#many of these morons will follow suit

[motherlvr]

can you write something grumpy!42miles x sunshine!reader? where he’s always kinda mean but cares about her but they end up together

this prompt is so cute tysm for the req!!

Word count: About 1,600

Pairing: Grumpy Earth-42! Miles Morales x Sunshine! f! reader

Summary: The line between just classmates and something more is thin. Miles and You seemed to be walking that line.

Warnings: (begrudgingly) friends to lovers, he's a bit mean, fluff, minimal cursing, classmates to lovers, pure fluff, cannot contain the fluff, reader is a little slow, this is short and cute, spanish grammar is not my strong suit

A/N: if i haven't gotten to your request yet, its still a wip but will be posted soon!

_________

You were boisterously laughing. Obnoxiously, even. The guy’s joke wasn’t even that funny.

Miles called your name out with an aggravated tone,

"Would it kill you to shut up for a second?"

You promptly responded, "Would it kill you to lighten up for once?"

He regrets not skipping this class.

That was partially a lie. In reality, he didn’t care for this class at all. He only came to see you. You were one of the few people who put up with him.

Miles and you always sat together during class. "Unassigned assigned seats", you'd call it. But that’s all you were. Seat partners. That was the way it was, and the way it would stay. And he was fine with that, at least he tried to convince himself.

The next day, the seat next to Miles was empty. It hasn’t been empty since the first day you met.

If you asked Miles how you both met, he’d say you forced your way into his life. However, you’d say that you saw through his “cold guy” facade and he opened up his heart to you. He was a good guy if you had the patience. That was only one of the many things he admired about you. Your optimism.

He saw you across the room. You were sitting with someone else. A guy. What was his name again? Miles couldn't recall. That was how irrelevant he was to Miles.

"Is this seat taken?" Miles looked up to the voice that had spoken, hoping it was somehow you. However, as he glanced up, an unfamiliar face was staring at him.

"Nah." He muttered, not sparing her another look.

She introduced herself and told Miles her name, but he wasn't listening. He was listening to your laugh. How could he not? Your laugh was practically drowning out every other voice in the room. At least, that’s how he perceived it.

You were giggling at whatever the guy next to you said. But this time, he wished it was him making you laugh. That guy didn't deserve to hear you laugh, or see you smile.

He couldn't stand your laugh unless he was the cause of it. Miles didn’t pay attention to the lesson that day. He was occupied staring daggers into your back. Yet you never noticed.

You sat next to Miles the day after, as usual. It was an unspoken agreement, and you had broken it the day prior.

Immediately as you sat down, Miles started interrogating you.

"You left me with some random girl to go flirt with that moron? He's a dick." He scoffed at you, nodding his head towards the guy that you left him for yesterday.

Right, like you're not. You thought. "He's really not, he's a good guy!" You defended him and continued, "Plus, your partner was super smart. She was probably more help than I could’ve been.”

"Ella no es tú. What else can I say, ma?" Miles casually said.

You tried to hide your grin but failed as a smile spread across your face. The corner of his lip curled in a small smirk. If you blinked, you would have missed it.

"I’m sorry for 'leaving you', Miles. But don’t worry, I prefer you over him anyway." You smiled brightly at him. And for a second, his stoic heart gleamed.

"I wasn't worried." He grumbled.

"You sure? I mean, whatever you say.” You grinned amusedly at him.

The rest of the class period followed as usual. But this time, before the bell rang, Miles bottled up his dignity to ask you, "Ay ma, wanna hang out after school?"

You raised a skeptical brow at his unusual behavior, "What, you starting to like me now? I thought you couldn't tolerate me." You probed.

Oblivious to you, he does more than just tolerate you. He was growing fond of your presence. He was starting to miss the sound of your giggle echoing within the room when he wasn’t around you.

But he couldn't find the courage to tell you just yet. Instead, he murmured, "I can tolerate you. Out of most of these people in here, anyway."

"I'm kidding. Yeah, I'm down, Miles." You teased him and agreed.

What you didn't know is that your initial question wasn't very far from the truth.

The school day couldn’t have passed any slower. If you were being honest, you were eagerly anticipating spending more time with Miles out of school.

The final bell of the day rang, and Miles held up to his side of the agreement. He met up with you after school.

Walking side-by-side, you asked, "What've you got planned for us today, Miles? You gonna wine and dine me?" you winked at him.

"Maybe another day, mami." He cracked a slight grin as he responded, fond of your antics.

"I'll hold you to that. I've got a better idea, anyway." You said as you heard a familiar song ringing through the atmosphere.

You yanked Miles by his arm and pulled him, "Look, an ice cream truck! I haven't seen one of those in forever. Let's go!"

A rare smile adorned Miles' face. Not that you saw it. You were too busy chasing after the ice cream truck and dragging him along.

You approached the ice cream truck. The ice cream man greeted you, "Hey guys! What can I get for you today?"

Without missing a beat, you said "Hello! Can I get the Spongebob popsicle please?" with a bright smile.

Miles ordered his right after you. "Coming right up!" The ice cream man said. He shortly returned with both your orders in hand.

As you tried to give the owner cash, Miles lowered your hand gently and said, "Let me pay for you." It was more of a demand as he handed cash to the man.

You couldn't contain the surprise that formed on your face. "Really? Thank you, Miles! You didn't have to do that, y’know." You reached up to him and peppered a kiss on his cheek as a token of gratitude. "Nah, I wanted to." He dismisses it with a shrug.

The man gave you both your ice creams and said, "Have a good day!"

"Young love. A beautiful thing to see." The owner of the truck said as you both walked away.

You both sat on a bench surrounded by a garden of blooming flowers. It was quite scenic for Brooklyn. "Miles, look. He only has one eye!" You chuckled as you showed him your popsicle.

Unbeknownst to you, you had ice cream smeared on your face. He leaned in to wipe the corner of your mouth with his thumb, his gaze lingering on your lips. An almost too-intimate action for people who were just "classmates." But you brushed it off as him being friendly for a change.

"You're a mess, mami." He chuckled, shaking his head at you. You ignored how he made your stomach do flips.

Miles had led you to a rooftop that he frequents. It had an incredible view of the sun, despite all the tall buildings encased around you two.

Miles and you spent the rest of the evening together, basking in the presence of one another. You conversed for hours, only realizing the time when the sun started to set. Comfortable moments of silence were exchanged as you watched the sun disappear from the sky, the moon soon replacing it.

“It’s a full moon, isn’t it just beautiful?” You admired the moon as it shone down on the sullen streets of Brooklyn.

"Yeah, It is." He replied, but he wasn't looking at the moon. If you had just turned your head, you'd realize the true meaning of his words. He hadn't even noticed the moon. His eyes were fixated on you instead. He believed that the moon couldn't even hold a candle to you.

"Why haven't we done this before, Miles? I enjoyed hanging out with you today." You felt harmonious with him for once, laying your head against his shoulder as you studied his face.

"I did too, princesa. Maybe I will just wine and dine you someday." Miles said with a smirk, gazing down into your eyes with a borderline smitten expression.

A lightbulb suddenly enlightened your brain. You mentally banged your head against a wall. How could you be so naive to not realize it sooner?

You broke the tension in the air and raised your head to look into his eyes. "Is this a date? You know, people that are 'just' classmates don't go on dates." You told him cheekily.

Could he not have made it more obvious? He paused for a moment and said, “I don’t want to be just classmates.”

“So you want to be best friends? Great! Me too." You grinned, feigning naivety.

His face immediately dropped as he facepalmed himself. "Dios mío, no. That's not what I meant. Never mind, olvídalo." He said, shaking his head.

You beamed at him and laced your fingers with his. “I’m just messing with you, Miles. I like you too. In case you haven't noticed."

He sighed of relief as he lifted your entwined hands to press a soft kiss to the back of your hand. You stayed in each other's embrace for the rest of the night.

From that day forward, you never broke the unspoken agreement ever again. And Miles never had to worry about you associating with another douche again. Excluding himself.

You walked into class hand-in-hand the next day. The following days, as well. That's the way it was, and that's the way it would stay. And both of you were content with that.

_________

ella no es tú - she's not you

dios mío - my god

olvídalo - forget it

princesa - princess

[ficandkaboodle]

Vaginismus: Terzo x Fem!Reader

A/N: Stg if I ever see this purple fucking freak darken the doorway of my mind, I'm going for his kneecaps. He will never be able to slut about on the floor again, and then what will he do? Thanks, y'all, for being so patient as I almost daily had a meltdown over the structure of this. And HUGE thanks once again to @angellayercake for being my ever-patient beta with amazing input and ideas!! I hope I did our bastard boy some kind of service.

Word Count: 8.8K. Sorry, this bad boy is a hydra: For every sentence I deleted, more words would come in its place

CW: Reader has a vagina, hurtful comments from past relationships, reader's mental state is kinda fucked at a few points, hints at extremely uncomfortable interactions to "make the relationship work". Sooo...Vaginismus and its delightful conditions, I suppose. Oh, and a hint of Google Translate Italian. I'm sorry, I tried referencing @/foxybouquet's ever so helpful guide the best I could but alas, I am still a moron. MDNI

Papa III was a notorious flirt, even by the standards of the sexually liberated Church of Satan.

Everybody knew this, from the Clergy to Sister Imperator to the ghouls to his many, many lovers. And yet, when his sights finally fell upon you, everyone knew: Something in him had changed. At the very least, his methods sure had.

Secondo raised a brow when he first saw his brother lightly jogging up to you in the hallways, panting for you to wait up. Primo sported a knowing smirk when he watched the normally suave man sheepishly inquire about the meaning behind certain flower arrangements. Quite the departure from his usual bouquet of red and white roses, the older man couldn't help but note.

A startled Copia quickly became suspicious when the brother that tended to tease him the most came to his office one day, armed with top-shelf juice boxes and nutty chocolate bars – just the starting price for whatever info he was willing to give his dear old fratello about his new favorite Sorella.

The ghouls had a field day whenever they came upon the old man either sulking or even swooning over how a recent interaction had gone. One even swore they had scrounged through his wastepaper basket (don't ask, it’s not worth it) and found crumpled up drafts of sonnets. Sonnets!

It was the Siblings, however, who seemed to take the most notice of his antics. And, unfortunately, the most offense.

Certainly, plenty of the congregation had received a bouquet or two from their beloved Papa Terzo. Many had been wined and dined, and some were even whisked away for a night of passion and excitement in a glamorous metropolitan hub. Terzo had gotten around, and he would probably continue to get around until he either died mid-orgy or until his dick fell off. (And even if the latter did happen, it probably wouldn’t slow him down. Not until his fingers and tongue followed suit, anyway.)

It was cyclical: You would be an interest for a week or two before your time would be up, and you would part ways as he turned his attention to another, leaving you with memories of a whirlwind dalliance to reminisce about for years to come.

This was simply something that was understood and accepted without much of any animosity amongst Siblings. This was just how things were. Or at least up until now.

They must have noticed there was something about the way Terzo pursued you. For starters, nobody could ever recall a time when the man actually needed to really pursue anyone, let alone to the extent and care he currently displayed.

They could tell when a peer was actively trying to heighten the tension, turning their back to him but still glancing over their shoulder to shoot a heated stare. An invitation for him to keep it coming. Really putting the “play” in “playing hard to get”. But generally speaking, most of what Terzo needed to do was snap his fingers and whichever Sibling or ghoul he had his eye on would eagerly crawl into his lap and then into his bed.

Maybe they saw a shine in his eyes that wasn't there when they had him. Or maybe they thought he leaned just the slightest fraction of an inch closer to you than he ever did with anyone else. Or maybe they swore his voice sounded different when he spoke with you. Lighter, but not out of an upturn in pitch to sound friendlier. It was more like it carried less weight. Almost as though he felt less burdened by some unspoken thing. Some thing he never cared to share with them.

Granted, you didn't help matters by actually enjoying the odd conversation or two (or over a dozen) with Terzo. (And by "odd", this meant the animated discussions that borderlined two-person seminars on subjects like the Hays Code, or how viewing certain films through a gendered or queer lens could enhance the suggestion of the story.)

And anyone who spotted you alone on the quad sharing a snack would've been convinced you were on an impromptu picnic, rather than the fact Terzo had found you and offered you pickings from his secret snack pocket.

Sure, it was just a sandwich baggy of cheese doodles, but the point still stood: You had Terzo's full attention, his intrigue, his consideration, his snacks, and you hadn't done a damn thing to deserve them! Any interaction between the both of you, every awkward joke, every instance of eye contact, every exchange of a genuine honest to Satan smile, had the Siblings of the abbey biting and clawing at the walls in envy.

You did your best to appear unaffected by it, preferring to keep your head down and say as little as possible when around them. Nothing to suggest you felt superior to them (not that you did anyhow). Regardless, you were fairly certain that, if it were up to them, they would bring back human sacrifice for the sole purpose of getting you out of the picture.

Thank Satanas, then, that none were present to witness the latest event.

There Terzo stood, his normally focused and powerful gaze fighting hard to be maintained. It was abundantly clear that he wanted to look anywhere but at you. Still, he resolved to keep that nervous on his face. His gorgeous, paintless face.

It was startling to say the least. Actually, no, scratch that: To truly say the least would be to just stand there, gaping like a goldfish as you failed to find the right words – any words – that truly encapsulated even a fraction of what you felt. Which, for better or for worse, was exactly what you found yourself doing.

After all, almost nobody outside of his own family had seen Terzo without his papal paints. They may as well have been tattooed on him the moment he’d perfected the design all those years ago! Not even the paramours he’d collected since then had gotten a glimpse of his bare face, despite the many opportunities they’d had from the nights spent in his quarters. The mystery as to why this was left plenty of room for speculation and imagination, creating a juicy mystique that Siblings and ghouls loved to salivate and chew on.

Admittedly, you yourself occasionally wondered what his deal was, but you ultimately chose not to ponder on it. If Terzo liked how he looked in makeup more than he did without, then that was his business. Honestly, it never even really occurred to you to ask him about it even as the two of you grew closer.

But as you took in the visage before you, you felt you had a good theory going: If Terzo went about the Ministry like this, he’d never know a moment’s peace again!

"Is . . . Is it . . . okay?" he asked quietly. Okay? Okay!? Satan’s taint, if it weren’t for the very apparent tension, you might’ve thought the man was teasing you! The man looked like an old movie star, all debonair and dashing!

The fight to respond in a timely (and coherent) manner was difficult, but you managed to stammer out, “More than okay.” You gulped down some shakiness. “Y-you’re very . . .handsome.”

Internally, you cringed at how wobbly you’d come across but thankfully that seemed to be enough. The warmth in your cheeks intensified as the nerves in his smile carefully evaporated, along with a slight tension in his shoulders.

Unfortunately, the consciousness did not remain, and almost immediately you found yourself delegating focus to other things. Like the beauty mark that lay just beneath the right corner of his pleasantly pink lips. Lips that were saying, “— if you would be interested, of course.”

You blinked. Were you interested? Wait . . . Interested in what, exactly?!

“Y-yeah, sure. I’m down,” you chirped before you could stop yourself.

While you tried your damndest not to look mortified or embarrassed, Terzo looked delighted. Possibly even elated.

“Oh, eccellente!” he clapped his palms together before offering you a mix of a nod and bow. That sharp characteristic of his eyes returned once more, pinning your form as he purred, “I look forward to it.”

Oh, fuck. “Can’t wait!” you replied. Of course, now the concept of urgency settled in.

As you walked back to your room for the night, you knew three things to be certain: The first was that that face of Terzo’s would likely be making many appearances in your dreams tonight. The second thing, branching off this, him showing you his face was a sign you’d let things get far too far.

And the third thing? You had to put an end to your exchanges ASAP.

Sure, you’d peppered this into your thoughts many times before, but after this? This moment of extreme vulnerability on Terzo’s part? No more peppering: It was time to actually pile in everything you had and outright reject Terzo’s advances. No room for stuttering or bending or swaying or swooning and second-guessing!

You repeated this like a mantra over and over, praying that the resolution would still be there in the morning. And it was – but only after you took an icy shower. You’d been spot on when you anticipated that gorgeous, gorgeous face invading your dreams. What you hadn’t counted on, though, was the nature of what all went on:

Snowflakes catching on his lashes as you ice skated on a pond (the power of dreams erasing his waking world clumsiness); his lips smiling around a forkful of the pasta you’d just cooked together; his broad nose nuzzling lovingly into your hair during a quiet night in; those entrancing eyes focused on the movie playing before you as his arm settled warmly around you. It gave you further comfort as you pressed into his side, so perfectly slotted that it was as though you only ever belonged there, right next to him.

You regretted disregarding the alarm bells that blared at the start of this whole nonsense, and now look where that got you: You needed a cold cleanse just because you saw a man’s unpainted face! You were worse than a pent-up Victorian! Did you really want to prolong things until you’d start to "feel" those smirking lips pressed against the column of your neck, or “feel” those large hands skirt along your form, leaving a deliciously pleasant fire in their wake?

Certainly, that might’ve made for a good night’s sleep in theory. But in reality? It was a nightmare in the making!

It was bad enough just wanting to do all those dreamy things and more with the equally dreamy Papa. But that, of course, meant the "more" part would eventually come around. After all, your waking life already wasn't too terribly far off from the things that went on in the dream.

Your days weren't filled with skating on the pond or chatting over romantic dinners but at this rate, they very well could be a possibility. In an ideal world, the wait for these things to happen would be filled with anticipation. But the sad, shower-cold reality was that this wait was weighed down by dread and predictions of what was to come. After all, for all Terzo's patience and kindness, even he had limits. Sometime soon, his patience with your inexactness would run out and he would come to collect. Experience told you that was just how it was.

You may not have had a pursuer as passionate as Terzo, but you’d had enough instances that ran about the same: There was that high, that thrill in an almost honeymoon period-like chase. Then there came the actual vulnerability where you’d tell them of the conditions that came with a relationship – the conditions that came with you. And yeah, they’d start off insisting that nothing about that changed how they felt about you . . .  But then they’d realize your condition would outlast their gimmick.

You felt your face twist with displeasure as sentences of the past began slipping through the cracks and into the forefront of your mind.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Calm down already.”

“Just relax already.”

Then came the pain (both kinds); the giving up; and then you were right back where you started: Alone together, with a body that hated you that you hated right back. The only real difference would be how much your weariness increased, making you more and more reluctant to play along with the idea of any potential romance. Meanwhile, to them, it was a game: You were just playing hard to get, that was all. But you’d surely stop when they and they alone were able to conquer you, to cure you.

Did you really want to wait around and see Terzo become like that?

Your stomach twisted at the thought.

No. Absolutely not. You weren’t sure your heart could bear it, much less your body. Besides, if word got out that he’d shown you his face, then it’d be all over for you. You’d rather incur the wrath of rejecting what many would kill for than face what might happen if they learned how far you’d gotten by doing nothing at all. At least with the former, there was a chance the Siblings let you keep your bones intact.

You had a plan as you prepared yourself to step out and face the day: Keep calm and function as normal until the chance to say those simple words hit you: “Terzo, I am not interested in you in any way, shape, or form. While you are attractive, I am not attracted to you. Please leave me alone from now on.”

A devastating lie, perhaps, but a necessary one. One you would need to deliver by tonight.

But hey, the day was still quite young. There was plenty of time for you to find the courage, right?

. . . Well, you didn’t find it in the hallway when you heard that oh-so familiar, cheerful call of, "Buongiorno, Mia Sorellina !", prompting you to pick up speed and disappear down a different corridor. Nor was it there when you caught sight of a black flutter of robe. It could’ve been a wandering Cardinal’s cassock but you weren’t prepared to stick around and find out.

And even though you spent nearly the entirety of afternoon mass, head bowed, praying for the Dark One to simply grab the strength and shove it into you, you didn’t feel any more emboldened. Apparently, your body meant it when it didn’t allow for anything to enter it – intangible things included, it seemed.

You groaned inwardly from both disappointment and discomfort as you lifted yourself off the kneeler and back into the pew. There was also the added stressor of feeling sets of multiple eyes on you: From Siblings stewing in envy; from ghouls who wanted to take a gander at the Sister who had flirty Papa III wrapped around her finger; and, worst of all, from Terzo himself.

The one time you dared to look up at his seated form on the altar, you caught a hint of a small smile directed at you.

You tried to return it, at least enough to suggest to him you were fine and happy to see him despite your earlier actions, but the sorry attempt lost any pretense of pleasantness when your eyes got caught on something: Even in the sea of his dark robes, you could make out the dull shine of leather gloves poised in his lap. Helping them to stand out more, however, was how each fingertip was adorned with a golden nail.

Correction: A golden claw. The fine barbs would fit right in on the hand of a ghoul or perhaps some other dæmonic creature.

Normally you were fascinated by the accessories but in your increasingly unwell state, these gloves intimidated you. It was like you had been reduced to a fearful prey animal and all you saw was a threat.

A thought, sharp as those gilded talons, slashed beyond your imagination and into the walls of your most sensitive place. They pierced and drilled into the intimate area just long enough for you to know they were there – both in your mind and your body – shanking their way into a place nothing was meant to enter, let alone something so dangerous.

Although a primal need to defend yourself shot through your nervous system, you were too incapacitated to do much more than body-jolting inhale. Your only defense, you had long-since learned, was to freeze. Your brain buzzed in an unpleasant manner as you started to come down from the imaginary fingering.

“You’re overreacting,” scoffed the voice of a past partner. “It’s just a finger.” You hadn’t spoken to them in years, but the disregard in their voice remained fresh, further embittering you to the fact that that was what managed to creep into you rather than the bravery you so desperately needed.

You had to pray once more that Terzo hadn’t noticed anything. A change in your already shifty demeanor, the way your legs twitched inward but not out of lust (not when Primo’s sermon was focused more on wrath today), or how your body’s momentary lurch. Much like your prayer for strength, though, you suspected this plea went ignored. You didn’t need to look up and see Terzo’s smile falter to think that.

The moment Papa Primo dismissed the congregation, you made quick work of the camouflage offered by the uniforms of habits and lace.

When a quick glance back allowed you to catch sight of a confused-looking Papa Terzo, you forced yourself to swallow the pathetic truth: You were never going to find the courage to even say sorry, let alone that you no longer wanted to see him.

What you did find – or rather, what found you – was an overwhelming torrent of grief and frustration as you flung yourself into your room and back into the bed where your day had started with a massive hitch. You shoved your face into your flattening pillow and hoped there was just enough down still left in it to muffle up your screams. And tears. Belial, you told yourself you wouldn’t cry over this sort of thing anymore. Over anyone. You should’ve been used to this type of thing by now, so what was the use in wasting energy like this?

What was the point in dwelling on how nice it all was, how nice Terzo made you feel, or how you secretly looked forward to your conversations, no matter how bizarre or intellectual? You gained nothing but the label of immature whenever you indulged in the schoolgirlish feeling of letting Terzo accompany you in the halls. Indulgence might have been encouraged by the Church, but not when it hurt or disrupted the paths of others’ own pursuits.

There was absolutely no way what you had done wasn’t going to inevitably end in pain of some kind, be it physical on your part or mental and emotional on Terzo’s.

But then again, maybe . . . Maybe you didn’t have to do this after all? Maybe you could make peace with where things were headed. You wouldn’t be able to let him inside of you in the traditional sense, no, but surely that just meant that you would just have to . . . adjust things? Yeah . . . Yeah, maybe that could work . . .

Maybe I could earn his love in other ways? Prove that I’m not ungrateful and won’t waste his feelings? Intrusive visions of you “earning” that love projected onto the walls of your mind. Under more pleasant, more normal circumstances, some of the ideas would’ve been a delight for you in some way. Par for the course of a healthy relationship.

But the possibility that these might be the only ways to grant you worthiness, to allow you to deserve Terzo’s attention and love, to deserve Terzo . . . It felt tainted. It felt like an even worse lie to perform. It burned like a poison through your mind and heart before becoming incorporated with all the other pains rising to the surface.

The knock at your door was a welcome distraction, but only long enough for you to forget the possibility of it being Terzo on the other side.

You contemplated pretending that nobody was home before a muffled voice said, “I can smell you through the door, y’know.” Ah. A ghoul. Better in that it wasn’t Terzo, but worse in that you couldn’t avoid them. To your chagrin, the trek from your bed to the door wasn’t nearly long enough to look presentable or like you hadn’t been crying.

You could practically feel their eyes through the mask, studying your tear-stained ones as they smelled the salt that had settled on your cheeks. Nonetheless, they continued ever professionally with, “Papa III has sent me to come retrieve you.” From the way they barely contained their tail’s amused wagging, it was clear that they were getting a rise out of the insinuations of the invitation.

You may as well have been off to the gallows (or worse, Sister’s office) with how dour your disposition was. Being a part of the Emeritus line, Terzo’s chambers were further away from your humble digs in the Siblings’ quarters. Still, it felt as though there wasn’t nearly enough time from your door to his for you to concoct whatever it was you could say or do. Which, to be fair, wasn’t really much to begin with anyway. You were screwed, your fate sealed the moment the ghoul knocked on one of a pair of the large, wooden doors.

“Entrare,” the room’s occupant answered. Your heart beat icy pumps as you and your escort obliged.

You’d never been inside Terzo’s quarters before, not that you hadn’t been invited. Granted, the first few times had been in the very beginning, before he’d realized that his usual tricks weren’t going to work on an unusual suspect. He never brought it back up again, even as the two of you appeared to grow more comfortable with one another.

It was a shame, then, that you were too possessed with anxiety to properly take it all in: In another, more pleasant mental space, you would have adored the large, framed vintage posters that decorated the rich purple walls, or giggled at just how much purple and gold this guy actually used in one admittedly spacious but still single space.

You couldn’t properly see it, being in what appeared to be more of a lounging area (really, how big was the average Emeritus’s room compared to the lowly Siblings’ quarters?), but you could just make out what appeared to be a bedroom down a small coridor. From what little you could see, there was a bed made of rich, dark wood with a velvety canopy.

Dramatic, but fitting for someone like Terzo, you mused in a split second of clarity before the gravity of the situation returned with ten times the weight as before. After all, here you were, standing in the boudoir of the man whom you’d been avoiding all day. Avoiding because you’d failed to do your due diligence and warn him against pursuing you. And there was his damn bed right freaking there – !!!

That prey animal instinct from mass began to skitter back as you instinctively began to look for ways out of this. Maybe you could leap out that Satanic Tiffany glass window? You’d be killing two birds with one stone if you did: You could get out of a confrontation, and the action would surely unnerve Terzo enough for him to draw back, right?

However, the make-believe agility and will to do so quickly dissolved out of you the moment you heard the voice you’d been avoiding all day once more. “Grazie, Wisp,” he addressed the ghoul. From the sounds of it, he must’ve been in a room off to the side, away from view. Despite Terzo not being visible to them, the ghoul still offered a bow in respect before taking their leave (though not without their nosiness prompting them to sneak one last look into the room).

You winced in sync with the door clicking shut, the soft padding of footsteps on the plush carpeting thundered in your ears as Terzo made his appearance. Even though he made sure to keep some space between the both of you, you still felt increasingly like a trapped animal.

As much as you wanted to cast your eyes down and pretend to be intrigued by the fact that the flooring was black instead of some shade of purple, acting as though nothing was amiss was your best course of action. Even if you felt your breathing hitch both with uneasiness and infatuation over the fact that, yet again, the man’s face was bare of his usual paints. It did, however, carry a small look of concern. While you felt guilty, perhaps him being worried would be easier to work with than him being outright upset?

You tried to predict the sort of things a concerned Terzo might say and what responses would be appropriate when you noticed something else about him: His clothing. You didn’t expect Terzo to be lounging in his own living space in his robes but even then, he tended to favor going about in his suit. This was the first time you’d seen him in anything that could be considered casual and not relating to his position as a Papa. The first time you’d seen him in pants that were actually tailored, actually! It was questionable if a men’s blouse made from what might’ve been silk could qualify as “informal”, but your brain was currently unable to drum up that inquiry.

Instead, it was too busy focusing on how the top was being worn: With only the top two buttons undone, the edge of what was more likely than not an absolute thicket of black chest hairs was visible. (If you were a stronger person – a better, more functioning one – you would’ve absolutely braved that thicket like a safari explorer.)

You gulped, realizing that maintaining eye contact was going to be harder than usual. If you were quicker about keeping your wits, you might’ve tried to speak up first. Maybe with a “Hi, Papa. How ‘bout that afternoon mass, amirite?” But Terzo beat you to it.

“. . . How are you?” he inquired. Surprisingly, there wasn’t even a hint of accusation in his tone. “Are you doing alright today?”

I’m anxious to the point of sickness and contemplating vandalism with your window, you wanted to say.

“’M alright. Just tired, I guess,” you shrugged. Judging by the way Terzo’s lips pressed into a thin line, he probably didn’t believe you. However, if there was anything you’d learned in your time together, it was that Terzo wasn’t exactly the type to prod. It was easy to assume from the flamboyant persona that he was far nosier than he really was. But the unfortunate and lovely reality was that Terzo trusted you. Worse was that he trusted you enough to both see his true face, and to tell him how you felt when you were comfortable. Your stomach dropped when you remembered the fact you’d been crying before this. Were your eyes still reddened and puffy? Did he notice?

“Vedo,” he replied before slowly crossing his arms. "Well, if that is the case, then perhaps we must do a bit of a raincheck for the evening, yes?”

Your brows lightly twitched in a nonplussed fashion. It was then that you finally noticed the full scope of the room you were in. It was more like a den than an actual lounging area, complete with a TV on a DVD loading screen and a couch sat before it.

You forgot to blink as it hit you. This was what Terzo had been referring to during his face reveal yesterday: He was asking you to watch a movie with him! And you, in your lovesick stupor, had agreed wholeheartedly to it!

Logic (and a sense of cowardice self-preservation) would have dictated that you leap at the opportunity to leave. You needed time to regroup. Maybe make a sacrifice to Satanas in the hopes that that might win you some courage to do what needed to be done.

But before you could commit to it, you reminded yourself: You needed to act unbothered. You’d already aroused suspicion in Terzo as it was. If Terzo thought you really wanted to watch a movie with him, as you had outright stated, then you needed to watch a movie with him. All you had to do was sit down at a reasonable distance and appear completely invested. Too invested to possibly think about how you wanted to tangle your fingers into his chest hair. Or how you absolutely shouldn’t want to do that at all.

“N-no, I’m good!” you insisted a little too eagerly. “I can stay up, I’m not that tired.”

He quirked a brow but questioned no further. “If you insist. Come: I have a small setup.”

The setup being an oddly-shaped popcorn bucket (why . . . did it look kind of like a pope hat?) filled with cheese doodles and a bottle of red wine to be shared between two glasses. You took only the smallest handful of doodles to be courteous but turned down the wine under the claim that you were trying to cut back. The reality was you couldn’t risk letting alcohol lubricate you into either melting down or melting into his lap as you both settled in.

The Man Who Laughs, read the title card. A name just vague enough to sound familiar though you didn’t really know a thing about it. When Terzo briefly explained that its main character, Gwynplaine, had been the visual inspiration for The Joker from Batman, you expected some early horror flick. Perhaps being treated to an hour or two’s worth of a spiteful man seeking revenge and wreaking havoc on the innocent. Odd choice in what you could only describe as a movie date, but you were already in too deep and far too high-strung to comment.

But as the film progressed, you found yourself surprised. Not only because the plot was far from what you’d predicted, but also because you also hadn’t been expecting a sense of solidarity. Sure, you’d never been a stage performer whose disfigurement made him a laughingstock to the pauper and nobleman alike. But nonetheless, Gwynplaine’s plight resonated with you. Something about being an introverted, soft-hearted person who feared their worthiness of love was thwarted by something they had no control over.

When you’d settled on the couch that evening, your goal had been to merely pretend to take the movie in. But the tenderness exhibited by the film’s two main love interests made that all but impossible for you. You now existed in a strange and uncomfortable middle ground: Too invested to keep your wits, but too aware of how uncomfortable the relation was. If this were some vintage horror flick, there might’ve arguably been a chance to hide any visible anxieties as suspense-born fear.

But between the “smiling” man swooning into the beautiful Dea’s touch, to him hiding into himself when his insecurities got the better of him, you just kept being reminded of your own circumstances, and how Terzo had given you his full face when you couldn’t even give him the truth.

A wave of self-directed disgust began to boil in you, causing you to briefly tic. Otherwise, though, you remained stiff. It was a fair film, after all, and it was a shame that you were corrupting yet one more thing that was dear to Terzo by equating it with your own problems.

But inside you were the beginnings of a nor’easter of biblical proportions: Deluges depicted you forcing yourself through your fears in a pathetic effort to prove to him he could still love you; the voices of failed relationships past split through your mind like thunderclaps; even the howling winds sounded like your whimpers whenever you trapped yourself in the bathroom, determined but failing to conquer Q-tips and dilators and even your own pinky finger. The flood they all created sloshed and battered about your insides and squeezed at your lungs, brutalizing your mind.

Just relax already, they said.

You’re just being difficult! they had accused.

Quit holding out! they demanded.

The film became less and less visible to you as you tried to steady your breathing and cling to something inside. Please, Dark Lord, great Old One, you prayed once more. Did you want silence? Freedom? For the moment to end, or for everything to pause? You couldn’t tell with all this noise. Please –

Forget it.

Despite being born from the storm, it hung over it, breaking through everything and silencing all. Even your prayer felt muted compared to how deafening the command sounded in your head. The voice did not belong to the Dark One, however. It didn’t even belong to the other Big Guy. You knew this voice, actually. It had been years since you’d last seen or heard from its owner, but you still heard it nearly every day since. And they always said the same thing every time:

No one is going to put up with this if you can't fix it!

You fought to contain any reaction from reaching the surface, but you failed: You shuddered. Violently so. You had to quickly cover it up with an overcorrection of tensing, but you thought you’d managed.

You didn’t even have time to make up an excuse when you caught Terzo moving from the corner of your eye. He was getting closer – no: His arm was getting closer. Angling to wrap around you.

There shouldn’t have been anything intimidating about the idea of Terzo, coming at you with 30% of his hairy chest out, possibly aiming to get some over-the-shoulder action. Unfortunately for you, at this point, you were beyond intimidated. This was made clear with your reaction of jerking away, emitting a gaspy, yelpy whimper you never knew you could even make.

And for a moment, everything but the film froze.

It was an odd juxtaposition, the swelling orchestral music playing as you both just stared at one another without a single hint of romance. You truly were like Gwynplaine now, hands covering your mouth as your eyes stared wide. Terzo’s own eyes being wide was rather commonplace, but the way he stared at you now made you feel uneasy. It was almost as though those big eyes of his were suddenly seeing everything in high definition, able to see now see every crack in the structure that was you.

The soundtrack could’ve played on for an eternity before his low voice quietly spoke above it.

“Mia cara. . .? Are you okay?” He sounded even more uncertain than he did yesterday when he asked you about his face. When you failed to respond, he tried much softer: “(Y/N).”

Your breath hitched, icy and cold in your burning throat. You could count the times he’d used your actual name on one hand. Nearly all of them had been during the very beginning of your interactions. Back when he was trying to prove the extent of his interest. Otherwise, it was always a term of endearment: “Mia sorellina” or “Tesoro mio” or “Piccina mia” and so on.

Always “mio/a”. Always his, even when you had no right to be. But now, as he stared at you, having to resort to using your actual name, he must’ve been starting to realize that . . .

Even though it had done you no favors this entire evening, you let panic guide you to spring into action. You stammered and struggled for words as you tried to make yourself untense.

“I-I’m – I’m sorry, I was just so enthralled –” Did that word even fit here? “I was really into the movie, the sudden movement startled me and –” But it wasn’t so sudden, was it? “I’m really sorry, I just –”

But you just what? You did not know, and it was extremely apparent the more you talked.

“I thought you were cold,” Terzo gently reasoned once your words tapered off. At this, the arm you’d feared was coming to corner you shook gently. In his hand was the edge of a throw blanket you’d been leaning against. “I was going to offer you some cover. I thought you’d been stiff this entire while, and then you shuddered, so I . . .”

His movements were notably slower now. Felt the need to be more careful, even if all he was doing was reaching for the remote to finally pause the ongoing show.

His eyes were less wide as well, but what they left in their wake was a firm yet troubled stare. It wasn’t meant to make you feel so afraid, but the feeling was there regardless.

“(Y/N),” he stated carefully. “If you are not comfortable, then I need you to tell me. I am a big boy, I can understand boundaries. If I’ve been moving too fast or made you uncomfortable in any way, I –”

“The problem isn’t you, it’s me,” you interrupted. God. Satan. Whomever had stuck around to witness this travesty. Being the truth didn’t make it seem any less lame. And judging by how Terzo’s demeanor shifted into being unimpressed, he clearly thought so as well.

“To be brutally frank, Sorella, I was hoping for a bit more . . . honesty.” The delivery of that last word faltered somewhat, but it was more than enough to provide a healthy punch to your gut. Actually hearing Terzo express disappointment towards you was far more devastating than anything your mind could have concocted. He’d already implied on multiple occasions how he’d often found himself on the shorter end of a seemingly mutual trust. Now you were just another person who’d failed to uphold their end.

While true, something in you felt the need to still fight back.

“No, you don’t get it,” you hoarsely insisted against the tightening of your throat. Your fingers immediately set to biting into your arms as they crossed.

“Then help me to!” he finally demanded. “You’ve been acting strange ever since yesterday, so what? Is it me after all? My face? What?!” The frenzy, while warranted, made everything inside you curl inward. Everything suddenly felt too big, too loud for the decreasing space inside you. Your lungs couldn’t expand enough, and you could practically feel the hurricane inside you banging at your eyes to be let out. Your teeth sank into your lips just as your nails sank even more into your arms. Anything to bite back and fight back what was quickly becoming inevitable.

He must have realized what he’d done, or perhaps he just used his eyes to see you practically shrinking. His expression uncrumpled into something more tender and apologetic, but creases of quiet frustration remained.

“Cara. (Y/N),” he corrected, his more patient voice from before returning. “I apologize for my outburst. Really. I do. But . . . Please: What is going on?”

If you opened your mouth, you were fucked.

“I cannot fix things if you don’t tell me what needs to be fixed.”

Soft like dynamite. The dam splintered, it cracked, and then it collapsed entirely. Your body was never one to take things in or hold them, after all.

“You can’t fix me . . .” It was quiet and light and it weighed down on your insides like no other.

Terzo’s brows gathered. “. . . Perdono?”

“I said you can’t fix me, okay?!” you repeated, your sentence made jagged and uneven by its sobbing delivery. The sudden explosion left the normally calm Papa taken aback. His lips parted, surely about to question what you could possibly mean, but the flood was unrelenting as it poured from your eyes and lips.

“I’m sorry! I lied! I lied, I lied, I lied, okay!? My body doesn’t work, okay, it’s fucking broken, and I knew it all along but I couldn’t tell you because I’m a f-fucking coward a-and I’m s-s-elfish – And – !” But this point, though, your throat far too tight and painful to even try continuing. Besides, you’d said all of what mattered, right? That you’d lied to him by omission, that you were broken, and that you were a goddamn selfish coward for pretending otherwise.

The truth hurt but you deserved this pain, having only yourself to blame that you were experiencing this on this man’s couch instead of in the privacy of your room. Everything in you screamed to get up and run back there, in fact, but you lacked the will to do anything other than stay put in a near-blinding fit of crying, probably fucking up the sofa with all the tears you were leaking onto it. You might’ve stayed that way even longer if it weren’t for a sudden nudging at your knee.

Apparently at some point during your pity party, Terzo had taken the opportunity to get up and . . . retrieve a box of tissues? Not leave? Or call for a ghoul to come and get you? Actually, that made a bit of sense: He was too much of a gentleman to kick somebody out while they were crying, no matter how awkward the circumstances.

As much as the punishing part of you wanted to reject it, the suffocation of your snotty nose was intolerable. You accepted the tissue box and dug in until your face stung with how much you had to wipe at it.

Terzo meanwhile resumed his seat, making sure to allow you space as you let out whatever nonverbal emotion you needed to let out. He didn’t force you to talk – not that you could, remaining a coughing, hiccupping mess even as the emotional tempest began to recede.

In fact, he himself didn’t say a word until you’d managed to work yourself down to pathetic, wet sniffles and tremors.

“. . . You know you’re not broken, right?” he asked. You almost didn’t hear it about you

You sniffled, perplexed. Terzo watched patiently as he continued, “Look: I don’t know exactly what’s going on. But what I do know is that you make me laugh. I like talking to you. I like talking with you. I just. Like you. So clearly, something about you must work, si?”

You shook your head. No. No, that’s what they all said. Maybe not like that, but they all said one of two things:

Either they claimed this didn’t bother them and that they could work with your condition, only to later realize they couldn’t keep up the lie; or they would ask to go your separate ways. He hadn’t done the latter yet, but after everything you’d put him through, he at least deserved specification to make that decision.

“No, I mean,” you took in a deep, shaky inhale. Mostly to calm the discomfort. “I mean. My body – It literally doesn’t – I have a condition, Terzo.” You paused just enough to let the words sink in – for the both of you. It never got easier to say no matter how many times you said it. “I can’t have sex. Not in a normal way, anyway. So, like. No penetrating or whatever. Not even, like, a tongue. Shit hurts so I don’t – I can’t bother with it. And like.” You twisted your fingers. “That feels kind of antithetical to the whole ‘living deliciously’ vibe or whatever you’re supposed to be promoting. So . . .”

So there. That was it. In a sick sort of way, you did feel somewhat of a weight lifted. The heavy, gross feeling of rejection still sat within you, but you had a familiarity with it. In time, it, too, would fizzle back into the recesses of your mind. You could . . . live with it there . . .

“. . . So what?” Terzo practically huffed, barely fighting back a smirk, one you couldn’t tell if it was from his own words, or in response to the stunned expression you now wore. “First off – and forgive me for missing any point – but you do realize that the whole of that whole ‘living deliciously’ shit comes from making choices, right? If sex is what you’re talking about, I don’t necessarily need sex. Is nice, yes, but. It’s not my whole fucking life, you know.”

. . . Well, no, but . . . To be fair, that rockstar persona certainly made that easy to not consider. Before you could argue this, he continued.

“Second off,” Terzo held up two fingers. “You do realize sex is more than just insert-dick-in-pussy, yes? Your Papa is . . . Well, he knows he is no blushing virgin, we shall say. No offense.” (At this, your expression blanked. Bemusement was superior to distress, though, you supposed.) “But do you really think that I think there is only one way to make sex count? Cara, per favore: Sex is sex! So long as everyone is having fun – and consenting! – then what is there to worry about?”

“E in terzo luogo,” he added a third finger before giving all three a wiggle, “do you really think that I would do all this if all I wanted was a quick fuck? I mean, think about it, piccina. Give me more credit.”

Well, when he put it like that . . . Your cheeks and ears burned less from humiliation, but from a much softer breed of embarrassment.

“Well . . . no . . .” you admitted. “B-but going back to the choice thing – I thought the idea was to make choices that don’t hurt anybody.”

He nodded with agreement. “Questo è vero. But here we are. And no one got hurt, si?”

You bit your lip, “But . . . I lied to you. I wasted your time, and – ” At this, Terzo’s hand rose, signaling for you to shut your yap.

“I’m gonna stop you right there, dolcezza,” he spoke, his features tame but stern. “You did not waste my time. Okay? I gave you my time. And I wouldn’t ask for a moment of it back. And do you know why?” He didn’t even allow you enough time to make a snarky response: “Because I chose to spend it with you. Even if I’d known, I’d choose you. And why would I not? Sei una bellisima compagnia, and I already love what we do together, even if it’s not fucking. Now, have I thought about us fucking? Yes! Often!” (You felt your blush deepening at his rather blunt confession.)

“But I have also thought about things we have talked about; things I would like for us to talk about; things I would like for us to do – besides each other, I mean. But it here’s a fourth thing.”

No fourth finger this time. Just him offering you his hand. You felt every particle in your abdomen squish and flip over the simple gesture, but curiosity made you pushed through to accept it. Even as his other hand came over on top of yours, any trapped feeling you might’ve had mere moments before never came forward. If anything, you felt . . . here? And for as buzzy as “here” felt, you didn’t want to run from it.

Terzo gave your hand a grounding squeeze as his eyes remained locked with your own. “I’m never gonna do something that hurts you. Alright?” he swore. “And if I do? Then I need you, I beg of you to tell me. Because if you don’t want to do anything, then we don’t do anything. We do nothing but enjoy one another’s company. That is plenty enough for me, dolcezza, I can promise you this. Do you understand?”

You gulped. You didn’t even realize your eyes had widened until you found yourself needing to blink back a fresh, much smaller batch of warm tears. You could practically feel your mind scrambling, trying to reference past experiences that could help you work off of this. Maybe proof he was lying, an argument you could present – something to make this all make sense!

But it found nothing of the sort. No one, in all those times, had ever offered a third thing, let alone one where you felt like you had an actual say in how things went.

Should . . . Should you nod? Could you be trusted to make the right decision here? You nodded. It was uneasy and uncertain, but the smile it gave Terzo seemed to be the proper answer.

“Good girl,” he affirmed. Oh. Yep. That was the right answer, you decided with a jittery exhale.

“Now!” Terzo exclaimed before giving the back of your hand a gentle pat and releasing it. “If it’s alright with you, I would like to finish our movie. Call me a firm nerd but I’ve waited all night to hear your thoughts on this, no joking.”

The change in atmosphere was dizzying as Terzo readjusted himself into a more comfortable position, as though you hadn’t just bared your soul and literal intimacies to him and had him respond in the most genuine and affirming way possible. Not as though it were nothing, but more like it was just not nearly as distressing as what you’d prepared yourself to face. With the storm settling and the fog of anxiety clearing, it became increasingly apparent just how discolored your thoughts had become by your past experiences. Of course Terzo wouldn’t be so rigid about sex: It went against everything he stood for, everything he was!

Of course, complete acceptance on your end wouldn’t be immediate. But you could work with this. Though, there was admittedly one last concern you had before movie night resumed.

“B-but.” You stopped short as Terzo turned his attention back to you. You had to remind yourself that the nerves you felt now were nothing compared to before. You could do this. “But . . . What if I . . . do want to do something?”

A bushy brow at the insinuation.

“N-not now! Not immediately,” you clarified. Suddenly the fringe of the throw blanket required your attention as you began fidgeting with it. “I just . . . You know.” You gave an awkward shrug and glanced up at him, a look of pleading twinkling in your eyes as you hoped he understood what you meant. Not any time soon, perhaps, but . . . Some day? You watched as the right corner of his mouth, the one where that darling beauty mark lay, rose up into a smile.

“Then, cuore mio, we talk about it,” he answered simply. “And, if you still want to ‘do something’ after?” He leaned in, the warmth of his smile heating into a devilish smirk.

“We do it. Whatever that may look like for us.”

You nearly blacked out when the bastard had the audacity to wink at you.

He then clicked play, shifting back into place as Gwynplaine and Dea came back to life. By the time you’d managed to regain your composure and refocus on the movie, Dea was cradling Gwynplaine’s tearful face in her hands. Assuming you hadn’t missed anything, this was the first time the poor soul had actually ever let her touch his face in all its deformed glory. And judging by her jubilant reaction, Dea couldn’t have been happier.

Good for him, you quietly delighted. It was absolutely what he deserved after all that time spent torturing himself over nothing. As you resituated yourself back into the cushions, you briefly noted how the voices from before, while still there, were much quieter. They lacked the power provided by the storm, and any time one of them seemed to try and get louder, you’d hear Terzo’s voice smother it out.

I’d choose you, he affirmed.

Good girl, he praised.

You know you’re not broken, right? he reminded.

It gave you goosebumps, though not the kind that the throw blanket could pat out. But you had a theory.

It seemed that the Old One had finally chosen now to put some courage in you. Better late than never, you supposed as you began to inch closer and closer along the couch until you could feel the heat radiating off Terzo’s body. The proximity in itself was thrilling enough, but the boldness didn’t stop there.

You tested the waters, leaning a little further into him, only for his arm to calmly come around you. Whatever space that remained was quickly closed as you felt yourself being tugged and cushioned into his side. You had only a nanosecond to catch the barely-contained smile on his face before you practically melted into place. Terzo’s touch, his scent, his warmth, his everything flooded into you, filling you with a simultaneous calmness and a vigor you hadn’t felt in years.

Your dream from before had been right after all: You belonged here, right next to your Papa.

[suugarbabe]

piggy back || slytherin boys

summary: Enzo’s confidence seems to surge after one to many fire whiskeys and you refuse to take the brunt of it. but mattheo is always down.

an: another little blurb from a yap with my baby @musingsofahufflepuff ; all in good fun

warnings: mentions of alcohol/intoxication, fluff-esque, Enzo and Mattheo being dumbasses

So many stairs. Merlin were they a pain when sober; they were even worse after a drink…or six. You were thankful the party you were leaving was in the Hufflepuff common room because going from the other towers down to the Slytherin dungeons sounded like a nightmare in the state you all were in.

“Cmon, love. Just let me help you,” Enzo stumbled on a few more steps before letting out giggle. You braced yourself against the wall, practically sliding against it with each step you took.

You shook your head, “You’re just as sloshed as me, I think I’ll help myself.”

Enzo grabbed hold of your arm, “Nooo,” he hiccuped between each word, “Let me give you…hiccup…a ride on the Berk train. I’ll get us…hiccup…both back to Slytherin in one go.”

A playful grin graced your lips as you pulled your arm free, “Nuh-uh, I am not risking both our lives for a piggy back ride just to die on the dungeon stairs.”

Enzo’s lips turned down into a slight pout, his lips becoming plush, “You’re mean.” You shook your head with a smile, “I’m not mean, I just still have some working brain cells after all that fire whiskey.”

Mattheo then seemed to appear out of thin air, “Don’t worry Enz, I’ll hop on for a ride.” He then took a drunken running start, launching himself and hopping (barely) off the marble floor and grabbing hold of Enzo’s shoulders to try and wrap his legs around him.

Between the amount of booze he drank and Mattheo’s sudden weight, Enzo’s equilibrium was immediately thrown off. Both boys flying backwards onto the hard ground.

They each let out a chorus of low groans, turning on the floor and rubbing their respective body parts that made direct contact with marble.

You shook your head at them both, “See, I told you…bloody idiots.”

The earlier failure did nothing to dissuade them, Mattheo brushing off his trousers, “Turn round, Berk. Let me saddle up again.”

Enzo turned his back to Matty, bending down slightly and holding his arms out to help steady himself. Mattheo grabbed his shoulders again, climbing carefully this time onto Enzo’s back. The taller boy then hooked his arms under Mattheo’s knees, hoisting him up a little higher.

Mattheo held an arm in the air, pulling it down twice as if yanking a train horn, “Woo! Woo! All aboard the Berk train!”

You shoved them both towards the corridor that led to the dungeons, Enzo stumbling slightly before recovering, “Will you two morons shut it! We’re still out past curfew!”

Mattheo and Enzo both waved you off before the latter came to a complete stop at the top of the dungeon stairs. “Either I’m off my skull of these stairs are crooked,” he pushed Mattheo’s legs from his waist before the curly haired boy slid off his back.”

Enzo shook his head, “I’m sliding down.” He sat himself at the top of the stairs, bracing himself with his hands on either side of him. He then began to scoot himself downwards, step by step.

“Oh fucking bangin’ idea mate,” Mattheo followed suit, sitting down and taking it one step at a time.

You decided to go with your previous method, leaning against the side wall and sliding along it with each step you took.

You passed both boys easily, the wall to your house entrance dissipating as you said the password. You started to walk through and you heard the grunts and shuffled feet of the boys behind you.

“Hold that door! I’m too drunk to remember the password!”

[boundinparchment]

Blasphemous Rumors - X

“Marry me.” He said it with such blasé that you weren’t sure you heard him correctly. Silence surrounded the two of you and he leaned down and tilted his head, watching you like a specimen under a microscope. “Just for a year. A marriage of convenience. Consider it nothing more than a harmless experiment for the sake of curiosity.” Il Dottore/Female reader with established personality. Slow burn. Semi-enemies to lovers. Available on AO3 here.

Your head was swimming between the careless Agent who wasted your money with their rant and the sudden shift in your schedule, hand on your back included. 

It was protocol to rotate a year’s worth of documents down to the Archives for storage to make room for new budget records up in the main office.  The Archives were, while safe, notoriously difficult to navigate.  That, combined with having to identify and locate several boxes per calendar year for the Harbinger who had one of the highest volumes of expenses was a frustration you sympathized with.  The Agent was careless enough to describe the layout and the security measures as if they were common knowledge.

Perhaps they assumed you were already aware, given your elevated status.  What a moron.

And now, you were walking out of your office with Lord Dottore’s hand on your back.  A distinct gesture.  The man was meticulous, purposeful.  He never did anything without reason, without a drive.

He would be the death of you.

The elevator rides to the depths of the Palace were taken in relative silence but you could feel the cogs in his head turning next to you, cranking along with the wires and pulleys.  There was little reason for you to be in his workshops.  The last time you’d gone down, it was to make a point that he could not just leave the wedding details to you entirely.  His domain was otherwise a place you made an effort to avoid.

Once you were finally on solid ground again, you followed Lord Dottore through a series of corridors lined with hissing pipes.  The air warmed as you passed through the facility doors and into his facilities proper.

It was quieter than you recalled from your last visit, fewer people and even fewer machines.  The budget for the Nod Krai facilities and the expedition to Sumeru accounted for a good chunk of the expenses over the last few years (and no doubt the lack of present equipment).  You were led to the office you recalled standing in, justifying the need for a ring and that he at least pretend to try.  Just as before, it was free of dust, everything in its place.  The piles of papers and stacks of books were, for now, less of a hazard than the last time you saw them.  A Segment’s boredom, no doubt.

“Presumably, the move to Nod Krai is going according to plan?” you ventured.

“One of many details we will need to unravel if we are to accomplish our combined goals.  A better solution will be needed to address the matter of property,” Dottore replied.  “However, that is not at the top of the agenda, dorogáya moya.”

The pet name dug under your skin every time you heard it.  Undoubtedly, he knew it did.  It may have been wiser to have held your tongue at your wedding reception about the double meaning but now you had no choice but to deal with the consequences of his small victory.

Your husband gestured for you to sit but you shook your head.  “I spend half of my day in a chair, I’ll stand.”

You felt a hand on your left shoulder and you flinched, unaware of another presence.  There was a faint pressure downward, urging you to comply, pushing harder until your knees cooperated and your bottom met the seat with a thump.  The hand remained on your shoulder, fingers curled ever so slightly to resemble the claw of a raven.

“I’m afraid it wasn’t a question, dear wife ,” came the response from behind you, a mockery of the voice of the man before you.

You never had much business with Omega, except for when he stood in for the Harbinger during your meetings or for rehearsals and suit alterations.  Despite how similar he looked to the original, the oldest Segment’s presence was akin to walking into a public place before opening hours.  Everything seemed normal but there was a vacancy about him that always unsettled you.

Another hand on your right, this one brushing gloved knuckles across your cheek, was as cold as ice.  You had not picked up any footsteps whatsoever from either Segment, but they were not capable of appearing out of thin air.  How had you not noticed their footfalls?  Or was it that they were already in the room and you’d simply failed to spot them?

Either way, you were slipping.  Again.

“Ease up, Omega.  She came of her own volition, as she usually does.”

You felt a hearty chuckle and out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of a distinctly patterned mask.  This one always appeared as though he belonged as a masquerade party, in your opinion.  More often than not, his receipts were splattered with what you could only assume was blood, if not oil.  You kept your face impassive as your behind met the seat and both hands remained on your shoulders. 

Something about the last quip made your husband’s fist clench and although the lighting was poor, you swore you saw the tips of his ears turn darker.

“Zeta, you would do well to keep your mouth shut,” Lord Dottore said, jaw tense.

Blood thrummed in your ears as you tried to piece together what, exactly, would lead to him taking this approach with you.  It wasn’t just about the sham of a marriage you two were playing at, it couldn’t have been.  Otherwise, he would have left it until later.  Another topic over a game of chess for the two of you, alone.  

Your stomach sank.

With everything since your return to the Palace, you’d neglected how easily you let slip what should have gone to Pantalone first.  So disarmed by sunlight and sweets, you’d tried to buy yourself time for an answer only to give him the truth.  Your eye for patterns and spotting abnormalities and asking questions far above your pay grade, all tools of your trade, betrayed you.  Why hadn’t you kept it to yourself?

A man like the Second Harbinger never forgot the details.

Instead of speaking, your husband opened a folder and laid out documents in front of you.  Your working record.  Copies of your parents bankruptcy documents and loan letters.  Reports from Agents with dates on which you recalled harrowing visits full of arguments.  A shining recommendation that praised your skills with numbers and efficiencies with analysis and deadlines.

None of it was new and in fact, you were surprised to see such things now.  You’d been forthcoming and truthful, almost to a fault.

But what conclusion had he come to?

“Your silence is far louder than you give it credit for,” Omega crooned, fingers digging into your shoulder.  “Surely we didn’t marry a complete dolt after all?”

“You like your dramatic tension, my lord, but I cannot answer an unspoken question,” you replied, staring at the man behind the desk.  “And I don’t recall agreeing to an interrogation.”

Lord Dottore stood and traced his fingers over the surface of his desk, picking up one of the pieces of evidence in the process.  He stopped after rounding the desk and standing in front of you, shifting his weight as he crossed one ankle in front of another.

“Help me understand.  How does one get out of bed for the past several years and smile at the man responsible for your family’s current position?”  the Harbinger asked.

Your mouth twitched.  A question you asked yourself for years, the response to which was driven into your very bones by this point. 

Before you could answer, another voice jumped in.

“Not everyone has their family’s debt reviewed by the Regrator himself,” Zeta said as his hand found the nape of your neck and teased your hair.  “Fewer still are given no leniency and forced to face financial ruin; such an approach only happens when he loses more than he put in, when he gambled with his own investments and cannot face the blow to his pride.”

“That’s how authority works if you choose to use fear,” you shot back.  “You have to make examples of those who fail you, who wrong you.  Winter is not merciful, why should leadership be?”

Lord Dottore’s lips thinned.  “Try saying that with conviction next time.”

He held out two pieces of paper in front of you: the first was a copy of the original contract your father signed; the second was a revised copy, complete with a perfect signature.  No one ever doubted a contract that the Regrator himself used in any meetings.  Attempts to do so were met with additional charges of forgery.

Seeing them again made your blood boil and then ice over, pushing back the memories of dejected expressions, your carefully laid financial plans with every intention of finding a way to make it work tossed in the trash with a smile.

“Tell me, what’s the difference, Accountant?” Dottore prompted.

Your answer caught in your throat, worse than the sticky porridge you used to eat in the dormitories back when you first arrived.  The hand in your hair tightened, demanding to let you look nowhere else as Omega’s grip on you tightened further, your shoulder beginning to scream.  

Eyes crept over you expectantly and you suddenly felt like a stuck pig, cooked and on display.

“He changed the terms of the contract,” you said.  “The loan term and the interest rate specifically.  I laid out a plan for my parents to present but it was moot.  There was no recourse except to cut his losses and force us into bankruptcy, leaving only the house in which we lived.  Out of pity, more than anything.  My father would never work again and my mother does not have the skills to seek higher wages.”

Each statement felt like a hot knife to your skin and you wanted nothing more than to sink into yourself than remember this.  But Omega’s and Zeta’s rigid grips held you upright as your blood ran cold.  Zeta in particular stroked your face, almost sympathetically, and you winced at the touch, incapable of moving.  Lord Dottore said something in a language you didn’t comprehend, the same he’d used when he first felt your freezing feet.  Zeta scoffed and pinched your cheek before letting go, replying in the same tongue.

Your husband stared at you for a good long moment, boring a hole in your cheek as the paper in his fingers rustled ever so slightly.

Seemingly satisfied with Zeta’s cooperation, Lord Dottore plucked another piece of paper from behind him.  This one was recognizable from the back by the way the light passed through it.  

Your offer letter from the Ninth’s Department of Internal Revenue Affairs.

“Yet you applied to the Regrator’s very own sector,” the Harbinger said.  “Of all of the positions available for a civilian.”

“I know what I’m good at.”

“You were specifically chosen for your ‘decision making around trend analysis, looking not just at patterns but the circumstances around them’ and for your willingness to adapt .”

Omega scoffed but kept his thoughts to himself.  In your experiences, he was preparing for a rebuttal after hearing a poorly constructed argument.  When his thumb released itself to brush against the back of your shirt collar as if to comfort or perhaps mockingly admire you, you took a deep inhale slowly, his touch like pure ice.  If your husband noticed, he said nothing and cast the paper aside before gripping the desk behind him.

“Willingness to adapt is an odd turn of phrase when all of humanity has the capacity for adaptation and evolution when under the right set of experiences and environmental factors.  But for you, it is quite apt.  As is your eye for patterns and analysis.  In fact, I would go so far to say that for your position, your recognition is far superior than what your role requires of you.  I would expect, perhaps, an auditor of Northland to identify cashflow trends among its clients.  The public’s interest is better served by your skills, arguably, but the Regrator does love his little collection of prizes.”

Your breath hitched when Lord Dottore leaned forward, his face inches from yours, the Segments keeping you in place.  His proximity never troubled you, not really.  More often than not, your touch-starved body reminded you terribly of just how easy it would be to ask for more.

Zeta’s hand in your hair nudged your head forward, as if he was attempting to play with a doll, pushing your face towards his creator’s.  Omega said something too low for you to hear it in full but the slight force stopped as soon as it started, Omega’s disgust rolling off in waves.  Your husband reached out and tilted your head with his fingers beneath your chin, thumb reaching to brush across your bottom lip.

“And yet, this information finds its way to me and not your immediate superior who would have a vested interest in such knowledge.  You are nosy, in addition to expensive, my dear.  And in a desperate enough position that you might just attempt to leverage your skills in…creative ways.”

Something in you felt emboldened despite the discomfort, like a tiny piece of solid ground as you swung from a fraying rope.

“What ways might those be?” you replied.  “Reporting it internally would only result in the data changing, not the intentions of the people themselves.  But such knowledge outside of the department?  Maybe that might make a difference.”

Lord Dottore chuckled, his breath tickling your skin as he stroked your lip.

“You’re not naive enough to think that, dorogáya moya.  You are rather pragmatic.  The notion would never hold water in your mind.”

He pulled away and stood straight, speaking factually, pulling all of his threads together.

“You are hardly the first to have a right to despise the Regrator and hold a grudge against working for the very system that led to your situation.  In your position, you have access to information many would and have killed for.  All to track our movements and our plans.  It is well-compensated in the right markets.”

One final piece of paper dangled in front of you.  A report about the address you last used, including the return of a package marked ‘Return to Sender’.  It never made its way back to you; you always shipped using the standard return address, which also would have made its way to someone, eventually.  The contents discussed were inconsequential, phrased as the mere shipping of a financial manifest and a letter that made no sense.  

Included in the report was a timestamp of the shipment, the date and time you were also at the post office.

The same time and date as your accidental encounter with the Harbinger at the bank.

He couldn’t prove it was sent by you.  Not unless…

“Footage is scrubbed almost daily to save data space,” Omega sneered.  “And the Rooster is too frugal to invest in proper archives of public video records.”

“But you see, we have all of those nice hand-written summaries of yours from over the years,” Zeta let go of your hair just long enough to stroke your head before grabbing a fistful of locks again.  “And there’s so many similarities .”

Your lungs felt so small all of a sudden, refusing to intake the amount of air the way they normally should.  You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh in hopes of making room to breathe.  The Segments’ hold on you was almost numb at this point, your scalp and shoulder tingling as they clung to you, tried to wring you dry like a dirty rag.

It would be stupid to attempt to rebuke him and hide it.  He didn’t gain anything from this knowledge leaving this room, in which case, maybe you wouldn’t leave these walls, either.  Just because others knew you left with him didn’t mean they knew where you went and the Second was above certain questioning.

Maybe he wouldn’t value whatever truth you presented under the guise of it being biased.

But wasn’t that better than dying?

You shook despite the firm hold on you.

“Finding a good physician that far north requires compensation, as you’re well aware,” you said at last.  “I was skipping meals to pay for the medication and the services.”

You’d spent that time in a haze, functional and only sharp when it counted.  Audit season and Lord Dottore’s quarterly budgets were the times you dipped into savings so you weren’t as hungry.  Couldn’t have the Second suspecting the Ninth didn’t pay his people enough, was your rationalization.  Coffee helped.

Lord Dottore’s lips pursed slightly, recalling something as he cast away the last report.  “That was several years ago.  You were malnourished but it’s not uncommon in your department, given the volume of work.”

“Others in my job might have chosen to ask for positions at well known gambling houses or other businesses of Lord Pantalone’s, opting to numb their minds or spread their legs for higher pay.  But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction, not if he ever recalled my family name from the dozens upon dozens he’s already ruined.”

“Clearly you have a focus, though.”

“Never information about Lord Pantalone himself.  Only things that might be helpful to have an edge over before they go public,” you admitted.  “Activity of noble accounts, mostly; he likes to keep tabs on the biggest investors in Northland, and those files are run through us under the assumption that the bank’s staff would be too biased in an effort to protect Lord Pantalone’s interests.”

“Have you ever sold information on myself?  My projects?”

“No,” your response was instant.  “Also a rule.  Nothing that could be traced back to me in particular when pieced together.”

Zeta giggled, muttering about how well that worked out.

The silence that sat between you and your husband  grew to a crescendo as he considered you carefully.  Zeta’s hold on you shifted, his hand moving towards your neck, fingers finding perfect perches in your flesh.  He didn’t squeeze but your pulse pounded against his thumb, quick and steady.  

When you swallowed, you felt your throat twitch against Zeta’s hand.  All it would take was one flex and you’d never be heard from again.  Zeta  clearly had the same thought because his hold tightened, causing you to gasp as the pressure in your head increased.

“Killing her serves no purpose,” Lord Dottore said coldly.  “Let go.”

“She serves no purpose if she’s a potential source of data loss,” Zeta replied.  “I’m sparing you the headache.  How is this any different than—”

Your husband made no move to pry the hand from your throat but his posture and tone shifted, rigid and commanding.  “She isn’t a replaceable subject, let her go.”

“Yet you don’t fight for her, how fascinating,” Omega crooned.  “Isn’t she your wife, Prime?”

Your vision grew blurry as the pressure continued to build, your heart pounding as you made a gurgling sound, reaching up to tug on Zeta’s arm.  He held tighter as you tried to shift your weight, wrestle away, anything to not—

In a flash of blue and black, the hand on your throat released instantly as your husband grabbed Zeta and shoved him away, the younger man stumbling towards the door.  Omega’s hand left your shoulder with a hearty pat as you coughed, panting as blood returned to your head and the room spun.  Your pulse throbbed across your entire body as your blood pressure began to try to level out again.

“Let go and get out , you wretches!”

His command was followed by a sentence in the language you were beginning to expect, even if you didn’t understand it.  You didn’t turn to see the responses of the others but you heard the door slam and silence eased itself into Lord Dottore’s study again, icy and lonely.

It shouldn’t have mattered to you that he let it happen but in the haze before equilibrium came back, you felt a pang of hurt.  Was your secret now so disastrous that your life was forfeit?  

Slowly, Lord Dottore turned his attention to you and when he tried to examine your neck, you pulled away.  He was quicker, though, his other hand catching your head and tilting it up, as though expecting your reaction.

“It’ll bruise,” he muttered, removing his hands.  “Here.”

You cast your gaze up through your lashes to see him undo his cravat, the blue fabric coming free with ease as he unfastened the pin.  Without asking, he wrapped the fabric around your neck, arranging it carefully, and pinned it in place.  It was warm, smooth, and carried hints of the familiar scent that lingered in your bed sheets.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

There was little ease you could say, even if you wanted to.  How were you supposed to do this for a year if you had to sleep with one eye open now?  Would he try to kill you, too?

That wouldn’t have been much of a surprise, really.  He’d have every right to.  As a Harbinger, he upheld the Tsaritsa’s will and protected her main interests, even if he had his own.  You shoved down the part of you that felt the disappointment, as if this was meant to be more than a quid pro quo.

“Perhaps there’s another benefit to our arrangement,” Lord Dottore said.  “Such skills should not go to waste.”

“Almost had me fooled, I’d have thought a treacherous dead wife would be convenient.”

“Accidents certainly happen but I gain nothing from you dying.  Or did Zeta squeeze you so hard you have memory retention problems?”

You glared at him until he bowed his head slightly and raised his hand to his lips, deep in thought.

“Pantalone’s interests are of little use to me unless it directly affects my work,” he said at last.  “But the pattern you mentioned was one you identified for a year and yet it has never come up, not even in candid discussions.”

Lord Dottore shifted his weight and then began to pace the floor, boots clicking against the flagstone, not unlike a metronome.  He continued as he walked.

“Instead of you simply…mailing out coded information, you will bring your findings to me first.  I will parse through it and then you will do as you normally would.  I merely wish to be informed.  This little game of yours could have interesting conclusions, all of them vastly different…as intriguing as it might be, my own involvement means there’s a bias…but this isn’t suitable for another…” he began to trail off, his words too soft for you to hear over his footsteps.

You rubbed your throat through the cravat, trying not to think about the spots that danced across your vision and the questions your coworkers would raise when you arrived back.  Mint and…now it was closer, you recognized the musky tone as sandalwood.  You closed your eyes for a second to refocus before you spoke up.

“And what do I get in exchange for taking on that larger risk of you ratting me out to Pantalone anytime you might be displeased with me?  Or far into the future when we have dissolved our legal bindings?”

His steps back towards you were slow, reminiscent of the wolves you heard growing up padding through the snow as they circled their prey.  Lord Dottore stepped in front of you, rested his hands on the armrests and leaned down, leather gloves squeaking as he brought his face an inch away from yours.  The tip of his mask scratched your nose.

“Have I given you the impression I’m a vengeful man?” 

“All arrogant and selfish men are vengeful, my lord.  I believe that was just proven by your own…whatever your Segments are.”

“I do not stand to gain anything from throwing you to the wolves, dorogáya moya.   Whether you live or die, the truth reveals itself inevitably and I look like a fool.  I have no intentions of letting that happen.”

If your nerves weren’t shot before from almost being choked to death, this conversation would be the nail in the coffin.  Of course a prideful man such as Il Dottore, Second Fatui Harbinger, would never let it be known that he made a mistake that was not merely a byproduct of some experiment.  It was the one thing that you drilled into your head to avoid being turned into a pile of blood and viscera to join your colleague in your old office’s rug.

He would be benefiting from you sharing your findings and this was separate from your marriage contract and list of goals.  Therefore, you deserved compensation for a new agreement.  Quite simple.

You angled your head, letting his mask dig further into your nose.  

“You’re proving my point, dear husband.  But you gain knowledge of the activities outside of your domain that will potentially affect you one way or another.  Pantalone is not your only investor, he’s just the one with the largest piece of the pie.”

When he didn’t respond, you continued.

“Treat my father when we go north.  Or at least ease his pain.”

His breath was hot on your lips as he tilted his head, his mask instead resting on your cheek, right where he’d cut you months ago.

“You said it yourself that his physician does not expect him to see spring.  Why should I waste my time?”

“Because it’s the one thing I have wanted ever since before I came to the capitol,” your voice wavered and you swallowed, pushing away the sentiment that made your heart ache.  If nothing else, then perhaps an appeal to his ego would do it.  “And if anyone would be capable, it would be you.”

Lord Dottore was still for longer than you expected and you wondered if your words had turned him to stone.  More often than not, this only happened when you presented a case that he couldn’t refute but needed time to work through all of the intricacies in whatever maze made up his mental faculties.  His throat bobbed as he swallowed and he let out a long, contemplative breath.

“I do not promise any specific outcome,” he finally said.

“Any attempts while we’re there are worthwhile.  If only for the certainty they provide.”

A beat, a blink, and then supple heat met your lips.  By now, you were used to the shape of his mouth, how his lips melded against yours.  The first few were chaste, like dipping one’s toes into water.  You made the mistake of parting your lips when he pulled away only for him to dive back to you; suddenly you were back in the house by the sea, pressed against the wall, his tongue meeting yours as if he was predicting your movements.

Your body betrayed you, pulse racing as you finally parted.  Head throbbing and a familiar heat pooling in your lower belly, you tried to blink away the haze.

“An agreement, sealed with a kiss,” you mumbled.  “How fitting.”

He chuckled, his smile nothing like the large grin from that day, greedy and prideful.  It was close to amusement, and had you married for anything other than mere convenience, you might have called it adoration.  Another pang ran through you, fleeting but sharp in its bitterness.  It was too late for such sentiments; you made your choice all those months ago and now you had to live with it.

Few words passed between you as he stood straight again and helped you up, escorting you back to the long corridor and the first elevator.  If Omega and Zeta, or any other Segments for that matter, were around, they did not make themselves known.

Lord Dottore slid open the elevator grate and stepped aside to let you pass.  There was no sense in him returning upstairs with you, not if his business was settled, and you dared not trust your tongue to ask.  He said your name and you brought your gaze away from the elevator buttons, forcing your dazed mind to focus.  He’d only ever said your name during the wedding ceremony and on his tongue it felt too intimate, every syllable sharpened by the way his tongue wrapped around them.

“Play your part and no one will ever know.  All they’ll see is a loyal spouse and a member of the Tsaritsa’s triumpherate ensuring the safety of the nation.”

The grate door was closed and locked in place.  Before you could, the Harbinger pressed the outer panel button and you watched as his visage disappeared, the elevator car whisking you back to the surface.

[wannaeatramyeon]

The Crew Heads with Reader: Board Games

G/N. Silly. 4 small scenes. (Jake Kim, Eli Jang, Johan Seong, Samuel Seo)

Bro Code | Dinner | Shopping | Television | Gacha | Board Games | Suits

"What the fuck?" Samuel glares at Johan who returns it with equal hostility.

"It's a word." Johan spits, arms crossed and defiant.

"Use it in a sentence."

"I'm going to kilp you."

"Johan will kilp you," Jake chimes in.

"Samuel will be kilped by Johan," Eli adds.

"Almost," you say, "But Johan I don't think that's a word-"

"3 to 2, overruled!" Jake grins, totting up the points from the Scrabble board. "Ok so that's triple word score too for God Dog. Fuck... he's in the lead."

.

.

"I just said you can't play a +2 on top of a +2 card!" Jake moans, looking at the stack of cards in the middle.

"Says who?" Johan asks, because that rule is stupid

"It sounds like bullshit but-," Eli scrolls on his phone, looking for a source. "Uno officially. The cards can't stack."

You lean over his shoulder, read the rule with your own eyes but disregard it anyway. "The fuck do they know."

"5 to 0, draw your cards asshole." Samuel leans back, smug when Jake add another 6 cards to his hand.

.

.

"You're cheating!" You screech as Jake freezes like a deer caught in headlights.

"No I didn't!" He holds up both hands in surrender. He absolutely did not cheat.

"You grabbed an extra 100 won, I saw you!"

"I didn't!" Jake protests his innocence.

"I saw him too," Eli says as Johan and Samuel both nod vigorously.

"What, owning most of the properties on the board isn't enough for you?" You say, jabbing a finger in Jake's chest. "And now you're cheating?!"

"But I didn't-"

"I don't want to play anymore!" You throw your cash in the air, standing up and stepping over the Monopoly board as the rest of the guys follow suit.

"But... I didn't." Jake mutters, looking at the mess of cash around him.

Ok. So he didn't cheat. In fact, you know for certain that everyone else did. It's just expected with a game like Monopoly. No-one becomes rich fairly with capitalism.

Poor Jake however, did play fair and square, ended up lucky with the community chest and chance cards which led to him owning the majority of the properties.

All of you, getting more pissed off by the minute but not wanting to admit defeat, slithered your way out of it by accusing Jake and throwing him to the wolves.

You promise to make it up to him, somehow. But you are not losing at Monopoly.

.

.

"Are you blind?" Johan growls when Samuel's hand comes down on the 9 that landed on top of the 6.

"Fuck off," he mutters, retreating and putting his own card down - an 8.

"I think Snap might not be for Samuel," Eli grins, placing a King face up, as Jake agrees that Math isn't Sammy's strong suit.

"Easy mistake," you shrug, rising to his defence. You have definitely done something similar many times. Not with these guys though.

You've never played Snap, that simple card game, with them. For good reason-

"Snap!" Jake shouts, hand slamming down after he places another King on top of Eli's.

The table legs creak, then with a sickening crash, collapses under the force of his power. The four crew heads and you are left sitting around a mess of splintered wood, spilled drinks and ruined cards.

"Oops."

Samuel rolls his eyes. "Well done, moron."

-And that's why you don't play Snap.

[sheepwavehdg]

HDG story Recs: Read Only Mind exclusives

HDG used to live on a website that wasn't AO3! these are some stories that are often forgotten because they haven't fully made the jump after ROM banned HDG (because it was too big and taking over the site) because I'm not from this era, I got help from a pal who is to fill this list out!

The Saga of Dandelion Fluff, Real Affini by Anglemoon: two absolute moron rebels attempt to evade capture by assembling a fake suit and pretending to be an affini. it is hilarious, fluffy, and heartfelt.

Petals and Vines by evningrespite: the seediest sub in the entire universe is slowly domesticated in this fluffy romance story that still has a fair bit of bite in its consensual sadomasochism elements.

Satirical Spouting by Violet: a goofy oneshot that pokes fun at common tropes in the setting. I literally laughed so hard it hurt when I first read this story.

In The Shadow of The Independence by TsukiNeko: a somewhat controversial story that I have a difficult time recommending without qualifying first. this story is painfully sharp, has long segments devoted not to its own narrative but instead extremely clumsy metacommentary on the setting itself, and a cringe final chapter note devoted to a discord that no longer exists. It is still one of the most influential HDG stories to many writers, and there is an incredible story about sadism, communication, dominance, and surrender buried under the nonsense.

Human Domestication Guide by Glitchyrobo: while this one is being ported over to Ao3, the original 12 chapter arc is still incomplete, and the 1984 style ending to that arc that is still currently ROM exclusive is one of the most chillinglingly happy moments in the entire setting.

thanks to my anonymous friend for the following:

Hospitable Takeover by wyril: The first ever HDG fanwork! a bit of a lighter take than the OG story, while still maintining the underlying feel of creeping manipulation.

A little Self Sabotage by Doeposting: Captain Samuel Dirkost is commander of a wing of Resistance fighters unwilling to surrender to Affini Compact. The Affini have plans of their own, unveiling a secret prototype device used to curtail the Terran Rebel threat.

What Sunlight Tastes Like by Fallenlog: an M/M ace semi-romance story about a scared and lonely rebel finding happiness in a new home. It's very cute.

In the Garden of Eden: far in the future, a lone terran ship has been running dark the whole time, flying towards an affini core world. everyone on the ship are clones, and everything is recycled to keep everything going. one clone starts questioning things. a story that notably features an affini the size of a planet, and is generally a really nice story about overcoming trauma.

[joedirtymadre]

Date Night

ZORO X READER! FLUFF! (Pls send requests! I’m on my knees begging for ppl to send them 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀���)

“Zoro, when's the last time you took me on a date?” I asked. “A what?” He asked. “Exactly! You don’t even know what a date is! And I don’t either, but I do know that couples go on them,” I huffed as I fell back onto the training mat. “Sounds dumb,” he said as he swung his ginormous weights. “That’s because you don’t have any romantic trait in your whole dumb buff body…” I sighed. “Why does it matter if we go on dates? You know I love you? Isn’t that enough?” He asked. “It is… but I don’t know. Wouldn’t you like to see me get dressed up, and I mean… it’d be kind of nice to see you all dressed fancy too. Then we go eat, you get me a flower and put it in my hair, and then we walk under the moonlight,” I say as I fantasized the whole experience. “Sounds like a hassle, and I think you’ve been reading too many of Robin’s books,” he said as he dropped his weights. “I guess… I guess you’re right. It is a lot to ask for…” I sighed and headed out of the training room. “Hey! Where are you-“ but I didn’t stay back to answer, I just headed down to the room to take a nap. I’ll just sleep it off, maybe he’s right…

Zoro’s POV

I went to look for (Y/N), but before I could reach her she locked herself in the girls’ room. “Zoro? What’s up?” Nami asked behind me. I turned around and let out a loud sigh. “I just… I’m just confused…” he said. “Hm? Confused about what?” Robin said as she walked down the stairs.

I now sat in front of the 2 women ready to ask some questions. “Alright Zoro, so what happened?” Nami asked. “Well, (Y/N) started asking all these questions about a date? And I said that it sounds dumb and why should we even go on a date if we know that we love each other already… and it all just sounds like a waste of time… And now she locked herself in the room and I just don’t know why,” I sighed as I fell back into the chair. “You idiot!” Nami snared as she hit my head. “Ow!” I yelled, feeling a bump form on my head. “Zoro, I think the reason why (Y/N) is asking for a date is because she wants to see that you love her,” Robin explained. “But I already do that. I let her follow me when we visit islands, we train together, I help her during fights… What more could she wa-“ Nami smacked my head again, causing another bump to form. “She means actual romantic stuff, you moron! I can’t believe you thought that was a showing of love, at that rate she’s no different than a crew mate!” Nami huffed. “You should think about taking her out sometimes, and treat her more like a girlfriend and less like a regular crew mate. We know that you love her, and I’m sure she knows too… but sometimes someone wants to experience classic romance. Did she say what kind of date she’d like?” Robin asked. “She said she wants us to dress up, go eat, put a flower in her hair, then walk under the moonlight…” I trailed off. “Oh my poor (Y/N), she’s so pure-hearted,” Nami smiled. “That does sound wonderful,” Robin agreed. “And easy,” Nami pointed out. “What restaurant would I even take her to? You said the next island is about 2 weeks away,” I said. “That is true… but luckily for you we do have an outstanding chef!” Nami said excitedly. “That’s right, I’m sure Sanji wouldn’t mind helping,” Robin smiled. “That curly-brow? I don’t kn- Alright I’ll ask him!” I said before Nami could smack me again. “Good! And we can dress (Y/N) up! Oh, and ask Sanji to borrow one of his suits,” Nami said. “Alright…” I said as I walked towards the kitchen. “Oh, before you go Zoro…” Robin called out and handed me something.

(Y/N)’s POV

I woke up to a knock on the door. I slowly dragged myself to the door and opened it, to greet… no one. Hmmm. I looked down and saw a letter. “Ooh, what’s this?” I asked myself as I picked up the letter. I noticed my name was printed on the outside, I closed the door and opened the letter.

Dear (Y/N),

Meet me by the dining room at 8PM. Nami and Robin will be stopping by in a few seconds.

Zoro

“Is this… a date?!” I asked excitedly, I began hopping around the room until I realized. “Hey… the letter said Nami and Robin would be here in-“ I was cut off from the knocking on the door. “Oh nevermind,” I said and ran over to open the door. “Nami! Robin!” I said excitedly. “Hi (Y/N)!” They said as they walked in. “So, why are you two in the letter?” I asked, confused. “Well that’s because Zoro asked us to help you get all dolled up,” Robin smiled. “He did? Really?” I asked. “oh Yep, now come on! Your date is gonna start in about an hour, we gotta be quick!” Nami said as she began rolling up her sleeves. “Huh?” I asked, as I noticed the two girls had stars in their eyes.

“We really outdid ourselves,” Nami smiled as she wiped her forehead. “Mmhmm, you look beautiful (Y/N),” Robin smiled. I looked into the mirror and gasped, I had a beautiful emerald green satin, off-shoulder corset top midi dress, with a slit that goes up to my knee. Nami let me borrow a black ankle strap heel, with some matching jewelry. Robin also put some curlers in my hair, and it left some beautiful loose waves. “You think so? Do… Do you think Zoro will like it?” I asked as I felt my face heat up. “Aww… and he better, or I’ll knock some sense into him,” Nami said. “Now, now, (Y/N)’s already 10 minutes late. I’m sure her date won’t be too happy if she’s a minute longer,” Robin giggled. “Beauty takes time Robin, I’m sure Zoro knows that. Now we just need a light rosy lip gloss, to tie everything together. The second Nami finished putting the lip gloss on me I rushed out the door, but not before hugging both of them and telling them a bunch of thank you’s.

I walked slowly towards the dining room, I noticed a figure standing outside the door. “Zoro?” I called out. “There you are. I was just thinking that my date stood me up,” he smiled as he approached me. I blushed when I saw him all dressed up. “H-Hi…” I stuttered. “What’s wrong, beautiful?” He asked as he grabbed my chin, making me face him. “N-N-Nothing…” I said, flustered. Zoro chuckled and moved his hand down and grabbed mine. “You look beautiful. I gotta thank Nami and Robin for making you look almost perfect,” he smiled. “Almost perfect?” I asked. “Yeah, there’s something missing,” he said as he pulled a flower from inside his coat pocket. “A rose?” I asked. “Mmhmm,” he nodded, and slowly placed the bright red rose behind my ear. “Perfect, well you’re always perfect… but I do like how you look in a dress,” he smiled. If romance could kill a person, I’d be a goner. “Th-Thanks,” I blushed. “Now let’s get to that dinner, the idiot-cook made,” he said and led me inside the dining room.

We walked into the dining room, and I gasped the second I saw the beautiful setup. “Zoro, did you do all of this?” I asked. “Well… Usopp did the setup, but he did outdo himself,” Zoro said as he led me to the cloth covered table with a candle and a vase filled with roses. “Wow,” I said, and Zoro helped me into my seat. Then pushing me in, towards the table. He then sat in the seat across from me. As soon as he sat, Sanji walked out with 2 trays. “Oh hi, Sanji,” I waved. “Hello m'lady,” Sanji smiled, and I saw Zoro roll his eyes. “Today we have a Sun-dried tomato chicken and gnocchi. With a side of cesar salad and a glass of Pinot Noir,” he said as he poured us a glass and placed the meals down. “Thanks Sanji, everything looks delicious,” I smiled. “I’m glad, and I’ll leave you two to your meal,” he smiled and quickly walked away. We began to eat until I noticed something, “Hey Zoro, isn’t it crazy that Luffy hasn’t smelled the food yet?” I laughed. “That’s because I have him tied up in the basement,” he replied. “Y-You what…?” I asked. “Yeah… I didn’t want him ruining our date, so I took matters into my own hands,” he said mischievously. “You sound like a mafia boss,” I sweat dropped. “Now finish up, I still have another surprise for you,” he said. “Ok!” I smiled.

We quickly finished up the meal, and Zoro led me to the deck. I was surprised to see Brooke standing in the middle of the deck. “Hi Brooke,” I waved. “Hello, (Y/N)! Hello Zoro!” He said. “Now grab your lady and hold her tight,” he said and Zoro quickly pulled me into him. Moving his hand to my lower back, and guiding mine to his shoulders before placing his other hand to my lower back. “Z-Zoro?” I blushed. Suddenly Brooke began playing a slow tune on his violin, and Zoro and I began swaying to the music. “You said you wanted a date, and I wanna keep you happy. So I asked some of the crew to help me set this up, cause we both know I couldn’t have done this all by myself,” he explained. “You asked Sanji to help too?” I asked, shocked. “Yeah, but the damn curly brow made me do some favors in order to get his help…” Zoro said, annoyed. “Oh Zoro, you’re so sweet,” I teared up. “Hey don’t go tearing up. I told you already, I love you,” he said softly. “I know, and I love you too,” I said before we both leaned in for a passionate kiss.

But our romantic moment was eventually ruined as we heard some banging coming from downstairs. “Luffy! No!” Usopp yelled, as he, Franky, and Chopper chased after our captain. “I smell it! Where’s the food?” He yelled and ran around the deck. “Those idiots… I put them in charge of keeping him tied up…” Zoro sighed. I laughed as I watched everyone trying to catch Luffy, but he kept slipping out of their grasps. “Come here,” I said and pulled him in for another kiss. “I can get used to doing this kind of thing again,” he said, before deepening the kiss.

[leftoverbriocheloaf]

oooo, i lov all of your wip snippets!! you have such a vivid plot-concepts that are still very true to the characters!! mayhaps we could take a peek at wip #8?

Sorry I apparently can't convey my emotions without images but THANK YOU <3333

WIP #8 was actually a draft for ranpoe week that I speedran bc I found out about it on day 1 (T-T) It was inspired by the "crime scene" prompt! I wanted to write a no abilities au and tried to incorporate it :)

I also wanted to try writing smth from Ranpo's POV bc its been a while aslkdjalksdj

__________

Ranpo sighs as he drops a pile of police reports onto his desk, falling into his chair with a huff. It’s way too many pages for such a simple case—the file itself is thicker than his forearm!

Of course, he’s already solved the crime, so he knows that the report is intentionally obtuse. This criminal lines the police’s pockets—they’re just doing whatever they can to avoid investigating him. Which, apparently, includes framing an innocent man. It’s no use against Ranpo of course, but he can admit a lesser detective might have fallen for it.

And to stall for time, they're claiming that they can't move forward with the arrest because he “hasn’t looked at all of the evidence.” 

Idiots. They’re just making it obvious that the criminal is in league with the higher ups. Since they won’t be of any help, he either has to give up on the case or do it himself.

Normally, Ranpo would consider something like this beneath him. It’s easily something Dazai or even Atsushi could deal with, even if they’d be much slower about it than him.

But these idiots had the audacity to lie to his face! Did they think he was a moron? He's definitely not letting that slide.

The room is empty, aside from Kenji, who is staring at the fennel plant with such intensity that Ranpo almost feels bad taking his attention. Well, not really. He needs to actually get to the criminal to arrest him, after all.

“Kenji!” Ranpo calls, spinning his chair around. “We’re going on a case!”

***

“How do you know he’ll be there?” Kenji asks as they leave the agency, his straw hat bouncing slightly as he walks.

“He’s a coward—he won’t want to show his face until someone else is framed and arrested,” Ranpo scoffs, taking a frustrated sip from his ramune bottle. “Which means I have to do the work.”

“What did he do?” Kenji makes a left, and Ranpo follows suit. He’s tempted to ignore the question, because explaining obvious things makes him want to tug his own hair out, but something about Kenji makes him feel guilty if he doesn’t. Ranpo sighs—it’s the downside of taking him anywhere. The upside is the free food that he gets just by being with him, because somehow Kenji knows just about every single person in the city. Ranpo couldn’t imagine remembering that many people’s names. 

“Stole some money,” Ranpo says. “He keeps getting away with it because the police don’t want to arrest him.”

“Why not?”

“He’s paying them.”

Kenji frowns, “I thought police in the city are supposed to stop people like that.”

“They’re supposed to,” Ranpo nods, “But to them, money is more important than the truth.”

“Oh,” Kenji murmurs, downcast. Shit. Now Ranpo feels bad.

“But we stop things like that from happening,” he adds, somewhat abruptly. “Which is why we’re important.”

“Oh!” Kenji brightens, and the guilty feeling in the back of Ranpo’s mind disappears. The boy hums happily, a new skip in his step as he continues leading Ranpo through the city. 

They stop, and Ranpo cranes his neck upwards to take a look at the building. It’s definitely new, and its distinctly modern style is somewhat off-putting compared to the wood and steel made apartments nearby. It looks almost gaudy, which tells Ranpo they’re in the right place.

When he pushes the door open, he’s assaulted with the strong scent of cleaning supplies, as if someone had spent the last few days pouring bottle after bottle of bleach onto the floor and letting it sit. Gross.

The reception desk is empty, which he flags as unusual. Sure, Ranpo intentionally arrived close to lunchtime to avoid unwanted obstacles, but he didn’t expect the building to be empty. Even for a slow day, he would expect someone to be around.

Ranpo walks towards the desk, feigning boredom even as he finds the body he’d predicted would be on the floor behind it. Damn.

“They must’ve cleared out the place,” he mutters to himself, turning to Kenji before sighing as if he'd been wrong. (As if that could ever happen.) “There’s no one here. They must have left faster than I thought they would. I'm gonna take a look around, but you should get the police and tell them to come here.”

Kenji nods dutifully, saying a quick goodbye and leaving the building. Ranpo's glad he's not one to question orders. Sure, he isn’t one to coddle anybody, but Kenji's a bit too young to see something like this.

He kneels down to the body, already annoyed, but pauses when he feels a pulse. That's... unexpected. It’s steady, so the woman must have been knocked out recently, but she isn’t injured badly or bleeding. interesting.

Ranpo leans her a bit more comfortably (and visibly) against the desk, because it wouldn’t do for the police to get all the way here and not have a reason to investigate. Kenji's persuasive enough that they should come even without a real incentive, which is why Ranpo chose to bring him along in the first place, but it helps. Well, that and the free food.

He notices a chart of residents on the desk, each leading to a different office phone.

Tatano K., 4C

That’s his criminal, at least. But Ranpo doubts that he did this to his receptionist, which means someone else is probably in the building with them. He listens quietly for any footsteps or noises, but the hall is silent. Ugh, more work for him, then.

At least the building can’t be populated much– not if no one noticed what happened with the receptionist. That and it would be stupid to knock out every single person in a packed office, not to mention exhausting.

He stands in front of the elevator, tapping his foot impatiently as the doors open, creaking all the while. Seriously, they could afford all of this and not nice elevators? At least it doesn't take long to reach the fourth floor.

Ranpo finds the conference room 4C with little effort and promptly throws the door open. He isn’t letting Tatano notice he’s here and take the opportunity to escape– even if it means alerting whoever else is nearby that Ranpo is here.

Though he might be a bit too late for that.

Ranpo almost groans when he sees one man standing over the body of his target. The knife in his hand is still bloody, but even from where Ranpo is standing, he can tell the cut is clean. His phone is in his hands immediately.

“Please don’t call the police!” the man blurts, and the absurdity of the statement stops Ranpo in his tracks.

“...What?”

The man raises his hands, though one of them still holds the knife, so the action isn’t as harmless as Ranpo assumes he was going for. His hair is a deep brown, and his bangs fall in front of his eyes, blocking them from Ranpo’s sight entirely. Strange. A mask covers his mouth and nose, but his words aren't muffled in the slightest.

“I just mean– um–” the man stammers, “He was a really bad person?”

______

Tbh that felt more like a Ranpo character study than anything else lmfao I also just really wanted to write Kenji :) I love him so much he's such a ray of sunshine

Essentially in this au the Guild is still a thing but instead of an ability organization they're just plain old assassins? I wanted Poe to be more of a vigilante that eventually works with the ADA (side by side, not as a member) It's not as fleshed out as most of my aus, but I'm still having fun with it :))

Thank you for the ask!!! <333

[froguemorgue]

(1) Creature Feature: The Many Secrets of the Laurens Son

vampire drabble pt 1/?

historical Hamilton/Laurens

Slight CW for blood and non-explicit mentions of sexual intimacy

[part 2] >>

After Manning, Laurens decided he would never turn another human. She was his first and only victim, after all— she never seemed to want to forgive him for what he'd done. Reasonably so, of course. To be fair, it wasn't entirely his fault. He was practically starving and animal blood was barely satisfying his needs. It wasn't his fault that he had been bitten in the first place. He had tried to explain to her that perhaps if he'd been taught how to sate his thirst and how much to take from a living person...

Even if he had trusted Kinloch, it wasn't his fault; a moronic mistake, yes, but he wasn't to blame. After his two big mistakes, he vowed two things: One, to never turn a human; and two, to never trust another person again, vampire or human. With those two promises engraved onto his brain, Laurens fled from Europe and began his new life playing soldier.

His vow to never trust another man fell flat after meeting Hamilton. A graceful, grimacing yet energetic redhead with a quill fueled by pure fiery passion. That man was like an enigma, yet he let John know him. And for whatever the reason may have been, Laurens couldn't help but feel drawn to him. And there was a part of him that was afraid he would lose him. If any man deserved immortality, it would be Alexander. Not yet... but if he ever could reveal his secret, then someday, he should like to live with him forever.

And so, he paced. He had known Hamilton for a year now and every day he only felt himself more and more attached, more trusting. When he simply thought about the man, it practically melted his skin. It was as if he stood right before him, perhaps smiling if only a little, beginning to go off about something or another all passionately as he did. He heard Hamilton's voice, too. Saying something to him— it was his name, repeated like a mantra.

"John," the ghost of Hamilton's voice mumbled in Laurens' head. "John Laurens. John. John."

Laurens opened his eyes again; no Hamilton, no mantra. He peeked out his tent - something he'd put up if only for more privacy at night from the aides, justified by the fact that he was merely a secretary and volunteer of no rank - and he saw a small group of men walk by, most not in blue, holding their coats and spare clothes. They couldn't afford uniforms, of course. Some good-natured laughter and the Continentals moved on, except for one, who pushed back the flap of the tent haphazardly.

The young and fair aide de camp smiled pleasantly at Laurens. "I was hoping you were here. You spend so much time exercising or working and yet I hardly see you. How was the letter coming along? Did you find the privacy better suited to it?"

Laurens glanced back at the unfinished letter before looking at Hamilton. "Only somewhat."

"I hope you aren't busy. Will you accompany the lads to bathe at the stream? We should take advantage of these warm days while they are still here."

"Later, when it is peaceful."

Hamilton nodded, expecting to accompany him later, then.

Laurens tacked on, "I was just about to take a walk through camp myself. Shall you join me?"

"If it pleases you," he replied.

"Always."

Hamilton felt a smile spread across his cheeks before he realized he was flattered. Laurens took this opportunity of Hamilton's bashfulness to face him, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, admire his smile with one of his own. Hamilton straightened Laurens' necktie as he whispered, "Are you sweet and impartial to me, John?" to which Laurens just laughed pleasantly - for Hamilton knew the answer, after the nights they had shared, closer than the warm nights necessitated - and he started for the exit. Hamilton followed, quickly trying to push down the arising fantasies of pulling him back into that tent for a kiss.

There was one particular incident which redefined Laurens' relationship to his companion, except it was entirely on his side - and Hamilton was none the wiser. It wasn't the first time they'd kissed or the first time they got in close enough to feel one another's shapes beneath their sheets. It was much more complicated than their improper desires. Normally, of course, Laurens would have hesitated more to allow the sexual aspect of their intimacy, but he didn't need to. He'd live forever, and if there was a hell, he was damned already.

No, their complex relationship was born of a common mistake, really, a slip of the letter opener one night as they worked, the last two left in the room. Laurens looked up immediately, nose sensitive to the smell. It wasn't much blood. It was enough, however, for him to have the excuse to stand up, pull his handkerchief from his pocket, and stain the white with red.

The reaction was initially due to his genuine concern, then when his hands tenderly squeezed Hamilton's with the fine fabric between them, he realized how sweet he smelled, how hungry he was. He was leaning in without realizing, still awkwardly pressed over the table. Hamilton was looking at him, assuming his eyes focused on their clasped hands had more to do with Laurens' shyness than what really was bothering him. Hamilton did not look around before shifting to stand, squeezing his hands tighter, kissing him gently on the corner of his lips. He'd whispered, "There was no need to dirty your hankerchief."

Laurens cleared his throat, took it back slowly. He folded it and placed it in his pocket again. "I'm sorry, I think I'll retire to our room early."

Bells rang in Hamilton's head. "Finished your letter?"

"About an hour ago," he admitted. He gathered his papers.

As he went around the table and passed Hamilton, Hamilton said, "Then what's caused your sudden retreat?"

He kissed Hamilton's cheek to reassure him that, "I'm not retreating. I'll be awake when you come to bed, don't work too much longer."

"All right. I'll be up shortly."

With that squared away, Laurens left in a hurry. He couldn't wait to get upstairs, instead pulled out the small square of bloodied fabric as soon as he turned the corner. It was against his nose in an instant. Once he was in their room, he could no longer retrain himself. He could have swallowed the fabric whole. He tasted it, and god, it was like pure opium. It was everything he'd been craving.

From then on, nothing was the same between them. No amount of blood from anywhere else could get Hamilton's off his mind.

[next part] >>

[guys-with-good-vibes-tournament]

do you have a blorbo with an unwavering smile? do they sit in the peripheral without a single care? the world could literally be ending but they continue about their lives normally because they know they’ll be alright?

then welcome to the ✨guys with good vibes tournament ✨

here we invite our crouching moron hidden badasses, dudes that are totally content with their lives, or just anyone that is a paradigm of chill, to duke it out and find out who has the ~best vibes~

i am your host vie and i am excited to run my first championship on this site! please submit in the forms below and follow the rules there. note that i use “guys” as a gender neutral term, so guys who vibe may be any gender! polls will be open until i feel like i have enough for a bracket of 32. best of luck!

i am a biased man, and so here is an "early entry poll" for the guaranteed entry of one of the characters that inspired me to make this. please see that if you would like a better idea of what “guys with good vibes” mean. losers in this poll will only count as one submission from yours truly

obligatory boosty tag list: @autismswagsummit @mad-scientist-showdown @ultimatepinkgirl @character-of-all-time @dumbass-duo-showdown @generic-man-in-suit-battle @sharp-teeth-swag @eldest-sibling-tournament :)

[super-cosmic-library]

like the dawn you broke the dark (my whole earth shook)

For Steve Harrington Bingo 23: card 1, C1: Bad Memories

Steve & Robin II G II 1030 words II ao3

He thinks he is going to die. There have been so many times over the past couple of years when Steve has thought he would die, but he’s never been more sure than in this moment.

He is going to die here, miles below the mall in a stupid fucking polyester sailor suit surrounded by angry Russian morons. The only people who know he’s down here are two kids and the coworker he’s sure hates him for dragging her into this mess.

Head pounding, Steve squeezes his eyes shut, hoping the darkness will dull the ache he’s become intimately acquainted with over the last few years.

The guy who is clearly in charge yells another question at him. Steve’s jaw won’t move. His mouth feels like it’s full of sand. He can’t answer. Even if he could, he can’t even understand what the man was saying. It’s all just noise to him at this point.

His jaw cracks as a fist slams into it. He tumbles to the ground, smacking his head against the floor.

Black spots cloud his vision, and the unintelligible noise turns into a dull, static ringing.

He lifts his head up to meet his attacker’s eyes. For a moment, he thinks he’s back in the Byers’ living room, Billy Hargrove pummeling his face in, children screaming all around them.

At least with Billy, he’d been able to get a few swings in.

At least if he had died there, when Billy smashed a plate into his head, people would have known for sure his fate.

When he dies, will people search for him? Will his parents never give up hope that he was still alive like Mr. and Mrs. Holland never gave up on Barb?

Who is he kidding? His parents don’t give a shit about him. No one gives a shit about ol’ Steve Harrington. He’s a has-been. A good-for-nothing loser with no future. A guy who loses more fights than he wins. Just another washed-up prom king.

He won’t be missed.

The Soviet in command grabs him by his lapels and pulls him into the air. Steve’s head rolls to the side. Through swimming vision, he sees pure hatred in the man’s crystal blue eyes. The man’s hot breath ghosts against his skin. Everything inside of him is screaming run. Run. Run.

There are too many of them and nowhere for him to go. He wouldn’t make it more than a few feet.

Besides, his limbs are too heavy to do him any good.

Fat, wet tears roll down his face. The adrenaline running through his veins can find no release. He can’t fight. He can’t run. He can’t do anything. He’s trapped.

He’s trapped.

He’s trapped.

Steve jolts awake, heart still pounding from his dream. He scans his dark bedroom, waiting for an evil Russian to jump out of the shadows and attack him. He still feels like his limbs won’t work, but at least he’ll see the attack coming.

“Steve,” A groggy voice questions beside him.

Robin, hair plastered against her face, sits up in bed. She rubs sleep from her eyes and gazes down at him. Through the dim light coming in through his window, Steve can see the moment she realizes something is wrong.

“Bad dream?”

Steve doesn’t trust his voice not to crack. He nods in response.

Robin rolls out of bed, her socked feet hitting the floor with a dull thud. “C’mon, then.”

Steve feels like he’s out of his body as he follows Robin down to the kitchen. He sits at the counter without being told and watches as she putters around his kitchen, pulling out all of the things she needs to make them both hot chocolate.

It became a kind of ritual for them in the days following Starcourt: spending the night at each other’s houses, one or both of them waking up from nightmares of Soviet spies or grotesque monsters, making hot chocolate to calm their nerves.

It isn’t even October, and Steve wholeheartedly believes that Robin knows her way around his kitchen better than he did.

She’s silent as she works. The house is the kind of dark and quiet where one could easily fall asleep in, but despite the fatigue heavy in his bones, Steve couldn’t go to sleep even if he wanted to.

At some point, he starts to stare off into space, replaying every moment of the nightmare that hasn’t yet dissolved in his memory. He should be glad that all that was left of it was the paralyzing fear and the crystal blue eyes. But Steve can’t shake the feeling that if he could just remember every moment of it, he could find some way to change it. Some way to fight back and escape.

But dreams–memories–didn’t work like that.

Robin presses a warm mug into his hands, bringing him back to the present. “Do you think things will ever go back to normal?”

The gate had been closed. Both El and Will said the danger was gone for good before they and the other Byers high-tailed it to California. It’s as over as it ever could be.

But that’s not what Robin means.

Steve knows that she is talking about the sleepless nights. The constant fear that something is lurking just beyond the corner. The complete aversion to any substance that might dull their senses. All of the things that linger after.

“I don’t know.”

They sip their drinks as the morning sun drifts above the horizon. In a few hours, they’ll be starting their shifts at Family Video. At the end of the day, they’ll be crawling back into Steve’s bed and talking until they can’t fight off sleep anymore.

Then, who knows?

Maybe this will be one of the good nights. Maybe they will sleep peacefully through the entire night.

That hope carries him through each day.

The hope that he’ll never have to make a cup of hot chocolate ever again.

The hope that it won’t be only their traumas that bond them.

The hope that one day, the past will stay there.

And the future will greet them like the morning birdsong.

[bastellator]

Violence and the Revolution

"The revolution made progress, not by its immediate tragicomic achievements but by the creation of a powerful, united counter-revolution, an opponent in combat with whom the party of overthrow ripened into a really revolutionary party."

-Marx, The Class Struggle in France (1850)

The question of whether the Revolution (here meant as any meaningful overthrowing of the present state of things, whatever its form) will be violent or peaceful, through the medium of liberal democracy or outside it, used to be interesting to me, but since reading this quote it no longer is. It doesn't matter whether the actual toppling of the world order comes violently or peacefully, it is what happens afterwards. Will the bourgeois let capital be exorcised from its host, or will they fight back. In the video game Disco Elysium by ZA/UM, with dialogue predominantly written by science-fiction author Robert Kurvitz, an old man, a veteran of a failed revolution, talks about capitalism's "mask of humanity". In times of peace, capitalism parades as liberal democracy, hamburgers and endless TV-channels, but when faced with a crisis, this mask begins to slip. In the global north, we very rarely see this slip, because we need to think that everything is alright and that we live in a democracy, but of course our society is built as much on violence as any authoritarian state, we just outsource out violence to the global south. When a political candidate challenges Capital here, Capital does not need to use violence, at least not here --- consider Jeremy Corbyn being subjected to a smear campaign as bombs drop on Palestine. Capitalism cannot simply do away with him, because that might actually shock people out of despondency --- liberal democracy, the human mask of Capital, stays on. Optics in Chilean politics do not matter to Capital, only the flow of resources. If copper stops flowing, they might try some non-violent sabotaging of the economy to turn public opinion against the socialist president, but when that fails (the people who elected him were largely poor to start with, so they might not have perceived the change as much as hoped for), the mask will slip off. But this wasn't just about copper, the important thing was always to enforce capitalist realism (a concept created by Mark Fisher to describe that feeling of anything but capitalism being possible). If Chile had shown the world that, not only was socialism possible, but it was possible through peaceful means, through conventional liberal democracy, other countries would follow suit. If the proletariat of Chile could do it, so could others. So, the CIA backed a coup by the general Augusto Pinochet to "reinstate democracy". Many conservatives in Chile truly believed that this would happen, that the communists would be thrown out and that order would prevail. They were surprised when the junta refused to relinquish power and reinstate democracy. And the global north did nothing to about this. Instead, they sent Milton Friedman's goons to run their experiments on the country. They sent Margaret Thatcher to have tea with Pinochet (a recent example of a similar thing is how Venezuela and Cuba were refused entry to an OAS event, while Biden had a joint press conference with permanently constipated and corona-infected fascist moron Jair Bolsonaro). And of course, this is because liberal "democracy" is simply the human mask, the PR-trick of Capital and capitalism.

So where am I getting with this? To return to the quote that opened this post, I want to leave you with this: however the revolution happens, the counter-revolution will be swift and brutal, and we must be ready for that. They will first try to nip it in the bud, as they did with Corbyn and Sanders. Then they will try to choke the country, to show that the system does not work, like they are doing to Cuba. Failing that, they will do what they did to Allende, what they did to Patrice Lumumba --- they will swiftly and brutally put an end to the revolution. The choice is not ours whether violence will happen before we can come out on the other side --- it is inevitable --- and we must always be ready for it.

[parttimepuff]

Anon making huge mistake speedrun any%. You can’t just fucking do that to someone! Yeah, we all want Dedede to understand that he doesn’t need to fear or hate Beep so that she, in turn, can understand she doesn’t need to fear him or what he may do to those she cares about because of their connection to her. Everyone likes a happy ending! Everyone likes people being able to move on from the past and take steps toward a brighter future! Turning him into one of the beings that, for lack of a better descriptor, violently traumatized him, is NOT the way to go about this! Dark Matters might not be evil or violent by default, but that doesn’t mean the actions some of them performed in the past were not real and damaging! What the fuck!

Unfortunately I wasted all my anon magic giving a sentient boat legs(don’t ask it’s a long story), but uhh. Take this as getting a pat on the back from someone who isn’t an impatient moron. Everything’s gonna turn out alright. The narrative depends on it.

Dedede paused in his breakfast to listen to the anon's passionate speech. It wasn't often that they were on his side, let alone defending him against the rest. Despite being practically indistinguishable, they could certainly differ in opinion. Much as he was glad that someone agreed with him that he hadn't deserved that, he found himself getting caught up on their other points.

Beep was afraid of him? His thoughts drifted back to the picture of her. Her wide eyed expression. How she'd clammed up when he'd said her name. Maybe she really was scared of him, too. And of what he'd do to her loved ones..? How could anyone think that he'd do something like that?! ...actually, seeing as he'd already interrogated two different people about knowing Matters, it wasn't that hard to think.

He was broken from his thoughts as the anon turned to address him rather than his attacker. The king couldn't help but make a face at that weird comment, but he wouldn't ask. "Ah appreciate that y'all ain't all out to get me. Seein' as ah can't keep you from breaking in here." Dedede started, resting his head on one hand. "Ah... get why ya want me to like her. She's just a kid. Nothin' like ah thought."

"But pullin' that on me..." The penguin shuddered. That moment that he saw his new face in his friend's mask was burned into his mind. All the memories of his previous possessions by Dark Matter came rushing back anew. Staring back at him. It had happened so, so many times by now to him, but those were the first. They set a precedent for others to follow suit. All those negative emotions and old wounds had been occupying his thoughts nonstop.

He got that Beep was a person. A child. But he was still terrified. Those feelings didn't just go away. The experience had taught him some things just as much as it had traumatized him. Dedede suddenly noticed that the hand holding his spoon was shaking. He placed his other hand over it, letting out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Wish ya'd... done somethin' else."

[nightlycreationsreal]

I was going to leave this rant in the tags but, fuck it, I’m reblogging with this giant tangent on full display.

I have lost people to many an illness. I have lost people to complications caused by infections. I have lost people to all kinds unfortunate circumstances, and I know damn well I’m not the only one.

I’ve nearly lost my father to cancer, and I worry every day that something bad will happen, sickness or otherwise, and he’ll be taken from me.

I did not spend the past four years of my life just to have some paint-huffing conspiracy theorist tell me that I’m in the wrong for vaccinating, for masking, or taking any measure to protect me and my family.

I did not spend the past four years of my life in a spiral of medical and existential anxiety, worrying about all of the horrible, slow ways that the people I care about, or myself, could die.

If there’s one thing I know, for a fact, it’s this;

Your immune system isn’t going to make you invincible. If it did, death by natural causes wouldn’t be an aspect of our reality.

If you put the needed effort into keeping yourself healthy and strong, in terms of your immune system, fantastic. You’re doing what you have to do in order for your meat suit to function properly. But it’s not enough.

You need the outside help. You need to take the extra steps to keep yourself safe. Because by keeping yourself safe, you’re keeping everyone around you who you care about safe too.

By following this ridiculous rhetoric, you are becoming a danger to yourself and to others.

By continuing to preach this rhetoric, you continue to not only be dangerous, but absolutely moronic, just like the caller in this video.

Stop with the contrasting stances on health. Take infectious diseases seriously. Don’t continue these idiotic conversations. Grow a brain and use it, and cultivate a sense of empathy while you’re at it.

Thank you, Thom Hartmann, for making an appropriate example out of utter clods like that one.

[bllsbailey]

Trump Administration Sends Brutally Honest Response Saying Judge Can't Undo a Perfectly Good Deportation

The Justice Department filed an application for an emergency stay of an order requiring an adjudicated MS-13 member be brought back the United States that stopped within inches of calling the district court judge who issued the order a moron. In a tersely worded brief that demolished the entire proceeding, the Justice Department's brief ridiculed the order by Obama-appointed Judge Paula Xinis to “facilitate and effectuate” Kilmar Abrego Garcia’s return to the US by Monday night, saying: "Because the United States has no control over Abrego Garcia, however, Defendants have no independent authority to “effectuate” his return to the United States—any more than they would have the power to follow a court order commanding them to “effectuate” the end of the war in Ukraine, or a return of the hostages from Gaza;" see Judge Orders Trump to Return Deported Man Sent to El Salvadoran Prison, Sets Up a Massive Showdown – RedState.

Garcia, a citizen of El Salvador, who is portrayed as a "Maryland father" in most news reports, entered the US illegally in 2011. In 2019, he was arrested on allegations of membership in the violent Salvadoran gang called Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13. At that time, he applied for political asylum, which was denied. He was given an order of removal, but a judge put his deportation on hold on the grounds that he might be in danger if he returned to El Salvador. In early March, Garcia was arrested and put on a plane to El Salvador and the Terrorist Confinement Facility, CECOT. 

His attorneys sued, and a judge ordered the Trump administration to return Garcia to Maryland. In her order, the judge called the deportation “an illegal act.”

When White House spokeswoman Karoline Leavitt reacted by saying, “We suggest the Judge contact [El Salvador’s] President [Nayib] Bukele because we are unaware of the judge having jurisdiction or authority over the country of El Salvador,” it struck me, and many others, as the kind of remark you can make if you are in no danger of facing the judge in a courtroom. As it turned out, she perfectly captured the tone of the administration's request for a stay of her order.

High Points

The first response was that the judge's order is impossible to comply with.

The district court’s order—a command to “facilitate and effectuate” Abrego Garcia’s return from a foreign country by midnight on Monday—is unlawful.  There is no likelihood that it would survive review on appeal.  ... The order below is neither possible nor proper. As noted, Abrego Garcia is an El Salvadoran national, being held in El Salvador, at the hands of the El Salvadoran government.

The conclusion is my favorite.

Because the United States has no control over Abrego Garcia, however, Defendants have no independent authority to “effectuate” his return to the United States—any more than they would have the power to follow a court order commanding them to “effectuate” the end of the war in Ukraine, or a return of the hostages from Gaza.

The government's argument is that Garcia had a final deportation order, so the district court judge erred in hearing the case because it was outside her jurisdiction.

Even putting aside these fundamental defects, the order below also runs into a statutory bar.  Section 1252(g) strips district courts of jurisdiction to review “any cause or claim by or on behalf of any alien arising from the decision or action by the Attorney General to … execute removal orders 11 against any alien” under the INA, except as otherwise provided in § 1252. 8 U.S.C. § 1252(g) (emphasis added).  This is such a suit.  The district court thus lacked jurisdiction over this case, and lacked authority to issue its order.

No one cares if Garcia had a previous order suspending his deportation, and his lawyers realize that even if the judge doesn't.

But as the Supreme Court has made clear, removal orders and withholding orders are “distinct.”   Johnson v. Guzman Chavez, 594 U.S. 523, 539 (2021).  And just as important, a withholding order does not “affect the validity of the underlying removal order.”  Id. at 540.  Accordingly, even if a removal runs afoul of some other legal bar (such as withholding relief), it is still the “execution” of a “removal order” under the very terms of § 1252(g).  The federal courts thus cannot act upon any “claim” challenging such an execution, “[e]xcept as provided” elsewhere § 1252—an exception not even Plaintiffs have argued applies here.

Garcia didn't ask to be returned to the United States; the order demanding such is illegal.

He did not claim an entitlement to be in the United States; nor did he raise any concerns with being sent to some third country.  In that light, ordering Abrego Garcia returned to the United States—and only the United States—was an invalid and untailored request.  And it further compounded the district court’s overreach.  As a matter of both sound immigration policy and responsible foreign policy, the United States regularly relies on being able to remove aliens to third countries, when there are issues with returning them to their place of origin.  The district court erred in interfering with that.

In theory, the government could honor Garcia's demand by sending him to Afghanistan, as he only objects to being held in El Salvador.

Already we can see that Judge Xinis was much more interested in burnishing her Resistance cred than dealing with a legal case.

There is no public interest served by bringing a member of a transnational terrorist group back to the United States.

Accordingly, while there is no doubt a “public interest in preventing aliens from being wrongfully removed,” Nken, 556 U.S. at 435, there is an overwhelming public interest in not importing members of violent transnational gangs into this country, see id. at 436 (noting a heightened “interest in prompt removal” if an “alien is particularly dangerous”).   ... It is true that an immigration judge concluded six years ago that Abrego Garcia should not be returned to El Salvador, given his claims about threats from a different gang.  Final Removal Order 7–10.  That conclusion was dubious then (and increasingly so now).  But it has become totally untenable, given the Secretary of State’s designation of MS-13 as a Foreign Terrorist Organization in February.  90 Fed. Reg. at 10030–31. 

And finally, the Justice Department demolishes Garcia's claim that he will be subject to torture in El Salvador.

As for the latter, Plaintiffs have not come close to showing that Abrego Garcia will likely be tortured or killed in CECOT.  For starters, the Executive Branch has asserted that no such danger exists.  See generally 90 Fed. Reg. 14514 (Apr. 2 2025). That is virtually dispositive. See Kiyemba v. Obama, 561 F.3d 509, 515 (D.C. Cir. 2009) (“[S]eparation of powers principles . . . preclude the courts from second-guessing the Executive’s assessment of the likelihood a detainee will be tortured by a foreign sovereign.”).  Indeed, the United States, as a party to the Convention Against Torture, is committed not to return a person to a country where that person is likely to be tortured. See 8 C.F.R. § 1208.18. And, as one of Plaintiffs’ declarants concedes: “El Salvador is a signatory to both the Convention Against Torture and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights.” Bishop Decl., ECF No. 10-3, ¶ 32. The United States has ensured that removed aliens will not be tortured, and Defendants would not have removed any alien to El Salvador for detention in CECOT if it believed that doing so would violate the United States’ obligations under the Convention.   And they did not do so here.

Final Word

The government's brief conclusively takes apart every aspect of Garcia's case. He had a deportation order; he had MS-13 connections that make him ineligible to enter the US; and the judge not only doesn't have the clout to make El Salvador send him back to the US, she isn't legally allowed to hear the case.

This case is headed to the Fourth Circuit, where we can hope they will give Judge Xinis's desire to possess magical powers short shrift.