#like imagine being that kind of human being

[ladyshinga]

Fun Shinga Story Time:

So, my parents went through that very common conservative Christian phase with their parenting where they decided I, their first child, should know NOTHING about sex or anything until I was some kind of arbitrary "ready" age

BUT, they still wanted me to learn things in GENERAL, and homeschooled us, so we spent a lot of time at libraries and they were always encouraging when we found a subject we loved.

So, I was in that oh-so-normal child phase where I'd decided I'd DEFINITELY be a veterinarian when I grew up and my biggest focus/love was cats. So every time we went to the library I was grabbing cat books. My parents were all about it, cause why wouldn't they be?

Well here's the thing about cats… they're mammals. I knew this. I also knew HUMANS were mammal.

I knew nothing about human sex.

But I was now reading, for the first time… about how CATS mate. And folks, I was HORRIFIED.

Imagine being like eight years old and reading this in horror like "I know I have to do this someday when I'm married but… IT HAS BARBS IN IT??!"

I held onto that misconception for years, y'all.

Sex education is important.

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: I Want a Refund || Trey Clover

When the universe dunks you into a dumpster fire of a novel as the villainess, survival is key. Except your husband, Trey Clover, turns out to be such a green flag that it gets a little harder to function.

Series Masterlist

You prided yourself on being a normal, decent person. Maybe even a good person, depending on who you asked. Sure, you weren’t out here saving kittens from trees or solving world hunger, but you did your part.

You recycled when you remembered, held the door open for strangers (if they were close enough, you weren’t that kind of hero), and even tossed bread crumbs to the pigeons outside your apartment every now and then. It wasn’t much, but it was honest work.

So, really, what you didn’t expect was to be completely betrayed by the universe. The betrayal began small, like a mosquito buzzing in your ear: the newest novel you’d been anticipating for months was sold out.

“Are you serious?” you grumbled, glaring at the empty display like it had just insulted your mother. A handwritten sign on the shelf read: ‘SOLD OUT! More in stock soon!’ in cheerful cursive, as if mocking you.

What were you supposed to do now? Go home empty-handed? Waste your perfectly good afternoon plans of curling up with a book? Absolutely not. Refusing to admit defeat, you scanned the bookstore until your gaze fell on the “New and Best-Selling” rack.

One book immediately caught your eye. The cover was... well, something. It looked like someone had raided a middle schooler’s stash of Barbie stickers, splattered glitter over the whole thing, and slapped on an aggressively curly gold font that screamed, I’M A ROMANCE NOVEL!

You sighed. “Fine. How bad could it be?”

It could be very, very bad.

The first red flag was the synopsis. It introduced Trey Clover, the Grand Duke, who loved his spouse, the villainess, with a devotion so pure it made you want to gag. But then came the second male lead, the Prince, who confessed his love to Trey and the villainess, because monogamy was too boring for this book.

And then there was the heroine. The synopsis just called her “the Saintess,” because why bother giving her a name when her only personality trait was being the worst human being imaginable? She appeared out of nowhere, became the Saintess overnight (because logic?), and made it her life’s mission to ruin the villainess’s life while somehow convincing everyone she was an angel.

Oh, and the Prince? The book had him slip on a rock and die halfway through the plot, like the author had a word count limit and didn’t know what else to do with him. The villainess ends up dying too, right aftetr asking Trey for a divorce to "protect him." The ending involved Trey marrying the heroine, despite spending the entire book side-eyeing her like she owed him rent.

You closed the book slowly, your soul drained of all joy. “What in the fresh hell did I just read?”

But no, you couldn’t let this stand. You were a taxpayer, a contributing member of society. You did not deserve this literary slap in the face.

With righteous indignation burning in your chest, you marched back to the bookstore. You slapped the book onto the counter with a dramatic flair that deserved a standing ovation.

“Refund,” you declared, glaring at the cashier.

“Uh... we don’t usually do refunds on books you’ve already read...” they began hesitantly.

“I don’t care,” you snapped, pointing at the glittering monstrosity. “This isn’t a book. It’s a hate crime against literature. A refund, please, before I start sobbing in public.”

After a long pause—and possibly fearing a customer service meltdown—they handed you store credit. Satisfied but still simmering with rage, you stomped out of the store, muttering to yourself about bad authors, worse editors, and the existential crisis of knowing someone got paid to write that garbage.

And that’s when karma struck.

A segway—a SEGWAY—came hurtling toward you at Mach speed, piloted by a man dressed in full medieval knight armor.

“MAKE WAY FOR SIR SCOOTINGTON!” he screamed, his voice muffled by his helmet.

You froze. Your brain could not process this level of absurdity in such a short amount of time. Was this a prank? A hallucination? Had the book actually been cursed and now you were living out its bad writing?

The segway didn’t stop. It hit you with a solid THUNK, sending you flying backward into a suspiciously well-placed pile of garbage bags.

As you lay there, buried under the remains of someone’s takeout and a very old banana peel, as your vision started to blur, you stared at the sky and thought:

Dawg, why me??

You woke up to the faint chirping of birds and the kind of silence that only rich people seem to afford. Something felt... off. The sheets were too soft, like they’d been spun from angel whispers and a mid-tier deity’s hair. Your pillow was the perfect combination of fluffy and firm, a far cry from the lumpy second-hand abomination you’d bought on sale three years ago.

Your eyes cracked open, squinting against the sunlight filtering through an elaborate, gold-encrusted chandelier. A chandelier. In a bedroom. You lived in a shoebox apartment; your idea of luxury was a lamp that wasn’t from a clearance bin.

You turned your head slightly, and your soul froze mid-exit.

There was someone next to you.

Your brain screeched to a halt, flashing every warning signal it had. Stranger. Bed. You. No.

The only living thing that should’ve been in your apartment was the stray cat you’d nicknamed Gremlin, and he sure as hell didn’t have human proportions or a steady breathing rhythm.

Slowly—painstakingly—you tilted your head to look at your unwanted companion.

It was a man. A very attractive man, sleeping peacefully on his side, glasses perched askew on the nightstand. His hair was a soft mess, his breathing even, and his entire aura screamed gentle husband vibes.

Then recognition sucker-punched you in the gut.

No.

No.

It couldn’t be.

You blinked. Looked again. Replayed every horrible memory of that atrocious novel you had read, and then read again because you hated yourself.

It was Trey Clover.

Male lead. Gentleman. Human embodiment of a warm cup of tea. The guy who was in love with his villainess spouse (you remembered her being dramatic but competent) before the world went full dumpster fire.

Your breathing hitched. You stared down at your hands, and they stared back—perfectly manicured, dainty, soft hands that had never touched a single dirty dish or over-scrubbed countertop.

The reality hit you like a segway knight at full speed.

You’d been isekai’d.

You fought the urge to scream into the pillow. Was this some karmic punishment for returning that book? Was your snarky review in the Reddit thread too harsh? Because this? This was an unholy level of irony.

Trey stirred beside you, his brow furrowing slightly as his hand lazily reached for his glasses. He slid them on, blinking sleepily as his gaze landed on you.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was soft, groggy, and just a little raspy—the kind of voice you’d pay extra to have someone read you bedtime stories with. “You’re staring.”

For a moment, your brain blue-screened. Trey Clover—novel character and now your husband, apparently—was looking at you with concern, and all you could think was: At least he’s hot.

“…Nothing,” you croaked, swallowing down the rising tide of panic. “Just… processing.”

“Processing what?” he asked, sitting up slightly and rubbing his eyes, his entire demeanor radiating "adoring husband" energy.

You clenched the sheets in your fists, trying to will yourself to wake up from this insane fever dream. Unfortunately, the chandelier wasn’t disappearing, Trey wasn’t fading into mist, and your perfectly moisturized skin wasn’t breaking into your usual crusty dryness.

This was real.

And somehow, you were the villainess in a novel you’d once described as "a literary abomination designed to kill brain cells."

The sound of a soft knock at the bedroom door made you jump, nearly upsetting the tower of books you’d been flipping through in your attempt to figure out where in the dumpster fire of this timeline you were.

“Come in?” you called hesitantly, trying to shove the incriminating evidence of your non-villainess-like behavior—a half-written list titled HOW TO NOT DIE TRAGICALLY—under a pillow.

Trey stepped in, balancing a tray of food like he was auditioning for Husband of the Year. His hair was slightly mussed, the sleeves of his button-up rolled up just enough to show forearms that could inspire sonnets. The man was a walking Pinterest board, and it was unfair.

“I brought you something to eat,” he said with a small smile, setting the tray on the table. “You’ve been skipping meals, and that’s not like you.”

You laughed nervously, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “Oh, um, yeah. Upset stomach. You know how it is.”

Trey raised an eyebrow, his smile unwavering but his eyes far too knowing. “Sure. And I’ll be here while you eat, just to make sure you’re feeling better.”

Oh, no.

You stared at the tray like it had betrayed you. Soup, bread, and some suspiciously perfect desserts that looked like they had been made by the hands of an angel. You couldn’t say no without sounding even sketchier.

“Right,” you muttered, picking up the spoon with the grace of someone about to face a firing squad. As you sipped, Trey watched silently, his chin resting on one hand, his soft gaze pinned on you. The air felt so heavy you could’ve cut it with a butter knife.

“Are you going to go through with it?” he asked suddenly.

You froze mid-bite, the words hitting you like a frying pan to the face. “Go through with… what?”

“The divorce,” he said simply.

You choked on your soup. The spoon clattered back into the bowl as you grabbed a napkin, trying to avoid literally dying of shock. Divorce? Divorce?! That wasn’t in the plan! You knew what happened after the divorce—the villainess died, and you weren’t about to let fate steamroll you into an early grave, again.

“What? No! Of course not!” you sputtered, waving your hands in frantic denial. “Why would I want a divorce? You’re, uh, great! Fantastic! A literal dream husband!”

Trey blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion before his expression softened into something warmer, almost relieved. “You… want to work things out?”

“Yes!” you blurted, nodding with enough enthusiasm to give yourself whiplash. “Absolutely! Let’s work this out. Together. Like a team.”

His lips curved into a rare, genuine smile that nearly melted you on the spot. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead that left your brain doing cartwheels. “Alright. I’ll hold you to that. I’ll be back for dinner, so rest up until then.”

He left the room, and the moment the door clicked shut, you flopped back onto the bed like a deflated balloon. The pillow muffled your scream of embarrassment as you kicked your feet, equal parts flustered and mortified. What was that? Why did he have to be so sweet? How were you supposed to survive this level of tenderness without combusting?

The door creaked open again.

You froze mid-giggle, legs tangled in the sheets like a caught fish. Trey stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised and looking like he was about two seconds away from bursting into laughter. “Forgot my pen,” he said casually, strolling over to grab the item from the bedside table.

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. “Oh. Uh. Right.”

He paused on his way out, leaning down to kiss your cheek with infuriating gentleness. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

And just like that, he was gone again, leaving you red-faced, flustered, and questioning every life choice that had led to this moment.

It had been such a nice meal. The kind where the food was good, the company better, and the wine just strong enough to make you feel warm and floaty but not stupid. Trey was smiling faintly at you over his plate, his rare but deeply satisfying I’m enjoying myself face in full effect, and you dared to think, Hey, maybe I can survive this isekai nonsense after all.

And then the restaurant door swung open, and your fragile peace shattered like a dropped wine glass.

The prince had arrived.

Trey’s face immediately darkened like a thunderstorm on the horizon, and you felt yourself lose a year of your life just from sheer dread. The prince was a walking disaster in human form, and you’d been hoping to avoid him like the plague. But the universe clearly hated you because here he was, sashaying through the restaurant like he owned the place.

“Oh no,” you whispered, gripping your fork like it could somehow protect you.

Trey’s jaw tightened as the prince spotted you both, his grin wide enough to make you wish the floor would open up and swallow you.

“Darlings!” the prince cried, crossing the room with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever off its leash. “Fancy seeing you here!”

You didn’t even get a chance to object before he grabbed a chair from a nearby table, spun it around dramatically, and wedged himself between you and Trey, plopping down like he’d been invited. Spoiler alert: he hadn’t.

“Your Highness,” Trey said through clenched teeth, managing to sound both polite and like he was ready to stab someone with a salad fork.

“Oh, come now, Trey,” the prince laughed, waving off the formality. “No need to be so stiff. After all, we’re practically family!”

You didn’t get the chance to ask how that made sense before he grabbed your hand—and Trey’s—planting a wet, sloppy kiss on each. The sound it made was unholy, like a boot pulling free from a swamp. You and Trey simultaneously stiffened, the same thought clearly running through your minds: Don’t cringe, don’t cringe, don’t cringe…

“I simply had to come over when I saw you two!” the prince gushed, oblivious to your visible discomfort. “The saintess—bless her kind, radiant heart—has been dying to see you both!”

You glanced at Trey, who was visibly restraining himself from rolling his eyes.

“She’s throwing a ball this weekend,” the prince continued, clasping his hands together like he was sharing the world’s most exciting news. “And you must come. Truly, it’d be… well, treasonous not to, considering we’re both inviting you!”

Ah, there it was. The veiled threat disguised as politeness. You hated that this guy was smart enough to wield his royal status as a weapon, even if he made everything sound like it came with a complimentary gift basket.

You forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look too much like a grimace. “We’d be honored, Your Highness.”

Trey shot you a subtle look, one that very clearly said Traitor, but you knew he agreed. Anything to avoid another round of Wet Hand Kisses.

“Wonderful!” the prince declared, clapping his hands together. “I knew you two would understand. You always were the reasonable ones.”

He finally stood up, ruffling Trey’s hair in a way that made his eye twitch before striding off like he hadn’t just hijacked your peaceful dinner.

As soon as the door swung shut behind him, you slumped back in your chair, utterly drained. “I feel like I need to bathe in holy water.”

Trey pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “I should’ve poisoned his dessert last time.”

You stared at him. “You what?”

“Nothing,” he said, picking up his fork like nothing had happened. “Let’s finish eating.”

You could still feel the ghost of the prince’s wet kiss on your hand, and you shuddered. “Do you think we can fake our deaths before Saturday?”

Trey actually looked like he was considering it.

The ball was, against all odds, actually enjoyable. The lights glittered like fairy dust, the music was just the right level of lively, and the wine was strong enough to turn your earlier dread into a warm, floaty haze. Trey was by your side, charming in his tailored suit, and for once, the prince and saintess were blissfully absent.

"Maybe they got lost," you whispered to Trey, leaning in conspiratorially. "Or better yet, maybe they found a better party and decided to leave us alone."

Trey smirked, sipping his wine. "If only we were that lucky."

Your hopes were dashed, naturally, when the prince appeared out of nowhere like some unholy summon. One second you were lifting a glass to your lips, and the next, your arm was being yanked so hard you almost spilled your drink.

“Come now, my dear!” the prince declared, grinning in a way that felt more like a threat than an invitation. “Dance with me!”

Before you could even process what was happening, you were being twirled onto the dance floor. Across the room, you caught a glimpse of Trey being snatched by the saintess, who looked like she had all the coordination of a baby deer on ice.

The prince pulled you in too close, his breath an unholy concoction of garlic and what might’ve been sour milk. You tried to politely lean back, but he just leaned closer, grinning obliviously.

“You’re stiff, my dear,” he said, his voice low and entirely too sultry for someone who smelled like a kitchen accident. “Loosen up!”

Meanwhile, Trey was enduring his own nightmare. The saintess stepped on his foot with her stiletto for the fourth time, and you could swear you saw him wince in actual pain. She was chattering nonstop about something—maybe puppies, maybe world peace—you couldn’t hear over the sound of her heels clobbering the floor.

When the ordeal finally ended, you staggered back to Trey, feeling like you’d aged ten years. He looked equally frazzled, rubbing his shoulder like it had been yanked out of its socket.

“I’d say that was horrible,” he said under his breath, “but I think ‘horrible’ is too kind.”

Before you could respond, the saintess suddenly tripped. She wasn’t even near you—she was all the way across the room—but she hit the ground with a dramatic thud, and her dress promptly ripped down the side.

You blinked. “Wait, what just—”

“I knew it!” she screeched, pointing an accusatory finger at you from the floor. “You sabotaged me!”

The prince, for once, looked baffled. He glanced between her and you like he was trying to solve a complicated riddle. “But… she wasn’t even near you?”

“SABOTAGE!” the saintess shrieked again, her voice cracking.

The original villainess would’ve taken the high road, maybe pretended to be insulted or outraged. You, however, were just drunk enough to find the entire thing hilarious.

You laughed. Loudly.

And to your absolute delight, the crowd followed suit. Quiet snickers turned into outright guffaws as everyone around you dissolved into laughter.

The saintess gawked, looking like a wet cat as she scrambled to her feet. “You’re all… MONSTERS!” she shrieked, before fleeing the room with a level of dramatics that would make even a soap opera jealous.

The prince hesitated, torn between chasing after her or staying to glower at you and Trey. Finally, with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like “I hate my life,” he ran after her, disappearing into the night.

“Well,” Trey said, offering his hand with a faint smirk, “that was… something. Care to salvage the evening with a proper dance?”

You took his hand, letting him spin you onto the floor. The music softened, the crowd fading into the background as Trey pulled you close.

“You look stunning tonight,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear as you danced.

The compliment hit you like a sucker punch, leaving you so dazed that, in your flustered state, you impulsively dipped him instead of the other way around.

Trey laughed, eyes crinkling with genuine delight. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” you hissed, cheeks burning as you held the pose.

But to your surprise, he didn’t protest. He let you dip him, even laughing as you pulled him back up. And when the dance ended, he kissed your cheek, sending your heart into a full-on meltdown.

“That,” he said, his voice filled with amusement, “was the most fun I’ve had at a ball in years.”

The tea party was a picturesque affair, all pastel tablecloths, delicate porcelain cups, and the kind of floral arrangements that screamed wealth and good taste. You were seated with Riddle, Cater, and Che’nya at a table tucked under a wisteria-laden gazebo, trying your best to survive the endless parade of gossip and sweets.

The conversation drifted naturally, like it always did, until someone—probably Cater—brought up the topic of Trey.

“Y’know,” Cater began, swirling his tea with exaggerated nonchalance, “Trey’s been looking at you like you personally hung the moon and stars lately. It’s kinda adorable.”

Che’nya leaned over, grinning like the Cheshire Cat he was. “So deep in love, it’s practically a romantic trench. What’s your secret, huh? Love potion? A really good pie?”

You chuckled, brushing off the comment, but then you glanced across the garden—and froze.

There he was, Trey Clover, the ridiculously perfect husband material that fate had handed you in this bizarre isekai life. He was standing a little ways off, chatting with a few nobles, but his gaze was unmistakably fixed on you.

When your eyes met, he smiled. Not just any smile—a warm, genuine, I-would-die-for-you-and-bake-you-cookies-afterwards kind of smile. It hit you like a runaway carriage.

Your chest tightened, your stomach flipped, and for a moment, the entire world seemed to pause.

Oh no.

Oh no.

You were in so deep.

Like, Titanic-hitting-the-iceberg-and-sinking-to-the-ocean-floor deep.

“Uh oh,” Cater sang, leaning closer with a smirk that could only mean trouble. “I know that look. Someone just had their Hallmark movie epiphany.”

You snapped out of it, cheeks burning. “What look? I don’t have a look!”

“Oh, you totally do,” Che’nya chimed in, his grin somehow wider. “It’s all dreamy and starry-eyed, like you’re in a fairy tale. Which, I guess you kinda are?”

Riddle, ever the straight man in these situations, regarded you with a mix of pity and exasperation. “Please tell me you’re not about to let these two meddle in your relationship.”

But before you could defend yourself, Cater was already leaning forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Cay-Cay’s got you covered! Wanna confess? I can totally set the mood—candles, roses, soft music…”

“I—what?” you stammered, still too dazed by your revelation to form a coherent response.

“That’s a yes!” Che’nya declared, clapping his hands together. “Alright, let’s brainstorm. Hot air balloon confession? Dramatic rain scene? Ooh, what about—”

“Absolutely not,” Riddle interrupted, his tone sharp as ever. He turned to you, expression weary. “I’ll make sure they don’t do anything absurd, but honestly, why not just tell Trey yourself? He’s your husband.”

You groaned, sinking into your chair as Cater and Che’nya continued to scheme with increasingly outlandish ideas. Meanwhile, Riddle looked at you like you’d just wired your entire fortune to a scammer and promised to fix it for you later.

Across the garden, Trey caught your gaze again, his brows furrowing slightly in concern at your flustered state. He started to make his way over, and your heart leapt into your throat.

Oh no.

Whatever happened next, you were absolutely not ready.

Riddle had been firm, as always. “A pie,” he said with the kind of authority you’d expect from someone sentencing a man to death. “It’s simple, heartfelt, and Trey would appreciate the effort. Not that I have time to indulge in frivolities like this, but… you’re lucky I know the basics.”

Turns out, Riddle did not know the basics. And neither did you.

What followed could only be described as a culinary catastrophe.

The kitchen looked like it had been struck by a flour tornado, with you and Riddle at its chaotic epicenter. Your attempt at pie dough was a war crime in the making—half stuck to the counter, half to your hands, and none of it remotely edible.

“Why is it stretching?” Riddle hissed, his face as red as his hair, holding one end of the dough while you gripped the other. The elastic monstrosity between you refused to snap, stretching longer and longer like some unholy noodle.

“I don’t know!” you shrieked back, your voice an octave higher than usual. “I followed the instructions! Mostly! Kind of!”

“‘Kind of’ isn’t good enough! Put some force into it!”

Riddle tugged one end of the dough like he was in a tug-of-war with a particularly stubborn ghost. You yanked back, and the dough elongated even further, wobbling ominously in the air.

That’s when Trey walked in.

He stopped in the doorway, taking in the absolute chaos: the flour-streaked counter, the rolling pin embedded in what used to be a bag of sugar, and you and Riddle holding opposite ends of the world’s saddest dough.

“What… exactly is happening here?” Trey asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You froze, still clutching the dough. Riddle looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“We’re baking,” you managed to squeak out.

Trey blinked, then burst into laughter, the sound warm and rich like honey. “Is that what you’re calling this?”

His laughter didn’t help your embarrassment, but the way he stepped forward, gently taking the dough from you and Riddle like a benevolent baking god, did. “Alright, let’s see if we can salvage this. Flour, water… and patience. You two watch and learn.”

You stood back, flustered and hopelessly smitten as Trey worked his magic. In minutes, he turned your disaster into a perfectly respectable pie crust. He even smiled at you both as if to say nice try, kids, and it made you feel oddly warm inside.

Still too mortified to admit the pie was meant for him, you let him finish it while Riddle quietly excused himself, muttering about overdue paperwork.

You did feel for Riddle, poor guy was stuck babysitting the Prince after all. Maybe the dough was sad because of his stress.

Later, Cater and Che’nya were far too pleased with themselves when they found you.

“So,” Cater said, grinning, “how’s Operation Swoon going?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you grumbled, remembering the dough debacle.

Che’nya’s grin widened. “Lucky for you, we’ve got Plan B: flowers! Romantic, classic, and impossible to mess up.”

You weren’t sure about that last part, but their enthusiasm was infectious. You ended up at a florist with Cater coaching you through every step, from picking out the blooms to tying a ribbon. By the time you were done, the bouquet looked gorgeous.

When you handed the flowers to Trey later, he looked… stunned. His eyes widened, his cheeks turned faintly pink, and his smile was so soft and genuine that you nearly dropped dead on the spot.

“For me?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

You nodded, suddenly nervous. “Yeah. Just, uh, wanted to thank you. For everything. You know.”

Trey cradled the bouquet like it was something precious. “Thank you. Really. This means a lot.”

And when he smiled at you again, you realized that maybe, just maybe, Cater and Che’nya’s meddling wasn’t so bad after all.

You were practically vibrating with excitement as you entered the restaurant, rare flower in hand. You’d spent far too much money on it, but it was worth it. Trey deserved nothing less. The merchant had waxed poetic about how the flower symbolized eternal devotion, and you figured it was the perfect way to set the stage for your long-overdue confession.

Trey was already seated at the table, his calm demeanor somehow both comforting and devastatingly attractive. When he saw you approach, his eyes softened, and that sweet smile of his—the one that made your knees weak—spread across his face.

You handed him the flower, and his expression lit up as though you’d just handed him the moon.

“For me?” he asked, his voice full of surprise and warmth.

“Of course,” you said, a little shy but mostly proud of yourself. “I thought it suited you.”

His fingers brushed yours as he took the flower, and before you knew it, you were holding hands across the table. The atmosphere felt perfect—soft candlelight, his warm gaze locked on yours, and your heart pounding like it had just discovered cardio.

This was it. The moment to confess that you loved him.

You opened your mouth, ready to pour your heart out—

And then she appeared.

The saintess, an uninvited hurricane in the form of a woman, swept into the room with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. You barely had time to process her arrival before she snatched the flower from Trey’s hand like a seagull stealing a french fry.

“Oh, Trey, you shouldn’t have!” she gushed, clutching the flower to her chest like a deranged soap opera villain. “How thoughtful of you to get this for me!”

Trey’s face froze in what could only be described as polite murder. His jaw tightened, his grip on the table visibly white-knuckled.

You, however, were already halfway to a breakdown. “Excuse me?” you sputtered.

The saintess ignored you entirely.

Enter the prince, the human equivalent of a golden retriever who’d been hit on the head one too many times. He trailed behind her, clearly regretting his existence. For once, he seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation and awkwardly tried to mediate.

“Ah, maybe I should—uh—just give this back,” he mumbled, reaching for the flower.

The saintess responded by shoving him.

The prince, unprepared for even the gentlest resistance, stumbled directly into Trey’s arms.

Trey, now holding a grown man like a bridal bouquet, froze. His eyes darted to you, silently screaming what do I do with this?

Before he could decide, the prince looked up at him, smiled coyly, and winked.

You might’ve laughed if the saintess hadn’t chosen that exact moment to drape herself across you.

“Oh, my dear friend,” she simpered, batting her lashes, “surely you understand Trey’s affection for me. You’ll support us, won’t you?”

You were too stunned to respond, stuck holding the saintess like an overly affectionate sloth. Across the table, Trey looked like he was begging whatever gods existed for an escape route.

Finally, something in Trey snapped. Gently—yet firmly—he set the prince in his seat like a toddler being put in timeout. Then, without a word, he reached across, grabbed the saintess by the arm, and unceremoniously deposited her in her own chair.

“You’ll have to excuse us,” Trey said, his voice smooth but his expression pure I’m done with this nonsense. He grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the restaurant, not even sparing a glance back.

Oh, and he definitely took the flower back.

In the carriage, Trey was silent, his expression unreadable. You hesitated before asking, “Are you okay?”

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I’m just… tired.”

“Of what?”

“Of not having moments with you for myself,” he said, his voice soft but full of frustration. “Every time I try to enjoy being with you, someone interrupts. I just… I want you. Just you.”

Your heart practically melted on the spot. Overwhelmed by his honesty, you leaned forward and kissed him—a gentle, tentative gesture that said everything you’d been too nervous to put into words.

Trey froze for a moment, then pulled you closer, kissing you again, this time deeper and with so much emotion that you thought your brain might short-circuit. His hands cradled your face, and the world outside the carriage ceased to exist.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his smile so radiant it made your heart skip. “I guess this means you’re mine?”

You nodded, breathless.

“And I’m yours,” he murmured, sealing the confession with another kiss that left you thoroughly, blissfully dazed.

It was supposed to be a simple stroll through the common garden—just you and Trey enjoying a rare moment of peace. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and you were basking in the warmth of Trey's smile when, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him.

The prince.

And worse, the pebble.

You recognized it instantly—the cursed rock from the original novel, the one destined to send the prince spiraling into a tragic, fatal end. It glittered ominously on the path, as if taunting fate.

The prince, blissfully unaware, strutted forward like he owned the place. He stepped right onto the pebble, his foot slipping out from under him with comical precision.

In that split second, you knew what you had to do. Annoying as he was, no one deserved to die because of a glorified piece of gravel.

You lunged forward, grabbing the prince by the arm and yanking him upright just before disaster struck.

He looked at you, wide-eyed, for all of two seconds before breaking into a toothy grin. “Ah, so this is love,” he declared, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Fear not, my dear! Your feelings for me are obvious, and I, in my infinite generosity, shall grant you the honor of becoming my bride!”

Trey, who had been watching this unfold with his usual calm, suddenly stiffened. His hand slipped into yours, his grip firm but not unkind as he gently pulled you closer.

“Your Highness,” Trey began, his voice polite but laced with steel, “I think you may have misunderstood something.”

“Oh?” The prince arched a brow, clearly oblivious to the warning signs.

“She's already married,” Trey said, his tone so calm and measured it was borderline terrifying. “To me.”

The prince’s eyes lit up with excitement, not deterred in the slightest. “A rivalry for their love, then? Excellent! Let the best man win!”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Riddle—ever the voice of reason (or exhaustion)—strode into the fray like a man who had been dealing with this nonsense for far too long.

“Your Highness,” Riddle snapped, looking entirely done with life. “What in the sevens are you doing?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the prince by the collar and dragged him away like a scolding parent hauling a toddler out of the candy aisle.

“You can’t just propose to married people!” Riddle hissed as they disappeared down the path.

Left in their wake, you spotted Cater and Che’nya lounging under a tree, shamelessly munching on popcorn. Cater caught your eye and waved, looking far too entertained by the whole ordeal.

“Did you see Trey’s face?” Che’nya whispered loudly. “I’d give it a solid nine out of ten on the jealousy scale.”

“Totally,” Cater agreed. “Hey, Alfred!” he called to the butler nearby. “Get me a glass of wine; this show’s getting good!”

Before you could decide whether to laugh or cringe, Trey’s hand gently tilted your chin, drawing your attention back to him.

“Focus on me,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours.

And oh, jealous Trey was adorable. His usual calm demeanor was tinged with a possessiveness that made your heart skip several beats.

Caught up in the moment, you leaned forward and kissed him, a quick but sweet gesture that left him blinking in surprise before a soft smile spread across his face.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Cater almost spill his wine in excitement, while Che’nya clapped like a seal.

“Now that’s spicy!” Che’nya crowed.

“I need another glass,” Cater sighed dramatically, as if the sheer romance was too much for his delicate heart.

But you didn’t care. Trey’s arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer, and for once, the rest of the world faded away.

The war room was dead silent, the kind of silence so heavy you could hear the shuffle of maps and the scratch of quills on parchment. Every important figure of the empire was present—Trey and you, the Emperor and Empress, military generals whose scowls could crack stone, the Pope looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else, and, shockingly, even the Prince, for once not actively trying to ruin someone’s day.

Strategies were discussed in grim tones. Supply lines, terrain advantages, possible reinforcement numbers—you and Trey were fully immersed in weighing the support your duchy could offer. For once, even the Prince managed to look engaged, though he was suspiciously chewing on the end of his quill like a kid stuck in detention.

Then, like an uninvited storm, the doors slammed open.

“Hellooooooo!”

Every head in the room turned as the Saintess waltzed in, an hour late, as if this were a garden party and not a high-stakes war council. She was dressed in what could only be described as a fever dream of bad taste: a dress so garish and bedazzled it could probably be seen from orbit, complete with absurd feathered accessories sticking out at odd angles like a startled peacock.

“Sorry, I’m late,” she sang, twirling unnecessarily as if this was a runway. “I couldn’t decide which dress to wear. Do you think this one looks good?”

The silence was palpable, charged with a collective secondhand embarrassment that could power an entire city.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, wondering if you could claim an "upset stomach" for the fifth time this month. Then, unable to stop yourself, you deadpanned, “Yes. It’d make a great enemy flag.”

Trey choked on a laugh, quickly covering it with a cough. The Pope crossed himself, possibly praying for patience. One of the military generals muttered something under his breath, hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword. The Prince just buried his face in his hands.

The Saintess, predictably, burst into tears. “You’re so mean! I’m just trying to brighten up this dreary meeting!”

The Emperor looked deeply, soul-crushingly confused, glancing at the generals as if to ask, Does this happen often? Meanwhile, the Empress, seated beside him, was gripping the armrest of her chair so tightly her knuckles were turning white.

Trey sighed and leaned closer to you. “I’ll handle it,” he murmured, giving you a quick nod before standing.

He approached her like one might approach a wild animal, hands raised in surrender. “Saintess, perhaps we could discuss this outside—”

But no sooner had he stepped within arm’s reach did she trip. On purpose.

In what could only be described as an Olympian-level act of self-preservation, Trey sidestepped so swiftly she ended up flailing through the air like a failed acrobat.

She landed directly on top of the Emperor.

The entire room froze.

The Emperor looked down at the Saintess sprawled across his lap with the bewilderment of someone who just found a raccoon in their bed. The generals were wide-eyed, clearly waiting for his reaction before deciding if they needed to draw their swords. The Pope had started sweating through his robes, clutching his staff like it was his last lifeline.

And then, like an avenging goddess, the Empress rose from her seat.

Without a single word, she grabbed the Saintess by her feathered hairpiece and hauled her up like a disobedient child. The Saintess shrieked, limbs flailing, but the Empress dragged her toward the door with a grim determination.

“OUT.”

The doors slammed shut behind them, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Trey cleared his throat, brushing off his sleeves as if nothing had happened. “Well,” he said, returning to his seat beside you. “That was… eventful.”

“Eventful?” you hissed, elbowing him. “She just dive-bombed the Emperor!”

Trey shrugged, lips twitching. “And yet here we are, still alive. I’d call that a win.”

Across the table, the Emperor straightened his robes, trying to reclaim what little dignity he had left. “Shall we… continue?” he asked, though his tone suggested he wanted nothing more than a stiff drink and a nap.

You nodded, biting your lip to suppress a laugh as the meeting resumed. Somehow, against all odds, you managed to get back to planning strategy. But you knew this story was one for the history books. Or at least for drunken retellings later.

The negotiation room was a grand affair, with gilded walls, an impossibly long table, and an air of tension so thick you could slice it with a butter knife.

The opposing kingdom’s crown princess sat across from your delegation, radiating intelligence and poise. Her every word was measured, her presence commanding, and she somehow managed to make a simple quill look like a weapon of mass destruction.

Meanwhile, your prince was... spinning in his chair.

“Wheeeee!”

You felt your soul leave your body.

“Your Highness,” Riddle hissed, his voice laced with the kind of fury only a man on the verge of a migraine could muster. “Compose yourself!”

The prince paused mid-spin, blinking like he’d just remembered where he was. “Right, right. Negotiations. Totally got this.” He picked up a quill and twirled it between his fingers like a toddler pretending to be an adult.

You buried your face in your hands, quietly mourning the future of your kingdom.

Across the table, their saint was the picture of grace, clasping their hands as though ready to bestow divine blessings upon the room. They exuded an aura of peace and righteousness that made you think, Ah, yes, this is what a saint should look like.

And then there was your saintess.

She was currently leaning against the wall, dramatically fanning herself with a peacock-feathered fan that you were pretty sure wasn’t hers. She’d arrived late, claiming she’d been “blessed by the spirits of fashion,” and was wearing a gown so covered in rhinestones that it could probably be seen from space.

You caught Trey’s eye from across the table. He looked entirely too amused, like he was moments away from bursting into laughter. You glared at him, silently begging him to take this seriously.

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching upward as if to say, I’m trying.

Thankfully, the Empress had come along for damage control. She sat at the head of the table, calm and unflappable, effortlessly steering the conversation back on track whenever your prince derailed it with comments like, “So, how do you guys feel about dragons?”

When the opposing kingdom’s crown princess suggested an ambassador exchange as part of the peace treaty, the Empress visibly perked up.

“That’s an excellent idea,” she said smoothly. “In fact, we have the perfect candidate.”

You felt a sliver of hope. Maybe she’d suggest Riddle—he was intelligent, responsible, and would undoubtedly represent your kingdom well. Or Trey, whose calm demeanor and charm could win over anyone. Or—dare you dream—maybe even you, since you were clearly the only one in this circus who had a shred of common sense. And the two of you could move away from this hellhole.

“We’ll send the saintess,” the Empress announced, her voice dripping with what could only be described as malicious glee.

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

The crown princess on the other side of the table looked mildly alarmed. “Um,” she began, clearly searching for a polite way to decline.

“She’ll be an excellent cultural ambassador,” the Empress continued, her smile widening. “She’s... unforgettable.”

Riddle’s eye twitched, but he said nothing. Trey looked down at the table, probably to hide his grin.

The saintess, oblivious to the underlying implications, squealed in delight. “Oh my gosh, finally! I’ve always wanted to travel!”

The opposing kingdom reluctantly agreed—probably under the assumption that taking her would somehow count as reparations.

When you all finally returned home, the atmosphere was noticeably lighter, as though a glittery, rhinestone-encrusted weight had been lifted off your collective shoulders.

Trey leaned over in the carriage, his voice low and amused. “Well, I’d call that a success.”

“Success?” you laughed. “We basically tricked another kingdom into taking her off our hands.”

Trey’s smile was soft as he reached for your hand. “And we averted a war in the process.”

You sighed, but your heart skipped a beat when his thumb brushed against your knuckles. Maybe you could live with this version of “success.”

Without the saintess egging him on, the prince had downgraded from menace to society to mildly annoying NPC. He still popped up every now and then, offering unsolicited advice on topics he clearly didn’t understand, but Riddle—bless his overworked soul—had finally had enough. As royal advisor, he slapped the prince with permanent probation, effectively keeping him confined to paperwork and far, far away from you and Trey.

Life, for once, was peaceful.

So peaceful, in fact, that you and Trey found yourselves back at that restaurant—the same one that had become the backdrop for two very traumatic encounters. It felt like tempting fate, but Trey, ever the optimist, assured you that lightning wouldn’t strike thrice.

And for once, he was right.

The food was good, the atmosphere was cozy, and not a single insufferable royal barged in to ruin the evening. You both laughed, reminisced, and indulged in desserts that Trey—being the baking connoisseur he was—had plenty of opinions about.

By the time you left the restaurant, the streets were quiet, bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. The air was crisp but not cold, and everything felt oddly serene, like the universe was apologizing for all the nonsense it had previously thrown your way.

As you walked side by side, Trey suddenly stopped.

You turned to face him, confused. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he knelt down on one knee, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket.

Your brain short-circuited.

“Trey—”

“Before you say anything,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with emotion, “I just want you to know that despite how things started between us... I’ve never regretted a single moment with you.” He looked up at you, his green eyes warm and sincere. “You’ve made me happier than I ever thought I could be, and if you’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my life making you just as happy.”

He opened the box, revealing a ring—simple, elegant, and undeniably perfect. “So... will you marry me? Again?”

You stared at him, your chest tight with emotions you couldn’t even begin to untangle. And then you laughed—because how else were you supposed to process the sheer ridiculousness of everything that had led to this moment?

“Yes,” you said, your voice trembling with joy. “Of course, yes.”

He stood, sliding the ring onto your finger with a smile that could have melted glaciers.

And then he kissed you—soft, slow, and so full of love that it felt like the world around you ceased to exist.

Somewhere in the distance, you thought you heard a cat knock over a trash can, but nothing could ruin this moment.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[thewertsearch]

Alright, there’s a lot going on in this room.

First of all, it’s clear that the Betty Crocker Corporation has supplanted more than just Skaianet. This woman's been stamping her name on chests, cutlery, computers, calendars, and even Fetch Modi, so her company is more like an unholy fusion of Skaianet, Google and Amazon.

I'd give it a week before she pulls a Musk, and rebrands this abomination as 'C' - assuming she hasn't already done so.

Second of all, I initially thought this wall of blue hunks was advertising Jane's tastes, but upon closer inspection, each of them bears a signature in the Pen-Pal's color.

His older self did have a strange fixation on blue women, and apparently it's etched into his DNA.

Your name is JANE. As was previously mentioned, you are poised for an ELITE OPPORTUNITY to test the SBURB ALPHA. It is so elite in fact, you are the only of your kind invited to playtest!

Jane is the only member of her 'kind' to be given a copy of Sburb, which implies that there are other kinds of people on this version of Earth. Crocker is confirmed to not be a human, so maybe the planet is also populated by whatever kind of creature she is.

Though you guess that probably comes with the territory of being the HEIRESS APPARENT TO A BAKED GOODS EMPIRE. You don't suppose it hurts that you are said empire's NUMBER ONE FANGIRL, either!

She practically worships the Crocker megacorporation - and even worse, she's being raised to lead the damn thing. Jane might actually be starting out as an antagonist to our original heroes, completely unaware that she's being shaped into a weapon against them.

In short: Jesus Christ, Jane. We need to get you out of here.

You fancy yourself a SKILLED PRANKSTRESS, if by no other measure than lineage.

I guess Nannasprite's mischievous nature wasn't derived solely from the jester doll.

It's sweet to imagine Jane learning the prankster's arts from her Grandpa John - but I am extremely worried for Grandpa John right now, so I can't even enjoy it.

You once dabbled in AMATEUR BOTANY but found it TOO FRUSTRATING, because your VEGETABLES KEPT DISAP-actually you know what, you DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.

Growing pumpkins is every horticulturist's first mistake.

You are also pleased to contemplate FRIGHTENING FAUNA, though saddened by their regrettable FAKENESS ATTRIBUTE.

Flora and fauna. I was waiting to see a little of each Player's personality before making Title guesses, and Jane's evoking Life to me, just as her pervious incarnation did.

Now, that would break the apparent rule that Scratch-swapped Players preserve the session's original Aspects, but that rule hasn't been confirmed yet. Plus, Life might just be my Aspect, so I'd love to see it become more prominent in the story.

But none of that's on your mind now, because you are PSYCHED about this SPECIAL DATE, 11.11.11 [...] a date exhibiting just the sort of numerical gimmick corporations love to exploit for their big releases, or for launching MAJOR REBRANDING INITIATIVES. In the case of your CHERISHED MULTIGLOBAL EMPIRE, both such events are slated to happen today.

Wow, so Betty Crocker is already operating on multiple planets?

The more we see of this Earth, the more obvious it becomes that it's nothing like the world our heroes left behind. Everything has changed.

[bogleech]

So I said in tags that I actually read this webcomic in my teens and that it had some strong worldbuilding, in particular its take on the seven deadly sins as demons, but that somebody would have to ask before I go infodumping again about such a hot mess.

OKAY here we go, I'm just gonna go over the sin demons because they're where all the imagination was concentrated and they sum up the setting in themselves really

Wrath: the sin demons in this are actually the damned souls guiltiest of their respective deadly sin in all of history (past or future because hell exists outside of time and all that) and Jack, the title character, is Wrath because he was Furry Hitler. Not literally Adolf Hitler in a furry timeline mind you, but a furry who became a genocidal dictator with a bunch of awkward Hitler parallels. He canonically genocided all humans, because at some point humans create furries only to treat them as slaves or something.

Anyway the sin of Wrath is also the Grim Reaper in this universe, and his punishment is that all memory of his evil deeds and why he did them were taken away from him, except for the factual knowledge of who he is. So this makes him a completely different, kinder person tormented by the act having to reap every death there will ever be, but he does know who he was and why this is his fate. I think you can see why people bothered to read such a fucked up messy comic because that's a pretty damn strong hook, for a character or story at all. Like imagine being your regular self but knowing you were someone as bad as hitler, and now you have to be the one who witnesses every death there is and rip families apart a million times a day. Would you deserve punishment at all for deeds that have been wiped from your mind? Are they still "your" sins in that scenario? These and other compelling questions raised by this premise.... would never actually be explored, as far as I can recall. All it really amounts to is the same as any sad antihero, and kind of a direct ripoff of Todd Mcfarlane's Spawn.

So then there's Greed, who was some kind of religious cult leader who built like a whole brutal Roman style empire, or something, until he was turned on and mutilated by his followers? He's the least interesting really, and his backstory, along with many other backstories in the series, completely contradicts Jack's backstory where humans invent furries through biotechnology. Other characters were definitely already furries during historical events centuries before then.

9/11 even happens during the events of the comic, but the world was already all furries at the time. By the way one of the towers themselves goes to heaven with all the good people who died in 9/11 and the other one goes to hell with all the bad people. This was not meant to be funny at the time but it is obviously VERY funny. Writing this has forced me to remember that I did do this infodump before. Oh no. I don't remember when. I just remember that I did. JUST LIKE JACK!!!!!!!!!

Gluttony is two characters, a husband and wife couple who were serial killer cannibals. They are also some sort of dinosaur or pterosaur that was brought back in furry form by furry society's biotechnology, but in furry society everyone of a carnivorous species lives on lab-grown meat, and these two couldn't stand that because it didn't satisfy their hunting instinct, or something. PERSONALLY I feel like this should not really count as the most sinful possible gluttony, I mean, these predatory lizard birds didn't ask to come back into existence and be cursed with unnatural sapience. Just feels kind of bullshit to me. They are the coolest concept design-wise for any of these sins though, and they fuse together into one body when they eat, with one of them becoming a face on the crotch like some of those old medieval depictions of devils.

Envy looks like a big fucked up Todd Mcfarlane Orangutan but is actually supposed to have been the last surviving human and was like, a mad geneticist or something. The artist could not draw humans, hence the plot about them being extinct and the only human character being warped into a demonic ape. If I'm remembering correctly (I could just check a wiki but I don't feel like it sorry) he's Envy because he hated furries for taking over our society even though most of them had nothing to do with the genocide and were just freed slaves and whatnot, and one thing I do remember clearly is that he engineers a furry zombie apocalypse that ends the furry world further in the future.

Vanity/pride I don't think was ever fully explained but she wears a cloak because she's skinless, and she goes around skinning other damned she thinks are beautiful to wear the pelts until they rot.

Sloth was revealed many years after I stopped paying attention to this series, but turns out to be the entire ground of hell, with a malformed tree as his seat of consciousness, making it impossible to get a moment's peace or rest. That's a neat concept but apparently no backstory happened before the comic stopped so we're left wondering how someone was as bad all these various Hitlers through slothfulness. I guess someone who could have easily prevented a bunch of suffering and didn't care enough to bother maybe.

So the last one is Lust, and Lust is a giant rat (who looks nothing at all like a rat) named "Drip" who was a violent misogynistic sexual predator, the worst one that would ever exist in our whole reality for him to be the demon of lust. This was the first piece of fiction I ever saw where Lust was someone like this instead of a Sexy Seductive Lady demon, which makes a shitload more sense yet it still isn't common.

Anyway this guy is the biggest reason why you may not want to go looking for this comic because the kind of shit he does is fully shown, and it's played for horror, yes, and it's also just drawn too sloppy to come across as the author's fetish, but for some time this character was supposedly the author's main "Fursona" he roleplayed as. His wife actually mentions the character by name in the MTV call. I'm not writing a callout here or anything, I mean this was like 20 years ago, I don't know him and haven't heard anything recent about him, these just aren't details you can rightfully leave out about this character.

Edited to add that Drip is also supposedly the father (without knowing it?) of what was the focal character in the beginning of the comic, the soul of an aborted fetus, who ends up wandering hell but protected from it up until Drip does something to him (thankfully off screen) that leads Jack to shred Drip into a million pieces and leave him as a screaming tortured severed head which I do believe Drip never recovers from before the comic stopped updating. I could be wrong? There is obviously a lot to unpack in all that, including the fact that, in a setting where an aborted fetus becomes a sapient child forced to wander hell, God was still written as a completely righteous entity and specifically a cute child-size lamb furry we were supposed to find endearing. In its heyday Jack was treated like a "culturally important" webcomic, like, hailed as proof that webcomics were a serious adult medium, which is also very funny on multiple levels in our current online culture. I know it was a big big deal in some furry circles, but I was introduced to it by just horror fandom at the time. It ran from before I ever even owned a computer to sometime in the 2010's, I think it was actually published at one point and it influenced a bunch of other webcomics to varying degrees of success.

So yeah, it IS internet history and I'm sure there's video essays and stuff about it if you want to know more because I still probably only ever saw a third to half of it at best.

[zweetpea]

Mrs. "Wayne"

Part 2

Content warning: Swears, Arranged Marriage, murder (Not by Bruce because he doesn't kill), threats

This chapter is a bit shorter than the last but I think this is a sweet ended to this story. (For now... If I think of something to add to it I'll make a proper finale).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You awoke with a bag over your eyes, a rope around your wrists, and a killer headache.

Bruce ripped the bag off your head. “You’re lucky I have a no kill policy. But trust me when I say that if you’re going to wish I did.”

“Scary.” You mocked in a smooth and dull voice. “Does that work on all the drug addicted mental patients in spirit halloween costumes that you beat up?”

He grabbed your chin and pulled you forward a bit. “Don’t play with me, little girl.”

“Don’t call me little girl, old man. What do you want?” You asked boredly. 

He glared at you. “I should be the one asking that.” He spat.

You looked at him anammused and unenthusiastically said, “I’d like to be let out of the chair.” He tips the chair back slightly over the edge of this cliff in the cave. “Okay! Okay! I want the divorce to be quiet! I won’t take a small settlement! In fact I won’t ask for any money or assets! I-! Um… I want a pony? WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY!!” You started to panic. There were a lot of things you could do, but surviving a 10-20 foot drop into a moat, while being tied up was not one of them.

He tips the chair back onto solid ground and grabs both of her shoulders. “You want a pony in exchange for your silence about the bat cave and my family?”

“Oh that’s what this is about?” The fear on your face dissipated. “I don’t really care about this.”

Bruce took a step back in shock. “What?”

“Yeah. This place is honestly amazing and I’m actually very impressed at what you do.” Your voice was genuine as you looked up at him.

He seemed skeptical. “You are?”

You smiled slightly. “Well, yeah! You fight 2 meta-humans, a bunch of psycho clown gymnasts, two guys in super suits, and just a bunch of other freaks every other week! Are you some kind of immortal being or something?” You geeked out a bit.

He looked at you surprised. “You know a lot about me.”

“Well, in retrospect, no offense but it’s kind of sad… and pathetic.” She looked at him sympathetically

He scoffs. “How?”

“You spent 14 years training to avenge your parents murder and you didn’t think to see a therapist?” 

“Point taken.” He started to untie You. “So you promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Yeah. I’m not about to get dragged into this! Regardless of the truth behind our relationship, bad guys are going to come for me if I start blabbing about you guys. Not only that but the cops are going to hall me off to jail too if you get caught for vigilantism.”

“Oh… I didn’t think of that. I’m sorry…” He sits down on the cliffside with his head in his hands. “This whole thing has been a disaster.”

You sat down next to him. “Bruce?” You looked over curiously.

“Yeah?” He muttered.

You hesitated. “Why did you marry me?” You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

“Kid flash made a joke about my irresponsible love life and I guess I took it to heart.” He confessed somberly.

You patted his shoulder comfortingly. “All teenagers suck. It’s just growing pains.”

“I don’t like being bullied by an 8th grader.” He looked over in what you want to describe as a pout but that can’t be right. This is batman! Batman doesn’t pout! He broods!

“Imagine how Damian is going to be at that age.” You giggled. He growled and looked away. Oh my goodness. Batman was pouting. You burst out in laughter. “You are too special, Bruce.” You gave him a quick side hug and pulled yourself up. “Come on. Let’s go order take out and laugh at how stupid Villains are.”

He smiled at you slightly and pulled himself up as well. “Yeah… They are pretty stupid.”

“I mean it took me two months to find this place when they haven't come close in 2 decades!” She laughed and took his arm in hers. 

“Well Condiment king found this place a decade ago. But no one’s heard from him since so the villains stopped trying.” Bruce smirked.

You looked up at him worriedly. “I thought you didn’t kill.”

“I don’t, but my ex-special forces of a butler does.” He closes up the door to the batcave.

“...oh…”

He kissed your forehead and ushered you out of the library. “Nothing you need to worry about. Now let’s go order some takeout!”

You two ordered some Chinese food and lounged on the couch watching whatever was popular on Wayneflix. Bruce ordered shrimp fried rice and egg rolls while you just got a little of whatever caught your eye.

You pulled a throw blanket over you both and ate straight from the take out containers. It was weird being so close to him.

“I thought you didn’t like me touching you.” He reminded you of what you’d said less than a few hours ago. Seems like he noticed it too.

You shrugged. “I don’t like you feeling me up but I don’t mind cuddling. I suppose I should get used to it considering the fact that you’re probably going to keep me under lock and key for the rest of my life.” You shuffled closer to him.

He was silent for a moment before he spoke in a reassuring tone: “It’s not forever. Just a little while. I need to be sure you don’t plan on running off to the alps of Switzerland or something.”

You rolled your eyes. “No! Don’t be ridiculous! …Still can’t believe that the world hasn’t figured out you’re Batman yet. It’s so obvious in retrospect! Is that just my hindsight bias showing?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s the fact that a few tabloids are still floating around the idea that Batman is some kryptonian pet that Superman brought with him that gained a high level of intelligence.” Bruce practically shovelled his portion of food down his throat. 

“Pace yourself!” You scolded him. “And there’s no way anyone actually believes that.”

“Yeah well there’s also no concrete proof that links me to my alter ego.” Bruce pointed out in a playful tone.

“Yeah but… people don’t even float around the idea you're his sugar daddy-” You were interrupted by a certain tween.

“Father! Todd has informed me that he will be over shortly- Are you two cuddling?” Damian sounded repulsed by the idea.

You looked up at him. “Hey terror tot.” You greeted, flatly.

“Damian, I saved half my shrimp fried rice for you.” Bruce offered rather uncharacteristically warmly.

Damian turned away in a pout. “No thank you father. I hope you and your mistress have fun on your date.”

You interjected. “Firstly, super not the mistress. Secondly, it’s not like a date date so you can join us if you want. Thirdly, growing nestlings need to eat to build strength.”

Damian froze as Bruce sighed and rolled his eyes. “What did you just call me?”  Damian's voice was mostly steady but there was undeniably a hint of fear.

“Damian, she knows about the bat cave.” Bruce calmed the boy.

“YOU SHOWED HER THE BAT CAVE!!” Damian screamed in shock and fury.

“Damian, compose yourself!” Bruce stood up. The two stared each other down from opposite sides of the couch.

“So are we abandoning movie night?” Your question went unanswered as Damian started ripping into Bruce about how irresponsible it was for him to show it off to “Impress her” (his words); and how hypocritical he was.

Bruce finally grabbed Damian’s shoulders and got him to quiet down. “She found the batcave.”

“A likely story.” Damian crossed his arms and grimaced at you.

“History of taxes, fifth shelf from the bottom, middle-right to the left of the big bay window in the library, dewey decimal number 336.20.”

“It took you two months to find the bat cave?” Damian raised an eyebrow at you.

You looked back at him. “In all honesty I just wanted to read something you guys hadn’t. Some books might be boring but it’s better to actually read the books to you rather than flaunt them, like some wannabe Jay Gatsby.”

Damian stood there in shock. “You’ve read The Great Gatsby?”

You scoffed. “Everyone had to read The Great Gatsby. I had a terrible teacher that basically told us Daisy was the victim throughout the Novel. Which I would understand if she was drawing that conclusion from synchronizing her with Fitzgerald’s actual wife Zelda but she wasn’t.” You paused the movie for a second. “The Great Gatsby is a weird novel when you actually understand the story of the people behind it. Fitzgerald is Gatsby and Zelda is Daisy. However the entire book portrays their relationship as a fantasy. Gatsby grows to regret it. He lusts for her beauty and wealth while Daisy almost comes off as superficial. The rich stay rich and the poor men who try to make a name for themselves are naive fools. It really paints a bad light on how he viewed his own wife.”

The two men looked at you in utter shock. “What’s hilariously sad is the fact that Fitzgerald based a lot of what he wrote around Zelda’s diary entries. Daisy is horribly depressed in her marriage, and she hates her husband. You’d think that Fitzgerald would realize how much his wife despised him and how unhappy he made her but he seemed oblivious to that fact.” You grabbed the container of shrimp fried rice and handed it to Damian. “So if you’ll excuse us, I'd like to get back to bonding with my husband so we don’t end up like Zelda and her vile husband.” You pulled Bruce back onto the couch and gave him what you had left of your take out.

“You don’t have to-” Bruce tried to protest and give you back your food.

“I assume you’ll be out late. You’ll need energy if you’re going to be staying out till dawn.”

“I just want to take a nap…” He mumbled and held you close like a child holding a plushie.”

You fixed the blanket over you both again and got comfy in his arms. “Get some rest Bruce. You need it.”

[transmcytshowdown]

Scott Smajor:

Submitted for: Rats SMP, Empires Season 1, Empires Season 2

Headcanons: Transmasc, he/they

Propaganda: “Rat Scott is wearing a binder underneath those overalls, and [the submitter] stand[s] by this even if it doesn't technically make sense, because these are talking rats that act more human than rat sooooo- ALSO Chromia Scott is way too funky of a fae to be binary, just look at them! They have that non-binary swag, and you know [they���re] right (/vsilly)! [They] also can see arguments for Rivendell Scott, though [they] don't think he would necessarily label it in most universes, because he's a royal elf! What is a high status elf like himself doing, being binary? [They] don't think they would have those harsh ideologies, understanding that gender is a cultural construct that differs based on the societal norms and how people were socialized.”

“This is for Empires: dude is so Fae high elf that gender doesn't truly matter to him, but ice doesn't like being born a woman or being a woman.”

“Elfstrogen would have saved her.”

Cubfan135:

Submitted for: Hermitcraft

Headcanons: Trans man, he/it; Transmasc, he/him; No gender, any pronouns

Propaganda: “[The submitter] imagine[s] he's he/him transmasc, but in a non-binary, does not really care about it kind of way. He is using he/him pronouns for convenience, and he's damn okay with that. (also would probably let you use any other pronouns for him if you asked nicely.)”

“[The submitter] imagine[s] Cub having no gender. Like he cannot be bothered to deal with gender. They don't know if it's because she is a vex or [because] he is just not bothered enough. So xe uses any pronouns because why the fuck would he figure out pronouns if not [doesn’t] have [a] gender.”

[chipika]

I Want To KI$$ you

Enemies to lovers (the kind of enemies who genuinely want to kill each other).

PART 1. | PART 2.

That night, torrential rain poured down. The cloudy sky resembled a black canvas, while thunder rolled across the heavens, as if the gods themselves were roaring in fury. The city’s streetlights flickered and swayed in the rain, while flashes of lightning tore through the sky, briefly illuminating your face, making it look as pale as a ghost. Silently, you moved through the damp streets, like an eel gliding through the darkness of the night—no one knew where you came from or where you were going.

The client had given you an order: send the entire family of the target to the underworld. You asked no questions, nor did you care to ask. You often wondered, when had killing become second nature to you? Perhaps it was when you were very young, or perhaps it was the first time someone handed you a sword. You knew that everything had changed after that. Gunshots, flashes of blades, threats, coercion, bloodshed, and death—that was the cycle on which your survival depended.

Heading out on a stormy night like this was simply a matter of convenience for you—the chaos of nature provided the perfect cover for your actions. You stood in the courtyard of the target’s house, gripping the katana, "Evanescent." Rain trickled down the scabbard, as if purifying it. The target’s home was a rather beautiful villa, standing out from the quiet darkness surrounding it. Rain flowed from the eaves, like a curtain of pearls obscuring the view of the front door. Yet, even through the misty veil of rain, you could see the meticulous care in every detail of this house—a testament to the owner pouring their heart and soul into preserving this fortress of stability.

The garden in the courtyard gleamed after being rinsed by the rain. The roses and lilies along the path had been battered by the storm, tilting this way and that, but the signs of their careful pruning were still evident. The vines climbing on the trellis swayed in the wind, as though silently pleading for mercy. The gravel path was neatly laid, with rainwater flowing through the gaps, creating soft murmurs. The faint light from the windows added a touch of warmth to the house, a trace of human life.

But you knew that this warmth would vanish tonight.

You had never felt guilt about your profession. Being a assassin, at the end of the day, was just a job. Someone paid, and you acted—ending a life, collecting your payment. It was a fair exchange. As for the identities or roles of those who died, that was irrelevant to you. After all, the dead were all the same.

However, your heart had long grown weary of the killings. You only wanted to complete this final mission, collect the remainder of your payment, and then vanish—preferably to a place like Alaska, where no one knew you, a place where you could live a life of anonymity.

As you fantasized about the beautiful life awaiting you, you approached the target’s house.

The security here didn’t seem as tight as you had imagined. The only sounds were the endless thunder and the rain. There were no guard dogs in the yard, nor were there any black-suited bodyguards. Perhaps the target was too arrogant, believing no one would dare to intrude. Or perhaps, they truly didn’t expect a blade to be waiting amidst the storm, ready to claim their lives.

Effortlessly, you slipped into the backyard from the side of the wall and climbed up the drainpipe to the second-floor balcony. You moved with familiarity, as if strolling through your own home. The light inside the villa leaked faintly through the floor-to-ceiling windows. You gave the window a gentle push—it wasn’t locked. You gripped the katana tightly in your hand and slipped silently into the room.

The interior décor was predominantly warm-toned, giving it a cozy atmosphere. On the cream-colored walls hung several photo frames, showcasing smiles of a family at different ages—family portraits. They looked just like the typical images you often saw in magazines or on mall advertisements: a father, a mother, and a child, all beaming with happiness. Some photos were taken at the beach, others at an amusement park, with sunlight in the background radiating their joy. Such a warm and harmonious picture. Unfortunately, you felt no pity. You only thought about the three people you had to kill tonight.

Perhaps it was a certain numbness in your heart that brought you an odd sense of calm and peace—like the serenity that comes in the moments before death. Tightening your grip on the hilt, you gently unsheathed the katana, the faint metallic sound trembling in the air like a bloodthirsty sigh.

Your footsteps were as light as a cat’s as you approached the nearest door. Gently, you pressed down on the handle and pushed it open. Through the faint light spilling in from the window, you saw two figures lying on the bed—one large, one small. The child was probably frightened by the thunder and had begged their mother to sleep with them.

When the blade fell, blood splattered onto the snow-white sheets. The crimson color spread like blooming spider lilies. After killing the target’s wife, you glanced at the child. The child’s eyes were wide open—they were awake. If they screamed, it would undoubtedly alert others, creating unnecessary trouble. So, without hesitation, you swung your sword—"Evanescent" flashed a cold arc, like the gleam of the Grim Reaper’s scythe during a sinister smile. Before the child could react, their neck was cut open, and a fountain of blood sprayed forth. You heard a gurgling, blood-choked cry escape their lips, but it fell silent within seconds.

You flicked the blade downward, shaking the blood off onto the floor.

After confirming there was no one else on the second floor, you descended the stairs. The living room was empty. The thunder roared, as if covering for you, and you continued your search. At the far end of the first floor was a room with a Buddhist altar. Unlike the other rooms, this one was traditionally styled, with incense burners and offerings placed throughout. You pushed the door open and saw a bronze Buddha statue sitting quietly, its serene eyes seemingly gazing at you. In the flickering light and shadows, it appeared to hold a mix of reproach and pity.

Seeing that the room was empty, you turned to leave, but faint footsteps caught your attention. The sound grew closer and closer. Realizing the situation, you immediately retreated to a dark corner and held your breath.

As expected, the door to the room was pushed open, and a man in loungewear walked in.

It was him. This man was your true target—the head of this household and the one your client had specifically named to be sent to the underworld. You couldn’t recall his name, nor did it matter. You would never meet him again after tonight. You chose not to act immediately, waiting in the shadows for the perfect moment to strike.

The man approached the Buddha statue, took three sticks of incense from the altar, lit them with a lighter, and offered three bows before placing the incense into the burner.

“Come out. I know you’re in this room,” The man suddenly said.

You remained silent, unwilling to make a move.

When no one responded, The man turned to look at the corner where you were hiding. “The stench of blood on you gives you away.”

Since your presence had already been discovered, there was no point in hiding. You stepped out from the shadows.

“Who sent you?” He asked.

“…”

“Can’t I at least know who wanted me dead before I die?”

“…”

“Alright,” He resignedly said. “My wife and child… did they suffer?”

You hesitated, debating whether or not to tell the truth, but ultimately chose to lie. “They were killed in their sleep.”

Upon hearing this, he fell silent for a moment before speaking again. “Do you have someone you love deeply?”

“Why do you ask?” you countered.

“Because if you do, I’ll curse you to lose them forever.” Perhaps he was trying to plant the most poisonous seed in your heart with the most devastating words. You had often heard people curse, beg, or weep at the moment of their death. Some even dropped to their knees, pleading for their lives. But you were never swayed. This time was no different.

Unfazed and with a hint of mockery, you replied, “I have no lover, no family. You’ve cursed the wrong person.”

You believed such things could never happen to you. Lovers, friends, family—all of it was out of reach for someone like you. The only desire in your heart was the sense of security brought by money. With a cold smile, you raised your sword and struck. The Salesman tried to cry out, but the sword had already pierced deep into his chest.

He clutched his chest, stumbling backward before collapsing to the floor. You thought he would die immediately, but instead, he began to laugh. Perhaps the wound was excruciating, as his laughter was mixed with groans of pain. Yet, even so, he couldn’t stop laughing.

Lying on the ground, with only a final breath left, his eyes remained fixed on you. His gaze held no hatred, only a mix of pleading and despair. Yet he refused to give up. Through gritted teeth, he forced out weak words: “Those who take countless lives… shall be forsaken by grace. You will walk alone into the flames of Asura’s hell and lose all you hold dear… unless you renounce greed, anger, and ignorance, cleansing yourself of crime and punishment…!”

You silenced him with a swift horizontal slash from "Evanescent." The cut was clean and precise. His head didn’t completely detach, but blood sprayed everywhere, staining the Buddha statue behind him. The blood trickled down, defiling the solemn, compassionate face of the deity.

The next moment, thunder cracked violently, and lightning roared as though divine wrath were descending from the heavens. The lightning illuminated the bloodied Buddha statue, making it appear as though a demonic god had descended—terrifying to behold. For a brief moment, in the air thick with the stench of blood, you felt an eerie connection between the blood and the statue. It was as if the Buddha statue was gazing down at your sins with hollow eyes.

By the end of the night, the entire family of three had been wiped out. After finishing your task, you looked at the mess you had left behind, feeling little emotional fluctuation. You knew this would be your last kill. The functional nature of your killings ended at this moment.

When you returned home that night, the rain had not stopped. After taking a shower, you lay on your bed and closed your eyes. Yet, in the half-asleep, half-awake state, the image of the blood-stained Buddha statue replayed in your mind. It was as though whispers lingered in your ears, speaking of the consequences this killing would bring, and of the nightmare curse: “You will lose all you hold dear.” However, as far as you were concerned, you had never loved anyone, nor had you anything worth cherishing.

That kind of thing wasn’t worth worrying about. Reassuring yourself with this thought, you drifted off to sleep.

---

The next morning, sunlight poured into the room. You lay in bed, feeling the gentle morning breeze sneak in through the cracks of the window and brush against your face. The stormy night seemed to linger in your dreams—the screams of the target and the image of the blood-stained Buddha statue floated in your mind. Yet, you did not feel uneasy. Killing, to you, was as natural as breathing.

You turned over and sat up, stretching lazily, ready to embrace a brand-new life. Last night, after completing that job, you had already made your plan—retire, wash your hands of this bloody business, and enjoy a peaceful life in retirement. After all, over the years, you had saved up a significant fortune from living on the edge, licking blood off the blade. All your funds had been invested into a carefully selected stock—one that was said to be the most promising tech company of the future.

Thinking of this, a faint smile crept across your lips. It was time to bid farewell to darkness and bloodshed. Starting today, you would become an ordinary person, leading a quiet, plant-like existence.

"I should check how that stock is doing today," you muttered to yourself as you picked up your phone.

Unlocking the phone, you opened the stock trading app. The screen refreshed slowly. Your heart was filled with anticipation, imagining a green upward curve and, ideally, a price surge that would mark a great start to your new life.

However, the next moment, the red numbers on the screen stabbed into your eyes like a knife.

-73%

"..."

You froze, thinking you might still be dreaming. You rubbed your eyes and checked the screen again.

-73%

"N-no way..." you muttered, your fingers trembling as you tapped on the detailed data. Your stock had crashed overnight, with the company’s market value evaporating by nearly 80%.

What was happening?! Wasn’t this company supposed to be the hope of the future?! Wasn’t it hailed as the "savior of the tech industry"?! How had it turned into a sacrificial lamb overnight?!

You couldn’t believe your eyes, but the brutal reality was undeniable. All your savings—even the payouts from your most recent assassination jobs—had been poured into this stock. Now, they had turned into a pile of digital ashes, washed away along with last night’s storm.

A wave of chest pain surged through you, your hands and feet turning cold. The feeling was more real and lethal than the curse The Salesman had uttered before his death.

"Calm down, calm down..." you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "Stock investments are risky by nature. This is just temporary, yes, temporary. Tech stocks always rebound..."

You tried to convince yourself as you opened a browser to search for related news.

But when you saw the headlines, it felt as if your brain exploded with a deafening "boom."

"Founder of XXX Tech Company Absconds with Funds, Shareholders Suffer Heavy Losses"

"Nation’s Biggest Accounting Fraud Case Shocks the Country: XXX Tech Company Declares Bankruptcy"

"Investors in Tears: 'My Savings Are All Gone!'"

"...Is this some kind of sick joke?"

You sat frozen on your bed, your mind completely blank. After a few seconds, you leapt up and began pacing back and forth in the room.

"This can’t be happening... How could it end up like this? This has to be fake news! Fake news!"

You grabbed your phone and dialed your broker’s number. On the other end of the line, an automated voice responded: "Sorry, the number you have dialed is currently unavailable."

"Unavailable?! You’d better pick up, you bastard!" you roared, slamming the phone onto the bed, your hands gripping your knees as you took deep, shaky breaths.

"Alright, even if this investment failed, I should still have other savings... right?"

You began frantically checking your account records, only to find that you had put almost everything into this investment. You had even taken out a loan from the bank—because your broker had told you that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, one you’d regret missing forever.

Now, not only were you bankrupt, but you were also buried in debt.

"Damn it! I was ready to retire, and now this?! What kind of curse is this?!" you shouted in frustration, your fist slamming into the wall.

Suddenly, something came to mind.

Last night, The target’s dying curse.

"Lose all you hold dear."

At the time, you had scoffed, saying: "I have no lover, no family." But now, thinking back, could "all you hold dear" have been referring to... money?

"No, no, no, calm down, calm down! I still have a chance!" you shook your head violently, trying to comfort yourself. "The world is so big, there are always opportunities to make money! This is just a temporary setback, temporary!"

But as you glanced down at your account balance, now deep in the red, your last shred of composure crumbled.

"FUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKK!!!!"

Your scream echoed through the room. You threw your head back in despair, collapsing onto the floor as if the entire world had turned against you.

"Tch... Losing people is fine, but losing money..." you muttered bitterly, your voice tinged with hopelessness.

"Forget it. If I can’t retire, I might as well keep killing people..." you sighed.

The idea of washing your hands of bloodshed, after all, was nothing but a luxury.

---

By noon, you went to the courthouse to file for bankruptcy. However, you’d have to wait for the court’s notice and a formal hearing before it could be finalized.

On your way home, you sat on a bench at the subway station, your head bowed and your entire body feeling hollow.

The subway station bustled with people coming and going, but the noise around you seemed muffled, distant, as if cut off by an invisible barrier. You leaned back against the wall, your hands stuffed in your pockets, absentmindedly fiddling with a coin. The cold, metallic texture of the coin felt like a cruel reminder—this might be all you had left now.

Behind you, the tv played news about the scandal: the company’s founder fleeing with the money, the market crash, and the wave of suicides by desperate investors. In one clip, a white sheet-covered body was shown being carried away, and your stomach churned.

"Another one..." you muttered under your breath, the furrow of your brows deepening under the weight of frustration and fatigue. You opened your phone and saw a notification about another investor who had jumped to their death earlier that morning. Your dry, aching eyes had no tears, only a numbness you couldn’t describe.

You closed the app and pocketed your phone, glancing at the time displayed on the subway’s electronic board. The next train wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes, but those ten minutes stretched before you like an eternity. You sat there in silence, as if the whole world had nothing to do with you, a ghost stranded with no destination, no purpose.

Just as you sank further into your spiral of despair, you heard the faint sound of footsteps stop beside you. Someone had approached, but you didn’t look up. You assumed it was just another passerby, someone waiting for the train like you. But then, the person spoke:

"Excuse me, miss, can I have a moment of your time?"

The voice was low, male, and carried a hint of warmth. Annoyed, you reluctantly looked up, prepared to brush them off. But when you saw their face, you paused—a tall, impeccably dressed man stood before you, his suit tailored to perfection, his features sharp and elegant. In one hand, he held a sleek black briefcase. He looked like the embodiment of corporate success.

Ugh. Seeing rich and successful people just makes you sick. Go to hell.

"…What do you want?" you asked coldly, your tone dripping with indifference as you looked away, unwilling to meet his gaze.

The man didn’t seem deterred by your attitude. Instead, he sat down beside you with an air of composure, still wearing that faint smile. “Miss, may I borrow a few minutes of your time?”

You frowned, thinking he might be some kind of salesman or perhaps one of those people recruiting for a new religion. So, you said to him, “I’m not interested in Jesus, the Messiah, doomsday salvation, or going to heaven.”

“It’s not like that,” the salesman said, chuckling softly. “I’m looking for people to play a little game with me. If you win, you can get a pretty good cash prize.”

You instinctively wanted to refuse, but the salesman quickly added, “And if you win big, the money isn't just ‘pretty good.’”

When you heard the word “money,” it was as if a string in your heart had been plucked. Though you weren’t truly interested, the recent disaster of your bankruptcy and debts had left you desperate just to survive. The thought of the bank’s relentless debt collection messages and mounting credit card bills made your expression stiffen.

“I don’t need it,” you replied reflexively, though your tone betrayed some hesitation.

“Just listen to me,” the salesman said, his voice calm and persuasive. “The game is simple. Even a five year old knows how to play it.” His smile deepened, but there was something unsettling about it.

You stared at his face, trying to discern any ulterior motives from his expression. However, his demeanor remained light and unbothered, with a touch of inexplicable kindness. For a moment, you couldn’t tell if he was a scammer, a lunatic, or a recruiter for some mysterious organization. However, the word “money” echoed in your mind like a siren call, stirring up your inner greed.

No, no, no. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. If something a bread falls in front of your eyes, it’s either poisoned or bait meant to lead you into a trap.

“Not interested,” you replied coldly, turning away from him.

“Is that so?” the salesman let out a low chuckle, his tone carrying a faint trace of amusement. “But judging by your expression, it seems like you’re in desperate need of a chance to turn your life around.”

“K shake it(개새끼son of a bitch).”You cursed under your breath, a sharp insult escaping your lips, but his words hit a nerve. It was as if he had seen straight through you, stripping away all your defenses and exposing the bleakness within.

The salesman said no more. Instead, he opened the black briefcase he had been carrying, revealing three stacks of cash in different denominations. The sight of the money immediately caught your attention.

“Miss, have you ever played ddakji?” the salesman’s lips curved into a faint smile as he took out two square pieces of paper from the briefcase. “You and I will play a game of ddakji. Each time you win, I’ll give you 100,000 won.”

Hearing "100,000 won per round" didn’t seem like much at first, but when he added, “If you keep winning, the amount will keep accumulating,” your thoughts began to shift.

If the winnings kept doubling, a mere ten rounds would yield a million. You hesitated, thinking of how many street scams you had avoided in the past, but now, amidst your bankruptcy and desperation, you found yourself tempted. Perhaps it was the news of investors losing everything and jumping to their deaths that pushed you to this point. Perhaps you felt that, having hit rock bottom, you had nothing left to lose.

And the game seemed simple enough, filling you with a gambler’s sense of false confidence. You should have walked away from the subway station, but a voice in your mind whispered: "You’re already broke—what else is there to lose? Even a little win is better than nothing."

“What happens if I lose?” you asked.

“Then you’ll owe me 100,000 won.”

You frowned and admitted honestly, “I only have 500 won in my pocket.”

the salesman chuckled lightly. “That’s alright. In that case, you’ll just have to pay with your body.”

“…”

Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait…

Something’s seriously wrong. He’s not one of those guys, is he? The type who lures young women into these games, makes them lose on purpose, and then drags them off to love hotels to abuse their bodies? And not just any abuse—he’d probably use handcuffs, candles, and all kinds of twisted stuff… Those proper-looking guys are always the worst perverts.

“I meant, if you lose, you’ll owe me a slap,” the salesman said. His expression was playful, as if he could see through every ridiculous scenario your mind had conjured up. “Are you thinking of something else?”

“No.” you said stiffly. “Hurry up and start the game. No more nonsense.”

The salesman smiled even wider, as if he had known from the start that you would agree. He handed you a red ddakji tile and pointed to the ground. “The rules are simple: flip my tile over with yours, and you win.”

Taking a deep breath, you gripped the ddakji tile tightly in your hand, feeling your palms grow damp with sweat. It had been years since you last played this game, and your confidence was shaky at best.

Standing across from him, with the tiles laid between you, the salesman watched you intently, a faint smile playing on his lips, as if waiting for you to make your move.

“Stay calm, focus…” you whispered to yourself, then swung your arm down sharply, slamming your tile onto the one on the ground.

Smack!

Your red tile spun slightly but landed flat, while the salesman’s blue tile remained completely unmoved.

“What a shame. It didn’t flip,” the salesman said, his tone carrying a hint of satisfaction.

You froze in place, not fully processing what had just happened, until the salesman’s hand struck your face with a loud, crisp sound.

Smack!

The deliberately forceful slap echoed sharply in the empty subway station. The sudden impact sent you reeling to the side, the stinging pain on your cheek igniting a spark of fury in your chest. You clenched your teeth and glared at him.

“You actually hit me?!” you spat, your voice low and furious.

The salesman, who had seemed so elegant and composed just moments ago, now carried an air of smug indifference. He raised an eyebrow and said casually, “I told you—losing comes with a penalty. Did you think I was joking?”

However, even though you understood the rules of the game, the pain and frustration at this moment made you see red. You glanced at him and thought to yourself, “This guy, he may look decent, but he can really be fucking jerk.”

“Fine. I’ll win next time,” you said through gritted teeth, your eyes burning with determination.

“Good. Let’s go for another round,” the salesman said, resetting the tiles with a calm smile, as though he were already anticipating your next loss.

You took the red tile into your hand again, this time gripping it even tighter. Your cheek still stung, but your pride burned even hotter. You knew you couldn’t afford to let him humiliate you again.

This time, you poured all your focus into the throw. With a sharp snap of your wrist, your tile slammed into his, sending it spinning into the air before landing flipped over.

"Congratulations, you won," the salesman said with a faint smile, taking out a stack of cash from the briefcase and handing you 100,000 won.

The feeling of holding that money in your hand made your heart race. The warmth of the bills, the crispness of the paper—it was a sensation you hadn’t felt in a long time.

You stared at the cash in your hands, your heartbeat quickening. Perhaps it was because it had been so long since you’d experienced the thrill of winning, or perhaps it was the allure of the money itself. Your heart started racing, and an uncontrollable excitement began to bubble up inside you.

From then on, you kept playing game after game—sometimes losing, but winning more often than not. Each time you won, the cash in your pocket grew heavier, while the salesman's briefcase became noticeably emptier. With each round, the thrill of victory and the sight of accumulating cash dulled the pain of the slaps you’d received when you lost.

Several subway trains had passed behind you, but you didn’t notice. You didn’t know how much time had gone by, nor did you care. Eventually, you realized that most of the money in the salesman’s briefcase was already in your hands.

“Not bad, miss. You’re quite skilled,” the salesman said, his expression still calm, but his smile seemed a little forced. There was a tension in his features, as if he was struggling to suppress his frustration.

You stopped counting the cash in your hands and glanced at him. Then, with a slight smile, you asked, “Want to play another round?”

He shook his head. “As you can see, I’ve already given you all my money.”

“That’s fine. This time, if you win, I’ll give you 500,000 won. But if I win…” You paused, your smile turning cold. “Then I get to slap you.”

The moment the words left your mouth, a flicker of surprise flashed across the salesman’s eyes. His usual calm and collected demeanor faltered for a moment, but only briefly. He seemed to weigh the risk and reward in his mind before finally raising an eyebrow and smiling faintly.

“500,000 won is no small amount. Are you sure about this?”

“You should worry more about whether or not your pretty face can handle a slap,” you replied sharply, your tone oozing confidence.

the salesman hesitated for a second, then shrugged as if he didn’t care. “Very well. Let’s play.”

He reset his tile on the ground and gestured for you to go first.

You gripped the red tile tightly, your hand steady. This time, you took a deep breath, adjusted your stance, and slowed your breathing. You remembered all the previous rounds—the force, the angle, the timing—and you used all that experience to make this throw count.

With a loud “smack”, your tile struck his blue tile, flipping it cleanly.

The salesman’s expression stiffened slightly as he bent down to pick up his tile. Without saying a word, he prepared for his turn. He threw his tile with precision, but the force wasn’t enough—it failed to flip your tile.

“Too bad. Better luck next time,” you said mockingly, a sly smirk spreading across your face.

The salesman's expression stiffened abruptly. In that moment, it was as if a projector had switched frames; his formerly composed and courteous demeanor flickered away in his eyes. In its place was a cold, stern, and ominous look, akin to a fierce beast baring sharp fangs in the shadows. Yet, within mere seconds, he swiftly concealed this expression once more, replacing it with a faint smile.

"You are truly skilled," his tone resembled a false praise.

Smack!

As the palm landed, under the glow of the light, you could almost feel his instant eruption of anger swiftly restrained. His profile turned to the side, a clear red mark on his cheek, and you could distinctly hear the lingering numbness in your palm. The air seemed to freeze for a few seconds; he didn't immediately retaliate but slowly turned his head back, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, the curve of his jaw tensing suddenly.

"Sorry about that," you gazed at him, a smile playing at the corners of your mouth, growing more enigmatic, "I have a habit of being forceful."

His expression almost cracked like a mask in that moment: the once refined and gentle demeanor vanished instantly, replaced by what seemed like a vicious dog whose tail had been stepped on, sharp intent flashing in his eyes. You saw it clearly, the previously concealed, dark depths now forcibly dragged out, exposed before you.

Unexpectedly, you found yourself not afraid but instead reading a kind of near-wild authenticity in that fierce look—far more intriguing than his earlier disguise. This realization made you more excited, even the tingling sensation in your palm becoming a symbol of some strange pleasure.

Yet, in just a few seconds, he managed to pull back that feral expression, swiftly donning the polite yet hollow smile as if the previous moment had been a mere illusion.

"Heh, quite the hit," he touched his now crimson cheek that you had struck, deliberately lowering his voice, trying to sound conciliatory, yet you could sense the anger lurking in his tone. "Are you sure... you want to continue playing this game with me?"

You shrugged, teasingly tugging at the corner of your lip, "What, not up for it? I had fifty thousand ready to give you, too bad you didn't win."

His eyes seemed to flicker for a moment, a mix of reluctance and anger, but he managed to suppress it forcefully. Finally, nonchalantly, he straightened his suit folds.

Then, from the inner pocket of his coat, he produced a card—simple in design, with a hollow pattern in the center featuring a circle, a triangle, and a square printed separately.

"What's this?" you asked warily.

"My invitation card. If you want a bigger challenge, more money, just call this number," he lightly tapped the back of the card with his fingertip.

“What do you mean?”

"The literal meaning," he smiled again, handing you the card before tidying up the remaining tiles, picking up his briefcase to leave.

"Wait, you haven't told me who you are yet," you asked, trailing after him.

"Who I am doesn't matter, what matters is—" his gaze swept over the money in your hands, then met your eyes, "you now have the right to choose. Whether to leave with this money or to take it a step further..." He paused for a moment, sincerely smiling, "I hope to see you again."

With that, he walked into the train without looking back, disappearing into the crowd. You lowered your head in confusion, looking at the card in your hand, which only bore a phone number, devoid of any other text. The card reflected a faint light under the dim subway lamp, almost hypnotizing you.

You tucked away the cash, feeling like you had just experienced a surreal daydream. As the subway arrived at the station later, you abruptly snapped back to reality, hurriedly stashing the substantial prize into your bag, boarding the train filled with doubts. As the train started with a buzzing door closure, you observed the diverse array of people on board, each hurried and indifferent, while you held onto the card that could change your future.

Upon arriving home, contrary to your usual routine, you didn't immediately focus on the stock matters. Instead, you stacked the money on your bed, torn by extreme conflicts within. At this moment, you possessed a "miraculously" acquired fortune that could temporarily alleviate your financial crisis; yet simultaneously, you couldn't resist the curiosity: if you were to make that call, could you win even more? Could it lead to a complete turnaround, living the tranquil life in Alaska as you had originally planned?

Lying back on your bed, staring at the ceiling, thoughts of the stranger's smile before departure and the black card he handed you crossed your mind... like a seemingly dazzling yet perilous skyscraper, awaiting the next curious and greedy visitor.

Outside the window, rain began to fall again, the patter of rain mingling with thunder. In a daze, you almost heard someone whispering in your ear:

"Earn more money... keep playing, and all your desires will be satisfied."

You reached into your pocket, touching the card, feeling a slight sweat in your palm.

A hoarse voice escaped your throat, "Should I...make that call?"

[rays-animorphs]

The dynamic between Ax and Jake is really something.

"Prince Jake"/"don't call me prince"/"yes, Prince Jake."

"I don't really understand how this human/American thing of having a leader with no authority works, so I'm going to project my expectations of military hierarchy onto you. We're going to have a relationship on my culture's terms."

"No, we're going to have a relationship on MY culture's terms, where I only have the power that my teammates decide to give me and they never actually have to do what I want and I can't do anything about it. You have to respect a request to call me the way I want to be called by the terms of my culture."

"Hmm, well you're my commanding officer by Andalite military standards so I have to do what you say, but also by those standards you can't absolve yourself of that role, so tough shit, prince. I will do (more or less) anything you tell me to, but I won't change my understanding of what our dynamic is because Andalite princes don't actually get to just turn over the entire military hierarchy so you don't get to do that either. And also, I want our relationship to exist on my culture's terms, and not yours."

And "prince" has such a romantic feel to it, very Chronicles of Narnia. I imagine some part of Jake LOVES being called "prince". It's such a status thing, and who doesn't like status? But at the same time, setting aside what "prince" actually means to Andalites, Americans don't have "princes". Not having princes (or kings or queens or hereditary titled nobility or any of that) is kind of the whole American deal, it's what America is, so Jake can't be a prince and also get a good grade in Being An American (something that is normal to want and possible to achieve.) And I think Jake cares a great deal about being a good American.

So he can't just not act like a prince (it's not enough that he calls for votes on big decisions and basically lets things go without consequences when the other kids go off and do their own thing or deliberately do things he told them not to do) he has to tell Ax to not call him a prince, over and over again.

At first I was mildly annoyed that Applegate went and did the very cliche thing of having a somewhat diverse team but making a white boy in charge, because there is ALWAYS a white boy in charge, and while that's still a relevant media critique in general, I do think Applegate at least did some interesting things with having a white boy in charge. Because...you can tell Jake was raised (is being raised, he's not done yet) with the expectation that he's likely to end up in some kind of leader/power role in society, and all the adventure stories with a white boy leader that talk about what it means to be a GOOD leader, he internalized all that, he knew it was aimed at him, he's got the American equivalent of noblesse oblige in spades, he's got a very strong internal sense of what abusing his power would look like and he wants, really badly, to NOT abuse his power. (And wow, this would be a different story if the Animorphs had coalesced around a leader who didn't have that ethic.)

And just like El in the Scholomance trilogy is wary of taking even the first step on the road to becoming an evil sorceress of great destruction, Jake is wary of taking even the first step to being a dictator, the road that ends with him going "I'm making all the decisions here and you all have to do what I say or else." (Which might well have caused the end of the Animorphs and therefor lost the war to the Yeerks, if he had done that.) So he has to say no to the title, over and over.

[somnus-lucis-caelum]

She was teasing him for sure! Of course he knew her there were good trainings grounds for casters! Well. Trainings grounds in general… but Somnus was sure they could fit her, too. The mere mention that he powers could damage the villa only made him more curious.

Though Aerith was not at all shy to show her some of her powers here. Somnus watched on, listened, got up – and then felt.

It was like being bathed in golden warm water. A wave washing over him and with it complete calm and focus at the same time. His breathing was deeper, his magic prickled at the tip of his fingers, he felt confident in being able to fell any enemy.

It was a high. One that Somnus instantly got a craving for. One that he instantly wanted to last longer – but Aerith removed it from him just as fast and simple.

His blue eyes sought hers in quiet wonder, blinking a little bewildered. Looking at his hands as if she had stolen something from him again, before w wide smile spread across his lips.

“That was… amazing. I felt like I could conquer entire kingdoms on my own! It is like you are a goddess blessing one with powers beyond any kind of humanity or even those capable of more!”, maybe he was getting a little too excited. But who could fault him? No one who had ever felt Aerith’s magic touch them could stand still, Somnus was sure of it. And he was just the same. While she minded Gilgamesh, Somnus had completely forgotten about the man’s proximity.

“You have to show me more. If this is  your opening – I can’t even imagine what you could do more!”, he had grasped for her hand, trying to lead her back to where Alba stood to bring her to the promised trainings grounds… and then Somnus realised what he was doing.

Just grabbing a Princess as if he had no manners, begging her to teach him more about her powers. That excited grin instantly fell from his face and he let go of her hand, “I… I mean- I am sorry, I was getting carried away.”

He barely knew her and she barely knew him. He had behaved as if they were childhood friends – or he a lunatic.  

“Your uncle, right. When he returns… I can bring you to the trainings grounds… if you want that, of course.”

She was calm in accepting defeat. A trait that honored her - and yet surprised him a little. He would have expected a little bit of disbelief and bargaining, her inspecting the figures and all. But it was endearing. She was toasting him even - and dropping a comment that was already too sweet. 

But even that paled in comparison to her sudden ‘outburst’. 

Holding her thinner and whiter arm beside his own, Somnus’ first reflex was to pull his arm away. But he did not. 

Milk and honey. 

It made the lingering taste on his tongue sweeter. It made him hesitate. It made him quiet. Frozen in his movement of taking a sip of the drink himself, Somnus stared at their arms. 

She was not trained like he was. And her skintone suggested she came from a colder place than Lucis. Where his own arm had dips and lines that surrounded his muscles, hers was soft and thin. 

She looked a lot frailer than him - and yet no doubt she had strength. Enough to wield that stave. At least Somnus believed that. 

But there was something so strange about her sudden comment, too. He could not place this feeling or describe it properly. It was… disarming. What was he supposed to say to this? What could he possibly do?

It felt like any reaction… wasn’t good enough. And a small red streak across the bridge of his nose gave that away. No one had ever called him something like that. 

“We get a lot of sun here…”, it was a little helpless, like he was avoiding any real reaction. Somnus could not even look at her eyes in that moment. Just a vague gesture with his hand. 

“Well… you owe me a show of your abilities now. Please. I would love to see them.”, he tried to escape the situation with that, lead it to the next. To something he knew a lot about. Training. Specific capabilities. Fighting techniques. That felt a lot safer than… whatever the Princess was challenging in him.

[talonabraxas]

“Dionysus is the life-spirit of all green vegetation – ivy, pine tree and especially the vine; he is, in Dylan Thomas’ phrase, “the force that through the green fuse drives the flower.” — Sophocles Dionysus Talon Abraxas Dionysus, the son of Zeus and Semele, was a Greek god who represented the more spontaneous and unrestrained aspects of human experience. He was the god of wine, winemaking, fertility, music, dance, and inspiration, and was sometimes counted among the Twelve Olympians—the most important gods of the Greek pantheon.

The mythology and cult of Dionysus were often characterized by madness. Some sources claimed that Dionysus used his invention of wine to drive his enemies mad, while others said that Dionysus himself went mad. Said to have traveled far and wide, Dionysus was regarded as a bringer of civilization in the form of wine cultivation—with both positive and negative consequences. Dionysus was usually imagined as a youthful god. His most common attributes pertained to his function as the god of wine and intoxication; these included grapevines or grapes and a special kind of ivy-covered wand called a thyrsus.

In art, Dionysus was often shown holding a large wine cup. He was also associated with wild cats, especially leopards and panthers; ancient artists liked to depict him riding these exotic creatures. His entourage included mythical beings such as satyrs and silens and frenzied female worshippers called maenads.

Dionysus was worshipped throughout the Greek world, though the Greeks themselves thought of him as a foreign god imported from the East. The cult of Dionysus tended to revolve around ecstasy and intoxication; because of this, Dionysus was often viewed as a god who lived on the edge of civilization.

At the same time, Dionysus was worshipped as a god of culture and the arts. Indeed, it was at the annual festival of Dionysus in Athens that Greek tragedies and comedies—some of the most important literary creations of the ancient world—were performed in honor of Dionysus.

[captain-huggy-bear]

Sherwood Forest

Pairing: Kiefer Sherwood x Fem!Reader

Warnings: N/A

Summary: You give Kiefer a new nickname or two or three.

Notes: I am first and foremost a Quinn girlie but I do love Kiefer and I also can't help but calling him any sort of Robin hood reference so...

This is short, but I felt like writing it. I feel like Kiefer is the cocky, smooth kind of guy that makes you melt a little even when he's a little crude and rough around the edges.

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

Kiefer is the last to leave the locker room after the game, to the point where you admittedly grow bored of waiting for him out in the corridor. He doesn't seem to hear you enter, even as the door shuts behind you, his back to you as he messes with a strap on his bucket.

Your boyfriend is so engrossed with fiddling with the strap that you can't help but be amused even if you really want to go home already. He's not even in his suit yet and it baffles you how he's managed to get distracted by something so unnecessary, something the equipment manager will likely fix for him anyway.

"Hey there, Robin Hood," You feel the way Sherwood's shoulders jump underneath you as you sneak up behind his sitting form, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pressing your chin to the top of his traps.

He groans, setting the helmet off to the side of the bench, "Is that really what you're calling me now, sweetheart?" His face turns towards you, brown eyes peering over at you with fond amusement.

"Mmmhmm, cause you steal from the rich, the other team, and give to the poor, the Canucks..." You're joking, mostly...although, his 2 goals tonight might have made the joke a little more relevant. His ability to steal pucks on top form along with his hit ratio. He'd had an excellent game and you could feel how upbeat his mood was in the playful way he entertained you, a little smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Or because my last name is Sherwood?"

"Do you not like it? I thought I was being creative, you guys always give each other nicknames...I'll stop if you want?" He might be playful with you, but you don't want to force Kief to be called something if he genuinely hates it. There's a slight anxiety that maybe you've overstepped the mark.

You can't help the laugh that slips out when his arms reach for you pulling you into his lap, until you're firmly pressed against him, arms over his shoulders, "You can call me whatever you want, sweetheart," he grins up at you as you push a dark curl away from his cheek and behind his ear. It's started to grow out even more, along with the scruff on his cheeks and never fails to make him look like some sort of medieval knight.

"Anything?" You grin down at him, working a hand into his hair, fingers gently threading through his curls and working out the few knots you find.

"Anything." His hands squeeze your hips, pulling you more firmly onto his lap.

You think for a moment about what you could call him that he might hate, grinning as you ask, "Pookie?"

"I can deal." He nods serious like the idea isn't completely ridiculous, like calling a 6ft, 195lbs man pookie wasn't some sort of crime against humanity.

"Snookums?"

"Might ruin my reputation with the guys, but for you? Sure." You laugh, imagining the reaction of the entire locker room if you turned up one day and loudly proclaimed him your snookums, he might be their heavy hitter but his reputation might take an even heavier hit.

"Toots?"

"Mm, shouldn't I call you that? But, yeah, fine, call me toots." Kiefer's hands slide up to your waist, holding you there as his fingers flex, eyes admiring as he watches the way you come up with idea after idea, more ridiculous each time.

"Bubba? Old man? Doodlebug? Lovey?"

"Seriously, anything. I would let you call me the worst, most embarrassing names on the planet...as long as I get to call you mine." He smirks at you at the end, proud of himself with the line he just dropped and the way it makes you look away, bashful but smiling, face scrunched up.

"Oh, that was smooth..." You love and hate how it makes you feel giddy like a school girl when you're in fact in your 20s and most definitely too old for feeling that way over a boy.

"Y'like that?" Kiefer drops his voice down low, pulling you until your hips straddle his own and you're as close as you can possibly get.

"Mmm, old man, yeah, I liked that. I like you..." You hide your face into his shoulder, cheeks incredibly warm and heart racing a frantic pace.

"Well, that's a relief, it'd fucking suck if my girlfriend didn't like me."

"You're such a pain!" You lift your head up, cheeks puffing out as you roll your eyes at him, hand whacking him lightly on the shoulder. Not that any hit you could give him would hurt, Kiefer was built like a brick wall and knew how to take a hit.

"Oh, I'm a pain? You just went through every embarrassing name for me you could, and I'm the pain, sweetheart?"

He grins at you, the sort of grin that should have warned you he was up to no good because mere moments later the fingers at your waist are no longer just resting there, but digging in, tickling you at the most sensitive spots he can find.

"Kief! Stop!" You're laughing involuntarily even as you say it, hands trying to shove his away, but he holds you against himself as his fingers reach for every weak spot you have, "You're being mean!"

You're certain you might wet yourself with how hard he's tickling you and it's your screeching that finally gets Kief to let up for a moment to offer you a deal. You're panting as he meets your eye.

"Okay, okay...I'll stop...if I get a kiss." His teeth show as he smiles at you, clearly proud of himself like a little school boy.

"No." You refuse, even though secretly you want to kiss him. But, he'd been mean and you couldn't reward his bad behaviour surely?

"No? You won't kiss your boyfriend who just won a game?"

"Not when he's being mean." You pout at him as if you have the upper hand, as if he doesn't have all the power in this scenario, it's cute, but naïve.

"Oh? I'll show you mean." You should have expected it really, the way his fingers immediately reach back for your waist, digging, tickling until you can't breathe again, until you concede defeat and offer him up a kiss.

"Okay, okay! Fine, I'll kiss you, Sherwood Forest."

"Seriously?" He rolls his eyes at the nickname, another one to add to the books, even as he's grinning at you and his victory.

"Do you not want that kiss now?" You're a bit bratty today and he kind of likes it, kind of thinks he should make your life harder for it too, but decides he really just wants that kiss.

"Don't you dare take my kiss away, Maid Marian," He threatens you before pressing his lips to yours, insistent, firm, not exactly gentle not that many things about Kiefer are. His fingers are gripping your hips tight and the scruff on his face scratches and still you can't help but lean into him, opening your mouth against his.

"That was bad," You laugh against his lips as you pull back slightly, noses brushing like the way his lashes brush the apples of his cheeks when he smiles down at you.

"Not as bad a snookums."

[oppysbabydoll]

Could we get Autobot of your choice x human scenario where they overhear the human talking to a friend about their crush on said bot, then the bot acts weird around them in a flustered/cute way for the next couple of days while they try to figure out how THEY feel about the human? =]

OMGG YESS! this is soo cute! i love this <3 doing elita from tfone because the girls need more love in this franchise

elita (tfone) x reader

while tfone is a prequel to the cybertronian war, much less meeting humans, for the sake of this ask, let’s say she escapes with optimus to earth. there, as part of the autobots, it’s part of her duty to look after humans, to get along with them since they’re living on “their” planet. even though they have a war going on and they need to prioritize their own. but whatever (despite how she does sees optimus as a leader, she still is less optimistic about the world. between optimus and her, she makes the decision that best achieves her goals than what’s always morally right)

come you: her favorite human. she didn’t think she’d ever like humanity, serving as a reminder of the efforts they’re wasting instead of spending time back home fighting for freedom in cybertron. yet, somehow, you have invaded her spark </3 you typically watch elita’s training time and normally, she pays no mind, even though the novelty worn off. yet when you see her punching bags so hard they break, you ask what’s wrong. she snaps “you humans take advantage of us and our kindness. we shouldn’t have to do favors as refugees to recieve help just to go go home.”

she didnt stay to hear an answer, not wanting to be around a species she dislikes. a joor (month) later, she gets sent links. articles, newspapers, news outlets, all are calling out the government for in action. of denying aliens—refugees—a way to go home for the government’s military usage. days later, the government sets up a branch dedicated to fixing the autobots ship to go back home. when she finds you, she gives you a soft smile and mouths, “thank you.”

since then, while the two of you are busy as autobot and government worker, you guys make time for the other. the most common way is you taking time after work to watch her practice fighting. she always feel your gaze on her. sometimes she makes conversation while training. she knows you’re kind but… quiet. while you do talk when she asks, you always refuse to meet your optics and your faceplate becomes darker. it’s strange. she assumes it’s a weird organic thing until…

she finds out the reason why when you were having lunch with your coworker. unaware that elita was still in the building, you admit you like her. you admire her rationality, capabilties, and ability to take charge. you admire her strength and power. and while you’re too shy to say anything, you deeply appreciate your conversations. as you continue, your voice bleeds into the background while your initial words go through elita’s processor

you like her. out of all bots, you like her. while elita follows the autobot code, sometimes she can’t help but go back to the old cybertronian code, of bots worth being determined by their job. while she knows she’s a good leader, part of her can’t help but feel like the miner that was continuously devalued no matter what. part of her couldn’t help internalize it, no matter her best efforts. so the fact someone sees her and likes her is—well—!

she avoids you for a few days. makes herself busy with government duties, commanding autobots, other activities so you don’t see her. but no matter what she does she can’t get you out of her mind. she’s not able to recharge because her processor is so focused on you. she doesn’t even know you—not really. not outside of the kind gesture you did, that changed everything for the better. imagining the two of you conjunxed felt next to impossible—if humans could even do that

but. you took that risk, that energy, that effort, of helping her when she lashed out. and if she could do that then she can figure out how human courtship work. what they can be, if not conjunxed then… together. in each others sparks. when she sees you, she tries to remain cool and collected. but the smile you give almost melts her spark. and she can’t help the occasion static in her voice as she approaches you after training, nervousness creeping to her processor. even if you and her are both messy in your attempts to pursue the other, she looks forward getting to know you better. she’s opening her spark for you <3

[snakebites-and-ink]

So I had a...well it was like half idea and half dream, because I'm pretty sure I was in a hypnagogic state so it sort of shifted between dreaming and imagining.

But anyways. Basically it was a self-contained town of whumpers. Everyone there was either a whumper, or one of their captives. This was mainly pet whump, but the concept could totally work with other kinds of whump. So this town was isolated enough that no one would bug them and their whumpees wouldn't really have anywhere to run, without being so isolated that it'd be the only stop for miles (which could lead travelers to run into them), and it was close enough to a bigger city that a resident could drive there if they needed something their town didn't have. The roads to get in/out of the town were disguised so only those who were in the know could find it easily and no one would stumble onto them by accident.

But they don't need to leave town often, because their town has a lot. Restaurants, a bar, a salon with "pet grooming" in the back. All the basic amenities. They also have a pet training center for those who don't want to do the conditioning themselves. And of course it's totally normalized to see someone walking a human on a leash, in any state of compliance or defiance, because they're all whumpers. And most businesses/whatnot allow you to bring your human pet in.

They can whump/talk about whumping openly. Keeping a human being as a pet, treating them as inferior, forcing an obviously unwilling victim to do what you want, public punishments/abuse, even "disposing of" a victim, it's all game. You just can't do it to one of your fellow whumpers, because they have to have some sort of order and security. The whumpees have no one to run to and no one who will heed a scream for help, because everyone near is either on the whumpers' side or another whumpee just as powerless as them.

This isn't one of those settings where it's legal to own people, but who's going to stop them? The only people who know about it are either a part of it, or are quickly taken captive before they can tattle.

[opiopal]

for some reason I like, REALLY love imagining Mc getting into scuffles with students at RAD,

I think it’s just funny to me to imagine my Mc just suddenly slapping some RAD student being nasty and rude just out of the blue,

but I guess just in general the idea seems a little silly to me, this human that came down and charmed all seven of the brothers, the future demon king, the future kings time bending butler, Solomon the sorcerer, three angels, a devildom noble and best friend of the future demon king, and a reaper, the human that is known for being kind and understanding and loving… just, deciding to punch you in the face for saying you don’t know why mammon is so dumb- you don’t even get to finish your full insult before they just seemingly appear out of thin air and deck you in the face?

I think this also stays the same amount of funny in nightbringer, imagine this random demon who came out of nowhere and is now super duper protective of these seven fallen angels, along with that they have and will bite someone’s ear off like a wild coyote. And it’s just- why??? Who even are you???? Where did you come from??? Why do you care about these guys so much they don’t even act like they like you equally as much??????

but I guess just in general it’s funny to me to imagine that the brothers gain a feral little protector after all the pacts are made, mc WILL hurt people in defense of their found family trope. Which is just ridiculous cause THEY are supposed to protect THEM.

(Luci is constantly under stress once again, the stress will never leave; even once his grey hairs make him look like mams father</3)

[kibibarel]

actually speaking of eating pokemon it drives me up the WALL when casual fans are engaging in this concept and they're like, people would eat torchic regularly as their in-universe poultry equivalent because it's a chicken. WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. i know the abundance of starters in recent games have kind-of sort-of retconned this but like i have always had the understanding that starter pokemon are fairly rare and consistently have bright, affectionate personalities that make them the ideal partner of a brand-new trainer, particularly when that trainer is a child. there are not going to be farms focused on mass-producing broiler hens of a much-beloved cultural icon that is notoriously difficult to breed, can evolve into a Biped that Kills You, and is literally born with the ability to set things on fire.

pidgey and pidove. people are eating pidgey and pidove for their common poultry equivalent. GET A GRIP

i think that, considering the fact that the Pokemon world is a futuristic solarpunk near-utopia in which Pokemon are crucial and generally respected in pretty much every aspect of life by the average person, it would have much more readily available and high quality synthetic meat products...i imagine that the average person in the Pokemon world could comfortably have some sort of synthetic poultry as their preferred product

howeverrrrrr, eating actual Pokemon meat is of course a thing in canon, and i also think there would be plenty of people out there in the Pokemon world who would still prefer the real deal despite synthetic options being readily available (and i also think that agricultural practices in the Pokemon world would generally be wayyyyy more humane than ours)...and there's probably also certain cultures out there like the Draconids—or just trainers who spend more time than others really roughing it out in nature—who still hunt for their own food for various reasons

in any case, i agree that more common species like Pidgey and Pidove would probably be the most common poultry equivalent (especially if you assume that Actual Chickens have never existed in the Pokemon world obviously and the Torchic = chicken = tasty association doesn't exist)...i have some difficulty imagining Pidgey and Pidove tasting very good (seems like they'd be pretty gamey?) but Pidove at least evolves into a pheasant so it makes cents...

anyway i enjoy your passion about this topic. can we kiss

[like-tears-in-rain-storms]

Ok just had to share because I've been seeing these people all around and yet it had never happened directly to me.

So, great review of Nosferatu, and I get into A Situation with a person claiming that Orlok is a psychic pdfile rapist of child-Ellen and what's more, the covenant he tricked her into making with him symbolizes a marriage contract,thus Ellen is the analogue of a child bride and a denunciation of the buying and selling of women as brides through history and during that period in particular - also class analysis of how he's a parasite that sucks people dry, yadda yadda, we all know the class analysis. Now that's certainly....a take, and tbh I can see some elements of it sleekly fitting in with the way Eggers structures his themes, but to treat it so absolutely as THE explanation of such an intricate narrative....yeah. I had some issues with that.

And the whole affair ends with that person telling me verbatim, I kid you not, "you should examine why it is that you have a romantic reading on such an one-sided relationship between an undead rapist killer and his teenage victim".

And I'm like....what is this supposed to be? An own? Is it supposed to make me stop dead on my tracks and go "oh yeesh. Why am I romanticizing the goddamn gothic romance????? Am I some kind of monster? A ticking time bomb who'll listen tomorrow about a teen grooming victim of some degenerate and go "yeah but consider that she might have called on him on her dreams to liberate her and spread Covid around"???

To make a long story short, that passive-aggressive urge to self-psychologize with the hint that there's something wrong with myself did absolutely nothing to me,and I can explain it already as I did.

I had a romantic reading because I like gothic romance.

That's it, that's all the answer needed.

But I'm feeling rambly, so I'll elaborate. Because I like sounding the depths of the human mind and will and I like imagining it against powers that defy human measures. Because I like to imagine human nature as a universe, full of it's own destructive phenomena, natural disasters, secret cave systems and toxic geysers. Because in fiction I am free to do so, and can taste flavors that I would never seek out in the real world, like the vertigo of fulfilling the need for self-destruction, or the grandeur of being worth more than the entire world to someone, and what's more, I can acknowledge they exist, and can safely follow them to their logical limits from behind the safety of a book cover. Because on the page we can live out what can't be lived out in the real world even if we tried and because "some things belong on the page, others in life, and it's a blessed fool who can't tell the difference" and I don't know how others see themselves, but I am neither blessed nor a fool.

So needless to say, that wasn't the one it was probably intended as. Really interesting, though, to see such limited-minded puritanism take the stand on the event of Nosferatu coming out. Really interesting how, somehow, they are sounding more and more like crusaders of moral purity for the easily-deceived masses, only now dressed in some righteous "anti-abuse" garb, like abuse in the world will be affected if someone on the internet says that maybe the devouring embodiment of darkness that was rotting alive in the movie had some lasting and fatal effect on Ellen, and it didn't have to be love for it to be defining.

The real question is, why when your limit is the sky and you can make playgrounds out of your mind, do people feel the need to bring everything down to the unromantic, pedestrian and depressive reality that surrounds us whether we want it or not? As far as passive-aggressive urges for self-reflection go, I think that's a much more potentially productive one.