#like I'm not one for violence usually but I find it hard not to celebrate when someone who literally makes millions on the cost of millions

[thisismycorneroftheinternet]

I find it wild that people are trying to dismiss or minimize this whole dead CEO thing because it was a right wing dude who did it, when regardless of political position, millions of people objectively benefited from his actions. Sure, we can argue legalism and the moralism of killing someone and all, and the ramifications of that given the group he's part of, but it is disconcerting how people have this pernicious political purity to it all. I've seen it on other situations and it's the reason why people dismiss political victories against reactionaries who want to take the world back to fascist conservatorism, it's why every single charity or whatnot gets weirdos questioning intentions despite how transparent they are, heck, it's even the reason why there's so much in-fighting on the left. A bunch of ideologues who would rather the world go to hell if people don't agree fully with them than do any objective good.

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ DO ANYTHING FOR YOU — how your boyfriends react to you getting assaulted at the pub

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish

warnings. f!reader, unwanted sexual advances, minor sexual assault, graphic violence, possessive/protective relationship, pre-established relationship, implied gaz/price, polyamory, mm, nsfw content, praise, body worship, oral

// NSFW CONTENT UNDER THE CUT //

The smell of cheap beer and even cheaper perfume isn't usually your cup of tea, but then again, neither are pubs in general.

Yet, here you are, squished into a booth with your teammates -- your family, really.

They had insisted that you all go out tonight, something about a celebration for the week off. You just saw it as an excuse to get drunk and hope for a lay, at least, for those not cuffed.

That being said, being single was becoming rarer and rarer for your crew.

"C'mon, cap," the man beside you groans with an eyeroll, his thick arm coming around to rest on the top of the booth behind your head. Slick bastard. "We ain't gonna tease you for it," he insists.

You shoot a knowing glare to your side, and you know that he sees it, cause his mouth quirks in the corners and his dimple shows. Just slightly.

"You're a shitty liar, Johnny," the man to your right huffs with an eyeroll. His skull balaclava is pushed up the base of his nose, showing just a hint of his stubble and scars.

The same stubble and scars that you've felt against your skin too many times to count.

"Ya love me," Soap shrugs with a cheeky grin, his arm moving closer to rest at the nape of your neck. The man's always been a furnace, no matter where you were, or the climate. Hell, when you guys had been stationed in mid-winter Russia for a bit, you and Ghost had clung to him like fucking koalas.

"And look where that's gotten me," Ghost responds with a mutter, gaze harsh with a teasing glint.

"Just because you kids got lucky doesn't mean I will," Price says with a sigh, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand. "I've been out of the scene for... what, six years? More?"

You quickly check to see if Gaz is still at the bar grabbing you all another round, and when you do, he catches your eye. He quickly waves you over, head motioning towards the drinks at the bar. You get the message immediately.

"You guys have your boy talk," you tease, scooting past Soap where he sits, his large frame brushing against your ass and back no matter how hard you try to avoid him. "I'm gonna go help the man of the hour with the drinks."

Soap's hand rests at your hip as you finally escape the narrow confines of the booth, and you shoot him a chastising glare. He retorts with a smug little grin. Grabbing you by your nape, he scoops you in for a quick, chaste kiss on the corner of your lips.

"I'm not leaving," you say on an amused huff, to which Ghost gives you a softened look.

"Fuckin' co-dependent, the both of you," he says gruffly, but the love and adoration is a nice undertone. One you and Soap have grown to notice after months of practice.

With one more quick kiss to your lips, Soap lets you go, the sound of your booth quickly fading away as soon as you fall into the crowds of people.

Considering that it's a Friday night, the place's packed -- you guys had been lucky to score a booth.

Making your way to Gaz, spotting his head of hair, you find yourself pulled into the arms of a stranger. Confused, and head slightly light and cotton-filled due to the rounds you'd had before, you try and wrestle out of the man's grip.

He's strong, however, and you had not dressed for any type of combat. Nor were you in the right state of mind for it.

"Excuse me," you say, voice straining to remain calm and polite. "Could you please let me go?"

The man chuckles, and the sound grates on your skin the way that a snake would slither down your spine. "Love, you were practically beggin' for some attention," he breathes into your ear, breath warm and liquor-laced. "Don't go actin' a prude now."

You shove against his grip, eyes squeezing tight when his hand goes up to fondle at your breasts. He's rough, entirely disgusting about it, and you feel bile rising in your throat.

Heels. You were wearing heels. While the man is distracted with his groping, you raise your right foot, and then slam it down on his. Luckily, the guy was wearing some thin sneakers that allowed for the harsh pain that followed.

"Fuck!" The man seethes, hand moving away from your tits to instead cradle his foot as he hops on his left leg. "Fuckin' skank, you're gonna --"

The man stills, words stopping short when a large, gloved hand wraps around his neck from behind. "Gonna what? Finish your sentence."

Ghost stands behind the man, voice loud in the suddenly hushed pub, even when he grinds the words out by the man's ear.

You feel the familiar and comforting frame of Soap as he gently pulls you into his chest, body tensed and ready for bloodshed, yet soft as he cradles the back of your head and plants a soft kiss to your hair.

"Go ahead. You were so ready to yell at her, so do it. Speak up," Ghost taunts, his voice cold and devoid of the warmth that it had mere minutes ago. It sends a shiver down your spine.

Whimpering, the man instead begs for forgiveness. Spineless piece of shit. He blabbers, tears rolling down his cheeks as Ghost intimidates him, all while Soap holds you with tender touches and comfort.

"We got him," Price's voice cuts through the man's blubbering, his tone that of a Captain who was all too used to cleaning after his subordinates' messes.

"Don't do anything we woul'n't," Soap says, his voice hinting at humour. It allows a soft, albeit small, smile to creep onto your face.

Gaz shoots him his own cheeky look in return.

You doubted that the man would see the light of day again. Either because of a loss of eyes, or a loss of heartbeats.

Price and Gaz lead him out of the pub, the door ringing shut behind them. The crowd instantly turns to keep to themselves, cheering and conversation returning at full volume.

"Princess," Ghost is quick to stand in front of you, blocking out the rest of the world as he holds your face in his hands, gaze examining. Whatever he sees makes him relax a bit, his gaze flitting up to Soap to check over him too. He was always the most protective one -- the bodyguard in your relationship.

It never failed to get you going, and even after the event that had happened, you find that that fact is still accurate.

"'M okay," you say, gripping Ghost's wrists softly and bringing them off of your face with a tentative smile. "He's gone. 'M safe."

Soap's head moves to nuzzle into the side of your neck, pressing soft kisses to your skin where you stand. You tilt your head slightly to allow for easier access, and he accepts the offer gladly.

"Home?" Soap asks, voice muffled by your heated skin as he continues to place lovebites all over your neck, shoulder and collarbone.

Ghost gives one sharp nod, before grabbing your hand and gently pulling you along to the front door. Soap reluctantly moves away from your skin, his arm sliding around your waist as the three of you make your way out into the crisp night air.

It bites at your warm skin, allowing you to sober up just the slightest bit. Enough for you to realise how safe you felt between your two men -- how comfortable and protected.

Luckily, the bar you all frequented was a mere ten minute walk from your apartment, so the three of you managed to make it through the front door in no time.

"Lemme get your heels." Soap is quick to kneel as he delicately unfastens the buckle around your ankle, taking them off with the same amount of care one might use in heart surgery. He presses a kiss to your inner ankle, and then trails his mouth to the tops of your thighs.

Ghost's chest presses against your back, his gloved hands tracing along your bare forearms, then over your shoulders with light caresses. Your eyelids flicker at the attention from both of your lovers, the feeling unlike anything else in the world.

He makes quick, yet cautious, work of unzipping your dress, letting it pool to the ground as they both let out small groans at your undergarments.

Their favourite lingerie adorned your body, and what were they but weak, whipped men?

"Let us take care of you," Ghost grunts, nose brushing against the skin behind your ear. "Worship you, Princess."

You let out a breathy sigh at that, nodding almost immediately. You weren't sure if you could deny either of them anything when they treated you like you were something precious. Like they adored you with everything you had.

They both guide you to your bed, their hands never wandering far from your body as they gently lay you back on the sheets.

"Fuckin' beauty," Soap groans, groping and fondling your thighs like a man who'd never get to feel them again. His eyes meet yours, his ocean-blue darkened with lust and need. "Prettiest fuckin' thing I ever saw, Baby."

Your head falls back, lips opening in a gasp as he lowers his head to kiss against your inner thighs, lips brushing your sensitive skin. He's meticulous about it, savouring the experience.

"Eyes on me," that familiar, deep, dominant voice calls to you. You open your eyes, Ghost pulling off his black compression shirt with one hand, all while his dark gaze tracks every movement you make. It's taunting, making you delirious with lust and want and desire.

"She's so fuckin' wet for you, Si," Soap says on a deep moan, moving your lacy panties to the side to inspect your pussy. His finger trails lightly over it, a teasing touch, that has you clenching despite yourself.

Ghost's heated gaze directs to the man between your legs, appraising. "Tell me what she tastes like," he says, and Soap groans deep in his chest from those words alone. "If you're both good, I'll taste it from your mouth."

Without another thought, Soap dives in, enthusiastic and desperate. You whimper, whining at the sudden attention to your clit and pussy. He's rough about it, not nearly as careful as he had been mere seconds ago. He takes, and takes, so relentless in his motions that you grind against his face, his hands gripping onto your thighs.

Ghost's hand lands in his hair, pushing him in further to your core. You and Soap both let out identical moans at the action, Ghost's gaze focused on the both of you.

"You two," Ghost says, eyes encompassed nearly fully by his iris. "Mine. My fuckin' pets."

"Please," you moan out, hips frantic where they ache for more pleasure. "Fuck, Si, Johnny, feels too good, fuck."

"Yeah?" Simon tilts his head, only slightly mocking. "Like all that attention? He's sloppy, ain't he?"

You nod incoherently, Johnny's relentless attack at your clit and hole leaving you entirely too wound up. Your moans come out louder, needier, raspier, until you're falling apart, falling off of that cliff of pleasure that you had climbed.

"Good, such a pretty pet," Simon's hand pets at your hair, tone comforting and affectionate. Prideful. "Our good girl, huh?"

Johnny finally -- finally -- moves off of your pussy, entire bottom half of his face glistening with your essence. His gaze is completely lust-drunk, hazy in a way that mirrored your own experession.

"Si," is all he says, grabbing the taller man by the scruff of his neck and pulling him into a devouring kiss. You can visibly see their tongues fucking each others' mouths, passionate and wanton. When they pull apart, they both direct their attention to you.

"Ready, Princess?"

a/n. first ever work in this fandom and the first smut i've written in nearly a year! hopefully this isn't completely awful. if you enjoyed, pls pls pls reblog, follow, like, comment, or whatevs!!!! tytyty <3

[victoria-grimesss]

Hello! Do you think you could write 141 + konig with a tall fem!reader who has a crush on them but is so used to taller men not liking taller women that she starts “preemptively rejecting them” (self sabotaging herself lol) but is still clearly crushing hard

Or alternatively maybe even someone else shamed her for her height when she mentioned the crush and now she’s acting more distant because she’s second guessing herself now

masterlist

->Warning: slight violence, self doubt.

->A/N: I'm chipping away at the requests but I love writing them so have patience I will get them all out, and don't feel afraid about asking for as many as you want! (I got a little carried away with Soap's).

->Price:

Price has a lot on his plate so I feel like he wouldn't care too much about the height difference. If anything that's what started his attraction to you. He would hate to see you bring yourself down especially if you were on the team and worked closely with them. Hearing the way you would talk about yourself when you think no one could hear. Or when he heard the talk in the locker-room, other men snickering about your crush on him and how he could and would never entertain the idea of being romantic with someone who's so much taller, when he could have anyone. He would find himself Infront of your door late one night, the lines of ranks and right and wrong blurring as he brings his hand up to your door. He would hear no noise after a second and third knock so he would turn to leave until your soft voice alerted him. He would notice you've been more distant than usual, not coming to the usual team drinking events and speaking less to him. Under a veil of tears that would fall from your eyes and a hurried confession of your feelings and a spew of word vomit about how he could have anyone and more self doubt would come out of your mouth before it was silenced by his embrace. He would give you the warmest hug, a hand stroking your hair as he lead you into your room to reveal his own confession. And through that someone beautiful would bloom.

->Ghost:

Ghost is quiet by nature, your lingering stares that would stay on him for longer than normal, how you would find yourself nearby to him in almost every briefing room. He would find himself irritated at first but as he got to know you and work more with you he found himself enjoying your company and in turn developed a small crush which festered its way deep into his heart. You being tall was just an added bonus. He enjoyed you being tall in fact because when standing side by side he could glance over and admire your profile. Although his head was filled with thoughts of you, your head was filled with doubt and insecurity. You noticed him staring more and being closer and it scared you, so you did the only thing you knew, you distanced. You didn't come to the rec room for the group chat, nor the pub that weekend to celebrate he grew concerned. He found you on the rooftop one night, his footsteps quiet as he approached you. He would question you on your lack of appearance lately, he thought he had done something wrong, maybe he read you the wrong way. Maybe he let his feelings get ahead of himself. You would brush him off saying you were too tired. He called bullshit, saying if he had to be there around drunk Gaz and Soap so did you. Your mood would lighten the slightest before telling him why you had become so distant, fearing your height would scare him off, deter him from you. He laughed then, his eyes casted down on you as he crouched down next to you. “That’s what you’ve been fuckin worried about?” He sounded exasperated when he said it but a sniffle from your nose answered for you. A hand clasped on your shoulder before he spoke again, “If you think you being taller is going to drive me away you’re wrong, now let's go, Soap’s been asking for you and I need you down there to get through this bloody night.”

->Gaz:

I have a feeling his type is taller women, from the moment you met he was drawn to you. You had a welcoming air to you and he could never quite get enough. He would be conjoined at the hip with you if he could. He didn't believe you could be insecure about something that he found so attractive about you. Well until he heard some guys talking shit to you after training, he was walking towards you, bringing you a spare water bottle since he knew today was a longer day for you. They were crowded around you as you laced up your boots. Gaz knew you could handle yourself if you needed to but something within him sparked to life as he watched them talk down to you about something that was far out of your control. He pushed his way past one, shoulder roughly bumping into one of them and his dark gaze centered on the one currently speaking to you. Your face grew heated, now embarrassed to be seen under these circumstances. “If you have something to say to her you can say it to me.” You had stood up by now, a hand on Gaz’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him. “It’s not worth it, c’mon let's go.” You pleaded with him but he was still burning. “All we was sayin’ is how no one would want to be with her, especially you. Guys are intimidated by tall women.” The other man wore a smirk on his face as he finished his sentence but it didn't last long before Gaz’s fist met his nose with a sickening crunch. The man clutched his face and to say you were flattered Gaz came to your aid would be an understatement. You both left the room in a hurry, his fury burning slightly dimmer as you walked. “Won’t you get in trouble for that?” You asked him and he looked over to you and smiled. “Maybe, but it’ll be damn worth it, seeing that guy get what he deserved. Can’t be talking to you like that.” You sighed, “Maybe he’s right though, don’t guys feel intimidated by taller women, I mean my dating history shows.” Gaz rolls his eyes, “Well then you’ve been hanging around shit guys. Let me take you out and I’ll show you how you're supposed to be admired.”

->Soap:

I think Soap would love having a girlfriend that’s taller than him. But your self-doubt really came into play when your crush on Soap grew to an immeasurable size. He’s a ladies man, confident, funny, and good at his job. Being on the team you had heard about his conquests and the women he found attractive, none of them being as tall as you.. Although since you had joined the team and grown to be better friends, he met up with random women at night less and less. You would ask him why and he would blame it on being too busy or not finding it as fun anymore. But the real answer was that he found himself head over heels for you. He had tried to distract himself with other women for a bit but he always thought of you. Even if you're taller in general or taller than him he would still be just as attracted, He would notice you would be less inclined to be around him, and he wouldn't know why, he craved your attention and admired you. His feelings for you had been growing and growing until he felt like he was going to explode. He found you in your room, still in your day clothes. You had seemed surprised to see him, not expecting him at this time. “Come to tell me about another girl?” You faked a smile as you let him in. “No. I wanted to talk to you, I was looking for you.” You sat down roughly on the sofa and patted the spot next to you. “Well here I am. Go on.” He sat next to you, his heart racing being so close to you again. “Where have you been bonnie? Been missin’ ya lately.” You rub the bridge of your nose, a headache blooming. “Just tired Johnny. That's all.” He scoffs. “That's a load of shit, ya know if something is wrong I’m here for ya.” You stand up, and turn to him, finally letting all your feelings out. “That's the problem Johnny! You’re always around and it drives me mental because I hear all about the beautiful women you sleep with and how they don’t look like me and how I’m too tall for you and you would never be with me and it kills me because I’m in love with you!” Your hand clasps around your mouth and both yours and Soap’s eyes are wide. Until a devilish smile breaks his lips and he stands as well. “You mean it bonnie? Ya love me?” You don't say anything but he steps closer, eyes glimmering. “Please say ya do, because fuck, do I love you too. I love everything about you, I kept trying to find what I wanted in other people when you were here right in front of me the whole time.”  You break into a smile then too and you confess that yes you do love him. He holds you the whole night and definitely takes a million candid pictures of you to hold onto.

->Konig:

He’s tall, incredibly tall and broad so anyone is going to be short to him. He would find his gaze drawn to you especially if you’re taller than a majority of the other guys on the team. His gaze would make you flush, beating yourself up for getting caught up in feelings for such a high ranked officer. Konig is confident when it comes to his job, yes but he’s on the quieter side when it comes to casual conversation. Unless he likes you, which he does, very much. He uses his rank as an excuse to be around you more, who's going to tell him no? He would oversee your training. And since you were taller it was easier to train you on his level. During these training moments you would talk, most of the time it was just the two of you in the area, others wanting to avoid having to train with him. But you never minded. You would be honest with him about your insecurity about your height and he would be able to relate to you. He was insecure about it until he was able to use it to his advantage in the field. He advised you to do the same, he told you to be confident even when you don’t feel like it. You also told him about the guys that turn you down or flat out criticize you for your height. His accent would grow thicker as he got more heated, and he did as he talked about how stupid those men would be for turning you down, how they should treat you with respect and admiration for all your hard work on the team. How he would never treat you like that. And he plans to show you. He most definitely talks to those guys that made you upset later, they're on bathroom cleaning duties for the next six months.

[a-yellow-van]

Wish You Were Here | Part 1

We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year. Running over the same old ground, what have we found? The same old fears. Wish you were here.

20 years after the outbreak, you’re a stable, well established member in the community of Jackson, Wyoming. You have been for a long time now, the horrors, the brutality of survival buried deep inside, leaving place to the safe simplicity of routine. You didn’t think there’s anything that could disturb that, after all you’ve been through. That is, until you meet Joel Miller, and a drunken choice leads to…much more. Set in between Part I and Part II. Canon compliant (I'm breaking my own heart)

Series masterlist

Pairing: Joel x f!reader

Fanfic tags : canon compliant, slow burn, romance, eventual smut, angst, hurt/comfort, joel and the reader are terrible at feelings, female reader, no use of y/n, reader is in early 30s, past relationships, trauma/PTSD, grief, loss, post-apocalypse, joel is a good parent to ellie, major character death, original characters, queer characters, bisexual main character, age difference, canon-typical violence

WC for Part 1 : 4.5 k

Warnings for Part 1 : drinking, swearing, implied sexual content

New Year’s Eve 2034. Jackson’s tavern is packed to the brim, people in every corner of the room, almost shoulder to shoulder. It’s hot and humid inside; layers have been shed, revealing patches of sticky skin. A musky, sickly sweet smell assaults your nose : a mix of sweat, booze and dust, making you nostalgic for a time you never knew, before the world fell apart. The windows are fogged up, blocking out the view of snow falling peacefully, coating the street. You’ve rarely seen anything like it. Nearly every adult survivor in the community has seemingly decided to come out tonight, and the fact that Eugene has finally dipped into his batch of mead, home brewed by the barrel, is most certainly to blame. Maria, Jackson’s leader, doesn’t exactly approve, but she’s making an exception. Just for the holiday. You spot her at the back; she’s holding hands with Tommy, her husband, protectively watching over the crowd. Eugene’s feeling particularly generous this evening; he offers a hefty bottle to whoever asks, reminding each lucky recipient to “savour ‘cause she’s been fermenting since July!” You must have heard that sentence a good twenty five times since you got your own bottle, the words getting progressively less intelligible as Eugene indulges in his creation. You’re still not certain why he refers to his mead like it is a woman, and frankly, you’re afraid to find out. One thing’s for sure, the beverage is incredibly strong, has a horrid taste, burning your throat like acid with every drop. It’s questionably safe for consumption, but the occasions to get shitfaced in the midst of an apocalypse are quite limited, so you endure. Even Jackson’s most reclusive members agree with that notion. Including him. Joel Miller. He’s nursing a drink at a table near the bar, opposite to the one you’re sharing with your usual group. You wouldn’t exactly call them friends, but they’re fellow patrollers, close to you in age, so, naturally, you’ve grown familiar. 

“What are you looking at?” Max, the one you’ve known the longest, nudges you with their elbow.

Your gaze quickly snaps back to meet theirs. You realise you’ve been staring at the older man. Noticeably. You don’t quite know why. Maybe he intrigues you, all quiet and pensive in the middle of a rowdy celebration. His expression is hard to read, but there’s a hint of…sadness? You get a hold of yourself and brush off the thought. 

“Nothing,” you lie. Max cocks an eyebrow, a little grin forms on their lips, freckled cheeks dimple. 

“Uh-huh.” There’s a glint of malice in their green eyes. “You sure? No one particular caught your attention?” 

You don’t let their teasing get to you. “Nah. Just checking at Seth trying to hit on Leanne,” you reply without missing a beat, “for the millionth time.” This one isn’t a lie, as the scene really is unfolding a few metres away. You blink at Max, feigning innocence. They narrow their eyes, not buying it. 

“Man, when is he gonna get the hint?” Fred chips in, breaking the unspoken exchange between you and Max. She quickly peeks in the direction of the duo, a muscly arm propped on the back of her chair, long cornrows draped across the other shoulder. She scoffs, and takes a swig of her drink. “She looks like she’s seconds away from kicking him in the balls.”

“Don’t know how she hasn’t done that, like, years ago.” It’s Astrid’s turn to talk. She sighs, shaking her head, her wavy golden blonde hair rustling with the movement. 

“Maybe you should go beat him up for her, A,” Fred jokingly suggests. “Bet she’d like that.”

“Don’t give me ideas,” Astrid responds, seriously. “I’d have him in a wheelchair for the rest of his days.”

“Oh, yeah. And then you and Leanne would run off into the sunset,” Max adds, taking their attention off you, finally. They start screeching in a horrible, high-pitched voice. “Oh, Astrid! Oh, thank you! You saved me from the big, bad man! I lo-”

“Shut the fuck up.” Astrid cuts them off, cheeks reddening. 

“Hmm. I think they hit a little nerve there, A,” Fred continues, laughing, moving her arm to playfully put it around a flustered Astrid. She’s too easy, you think. It’s pretty endearing.  

“Who are you kidding,” you join in Astrid’s torment. “You can’t even say hi to Leanne without stuttering.” The woman gets even redder, the angry tint reaching her pale neck. Fred and Max giggle. “You’re such a teenager,” Max strikes. 

“Just fucking drink.” Astrid commands the three of you, pouring the group another round. 

“Fair enough,” Max says, before clinking glasses with Fred in front of them. Astrid finishes hers in one gulp, which makes her cough, while you sip slowly. The buzz is setting in. It’s nice. It eases the burden on your aching shoulders.

You let your companions carry the conversation as the night progresses, occasionally humming or laughing at a remark. You’re not exactly concentrating. You keep getting drawn back to Joel Miller, for some reason. He arrived in Jackson last summer, about six months ago. Him and a kid, a girl, around fourteen or fifteen. You assumed that was his daughter, but soon learned that you were wrong. People talk, especially in such a small community. Something about Joel smuggling her across the country for the fireflies? A failed operation, clearly. You heard the organisation disbanded since then. It was about time. You’re surprised they lasted that long in the first place. He’s Tommy’s older brother. There’s history there, you know some of it; Joel already had a bit of a reputation before ever passing through Jackson’s gates. He hasn’t done much to help it since then; he barely interacts with anyone besides Tommy and Ellie, the girl. He keeps to himself, brooding, silently observing, tough, cold, detached. That’s how Joel’s treated you on the few patrols you’ve had to go on together these past months. He usually works with Tommy, you usually work with Max, but Maria likes to switch around the schedule occasionally to test out different pairings. You and Joel have done a very efficient job, only speaking when absolutely necessary, technical terms only, mumbling salutations. However, on the last patrol, in early December, you made a great shot at a stalker, and you could have sworn Joel’s mouth twitched in approval. It was so short it might have been a product of your imagination, but then, after coming back to Jackson and bringing your horses to the stable, he mumbled your last name instead of his usual grunt goodbye. It’s fair to assume there’s mutual respect for each other’s skill there. Nothing else. So then, why does your gaze keep returning to his tousled, greying curls, scruffy beard, piercing brown eyes, and the scar on his left temple? Maybe it’s the alcohol. Yeah, that must be it-

Joel’s eyes suddenly lock with yours. Your heart skips a beat, making you choke on your drink. Shit. What the hell was that? Fred immediately interrupts the story she’s telling and you feel three pairs of eyes on you. You clear your throat, looking down at the table. 

“Sorry. Went down the wrong pipe,” you mutter. They keep staring. “Uh, Fred, what were you-”

And then, as if the universe takes pity on you, Mike, Jackson’s butcher, jovial fellow in his early sixties (but barely a wrinkle creasing his dark skin) claps loudly and calls out over the incessant chatter. 

“How about some music, huh?” A few supporters acclaim him. He pushes through the crowd, reaching the old console piano standing at the south wall, underneath a window. Around, some tables have been stored away, allowing some space for dancing. The instrument is in poor shape, the keys are yellowed, a pedal has fallen off. Mike sits on the worn piano bench. Most survivors in the tavern have momentarily lowered their volume, following the man’s moves. He tries a little riff. Not as bad as was expected, just slightly off tune. You know he’ll make it work. “Alright. Get ready to groove, everyone!” He plays the intro to Johnny B. Goode by Chuck Berry perfectly, earning cheers and applause. Chair legs scrape on the ground, glasses and bottles are snatched up as the crowd converge around Mike. 

“Woo! Come on!” Fred exclaims. She stands and takes Astrid’s arm, forcing her patrol partner up. Astrid resists, but just for the principle, a beaming smile on her face. The pair leaves, already bobbing their heads to the rhythm. Max takes another shot before shuffling away from the table on legs rendered wobbly by the booze. They hold their hand out to you, but you don’t take it yet. You dare look over at a certain someone again, who is grounded in his seat, indifferent to the change of mood. Max wiggles their fingers impatiently.

“I’ll, uh- I’ll join you later,” you say, averting their eyes. 

“Ugh. Fine. You suck,” they reply.

You raise your middle finger in response. They turn away abruptly, flashing the back of their frayed jean vest, the sleeves cut off by hand. Max catches up with Astrid and Joey, and you watch as they start dancing, snorting at how uncoordinated the three are. You’ve downed a good five drinks now. One more won’t do any harm, right? You fill up your glass with the last drops of mead from the current bottle. Warmth spreads through your veins, making your head throb in a pleasant way. Your eyelids are heavy, your surroundings blurred. Something is clear, though. You and Joel are amongst the very few survivors that aren’t taking part in the fun. Hell, even Maria’s letting her husband spin her around. 

And then it happens again. Joel meets your gaze. But this time, he holds it for a couple of seconds, before looking to the side and rubbing his chin. Almost like he’s doing it on purpose. You must be drunker than you thought, because that makes no fucking sense. And what your clouded brain makes you do next is even less logical. Slowly, you rise, and walk unsteadily to the now deserted bar, heading towards Joel. Your heart picks up its pace. This is so stupid . You sit down at one of the stools, just a few feet away from him. You lean over the counter, resting your head in your hand, staring straight ahead at the row of vintage bottles aligned on a shelf behind the bar. On the piano, Mike has moved on to I’m Still Standing by Elton John, his voice strong, smooth. You catch a glimpse of Joel in your peripheral. He’s tensed up ever so slightly, his back straightened. He’s aware of your presence. This is so stupid.

“Hey, Miller,” you hear yourself speak, still looking ahead, but loud enough he can hear you. 

He sighs. That’s something. He hasn’t gotten up and walked away, he hasn’t told you to get lost. He’s acknowledged you. It’s full of irritation, sure, but it gives you enough motivation to keep going. 

“Not a fan of the music?” You attempt a sultry tone and make yourself cringe. Great start. Joel grunts, takes a swig of mead and crosses a leg over the other, nonchalant. 

“Yeah, I didn’t exactly peg this as your scene,” you continue, gesturing vaguely at the crowd. The booze has taken the reins, and you can’t hold your tongue. 

A full minute passes in silence. You’re about to give up. And then Joel talks, gruff, sarcastic, the inebriation accentuating the southern drawl in his voice. “Right. And like you’d know, of all people.”   

A sentence. Joel Miller just spoke a full sentence to you. You’re stunned.  

“Fair point,” you recover after a few seconds. “You just, uh, don’t really seem like the social type.” A pause. You feel Joel’s gaze burning the back of your neck. “No offence,” you add.

“None taken.” Joel downs the rest of his drink, exhales. “You’re not dancin’ either,” he observes. 

“Perceptive,”  you retort. You spin on your stool, now facing him. A corner of his mouth curves upwards almost imperceptibly. It goes back down immediately, but you caught it. And it gives you a boost of confidence. You’ve made the grumpy bastard smile, or, well, the closest to it he can probably manage. 

“Why not?” he questions. “Your friends looks like they’re havin’ fun.” He nods his chin over at Max, who’s gone up to the piano and is belting the lyrics to the song, stomping their feet, while Mike plays the melody. Two things : first, Joel knows who you hang out with, which means he’s not completely oblivious to who you are, and second, he’s making conversation with you. Astonishing. 

“Guess I’d rather be bothering you.” You shrug, trying to suppress a smile. “Thought you’d have cursed me out by now, if I’m honest.”

Joel scratches his forehead. “Dunno why I haven’t,” he mumbles. 

“Maybe you should.” Did you really just say that? Did you just try to flirt with him? And why did his gaze flicker to your lips?

He looks back up and narrows his eyes at you. “Nah. You don’t want that.” 

You don’t miss a beat. “Hey, I could take it.” You’re maintaining eye contact from your seat at the bar. “I’m tough.” Well, this is happening. Damn Eugene and his mead .

The ever-so-subtle smirk passes over Joel’s face for the second time. He shakes his head.  “Don’t wanna make you cry.” 

“Hm. How considerate,” you reply, unable to fight a little smile. Joel emits a short, low, rumbling sound. 

“Was that a laugh?” You ask, the smile growing larger. 

“Hm. No.” He goes right back to irritation. But still, he’s not pushing you away. So, in your drunken state, you decide to test the limits. You slip off the stool and take a step towards Joel. He furrows his brows, but doesn’t say anything. You take another step, and then another, until you reach his table. There’s no going back now. 

“Uhm, mind- mind if I sit?” 

“Are you really gonna leave if I say no?” He asks, rhetorically. He’s challenging you. You feel your cheeks heat up and your stomach drop. You pull the chair out and settle on it. You’re suddenly very conscious of your near proximity to Joel. The courage you had mere minutes ago is disappearing; you have to fuel it up. You grab an empty, upside-down glass sitting near two bottles of mead, one empty, one half full. Joel is acting quite coherent for a man who’s had that much. You tilt your head in request. 

Joel scoffs. “Go ahead.” 

You pour yourself a seventh drink, knowing perfectly well that it is an absolutely terrible idea. You down most of it in one gulp, wincing, before putting the glass back down with a thud. 

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” Joel asks, the nickname dripping with irony. Still, your stomach does another flip. “Can’t hold your liquor?” He mocks. He leans back in his chair, legs open, right hand on his knee, left hand palm down on the table. Your gaze travels from his face, down his neck, to his broad chest where the small unbuttoned portion of his flannel reveals a few dark hairs. What the hell are you doing? Your eyes snap back up

“Fuck off,” you mutter under your breath. Joel looks pleased with himself. You finish your drink, looking straight at him, taunting.

“What was that?” he asks, even though he heard you perfectly. His smug smirk is assured now. You don’t answer. Joel fills up his glass. You take it as a sign that he intends to see this interaction through. Fine by you. You search the depths of your sluggish brain to find something witty to say.

“So, Miller. What’s with the accent?” This is the best you can come up with. The words are slurred. 

He scoffs again. “Don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout,” he says, pointedly adding your last name. He’s playing you.

“Ah, come on, cowboy ” you continue, impressed by your own audacity, “Where you from?” 

Tommy has mentioned this to you before. Definitely somewhere south, but you can’t recall in your current state. And you want to hear Joel say it. 

He rolls his eyes at the nickname, but he doesn’t stop smirking. “Texas. Austin.” He takes a sip. “You?” 

Texas. Right. Makes sense. In a way, you feel proud to have gotten this minimal piece of information out of him. You didn’t think you’d ever witness Joel Miller opening up to you, not even a tiny crack. But here you are.  

“Washington. Seattle.” You copy the structure of his answer; Joel nods, casual. “Uh, you’re a long way from home,” you add.

“Yup.” He doesn’t elaborate. Takes yet another sip. “Seattle, huh?” His gaze pierces through you, eyebrows knitted in reflection. “Born and raised?”

“Yeah…” You’re not certain what he’s getting at. 

“There’s a QZ, right?” A pause. “D’you end up in it?” he questions. 

The words are like a slap in the face, sobering you up a little. You don’t want to think of that right now. Not at all. You look down, fidgeting with your empty glass. 

“Hmm,” you confirm. 

“Damn. Heard things got pretty bad up there,” Joel says. You wish he’d just shut up. You don’t like this turn the conversation took. 

“Yeah, well, I left, so.” The sentence comes out harsher than you had planned. Joel understands the message; he raises his hands up in defence.  

“Got it. Sorry I asked.” The guy doesn’t look one bit apologetic. It frustrates you, and yet…You’re enjoying this little game. 

“Yeah, watch it, Miller,” you warn, but your tone has gone back to being playful. Joel relaxes in his seat. He rests an elbow on his denim-encased thigh, shifting his weight. 

You proceed. “So what’d you do? In Texas?”

“Hm. Contractor.” He really is a man of few words. His past occupation suits him like a glove.

“Fitting.” You give him an unimpressed pout; he stays unbothered. 

“Yeah, yeah. What’d you do, then?” He asks. 

It makes you chuckle. “Uh, middle school student. 6th grade sucked ass.”

Joel takes a second to register. Something quickly washes over his face, an emotion you can’t quite discern, before vanishing. You’re too drunk to analyse it. 

“Huh. I would have guessed elementary,” he states. 

“Aw. Don’t flatter me,” you reply, dryly. 

“I’m not. Just sayin’ you don’t seem like you’ve learned much past fourth grade,” Joel says with a shit-eating grin. 

Wow. You’re speechless. And then you burst out laughing. And, miraculously, Joel starts chuckling with you, the corner of his eyes crinkling. The sound is hearty, surprisingly warm. It’s the kind of laughter that you would try your hardest to hear as often as possible. That could make you all fuzzy inside, if you’d let it. And just like that, the tension that had been building between the two of you breaks. It’s comfortable, you’re at ease. The moment stretches out; you feel a strange connection with Joel, and you wonder if it’s mutual, or if you’re going completely insane. It’s probably the second option. You manage to utter a few profanities, between two breaths. Joel watches, amused, waiting for you to calm down. 

“Alright, you’ve got me there,” you concede, a smile lingering on your lips. 

Joel’s expression has softened. He looks younger, somehow, like a few years of constant stress have been erased just by talking with you. 

“I may not be the brightest, but at least I can take a joke.” 

“You’re not wrong there.” Joel fills your glass with the remnants of the mead, while you push a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to conceal a blush. “You deserve it,” he explains, “if you can take another round.” 

“You keep underestimating me.” You raise your glass up in the air. 

Joel imitates you. “No hard feelings?” He suggests. 

“Deal.” You clink Joel’s glass with your own, and tilt your head back to swallow the foul liquid as quickly as you can, your gut churning in protest. You groan.  

“Think my estimation was correct, actually,” Joel quips. You look over at him. Besides a slight glaze over his eyes, he appears unaffected by the alcohol.

“How are you doing this?” You ask, baffled.

He shrugs. “You’ll get there eventually.” 

“And by there, you mean kidney disease?” You naively bat your eyelashes at him. 

“I’ve survived worse,” he remarks. It’s lighthearted, but it hides a bleak truth you know all too well. You ignore it. 

“Yeah. It shows.” You tease, giving him a scrutinising up-and-down.

“Hm. Funny. You didn’t seem to mind it that much when you were starin’ earlier.”

Jesus Christ.

Game over. Joel wins, one million to zero. You want to bash your head against the table, or run very far away, preferably out of Wyoming. And get torn apart by clickers. Instead, you stay right where you are, mouth agape, cartoonish. Fucking idiot. Are you twelve?

“That’s not- I- I- wasn’t-” 

Joel is delighted by your reaction. 

You wisely decide to shut up and quit stuttering. As if on cue, Mike hits the iconic intro to Don’t Stop Me Now. Max starts singing dramatically, in an offensively bad Freddie Mercury impression. Some survivors join in, not a single one on key, resulting in a cacophony. You take it as an opportunity to get out of the situation. You scramble off the chair and start walking away, stumbling and catching yourself on a nearby table. 

“Where you goin’? We weren’t done.” Joel calls after you. You turn around. 

“Me? Oh just stretching my legs.” You start stepping side to side and swaying your shoulders, following the rhythm. “Showing some love to the artists.” You shoot two fingers at him, moving your arms to the music. Joel shakes his head, chuckling. “You’re terrible.”

“Well then why don’t come here and try to do better!” You shout back, doing a ridiculous twirl as the sheer quantity of mead you ingested finally hits you. The room spins, transforming into blobs of colour. So, you close your eyes, and you flail around carelessly, your mind too foggy to worry. The tempo of the song increases. 

I'm burning through the sky, yeah! Two hundred degrees, that's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit-

Suddenly, there’s a presence next to you. You crack your eyes open, checking on who’s intruding. Joel is standing about three feet away from you, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets. His left heel is tapping the beat. 

“S’a good song,” he mumbles. 

Joel Miller, nervous to dance with you? Anything truly is possible tonight. You approach him, not interrupting your dance. He stays put. You two are away from the crowd, and it feels like you’re alone in the tavern with him, like no one can see you. 

I'm travelling at the speed of light, I wanna make a supersonic man outta you!

As Max puts all of his might into the chorus, you get closer to Joel, because he lets you, close enough that you could reach out and take his hands if you wanted to. And you do, but they’re hidden in his pockets. So you keep dancing, wiggling your hips, jumping up and down. Joel still isn’t budging, but you feel his gaze on you, eyeing your bare arms, the tattoo right under your left clavicle, and going lower down your chest…You take a step towards the man. 

“Who’s staring now?” You hadn’t planned to say that out loud, but it’s too late. You take another step, now inches from Joel’s  chest, which is rising and falling faster than before. His lips are parted, his eyes intense. It’s now or never. Fuck it.   

Your right hand moves up to rest on Joel’s shoulder, causing him to tense up. His expression goes stern, serious, like he’s fighting an internal conflict, debating whether he should pull away. Yet, he remains still. So your left hand goes to his other shoulder, looking up at him through your lashes. He holds your gaze, then inhales like he’s about to say something.

A clunking noise interrupts him, shattering the moment. Your arms fall back to your sides and you glance over Joel’s shoulder, searching for the source of the disturbance. You find it easily. Astrid is standing near the table your group had claimed before, her hair thrown in a ponytail, face glistening with sweat, the sleeves of her sweater pushed up. Her water gourd lays on the ground, its content spilled. Her eyes are wide with surprise, jumping between you and Joel. Her mouth contorts in a silent, one worded question. 

That’s bad. That is very bad.  

Joel notices the shift in your attitude and whips his head around, as a snickering Astrid jogs up to the crowd, merging into it again, certainly to tell Fred about what she just stumbled upon. Joel turns back and leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers:

“Outside. Now.” 

His breath tickles your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. Something stirs in your lower abdomen; a longing, a desire that demands to be dealt with, urgently. 

Joel snatches his coat from the back of the chair he sat in, before striding towards the exit. You follow behind, docile, not bothering to retrieve your own jacket. Once you’re out of the tavern, the freezing wind barely even pinches your skin. You’re too preoccupied with another feeling that’s dangerously rising up inside. You need his touch. And you get what you want. Joel grabs your forearm, and drags you to the alleyway at the side of the building, lit up by a single, flickering street lamp. In a second, your back is pressed against the logs, Joel’s face taking up your entire field of vision. He’s seething with anger. His pointed finger digs into your sternum. 

“You- you- ” he growls. You look back at him like a deer in headlights.

And then he kisses you. Hard. His lips crash onto yours and you let out a startled yelp, jerking your head to the side. Joel stares, anticipating your reaction. You don’t let him wait for long before you kiss back. His hands glide down to your waist, gripping it, while yours go to the nape of his neck. You pull each other in and a burning heat spreads between your bodies. Time seems to slow down as you part your lips to deepen the kiss, letting his tongue in. He tastes bittersweet like the mead. Your heart races. An ache forms where your thighs meet.

Just as suddenly as he came in, Joel shoves you away roughly. Your head bounces on the tavern’s facade. He storms out of the alley without another word, leaving you alone in the cold, panting, riled up, confused. 

What the fuck just happened?

Next chapter

To read on AO3

[scaredcrab]

Macaque x Reader - Silly Vallentine

Promotional Disclaimer: This chapter is being posted here to promote the whole work on AO3! To read more chapters, go to the AO3 link, in fact, the new chapters will be posted there first!

✐ 1 Chapter summary: Overcome by boredom, Macaque goes for a walk on Valentine's Day and finds you. An event that turns out to be more amusing than expected.

✐ Category: Fluff; Hurt/Comfort; Cute; Slow Burn; Slow Romance; Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence; Reader-Insert; Touch-Starved; Cuddling & Snuggling; Foreign Reader; Gender-Neutral Pronouns; Humor; Mythology References; Not Beta Read.

Trigger Warning (for the whole work, not this chapter in particular): Angst; Blood and Violence; Trust Issues; Self-Esteem Issues; Self-Worth Issues; lots of issues; Xenophobia; Trauma; Swearing; Emotional Baggage; Emotional Hurt.

-✐-☾-✐-☾-✐-☾-✐-☾-✐-☾-✐-☾-✐-☾-

Chapter 1 - Valentine

This kind of celebration usually doesn't matter much to warriors dedicated only to fighting and revenge, there's no time to meet new people and to love if you're busy going after a hated acquaintance.

But that doesn't mean boredom can't knock on these people's doors.

A powerful monkey demon walks through a large city disguised as an ordinary human. The monotony of his hiding place had ended up irritating him, resulting in a stroll during "lovers day".

The tedium was enormous to make someone so reclusive go out on a day like this. Streets are full of commemorative decorations, mainly pink heart-shaped ornaments, and serenades with sweet music can be heard everywhere, even the sky looked rosier than usual, however what occupies the surroundings more than the color pink are couples laughing. 

Couples that make you want to throw up for being so clingy, many of them look like exaggerated caricatures of what a happy pair would look like. The demon even rolled his eyes when he heard some phrases from the loose lovebirds, sometimes having a good hearing is a nightmare.

"I'm scared, honey, what if I don't like the people at the party?" - A short girl passes by the monkey.

"Calm down, if you get nervous, we'll just get out of there. Trust me, we're in this together." - The other girl takes one of her partner's shoulders and speaks in a sweet, calm voice.

He stops in place, for a brief moment.

... Yeah, even though the concept of clingy couples was a little annoying, there was a part of him that held a certain... Interest. 

The idea of having someone who cares about your emotional and physical state, the idea of being appreciated, someone to give you attention and affection, someone to trust, all of this was somehow pleasant to imagine. A part of him really craved someone he could actually count on, someone that would actually choose to stay with him.

The warrior shook his head to get that unimportant feeling out of there. Is the holiday making him emotional? This is so pathetic. Like, come on, he had more fun things to do than that!

The biggest fun of being on the streets today is watching couples break up. Or to see people rejecting each other. Dramatic love situations filled with people with broken hearts, looking like over-the-top soap operas in real life. That was pure entertainment.

A rattling bell and the sound of hard material hitting the wall shows that someone has opened a door not far away with incredible brute force, the door in question being the door of a luxuriant restaurant.

"Wait! Come back! What did I do wrong, my little pudding?!" - A man cried while trying to reach a woman in a fancy dress.

"I've already made it clear to you that I hate it when you call me that. What were you thinking, showing up dressed like that in front of my entire family?" - She pointed with her index finger at the clown nose the man had on his face.

"I-I wanted to make your family have fun."

"You made everyone laugh at me! Laugh at us. You made me look like an idiot!"

Ooh, this was a good drama, an argument for a ridiculous reason. This gives a bunch of inspiration to an artist, stupid story scenarios becomes the perfect reference to fun scenes. The beauty and the clown, yeah, this could be the theme of a shadow play, a funny one. A few laughs escaped the demon's lips, so much suffering for such a stupid reason was a special comedy to watch.

Unfortunately for him, the pairing didn't take long to reconcile, returning to the restaurant's interior happily and holding hands.

He rolled his eyes at the scene, boredom returned and, so did his quest for entertainment. Maybe looking for fun outside the hideout wasn't such a good idea at all.

He looked at the restaurant through the front window, taking off his hood of his head, so it wouldn't get in the way of the view, inside there were several couples eating fancy dishes that looked delicious...

Ah yes, the second reason to go out today, the food.

The dishes had too many heart decorations for the Six Eared Macaque's taste, however, that didn't change how tasty they looked. Main courses full of meats and spices, a big variety of drinks and sugary desserts filled the space in every busy table.

If he sneaks into the shadows the right way, it won't be hard to get some good meals.

His belly growled.

"AaaAh! That was loud!" - He looked to the side and saw... You. - "Gosh, you scared me!"

Macaque jumped startled, he hadn't seen that a human had approached to look in the window too. A loud noise came from your belly almost as if it was competing with his stomach.

"Oh... You must be hungry. You also don't have a partner to eat a Valentine's Day food?" - Your hunger had reminded you of that scary noise that came from his tummy.

Macaque was starting to consider fleeing away from there, all he needs less now is boring small talk in the midst of invasion plans.

"Today there are various places offering special dishes for couples, but only for couples." - You keep talking even without hearing an answer from him. - "I'm alone too, so I understand the feeling of walking around without a partner, it makes us think about all the good food we're missing. I only left my house today to see everything decorated and pink, you know. I wanted to see the city transformed." 

/ Does this human get chatty when hungry, or are they just naturally annoying? /

After that thought, the belly of the two rumbled together, a synchronized noise, it sounded like a were a rehearsed trick.

"Argh! Those foods look so delicious! I would even pay someone to accompany me, pretending to be my partner."

/ Wait a minute, what did they just say? /

"Would you really pay someone to do something like that?" - An interest appeared behind the question.

"Of course, I really want the couples discounts and stuff." - You answered honestly without even thinking twice, it's a habit of yours that ends up putting you in complicated situations all the time.

A mischievous grin broke out on his face. 

He turned around and put a hand on your shoulder to have your attention just for him, you look into the eyes of the man who was holding you. - "Well, today is your lucky day! I am completely willing to cooperate with you in exchange for a good payment."

Now the human eyes stared at the man, the owner of those eyes carrying a certain nervousness within them. We all know that you shouldn't make deals with strangers, you know that very well yourself, but this is an opportunity to eat the exclusive foods that will only be available for today...

You took a good look at his figure to study his details, checking out the sparkle in his eyes, the charming smile, the beard that added the final touch to his attractive face. He wears clothes in nice colors that match each other, specifically dark red and black, his dark hair wasn't super tidy but wasn't tossed around either. The strands look very soft too, a strange urge to stroke the locks of hair haunted your head, but you held back. A man full of charisma stood before you.

You had to admit, he is hot. He is really hot, and he probably knows that (right?), so how expensive would that service be?

"... And how much would be a good payment in your opinion?"

He moved closer to your ear (a thing that made your whole body heat up and shiver) and using a seductive, soft voice, he whispered the value. Your brain melted hearing the voice while collapsed, listening to the number being said. God. The company of pretty men really was expensive.

He seemed to be delighted to see you shudder, to see you making such a shocked expression at the answer, a smug and satisfied smile graced his face. And honestly, this attitude only made you feel more silly feelings in your chest.

"My lord! This much just because you're handsome?!"

"Nice try, but flattering me isn't going to make me change the price I set."

"W-Wait! Let's talk a few things before accepting any price! Like, what places do you allow us to go? What couple things I can do with you? What are your personal boundaries? It wouldn't be fair to charge a specific amount without considering certain things."

The man stares at you intently for a few seconds like someone trying to see through dark glass, arms crossed defensively as he "scans" you up and down. He seemed to be searching for lies through the aura of your soul, or something like this.

"... Like a spoken contract? A kind of sacred agreement between us?" - You nodded with your head.

After thinking some more, Macaque started to say his limitations: No kisses. No hugs. No pet names. You're only allowed to walk holding hands (so you don't end up getting lost). 

On your turn to speak, you negotiate the places to visit: an elegant restaurant, a chocolate fondue stand and a cute cafe. These places had great deals for couples and unique Valentine's Day dishes.

/ Isn't that too much food for just one person? /

He had no idea how much food would fit in your stomach, but he could eat a lot himself, so he was getting a big prize. Caring for you was the least of his worries, so your final state at the end of the tour doesn't matter as long as he's well paid and well-fed. 

Being so demanding and limiting turned out to affect the final price of the deal, you would have to pay less to the fake boyfriend, but it was still a hefty price.

With everything settled, it was time to pay.

You looked in your wallet with a sad expression. - "Goodbye sweet money, I will never forget you."

When you were about to hand over the payment, you remembered a basic socialization step.

"Wait a minute! I don't know your name." - You held your money close to your chest, hesitating.

The monkey blinked in disbelief, processing the moment, of all suspicious things was it the lack of name that made you hesitate?

A light chuckle escaped from him. - "You can call me Mac. What about you?"

After revealing your name, you glared at the man as you slowly handed over the money, taking your time to say goodbye to the lost fortune. When he took the money from your hands, you made a thin little noise of suffering. Honestly, you're so exaggerated.

We can say that you're dumb too! Knowing each other's names isn't going to stop one from running off with the payment. Lucky for you, Macaque was starting to be entertained by the human innocence. Or would it be better to say stupidity instead of innocence?

Well, it doesn't matter, a fake date has begun.

[lanitalay]

One day : Chapter 6

Based on the Netflix series by the same name

a/n: I literally cried writing this. Ouchie. Im sorry for the angst, we'll get fluff soon enough. I'm actually working on a fluffy one shot rn. So expect that soon.

warnings: ansgt, drinking, swearing?,

Word Count: 1.8k

Masterlist

You sat next to Nesta at the bar. It was the first time in over fifty years that you had been on the boat for the Summer Solstice celebrations. That morning, you had done everything in your power to feel the excitement you usually do on this day but nothing worked. It did not help that you woke up on the floor, naked and next to a stranger. It also did not help that you’d be forced to see the two people you wanted to do nothing with. Most importantly, it didn’t help that the only way to keep the collective hangover from a months long bender at bay was to keep drinking. You were constantly nauseous and dizzy. Mind fuzzy so that no thought could stay long enough to hurt. 

“Want another?” Nesta asked you as she motioned for more liquor to be poured in her glass. You mumbled something that sounded like “yes” and then your own was full to the brim again. Had you eaten anything? 

“NestaImagogetsomefood” you informed her while tumbling out of your stool to find something. The world felt like it was tilted on an axis and you were trying with whatever coordination you had to stay upright. Until someone bumped into you and sent you falling backwards. 

You knew you hit your head pretty hard when you opened your eyes and saw double of everything. The male that had knocked you down was standing over you trying to get a response. “Imfinejusthelpmeup” he didn’t seem sure of what you were asking of him until you stretched out your hand and he grabbed it, hoisting you to your feet.  You clung to his chest because everything was spinning and nothing could ground you. “Ineedfood, takemetothefood.” 

You couldn’t see him, but the male who held you was absolutely terrified as a giant winged Ilyrian stalked towards you with a look that promised violence. “Don’t touch her” you felt more hands steady you then strong arms scoop you up and carry you somewhere else. 

“Hey stay with me, y/n, we’ll get you something to eat” you knew that voice, you knew his scent and you knew the “we” he was talking about. “PutmedownAzriel.” 

“You can’t stand straight.”

A few moments later you were on a plush couch on the first deck of the boat, barely anybody was down here, the party in full swing upstairs. “Here” Azriel gave you some buttered bread and water. Until you saw the clear liquid you had no idea how thirsty you were, chugging it down in one go. Which was a mistake, because next thing you know you are running towards the railings and spilling your guts into the Sidra. Azriel was holding back your hair and rubbing circles on your back. “It’s ok, I’ve got you” he said until you finished.

“Stop it” you said after a while, shrugging off his hand. “Y/n-”

“No, you can go now, I’m fine.”

“You’re not, it’s ok let me help-” 

“I don’t want your help.” 

“Let’s just go sit down-” 

He didn’t get it. To this day he does not understand. “Just leave me alone, I mean it, I'm fine.” Your head was resting on your folded arms against the railing. It was a way to find stillness and hide your tears. 

“I found some napkins that maybe-” Azriel took the napkins from Elain and dabbed away the cold sweat that gathered at the base of your neck. It was so tender, so gentle that you bit your lip to keep from screaming. 

“There she is.” You sighed as you heard Nesta’s voice. “I’ve got this, you two can go now.” Without looking up you knew she was staring down Azriel and sagged a little when his footsteps drifted away. “Come on, y/n.” She wrapped an arm around your waist and helped you sit on one of the couches. Head rested on her shoulder like you’d done a million times in the last year. “Amren called me pathetic.” 

“I think I vomited on a turtle.” 

“Safe to say we’ve seen better days.” She nudged you slightly and you chuckled. Better days certainly were behind you. 

After you ate the bread and could stand on your own you returned to the bar and drank the night away.

Mornings were always similar, you woke up in a state of undress. Sometimes alone, sometimes with someone else. Then you took a cold bath, the sticky residue of sweat and sex clinging to your skin from the night before. After that you would go to the cafe on your street and get a pastry and then eat it in your apartment with a cup of tea. 

It was the best part of your day, before memories you kept buried deep began to flash in your mind. Before the regret of what you had become bubbled to the surface. Before you really looked in the mirror and saw just how bad it had gotten. 

The morning after solstice you woke up with a male named Jax. You knew him well enough. He owned the club you and Nesta frequented and he had become a regular night time companion. “Wake up”, you poked him. 

“Good morning to you too” he rolls over and places open mouth kisses along your neck and shoulder. “You have go.”

“Let me make you pancakes” he says and bites your earlobe. “No thanks, I have plans to meet someone for breakfast.” 

He sighs and stops his ministrations, then gets off the bed and while he dresses asks “are you ever going to let me take you out properly?”

“Probably not,” you answer and walk towards the bathroom. 

You hear Jax finish dressing “I’ll see you around.”

“Bye!” You yell and dunk your head under the freezing water, washing away the night before. 

“Y/n there's someone here saying they know you” you roll your eyes, wanting him to leave already. “Who?”

“Its me Y/n.” You nearly choke when you heard Azriel’s voice boom through your apartment. Quickly you get out of the bath, put on a robe and go into the living room where Jax and Azriel are sizing each other up. “I know him, Jax, it's ok.” He gave you a look and you motioned for him to leave with your hands then closed the door as he finally left. 

“He seems... nice.” 

“What do you want, Azriel?” You asked, still standing by the door with your arms crossed at your chest. “I always bring you flowers on our anniversary” you noticed a brown bag and a delicate bouquet in his hands just then. “Oh.”

“And I wanted to talk to you.”

“About?” 

“Can we sit down for this?”

You rolled your eyes “is it going to take a while? I have somewhere to be.”

“I brought you breakfast.” You sigh and grab the brown bag from his hands “you can talk while I make tea.” 

“How are you?” He asked while scanning your apartment. There was a wet trail from where you walked, clothes strewn about the whole place, a broken frame hanging from the wall and the curtains you typically kept open to allow for sunshine were closed shut. 

“We can skip pleasantries. What do you want?” You were focused on your tea, pouring water into the kettle and waiting for it to boil. “I wanted to check on you. We haven’t spoken in months and yesterday you looked… like you were having a rough time.”

“I’m fine, just drank too much.”

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Y/n.”

You say nothing as you look for the leaves to make your favorite tea.

“Y/n.”

“What?”

“Let me help you, please I can’t stand to see you like this” 

You look at him now, curious to see what he’ll say next “like what?” 

“You’re drunk everyday, you come home with someone new every night, you stopped working with Madja. I know the war was difficult for you but this isn’t healthy”. 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Yes I do. I’ve known you for the better part of a century and something changed for you after the war. You never really came back and I’ve given you space and time but- I can help you. Please, just let me help.” 

“I want you to go, Azriel.” You make to walk to the door but he steps in your way and places two gentle hands just below your shoulders. “Just talk to me-” You step back and push him away from you. 

“You almost died for her! I broke down in front of you and begged you not to die because I can’t survive it and you went into the middle of Hybern’s camp with only Feyre to save her! Then you come back mutilated and I fix you up again and you’re asking why I’m not the same? You go off, you play the hero and then expect me to still be here and I can’t-”

His mouth is slightly agape as he watches you break. 

“I can’t close my eyes without seeing you dead. Your blood has coated me from head to toe and I still feel it. If I’m not careful, I see it over and over and it never stops and then you look at me like everything is fine and it’s not. So I drink and I fuck and I get by as best I can and you don’t get to have a say. Leave” you’re holding the door open for him, fighting against the tears in your eyes. He looks like you just stabbed him. 

“Y/n-” you curse loudly and slam the door. Then walk into your room and change into the first thing you find ���Y/n-” he’s pleading and you feel it pull at your heartstrings. “Stay, leave, I don’t care.” You’re out the door.

“I know it's rotten of me, Nes” you were lying on her mattress while she braided her hair.

“It isn’t.”

“It feels rotten.”

“You are entitled to your anger and hurt. Deal with what you’re feeling however you want, I’ll be here to clean you up if things get messy.” 

Your friendship with the oldest Archeron had bloomed unexpectedly after the war. After everything that happened everyone went back to business as usual, except you two.

She had seen Cassian be practically gutted, draped herself over him and was prepared to die. While you were elbow deep in Azriel’s torso trying to get the last piece of ash arrow out. You never spoke of it, the bond of shared trauma. Of insurmountable anger. 

How your souls were crumbling and the only thing keeping you alive was each other. She would clean you up, you would break her fall. 

Standing from the bed you walk to her and hug her tight, tears pouring down your cheeks “I love you Nesta, I love you so much.” She hugged you back without saying a word but from the way her heart beat stuttered you knew she felt the same. 

[johnwickb1tsch]

you're the worst thing (i'm addicted to) Part 3

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here... PART 1 PART 2 PART 4

PART 3

The rest of dinner is pleasant, but not terribly emotionally eventful, comparatively. You survive by telling stories about Helen from when you were children, which John listens to with a wistful look in his eye. Maybe it's the wine, and the excellent food, but that sharp edge in his obsidian eyes softens, somehow. It is endearing, and your heart aches more than it should.

You are so full you try to decline dessert, but the special is a chocolate mousse and John insists you should split one, even if you only have a bite. You are not sure if the waiter brings one spoon on purpose, but you watch with fascination as John takes the utensil between his long fingers and scoops up a delectable little nibble.

When he offers it to you from across the table you think you might die. You have had far too much wine to not do exactly what you want to now, which is to accept the sweet morsel between your lips while meeting his eyes, wishing it was something else.

Your panties are drenched by the time the meal is through. You know that you are the worst, living vicariously through your older, better, sister, but just in that beautiful moment, its hard to care.

You can always hate yourself properly tomorrow. 

John's hand finds a home at the small of your back as you are leaving. You know there are Feminist! reasons to hate when a man does that, but secretly it’s your kryptonite at the end of a long evening when there’s a crowd to navigate and you're tired and not really sure which way to go.

“Can I drive you home?” he asks, looking down that straight patrician nose at you. You could draw him from memory, you've studied his features so much tonight. You probably will, later, when you’re alone in your apartment with just the reminiscence of him.

“I live in Brooklyn,” you warn him.

He seems amused by this.

“I know.”

You pause for a moment at this. But then, it’s not so strange he knows. Helen could have mentioned it a hundred times.

“Okay.”

When the valet rumbles up in a sinister black American sports car, you lift an eyebrow. 

“This is yours?”

“Did you think I would drive a Mercedes like some kind of asshole?”

The next car in the valet line is a Mercedes, and the stodgy old dude behind you who just exudes Old Money looks like he's received an extra stick inserted in his ass. You huff, your lips twisting as you are fighting a grin.

“Usually I would make a crack about a midlife crisis, but it really does suit you.” You'd heard tell of The Car, but had never actually gotten to see it.

“Kind of you to say.” It’s so deadpan it takes a moment for you to realize he’s teasing you. 

He holds the door for you, and you can tell by the way he’s looking at you that he has not taken anything you've said seriously, or personally.

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

The car is kind of bare bones inside, but it is undeniably cool. The sound of the motor is a tactile experience—you feel it in your bones as you pull away and take off down the street. You feel it other places too, as you look over at John seamlessly working the gears. Perhaps you look at him longer than what is polite, thinking about how once Helen used to sit in this seat, and they would undoubtedly go on adventures upstate, her cameras in tow.

You close your eyes, because you are tired, and you are thinking, and for the umpteenth time you are fighting tears. As you go across the Brooklyn bridge you roll down the window. The cool air helps clear your head.

The lights of the city at night from up high are a treat. Usually you're taking the subway.

Only once you arrive at your building and John parks on the street do you realize you never really gave him any directions. But once again, you shrug it off. 

There is a long moment of silence after he turns off the engine. The intimacy of an enclosed car at night, the weak light of the street barely intruding. “Do...you want to come up for a drink?” you ask, before you can really stop yourself.

Another long moment passes, as he looks at you in the shadows of the car, undoubtedly weighing the merits of this suggestion. His dark eyes glitter in the night, and your heart is in your throat, hoping he'll say yes.

“Sure.”

He is watchful as a hawk of the street as you make your way to the security door of your walkup. He frowns when you simply pull the door open, no working lock. 

“How long has that been like that?”

“At least a year. Shall we say the landlord moves at his own pace?”

“Give me his number.”

You laugh. “Ok.”

“I’m serious.”

You pause to look at him, his face half in shadow. A chill runs down your spine, the hair lifting on your arms; he is so beautiful, but there is something dangerous about this man. Something only your deepest instincts left over from the days of life in caves picks up on. It is…intoxicating, because somehow you know you are not the one who needs fear him.

Your landlord, on the other hand…you might be getting that new lock sooner than later.

You start to climb the stairs. When your heel catches the edge of the old wooden runner he is there, steadying you with a hand on your waist. You lean into him without a thought. He's taken charge of you, for the evening at least, and you are more than happy with the arrangement.

For the evening, at least.

Your key sticks in the vintage lock, the way it always does. The more modern deadbolt goes quicker. And then you are inside your humble sanctuary, and you can tell John is a little shocked by the cacophony before him. Helen liked the ordered balance of modern design, but you are a maximalist at heart. The walls are covered in art, your own, and friends’, and collected pieces as well. There are little shelves filled with curios from your travels and thrift stores around the city. What isn't filled with art is taken up by plants, on the floor, and side tables you have rescued from the curb over the years, and hanging from the ceiling too.

“Come on,” you say, taking his arm to guide him through. It's not actually messy. Everything has its place, and is fairly clean. The space is just full. “Have a seat. What do you drink?”

He lowers himself onto your cerulean blue couch, still looking around. It’s almost as though he forces himself to look back up at you.

“Bourbon, if you've got it.”

“Sure.”

You slide off your coat, hanging it on a vintage brass coat rack from an old hotel long defunct. 

“Ice?”

“A little.” 

You make his drink, and a vodka tonic for yourself. You cross the room to join him. “Thanks,” he says as you hand him his glass. 

“Sure.”

He is still surveying the room, and you are content to sit in companionable silence while he takes it all in, used to this reaction from newcomers.

“Did you make these?” he asks, looking to a cluster of small but highly detailed portrait paintings on the wall closest to you.

“Yes.”

They had taken months with a tiny 20/0 brush. You can be…obsessive, when a project grips you.

“Impressive.”

“Thanks.”

“May I...” He pauses, taking a deep draught, nearly finishing his drink in one go. “I overheard, this morning. About the piece, with Helen's photographs. I know Helen said you don't like people in your studio, but I was wondering...if I could see it.”

It dawns on you that this is the reason he agreed to come up. Possibly the reason he took you to dinner too. You are relieved, in a way, even if your heart aches a little for it.

Even though it’s true that you usually hate letting anyone into your studio, the place where you think and dream and create, the resting place for the unborn and half-finished creations of your imagination, you do not hesitate in your answer.

“Yes. Of course you can see it.”

You stand from the couch and hold out your hand to him without thinking, and he takes it. It’s as though you both know you're going to need a little extra emotional bolstering for the task ahead. You take him to the second bedroom that is your art studio. The smell of linseed oil and paint is heavy on first entry, though you are used to it.

Helen’s piece is still on your easel, the most recent thing you’ve finished. Usually you like to work small, but this canvas was five feet on both sides. It took you months to go through the boxes of photos she’d left you, then to lay it all out, deciding which photo went where according to value and structure. You could have done it easier with photoshop, but the personal quality of this project demanded completion by hand, from start to finish.

To complicate things more, you used a transfer technique to affix them to the canvas, giving the images a hazy dream-like quality. In between it all you had painted with miniscule strokes, miniature scenes and tiny embellishments, adding color, pumping up contrast and value. There were words she had said to you, short one sentence stories from your childhoods, and miniature daisies sprouting through the cracks. It was a galaxy of image and memory, each square foot containing a multitude. Yet when you stood back and unfocused your eyes, it was unmistakably her face looking back at you, larger than life, beautiful and filled with warmth.   

The subject of the photos ranged from her arty pieces of architecture and landscapes from trips she’d taken, to more candid shots of family and friends. There were also several images of John, and it occurred to you that maybe you should have okayed that with him. You’d been working in the pitch of such a fever dream with the materials Helen had left you, it hadn’t even occurred to you at the time to reach out to ask. You’d made this piece in a damn near fugue state, swinging between working rapaciously and crying in a ball on the floor. There had been some catharsis in finally finishing it, but the process had damn near killed you.

“I hope it’s okay…that you’re in it,” you say as he stands before the canvas, his exacting gaze taking in every detail of every inch.

He has not let go of your hand; in fact, his grip has tightened almost painfully upon your fingers. You don’t think he realizes he’s even doing it, and you let him hurt you, the way you’re pretty sure you’re hurting him with this visceral reminder of the life of the woman he’d loved.

“I’m honored,” he says, his voice hoarse with emotion, his jaw clenched. “Such a full life she lived.”

“Only the good die young,” you answer, barely able to raise your volume above a whisper against the constriction in your throat. “It’s not fucking fair. All the horrible people in the world…and the fates took her.” Your voice cracks. Your eyes are burning, and you know you are on the brink of losing your shit again. He pulls you in against him, and there are no arguments this time about preserving his suit or your dignity. It’s too easy, to settle into the solid warmth of his chest. This man feels like he could be a bastion against all that is bad in the world; it is hard not to wish to just stay there beneath his chin forever.

“I would have traded, if given a choice,” you whisper into his collarbone. “In a heartbeat.”

“Me too,” he answers. “But she never would have allowed it. She loved you beyond measure.”

You give a tinny, sad little laugh—or maybe it’s a sob—for the tragedy of it all. You know that no one—no one—will ever love you the way Helen did. Will ever protect you, the way Helen did. You will wander the Earth for the rest of your days with a Helen-shaped hole in your heart that will never heal.

“I know she felt the same about you.” Minutely you lift your head to look up at him. “It’s easy to understand why.” You touch his face lightly, wiping away the tear that is hovering on the blade of his cheekbone with the side of your thumb. When you realize how casually you have invaded this man’s personal space, this man who has been so kind and tolerant of you, you try to draw away. But his hand covers yours on his cheek, the scruff of his beard surprisingly soft beneath your palm.

Your eyes meet, and you can see that John is drowning in the loneliness of so much loss. You reckon you look about the same; this day has left you feeling like you fed your heart through a meat grinder. Pushed to the brink, perhaps there is little wonder that when his face descends, you do nothing at all to fight it.

Yet he does not kiss you.

His lips hover above yours, and you think you might expire of longing, caught in the limbo of waiting. He brushes the tip of your nose with his. It is almost unbearably sweet. You feel like it’s a gesture between two people who have been in love for ages. A remembered gesture, a sweet habit left from a different relationship, a different woman you resemble, but can never really be. 

You should stop this. You should back away before you both get hurt. But then his lips touch yours, and any small amount of resolve you might have worked up to do the right thing shatters.

At first it is the simplest press of lips; light, and sweet. He is shaking; or maybe it’s you who is? He rests his forehead against yours, savoring the moment, or trying to talk himself out of whatever it is he is about to do.

It’s his choice, you know.

You no longer possess the willpower to stop him either way, and your wicked heart rejoices when he leans in to kiss you again. Still, he is gentle with you, as though you are a thing in his grasp that might break.

 He isn’t wrong about that, and yet as the kisses go on, you feel it in him when something snaps—the change is sudden, and visceral, and you cannot withstand the onslaught as he slants his mouth over yours. It is like being caught in a hurricane, grabbed up by his inexorable strength and the fury of his desire. You’re not really a small woman, but he maneuvers you like you weigh nothing at all, backing you into the wall.

You know it’s wrong, somewhere in the back of your head, but it feels so good. Or maybe, it could be right? Maybe it could be ok, to take comfort in this certain someone who also loved the person you lost. Doesn’t that balance, somehow?

You are full of shit, but you also don’t care.

All you know is that he’s hiked your leg over his hip as he’s kissing you, and you can feel the hard length of him pressing into your center, and you might collapse with the heady pleasure of it all.

You reach for his belt, but he catches your hands, panting as he presses his forehead against yours again. “Let me touch you?” His words are laced with such a mix of fragility and need that you know no matter what he asks you for tonight, you won’t say no.

A trembling sigh escapes you as you nod, and he kisses you again, hard and hungry and you’ve never surrendered so willingly to anyone before in your life. He’s running a hand up your thigh to the molten core of you, pushing your underwear aside to slide a single long finger inside your desire-slicked body, and you are lost.

Utterly wrecked, and irrevocably lost. 

He toys with your swollen little clit with his thumb while he finger fucks you, his mouth on your neck and you are so close, before he picks you up all together like you weigh fucking nothing, and walks you to the couch in the other room. A vague thought enters the cloud of your sex-addled brain, a small sense of relief that he has removed you from Helen’s watchful gaze on the easel.

Any guilt you might feel vanishes with the thrill of him dropping you on the soft cushions, which is only topped by him dropping to his knees before you in that beautiful suit, (that beautiful suit!), and hooking his fingers in your panties, practically tearing them down your thighs.

There is a moment of eye contact, that burning dark stare that bores a hole straight to your soul, before he falls on you like he means to devour you whole and lick the bones clean. You’ve never felt anything like his furious mouth on you, the hard licks and soft kisses, the circling of his tongue around your clit, the relentless pleasure he mercilessly bestows until your back is arching and you cannot stop and you cannot wait, you are cumming in his mouth.

It’s the most magnificent thing you’ve ever felt, this fierce and fiery pleasure that is like fireworks inside your cunt and across your skin, and he keeps licking you slowly through the tremors and the aftershocks until you beg for mercy.

There is a moment of reverent quiet, while he rests his cheek on your thigh, your hands stroking his long dark hair. But when you try to reach for him, “Come up here,”—you are suddenly in his arms again, and he is carrying you to your bedroom, laying you down. You expect him to climb in with you, but with a flourish he covers you with the sheet, effectively trapping you, pressing a hard but reverent kiss to your forehead. “Get some rest, y/n.”

“Wait!” you plead as he is walking to the door, dizzy from the whiplash of this change of direction. You hate the desperation in your voice but at the moment you’re unable to care. “Where are you going?” Even you can hear how pathetic you sound.

He stops in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. His profile is half in shadow. He looks like a masterpiece by Carravagio, beautiful and terrible to behold. You want to paint him in this moment, almost as badly as you want to fuck him.

“I’m going home.” You cannot tell if that is regret in his voice, or pure exhaustion?

“Why?” You know you sound wretched, like the lost little girl you are inside.

“Good night, y/n.”

Then he is gone like a shadow, like he’d never been there at all. You barely even hear the front door snick shut. If it was not for the glorious soreness between your legs, maybe you would have thought it was all just a magnificent dark dream your twisted little imagination thought up.

You weren’t usually prone to such dramatic thoughts, but it was possible that John Wick had just ruined you for all other men, and you didn’t even get to see him naked.

PART 4>>

Part 1 Part 2

[winniethewife]

*clears throat*

Hi, dearest Winnie❤️

Okay, so remember my very first ask of you ages ago was how moon boys were in an argument?

I'm here with another angsty thing, angst queen😈❤️

We know they are humans, right?

So they aren't always lovie-dovie, cute, and attentive to their partner. Especially after some years of spending together.

Like, some shit might happen and get them into a grumpy mood. I see this mostly with Marc, but I want your headcanons about all three and as their partner how to deal with them.

And oh, what gets them to be that upset to be a lil mean or avoidant to reader?

THIS HAPPENS OKAY?

I will fight anyone who says no, the boys are so in love that nothing like this could happen blah blah

They are human and they can feel down just like us and snap at the smallest things🤷🏻‍♀️

Hello Maniiii, this is very true, real people aren't always happy, even in a good relationship. So here we go.

Moody Moon-Knight System headcanons

Warning: violence, self-deprecation, general toxicity, alcohol consumption

Marc

Its hard to tell when Marc is in a real foul mood because he always seems grumpy

But at some point he'll get really snippy, every little thing seems to throw him off, the kettle going off, some small mess that Steven left out, he reacts with anger every time.

"This place is a fucking mess. Can't find anything in all this...shit!"

He doesn't shout much because Yelling reminds him of his mother, but he will snap and raise his voice.

When asked He doesn't want to talk about it. He avoids like its his full time job.

"I'm fine, just leave me alone!"

the hardest part is, there's not much you can do, when he gets like this he hardly recognizes anything you do to help, and if you fight back he shuts down even more.

the best way to help him, is to wait it out, he'll eventually come back.

Steven

Steven is hardly ever in a bad mood, so when he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed it is an immediate upset to the day

When he's in a bad mood, he will be very self-deprecating, taking his bad mood out on himself.

"I'm sorry I'm such an idiot love, I honestly don't know why you keep me around."

when he's in a bad mood he gets very weepy and easily frustrated. Seeking out your affection and approval.

He'll usually give up on the day and just curl up in bed, staring at the wall and muttering to himself.

"Worthless, Just worthless."

the best thing you can do is take care of him, you could talk all day about how he's not any of the things he's not but it will go unheard. its best just to cuddle up with him and keep him company while he works though it.

Jake

When Jake is in a bad mood, he gets violent. the first time this happens he throws a plate in frustration and nearly missed you, it flew past your head and crashed into the wall behind you. That scared him.

after that first time, the only way you know Jake is in a bad mood is you wake up alone, a note hastily scribbled left on the pillow next to you.

"Out Driving."

you won't see him again until very late, some times drunk, but usually in a weird mood.

once or twice He has left for more than one day, and those times are the worst. not knowing where he was or whether or not he was okay.

No matter how long he wad gone he would always come back.

He'll want to lay in your lap and watch comfort TV with you after a long day(s) of avoiding his feelings.

He'll fall asleep there if you let him. mumbling slightly in his sleep.

"Gracias por quedarse. Te amo." Thank you for staying. I love you

~

300 follower celebration

Masterlist

[best-underrated-anime]

Best Underrated Anime Group L Round 2: #L1 vs #L2

#L1: Normal Girl™ accidentally joins Kansai’s biggest criminals

#L2: Girl turns into a tanuki and learns about racism

Details and poll under the cut!

#L1: Akudama Drive

Summary:

After the fall-out of a war between the Kanto and Kansai regions of Japan, citizens of Kansai now live in a dystopia. Criminals are bigger and badder than before, resulting in a specialized Execution Division rising to combat these ‘Akudama.’

An ordinary person accidentally wedges herself into the midst of a gang of the worst of the worst, and now she’s on the run with Kansai’s top Akudama to fulfill a cryptic mission. Her goal was to get back to her normal life, but one thing leads to another and she gets trapped, bound by her sense of morals to stick with her terrible team.

The team in question consists of a Brawler with a need to find the toughest opponent to fight, a Doctor who toys with lives, a Hacker who has run out of games to play, a Courier who always gets the job done, a Cutthroat with a kill count of 999 bodies, and a Hoodlum who was set for a prison sentence of 5 years. Joining them is the Black Cat, their mysterious recruiter, who promises great wealth to the Akudama.

Propaganda:

Akudama Drive is an anime produced by a video game company, and it’s amazingly a single standalone piece, unlike their other projects. The three people who lead the creation of the Danganronpa series (character designer, story writer, and music composer) came together and produced something so different from their usual pattern and it pays off.

The character designs are so fun, the music vibes hard, and the story is better than anything seen in DR before since (no offense meant) the cast all get fleshed out as individuals beyond a single trope. Everyone is depicted as morally grey, and it’s such a fun experience to watch the madness break out and root for the bad guys or the bad guys.

Every scene is so pretty, and you can see the color theory SLAPPING THE SCREEN, it’s so pleasing to look at. The voice acting is also top tier! The character evolution can literally be heard in the voices 🛐 The anime is a fun show with cool stunts and epic battles, but it’s still got some interesting social commentary if you’re the type that loves dissecting that madness. There’s a little something for everyone!

Trigger Warnings: Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Graphic Depictions of Cruelty/Violence/Gore, Rape/Non-Con, Self-Harm, Constant Flashing Lights and Screaming

#L2: BNA: Brand New Animal

Summary:

Throughout history, humans have been at odds with Beastmen—a species capable of changing shape due to their genetic "Beast Factor." Because of this conflict, Beastmen have been forced into hiding. Anima City serves as a safe haven for these oppressed individuals to live free from human interference.

During a festival celebrating the town's 10th anniversary, Michiru Kagemori, a human who suddenly turned into a tanuki, finds that Anima City is a far cry from paradise. After witnessing an explosion in the square, she is confronted by Shirou Ogami, a seemingly indestructible wolf and sworn protector of all Beastmen. As they pursue the criminals behind the bombing, the two discover that Michiru is anything but an ordinary Beastman, and look to investigate her mysterious past and uncanny abilities. Could she turn out to be the missing link between Humans and Beastmen?

Propaganda:

This is one of the first few anime I watched when I was getting into it, so I'm rather fond of it. Though the show is only one season, overall it's pretty solid and ties everything together at the end. I also really like how they utilize color in the animation (it especially makes fight scenes more interesting to watch). The worldbuilding they have with the beastmen is pretty neat as well. This anime is good if you're looking for something quick to watch.

Trigger Warnings: There is some violence, and since the characters are animals, that may fall under animal cruelty. There are a few parts in the show where the colors get pretty intense, so that could be considered flashing lights. There is racism, as the beastmen are discriminated against by humans.

When reblogging and adding your own propaganda, please tag me @best-underrated-anime so that I’ll be sure to see it.

If you want to criticize one of the shows above to give the one you’re rooting for an advantage, then do so constructively. I do not tolerate groundless hate or slander on this blog. If I catch you doing such a thing in the notes, be it in the tags or reblogs, I will block you.

Know one of the shows above and not satisfied with how it’s presented in this tournament? Just fill up this form, where you can submit revisions for taglines, propaganda, trigger warnings, and/or video.

[tache-noire]

20 Questions for Writers

tagged by: @dilf-in-peril HI THANK YOU

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

43!

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

84,772

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Pro wrestling, right now. AEW and probably ROH and WWE in the future.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

I'm going from #2 onwards because #1 is a collection of stories that i have since re-uploaded separately, and the original collection is now hidden and inaccessible.

Ass-Kisser (Max Caster/MJF sloppy rimming+fucking in a hallway)

A Day In The Life Of A Dog (Play-by-play of House Of Black's activities on a show day, centered around Brody)

Welcome To The Business (Christian Cage+Luchasaurus/Nick Wayne noncon)

Daddy's Boys (The Acclaimed celebrate a win by DP-ing Billy Gunn)

Give Me Your Violence (Eddie Kingston/Jon Moxley rough sex)

5. Do you respond to comments?

I try to reply to every one, even if it's just "thank you!" or "I'm glad you liked it!"

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

How It Begins. I wasn't PLANNING on exploring Luchasaurus' psyche, but it happened anyway.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

A Future With You is the sappiest thing i've ever written, by far. alpha4alpha husbands.....

8. Do you get hate on fics?

A looooooong time ago on a Dio Brando/Giorno Giovanna fic. I deleted it though.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

It's almost all i write. I tried to write actual plot once, but then i lost steam.

EDIT: I JUST REALIZED I SKIPPED PART 2 OF THE QUESTION

as for what kind i write, it's pure depraved kink, usually :) I have very few limits and they are eroding every day.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I've never actually written one, but I have some ideas rattling around in my head about a Hannibal/Crimes Of The Future crossover.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware of!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

A couple, yes. I don't remember which ones, though.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Nope!

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

I really don't know. I love any combination of Samoa Joe, CM Punk, and MJF, and any combination of Christian Cage, Nick Wayne, and Luchasaurus. And I like Eddie Kingston/Jon Moxley.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I'd really like to finish Tokeback Mountain someday, but for now it's labeled as discontinued. Evil Uno is surprisingly hard to write, and I'm eternally torn between including his shoot insecurities about his body and some mushy "noooo youre so sexy" shit, or keeping to kayfabe and having him be comfortable.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I've gotten a couple comments mentioning characterization, so I guess I'm good at that. I think I write dialogue fairly well, too.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Anything other than pure smut, i think. I have trouble putting breathing room between actions/scenes.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Ehhhh. If it's gonna be entire sentences, I just don't do it. A couple words, maybe, but if a character's entire dialogue would have to be translated, I just keep it in english, italicize it, and leave a note that explains it. Like if I'm gonna write a fic about the Lucha Brothers and it's just them talking to each other, i'm going to write it in English, even though it should be assumed that they're speaking Spanish.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Silent Hill 2. You can still find my first fic on fanfiction.net if you really dig for it and somehow know it when you read it. My writing style changed drastically over the last 2 years though!

20. Favorite fic you've written?

I'm torn between a couple. Right at this moment I'm gonna say Reversal, because it was a weird sort of breakthrough where I didn't just write a kink I've never written before and was even a little uncomfortable with, but I took it almost as far as I possibly could, and I ended up loving it.

tagging: TAGGING MAKES ME NERVOUS BECAUSE I AUTOMATICALLY ASSUME I'M ANNOYING. IF YOU WRITE AND YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT YOUR WRITING, PLEEEAAAAAASE DO

[ot3]

I looked over what I could find of your thoughts on asexuality, and I THINK I understand your core argument—it’s hard to say because a lot of the posts I found kind of talked around the ideas, and I can’t exactly search “ace” on an ace attorney fanblog and see success haha

But if I pieced things together correctly, it centers around kind of … using the same narrative as other queer identities to [I couldn’t find a conclusion from your posts, just the premises saying this did the ace identity a disservice as well as grossly undercut the gay/trans narratives they pull from].

I’m not sure there’s room for asexuality in the queer narrative, if that’s the problem. If, because everyone experiences sexual violence and shaming unless they’re a part of a small minority, the oppression/pain narrative doesn’t fit.

Every June, people celebrate pride and the exclusion of ace identities immediately follows, usually because those who are ace haven’t suffered in the ways other queers have. The gate is kept for those who think queerness is defined by oppression first and foremost. The gate will continue to be kept regardless of any argument of suffering, no matter if it’s original or ripped—primarily, I assume, because the argument isn’t that aces haven’t suffered enough, but because people genuinely think they aren’t queer, and they’ve picked the one point ace individuals might have a hard time navigating around (because as you said, all sexual expression or non-expression is punished if it is not part of a small celebrated minority), and if they DO argue that they’ve experienced sexual violence, it’s easy to reject.

I’d like to hear your thoughts, if you can spare them, on whether aces are queer—and what queerness is, in the case that it excludes them.

Because once we get into suffering politics, I feel like we inevitably find ourselves in radfem territory. One queer experience is often going to be drastically different from another. A white lesbian knows not the struggles of a trans black woman, but both of them are queer.

So yes, let’s say the ace community is erroneously using language that is disingenuous to everyone’s experiences. The queer community is demanding pain from them in order to be valid. The pain is not exclusive but nearly universal, but oddly never enough. What changes? Are the aces not queer? Or is queerness as an exclusive pain narrative the core of its identity?

Perhaps I missed something in what I read and you aren’t using pain narratives—the concept of transforming queer narratives for acceptance and therefore discrediting all identities involved read as protective, which raised some flags. What I can see of your argument I don’t even necessarily disagree with.

But if the argument is that everyone suffers sexual violence if they’re not part of the celebrated sexual minority, doesn’t that neuter the whole sexual spectrum? That’s bunching everyone into a massive subgroup of not cishet white male. The aces are saying they experience a different sexual violence from straight cis Carla and gay Jerry. Or, not using a pain lens, the aces are saying they experience a different sexual identity from others. Is that not queerness?

Maybe that’s what you’re asking for. But if we’re excluding sexual violence from the narrative because it’s too general a premise, then that HAS to be excluded from your definition of queer.

i have been so, so, so, so clear, over and over again, that i do not care who wants to use the word queer for themselves. i'm not sure how much clearer i can be on the subject and i don't see a point in trying to explain anything beyond that when no one will even listen to that much. i am not going to have these discussions with tumblr anons anymore, it is a waste of my time. if anyone is really pressed to know my opinions they are free to talk to me by literally any method other than anonymous tumblr asks.

[kathxsoupp]

In Love With a Fever: Chapter 2

William Afton x law enforcement ! reader (fem)

HIHIHI I'M SO HAPPY I GOT THE IDEA TO WRITE THIS I CAN'T WAIT FOR YOU TO SEE THIS THING FINISHED :D

Summary: Reader is a detective who was put on the missing children incident case, her person of interest is William and is currently investigating him.

WARNINGS: very graphic violence throughout the whole fic, eventual smut, slow burn, age-gap between reader and Will, manipulation, mutilation, broken bones, use of pet names, Will is obsessive, mentions of death, death and murder, there will be smut, a lot probably, I think, dub-con at some point maybe, fluff and angst, idk if I missed something just read with caution

Notes: This fic is also posted on my AO3, linked in my pinned post, I'm updating this fic every Monday and it's the first thing I have ever posted, so I hope you like it!

--MINORS DNI!!!--

Chapter 2: Curiosity

He dropped his knife with a metallic clink. Taking in the sight of his creation, he removed the large heavy head of the animatronic costume he was wearing and set it down on the ground. A subtle clicking sound coming from behind him tore him out of his trance. He knew his life was endangered now, so he had to act quickly.

He carefully stepped out of the costume and locked it away where no one but him could find it. He ran his hand through his already messy hair and got to work cleaning up the crime scene.

The clock struck 5:00 am. The sky had a nice orange to blue gradient and your alarm rang with the most annoying high pitched sound. You sat up, slightly startled and reached out to turned it off. You let out an exhausted groan and buried your face in the palms of your hands.

You got up and walked over to your kitchen to make your morning coffee. You were still so groggy and your eyes felt incredibly heavy. You weren’t ready for another incredibly boring day of sitting in your office all day long until 8 pm. That’s when it hit you. Oh, right. You weren’t exactly in the mood to look for a psycho who kidnaps and murders children either, but you couldn’t deny it was pretty exciting.

After drinking your coffee, you washed up in the bathroom and did your makeup. You stood in frond of the mirror fixing your hair and staring at your own face. You sighed deeply as your mind wandered into thoughts about your life for the past few months. It wasn’t bad exactly, just your usual overthinking. You decided to just brush it off, as always, and went to pick out an outfit for the day. You ended up deciding on a pair of black suit pants, a white tank top and a black blazer. Your curled (h/c) hair rested on your shoulders and you decided to ruffle it once more before settling on the way it was styled. You grabbed your bag and keys and headed out to your car.

You parked your car at the pizzeria and took in the sorrowful sight of the place which just a week ago glowed with laughter and smiles of little children playing and chowing down on pizza without a single care in the world. Now, it reeked of agony, pain and death. No one has ever seen this place so utterly gloomy. You stepped out of your car and walked over to the enter of the pizzeria. There were a bunch of police cars and reporters hoping to get a story out of this outside already, along with two guards standing at the entrance making sure no one unauthorized enters. You showed them your badge and they let you in with a slight nod of the head.

The inside of the diner looked just the same as before, maybe just a little cleaner. Party hats aligned on top of the long tables where many little kids used to celebrate their birthdays. Against a wall proudly stood the main stage where the performances happened. To your disappointment it was completely covered by a long purple curtain with gold stars drawn all over it. You kind of looked forward to seeing the animatronics since they always fascinated you. 

You saw other people already hard at work, collecting all the evidence possible. There truly wasn’t much to work with though. The bodies of the missing kids were never actually discovered. The only thing you knew was that they disappeared here. At the magical place for kids and grown ups alike, as they called it. Let’s just say that it was all far from magical at the moment. You looked around and saw your boss walking towards you.

''Morning, Agent (l/n). Have you read the file I sent you yesterday?'' he said, seemingly in a hurry. ''Good Morning, boss. Yeah I read it as soon as I got home, is everything okay?'' you replied. ''Awesome.'' he gave you a slight smile. ''Yes, everything's great. We've already interviewed Mr. Emily, one of the owners, he's clean so far. I don't have a good feeling about Afton though. We thought we'd leave him to you, you're a professional.'' he said with a chuckle, giving you a friendly wink.

You chuckled back as a response to him. He was right though. You are a charming, intelligent young woman. Incredibly good at interviewing violent criminals because of your personality, ethereal looks, but mainly, your brain. You could always see through everyone's bullshit and lies and outplay them with your brilliant use of psychology.

''Is he here already?'' you questioned. ''Yes, actually. That's why I was looking for you.'' he said. ''He should be around somewhere. Tall, thin, tired looking guy in a suit, you can't possibly miss him. Go ask him some questions, I'm sure you'll get a bunch of info out of him, kiddo.'' he chuckled and patted you on the shoulder as he made his way past you.

You smiled towards him and sighed. Alright, let's get this over with you thought, and you were on your way to look for the man.

[ikkaku-of-heart]

@draconxs asked: (From Draconxs to Tomasu for a spooky drink) - While there was no way Kaido was going to beat out the old man's moonshine, he decided to fix the smuggler a flavorful drink suited to revive numbed tastebuds and all for a Halloween celebration. His drink would be delivered directly to the lighthouse first by flying all the way over to the foggy island in his snaking, serpentine dragon form. He was quick to shift forms so that the geezer didn't think he was an old one coming to sink the island for good and carried his batch of Dark and Stormy by hand. The glasses were a bit larger than normal so that he could handle it with ease, but he knew Tomasu was no slouch and can toss some back even with the likes of himself and so quantity of liquor was a non-issue. "Worororo! Still living I see? Good, means my trip wasn't a waste of time."

Tomasu had known the Yonko was coming even before he saw the winding shadow among the dark clouds. Years of honing his Observation Haki and watching the skies and seas for trouble had given him a good sense for incoming danger. It was necessary both for his old smuggling career and his current job as a lighthouse keeper.

But while Kaido naturally brought with him an air of calamity and violence, it was much less pronounced as the dragon landed on the cliffside by the lighthouse. The drinks in his shifting claws further indicated that the man did, indeed, come in peace. A rare thing, and not an occasion Tomasu would snark at. Regardless of his mixed and often bittersweet feelings about Joras, he had a duty to protect it and its people. Provoking Kaido would be the opposite of that.

Besides, at his age, seeing a familiar face brought a pleasant sense of nostalgia, regardless of what their relationship had been.

"Heh. Don't go spreading that fact around," he chuckled, accepting the drink. The pleasant scent of whiskey, honey, and blackberries tickled his nose. Not his usual drink but far from unwelcome. Sweet stuff was hard to find on Joras. "Most from our days think I'm dead or forget I even existed, an' I like it that way. But I guess if it gets me a drink, I don't mind a few folks like yourself knowing I'm alive." At least, so long as it didn't cause harm to his island or his precious pirate granddaughter.

Taking a sip of the cocktail, the Ghostlight nodded in approval. "Good stuff. Not sure I was worth makin' the trip for, but since ya came all this way, figure ya ought t' stay for dinner. I'll send my grandsons into town t' fetch some supplies while we drink."

[obiternihili]

There's like a weird layer abstracted from the blatantly obvious where I'm not entirely confident the authoritarian vs libertarian dichotomy is real.

Like there's obviously a difference between zero tolerance policies and scaled responses on one hand, and believing as a heuristic that it's best not to micromanage vs being a bit of a control freak on the other.

But you can also get weird products if you factorialize that, for example.

You can get someone who doesn't believe in lifting a figure unless it's to pull a trigger; you can get someone who's passionate for an extremely nuanced, everyone's values maximized approach and because of that passion ends up with such a martyr complex they think they're only one can do it.

Like I feel like I should say that there's an obvious difference between regimes like Russia and Sweden, but I don't think it's necessarily right to continue using the terminology of that scale that was invented to bolster support for the libertarian party anyways.

Because, like, if you look at American politics, where you find "anti-authoritarians" you usually find small-government authoritarians; the libertarians generally want to be kings of their land so they can enforce segregated trad values on their families and small communities. The Bert to Nazi pipeline is real enough that I don't feel like defending it. And plenty of places claiming to be devoted to libertarian freedom just aren't which is why the Berts are even worse about not true scotsmanning them than commies.

Anarchists are infamous for reinventing shit like HOAs and their tendency to advocate lynching (even if it's not the overtly racist kind) in place of a rule of law. There's a love hate thing going on with half the anarchists celebrating or being horrified at their murder of Spanish clergy. They don't claim it, but if you actually study the culture revolution, in many ways it was anarchist in nature, with a complete teardown of the old order and a collapse of non-local leadership leading to a mess of often conflicting local policies. Part of the reason for the CCP's "authoritarianism" is in direct response to the CR's excesses and "democrazy".

On the other hand, like, just in general it's not really that hard to find authoritarians who reserve absolute authority but refuse to exercise that authority unless absolutely necessary. Like, teachers in classrooms often, some parents are reluctant to punish or do anything, etc.

For symmetry reasons I'd write a bit about China, Singapore, etc not necessarily being that bad in practice, if still not great. And then separately probably try to illustrate how you get things like an authoritarian federal government forcing local and state governments to give poors/minorities/workers their rights. And point out how shit like monopolies tend to happen with laissez faire rules while protection rackets are often one of the first things to happen without a ""monopoly on violence""

then i'd probably link daniel kahn's "freedom is verb" as if a song is a valid form of argument and leave it off

but i just grew really tired in the middle of writing this for some reason

[jennmurrayisnotmyname]

Whump-ish Prompt #3: Consequences

This one takes place in a weird and self-indulgent Animorphs AU I wrote. What's going on here is that a particularly messed-up Animorphs fan ends up isekai'd into the Animorphs universe and decides to do something totally insane: Tell Visser Three the entire plot of Animorphs, in a way where he absolutely can't deny (infestation) that the fan is telling the truth.

The Animorphs fan is utterly obsessed with the Visser. She wants to save him from his fate at the end of the series, at any cost. It turns out that Visser Three likes getting his ego stroked that hard and doesn’t necessarily have the time to pick apart memories for weeks on end to find the relevant information. Nor can he let anyone else have unimpeachable and obvious blackmail against him, which is also in her memories. So she lives, but well...Actions have consequences. Millions upon millions of humans die, and the rest are enslaved. Her own preparations ensure Earth's survival against the Andalite fleet she knows is coming, but the cost of her evil and selfishness is great. TW: References to the Holocaust/Shoah, burning bodies, genocide, incinerators, Fun And Games For Everybody For some reason marking this post "Mature" I think hides it, even though it is, so I'm removing that, but take the trigger warnings seriously. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------------------

She didn’t know how to mourn. There was no ceremony that anyone had for this. There were no prayers. There were no words of wisdom. There were no celebrations of lives well-lived. There was only one people on Earth who had created a memorial for an event that was even loosely similar, and she had no idea if they were dead or alive. She had to hope some of them had survived. They had survived everything that Earth had ever thrown at them, after all. For more than three thousand years.

That was probably how she had found herself out here, among thousands of concrete slabs, surrounded on all sides by waiting guards. Berlin. This was a city that had once been the midwife of the birth of an incomprehensible, hideous violence, the like of which arose only a few times in human history. A genocide, manufactured death organized and arranged with the same bureaucratic efficiency that made the trains run on time. And she was desecrating the memorial just by standing in it.

How many human beings had she killed now?

Hundreds of millions?

Billions?

Bodies upon bodies upon bodies upon the rotting remains of arms and legs and torsos and heads. That was how many. That was the price of resisting the Empire now. Yet still they kept coming, endlessly, would-be saboteurs and dissenters and rebels. Sometimes she had nightmares of being buried at the bottom, crying out with hoarse and empty lungs, clawing for the top of the heap with outstretched hands. A heap filled with mothers and daughters and sisters and brothers and siblings, people of every kind and color and shape and size. Blood and viscera covering her face and clothes. Usually, the incinerator starts up before even a finger breaks through the surface.

Yet here she was. She has a privilege. A privilege that was, itself, a gift from the dead. The trust she had earned from this, the greatest of betrayals. She kneels before the concrete slabs and screams.

[k--havok]

Fire: What’s a scene that you are dying to write?

Air: What’s the easiest part of writing for you?

Shadows: What’s the darkest theme you’ve ever written about?

Lightning: What’s the most shocking plot twist you’ve ever come up with?

Rain: Have you ever made yourself cry with your own writing?  If so, what was it?

Grass: What’s the biggest change you’ve made in your WIP since you started it?

So many!!

Fire: What’s a scene that you are dying to write?

Oh gosh a scene? As in one? I have so many scenes I want to write that I haven't tackled yet! Let me see if I can pick one that doesn't have too many spoilers...

There is this scene I want to write from Waking into Divinity where Rylie goes to Gehenna (the demon world) for the first time in Book I. Humans are incredibly rare in Gehenna so the majority of demons have never seen one, making Rylie an instant interest to pretty much everyone there.

There's a lot of stuff I plan on writing about here, such as the celebration that gets to be had, Rylie learning about demons, demon culture, and the politics going on at the same time. But the scene I really want to write about here is this pivotal scene where Casrath takes Rylie to the magical center, or leyline, of his realm, which is located deep beneath the ground.

In Waking into Divinity, there are two types of demons; Demon Lords and then just demons. Demons are born from Demon Lords mating with each other, other demons, or when two demons mate with one another.

But Demon Lords are not born, but created fully-formed as adults from a point of magic. And their magic is dependent on the type of magic found in each realm. Casrath was created from the leyline of light, making him a demon which can control light. This is what he shows Rylie as these wells of power are intrinsic for the realm to continue to flourish. Without the leyline there, magic will cease to exist in the area, and become basically wastelands where nothing and no one can survive.

I love writing about magic and landscape descriptions which is why I am so ready to write this scene. Plus the worldbuilding too. Love that as well.

Air: What’s the easiest part of writing for you?

Sitting around day-dreaming scene/story ideas if we're keeping it real. But if you mean like. Sitting down and actually writing-writing, I really love doing action/chase scenes. I feel like I'm usually good with banging them out in one sitting compared to dialogue or description heavy-scenes for whatever reason.

Shadows: What’s the darkest theme you’ve ever written about?

I've answered here but I'll go ahead and give another answer too!

Currently, the darkest story I've been working on-and-off again is Osiris' Trials, a story I share with my bestest friend @ademariel

The first three chapters PLUS a 16k word smutty one-shot is on my AO3 if you want to read it.

The story is about a snobby assassin who is tasked to kill a billionaire named Renenetmos. Except, he is captured by said billionaire and gets sucked into a dark world all the while trying to both A) kill Renenetmos B) survive Renenetmos and C) find out who hired him in the first place

It doesn't help that his target isn't human.

The story features: Ancient Egyptian Gods and Mythology, murder, inhuman characters, rape, human trafficking, drugs, torture, violence (of all kinds), major character death, and unlikable main characters. All of the above are graphic and on-page.

If you like gay murderous husbands who want to kill each other as hard as they want to fuck each other then you'll probably like this story.

Lightning: What’s the most shocking plot twist you’ve ever come up with?

Well, if I share the most shocking plot twist I've come up with, it won't be the most shocking plot twist anymore haha!

I will share a tidbit but I am not going to explain the characters or even what story it belongs to.

Most of my stories have some form of Major Character Death. In one of the series I am working on, there is Major Character Death where one protagonist is coerced to kill another protagonist by the main antagonist. This single death basically forms the turning point for the rest of the series, and the fallout of this one death touches not just the rest of the ensemble cast, but changes the course of the future permanently as well. Every other decision, both good and bad, stems from this one death.

This act of amicicide (friend killing a friend) changes everything.

And the murderer is still one of the protagonists after. He does not become an antagonist in the story due to this. But he does suffer major consequences due to what he did.

And the antagonist who basically put the gun in his hand? He gets his own consequences too. hehe.

Rain: Have you ever made yourself cry with your own writing?  If so, what was it?

I've answered this one here too~ I don't really cry from my own writing so I don't have another answer to give unless crying from frustration counts lol

Grass: What’s the biggest change you’ve made in your WIP since you started it?

This is another hard one as I feel with most my WIPs that they either don't really change too much from the original idea or they do a complete 180 with no in-between.

For what I am currently working on, I think Waking into Divinity is going to have the largest of changes due to the fact that I am not happy with the first draft of the first book and am thinking about scraping what I have and completely redoing it. Thing is, I am not certain how I want to go about this.

Currently, the first draft is about 40k words long. It is... slight portal fantasy? There are two worlds in the story, Earth or the Human World, and the Demon World known as Gehenna.

The main character is a human named Rylie. They are nonbinary, work an average 9-5 job, and is living a typical depression-fueled lifestyle in the modern age. The monotony is endless until they meet Casrath, a Demon Lord from Gehenna who claim Rylie is his soulmate, also known as tal'rith in the story. Casrath wishes for Rylie to go back with him to Gehenna to live with him but despite hating their life, its hard to uproot everything you have to live a completely different life. So Casrath is trying to convince them in the meanwhile

If that description kinda sounds boring, its because it is boring. At least, 50% of writing this has been boring as the meat of the story takes place in Gehenna, but its hard to force Rylie to get there as they are stubborn and get overwhelmed easily.

I love reading portal fantasy/romance of this nature but always find the beginning to go to fast in most of those stories and the protagonists to act so weird regarding trying to get home. I feel they usually "get over" trying to go home way too quick in a way that's not very realistic. But now I think I'm leaning too hard in the opposite direction.

Thing is, Casrath is a gentleman (gentledemon? I never want to read the word "gentlemale" ever again sorry) and would not force Rylie to go to Gehenna. So I'm still trying to figure out a way to get Rylie there quicker ahaha.

If I do end up changing the beginning of the story, it'll really change the rest of the first book I think. I don't think the second book will change much as I know how the first book ends, its just, you know, the first 90% that is giving me issues.