presence of someone else in the room. At first you had a wild thought that it might be Peter, who came to keep you company as he often had. You were only mildly disappointed to see that it was Adam instead (and this was just because you missed your brother; you were actually quite happy to see the golden boy.) You took out your earbuds and paused your music. “You’re up late. Or early.”

His golden eyes met yours— something you noticed that he did often; it seemed that eye contact was his way of showing that he was listening to you, which always made your stomach flutter pleasantly. “So are you,” he replied. ���Can’t sleep?”

“Nah,” you said with a shrug. “You?”

“Me either,” he agreed.

You sat in a comfortable silence together, one so long that you were almost tempted to  put your earbuds back in. Maybe this was a one-off thing; you’d never seen him before on your sleepless nights. Maybe he wasn’t used to being up at this hour and just wasn’t as talkative as he normally was with you. But you were also curious; what could a supposedly perfect being be troubled with at night? So, you sighed, and against your better judgement (as you hated to talk about your feelings), you asked, “wanna talk about it?”

But Adam also knew how you were, and he shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind just sitting here.” He got to enjoy your company, after all, so he considered tonight to be better than most.

You let out another sigh. As much as you hated getting touchy-feely, the night was already very boring; sitting and not talking would only make it worse. “I don’t mind, actually. I’m used to being around other people when I’m up like this. Talking would make the time pass faster.” You studied his expression for a moment, which was unusually unreadable; it always seemed like he had a kind smile or glance to send your way. “We can start off easy, if you want. Are you up like this every night?”

His expression softened at your willingness to go outside your comfort zone, so he answered honestly. (He had nothing that he wanted to hide from you, anyway.) “Most nights, yeah. What about you?”

“Same,” you agreed. You played with the rubber protective tip on your earbud. “Can’t get to sleep or bad dreams?”

“Both,” Adam admitted. “Although it’s usually the first one.”

You nodded. “Same, again, but for me it’s mostly the latter. You remember when I said that you weren’t the first person to try and kill me?” At his confirmation (because how could he have forgotten that?), you continued, “yeah. It’s mostly that. My father was a great parent,” you finished sarcastically.

When you’d first become friends, you’d shared stories about the Guardians’ adventures— even the ones that had happened before you’d joined the team— although they’d mostly been lighthearted in tone. You’d acted like they hadn’t really affected you and had laughed at the fact that your father’s planet had tried to swallow you whole. Adam sort of wished that your father was still alive so he could fight him for you. While his mother had had her moments of parenting issues, he’d never doubted that she did love him; it was clear that this wasn’t the case with your father.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not really sure what else he could say. Despite everything that had happened to you, you were still a good person; you hadn’t fought the Guardians on your first meeting like he had, which already made you better than him. He wished that there was something he could do (such as getting revenge for you) to help ease whatever burden you were feeling as you often had for him, but there didn’t seem like there was anything that he could do.

“Don’t worry about it,” you replied in a blasé tone, already moving on from your heavy things. “Want to talk about your stuff?”

He shifted in his seat, a little uncomfortable to admit his failure to you. He wanted to prove that he was just as capable as you were, and this was one of his worst moments. “I. . . keep thinking about my mother.” His gaze dropped to where his hands were folded on the table, unable to watch your reaction in case you thought worse of him. “How I. . . wasn’t able to save her. I was so close, too. If only I’d been faster—”

You reached out a hand to put it on top of both of his, cutting him off. Yours was much smaller in comparison, barely covering even one of his hands. He looked up at you with surprise, feeling his face heat up at the contact. Your usually jovial expression was uncharacteristically serious as you chided him gently, “stop. Thinking like that never helps, you know. You’ll drive yourself mad if you keep wondering ‘what if.’ I should know.”

While he was relieved that his fears about your reaction were unfounded, he frowned at your last words. “What do you mean?”

You pretended not to notice that your hands were still holding his as you answered, “remember what I told you about the Snap?” At his nod, you continued, “Peter and I were the only ones who weren’t trying to subdue Thanos. My powers are mostly defensive, so they would only anger him, which was the opposite of what we were trying to do. Peter got— understandably— distraught at the news of Gamora’s death and he was practically solely responsible for the Snap.” You sighed heavily, dropping your gaze from him. “As the only other person not doing anything on that planet, I could’ve stopped him, but he was my brother; I couldn’t hurt him. But if I had. . . everything could’ve been so much different. In a way, I was responsible for the Snap, too.”

While he understood your reasoning, he didn’t completely agree with it. You’d filled him in with great detail about the Infinity War, which you’d only learned the missing parts after you’d been brought back. So, he insisted quietly, “Thor could’ve also gone for Thanos’ head, but he didn’t.”

“But Thanos wouldn’t have even gotten to the Terran planet if we’d stopped him on Titan. You see what I mean? These what-ifs really messed with my head— still do. You eventually just have to accept the fact that the situation can’t be changed and learn from your mistakes.” In a lighter tone you added, “I promised myself that the next time I needed to sock it to Peter, I wouldn’t hesitate. Maybe a good hit to the head would knock some common sense back into him.”

Adam chuckled at this, his serious expression lifting. Sensing that you didn’t want to talk about such emotional topics anymore, he changed the subject slightly. “So you’re up every night because of these thoughts? Don’t you need sleep?”

“Yeah, but I’ve got enhanced stamina, so not as much as a regular person,” you said, relieved that he picked up on your hint. “What about you? You’re practically a god yourself.”

He felt his face flush with (pleased) embarrassment at your indirect compliment, even if it was truthful. “That’s part of the problem, I think,” he explained. “All this power. . . it gives me too much energy and. . . I can’t sleep.”

You frowned thoughtfully at your similar predicaments, an idea (admittedly, a stupid enough one that Peter could’ve come up with it) forming in your mind. “Y’know,” you began slowly, “Peter taught me a Terran phrase awhile back. I can’t exactly remember how it goes— it’s like two positives equal a negative, or something like that— and it means that when there’s two good things, it cancels out the bad one. We could try and apply it here.”

He gave you a curious look. “Really? How?”

“Well, since we both can’t sleep— that’s the negative— maybe. . . maybe if we slept. . .” You felt your face burning at your suggestion. “If we slept. . . tog— well, not together-together, I mean— with each— does that sound worse? I—” you struggled to find the right wording that wouldn’t come off as suggestive. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you added hastily, misunderstanding his bemused expression.

“Little Quill,” he teased you lightly, “you haven’t even gotten the question out.”

Oh. You only felt even more embarrassed. “Do you want to sleep in my room?” you finally managed to blurt out, burying your face in your hands, unable to look at the boy across from you.

Instead of taking offense or making fun of you as you’d expected, Adam seemed to actually consider your offer. “Do you think it would work?”

At his question, you dropped your hands to your lap and shrugged, though your face was still very red. He seemed remarkably unflustered, not that you could tell if he was (damn his beautiful golden skin— wait, what?) “I don’t know,” you mumbled, still refusing to look at him. “I can only sleep if I feel safe, and there’s only one person I ever felt that way with— Mantis. But. . . now I think that includes you, too.”

Adam couldn’t help the bright smile that formed on his face at your words, the thought that you felt safe with him (especially after everything that he’d done to you and your friends) meant more than he could say. The thought that you would willingly be vulnerable in his presence made his stomach feel enjoyably— and inexplicably— nauseous. “I feel safe around you too,” he replied without hesitation. “And. . . I wouldn’t mind trying it.”

--

Not long after, the two of you returned to the room you were renting in the dorm-style building. Since neither you nor Adam had family to speak of (and were also short on funds), you’d both found rooms in a tenant building that had lots of other people, many of whom had lost their homes during the Guardians’ most recent adventures. Luckily you’d gotten a room to yourself, though you had to share basic facilities with everyone else.

“You can sleep in the bed since this was my idea,” you offered. You were still in what you considered your pajamas, so you just had to gather some spare blankets and pillows.

Adam shook his head, against the thought of you making accommodations for him. “I can sleep on the floor. You shouldn’t have to give up your bed.”

“It’s not like I use it much anyway,” you joke, pulling the covers back. “But if you’re seriously against me sleeping on the floor, I guess we could. . . share?”

He seemed not to mind your proposal as he agreed readily, and after taking off his shoes, he made to get in when you spoke again with a confused look on your face. “You. . . sleep in your clothes? No wonder why you can’t get comfortable!”

Adam seemed to not understand your comment. “You sleep in your clothes.”

You laughed a little at his observation. “These are sleep clothes, not everyday clothes. At least take off your jacket,” you reasoned.

But as he did so, you realized why he hadn’t gotten more comfortable: there was nothing except chiseled chest under his clothes. You blushed and tried (but failed) not to stare as he got into bed next to you, admiring the way his muscles flexed with his movement. Luckily he seemed to not notice your attention as he settled next to you. There was a sizeable gap between you two despite the bed not being very big, one that you wished you had the guts to close. (Wait— again, what?)

You wondered how you’d ever get to sleep with all that muscle right behind you (okay, this one you could admit freely), but somehow, in the quiet stillness of your dark room, the safe, peaceful feeling lulled you into the first restful slumber that you’d had since your siblings had left months ago.

--

And if you woke up the next morning, curled up against Adam’s chest with his arm wrapped around you protectively, neither of you bothered to say anything about it.

[justcressida]

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- DEAR SAİNTESS

"I was granted the death I desperately longed for, only to be caught up in a second life no different than the first. And yet, here I am, doing everything I can to stay alive."

Record Of Ragnarok X Rudbeckia De Borgia! Reader

PS: I'm a foreigner okay? Language problems. Part 2?

A beautiful smile, a radiant gaze, and a gentle aura. No matter what, just smile and pass. You've done just that all your life, and your end hasn't changed yet.

While your desire for death was never ending, when you finally died, you were somehow resurrected with all of humanity. for Ragnarok.

LOKİ

Okay, you were too weird even for someone like him. He was just bored and wanted to mess with mortals, but...

Why are you smiling? He wanted you to be scared or raging, but there you are, with a gentle smile on your face. Yet that master of lies saw your trembling hands no matter how well you played.

Maybe it was meant to be enjoyed, but... Did it really scare you that much?

Okay, he hadn't had the fun he wanted, and the rage of Humanity's first victory was still running through his veins, but somehow you got his attention.

I mean, come to think of it, what mortal would smile at someone who tormented him so much?

Out of sheer curiosity, he chased after you and started spying on you.

And he saw the scars on his back. Whip marks, stab marks.

How did you have so many wounds when even a warrior didn't have that many wounds?

Moreover, Ragnarok had resurrected humanity in its most wonderful period.

Was this your greatest period?

With your pretty face and those horrible scars on your body?

He was obviously extremely intrigued, and Loki's curiosity is obsession.

He will solve the mystery of this beautiful mortal.

THOR

Although too busy a man to care for a mortal, Thor was quick to discover Loki's new obsession.

Is it a mortal? Really Loki?

Still, he couldn't help being caught up in this beautiful mortal. The mortal's bright beautiful eyes, shapely face, bright lips, and beautiful hair.

Still, he doesn't understand why this mortal has such a bad reputation. No matter how beautiful mortal she was, everyone looked at this beautiful woman with disgust.

Thor doesn't like to go undercover like Loki, so he'll talk directly to your face.

"Who are you mortal?"

In fact, he said it without expression, too much even for a mortal.

Still, the hammer in his hand, his tall stature and intimidating gaze didn't help at all.

You tried to smile, unable to stop yourself from shaking like a kitten.

"Uh- d-did I do something wrong?"

Your kind words even though you tremble like a kitten, your attempt to smile despite the fear, and most of all your beautiful voice.

He had heard that this beautiful mortal was famous for his voice, but this velvety tone of voice softened his cold heart.

"What's your name, mortal?"

"Well m-my name is Y/N."

Y/N.

A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.

Maybe, Thor thought. Maybe this beautiful mortal isn't as bad as rumors.