#most of the time it targets exactly what you feel most passionately about

[musashi]

i am begging the other leftists on my fucking dash to stop reblogging anti-voting stuff until the election is over. there are so many doomers on this website who do not have the critical thinking skills to fucking use their brains and tons of them will be genuinely swayed by what they see online.

for the love of god, queue it for after november 5th. queue all your criticism for then. unleash the fucking beast after the election is over. but it is so fucking irresponsible to be reblogging that shit now.

[cobaltperun]

Eternal Flame (15) - Why’d you only call me when you’re high

Jenna Ortega x Female Reader

Summary: For her it’s a passion, for you it’s an accident. And as she continues shining brighter and brighter with each role you are left mesmerized, drawn to her flame and cherishing every time she lets herself be vulnerable with you.

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Word Count: 4.7k

-Decided that once again I was just dreaming of bumping into you-

You felt free, finally going through your days without feeling all of that weight on your shoulders, and you were busy cleaning up all of the mistakes you made. You had to do it before you had the chance to see Jenna again, and there was still one more person from you past you needed to settle your score with, at least in a way.

Surprisingly, it was raining today and you forgot your umbrella, but frankly you didn't really care. You felt good and no amount of rain could change that, besides even through all of the rain you could occasionally see a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds, and it just made you happy. No matter how long the rain would last, the sunlight would eventually break through the clouds, as cliche as that sounded.

You went and walked through the doors of the gym, taking off the hood from your head as you did so. You looked around, contemplating the decisions that led you here. Despite everything that happened and the fact that he pulled you into that, you couldn't deny that Davis also gave you a job, an actual proper job at this gym that could sustain you if you chose to quit fighting.

“Not exactly a busy day,” you said as you approached his desk. Why he kept the desk in the gym instead of having an office was beyond you, but it made things easier for you now. It only now crossed your mind, but now that you thought about it maybe that was how he spotted the potential fighters. You looked over the guys working out, seeing as those were his usual targets for recruitment, and wondered if any of them would take the chance if he offered it.

“Is it? I barely noticed,” sarcasm slipped through his façade of indifference, but he didn't look mad at you. Not that you really cared if he was mad, but he certainly didn't look mad. “Come and sit. Do you want something to drink or maybe grab a meal? I can order something,” hell, he seemed somewhat happy to see you.

“No, I'm good. I just wanted to come by and thank you,” you said, though you did take a seat. No matter how those fights affected your life you couldn't deny that they did give you a chance to save your parents, and later down the line, even if you did do it for different reasons, they did give you enough money to finish high school without having to spread yourself thin and find a full time job.

Davis looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “It was just business. You fought and we both earned money, I gave you a job here and your dedication to it brought me more money. At the end of the day we both profited from this arrangement.”

That was one way to look at it, and you didn’t lie to yourself, Davis did none of it out of the goodness of his heart. He just saw profit and took his chance, a businessman through and through, only connected to rather brutal business.

“You took a chance, one most people wouldn't,” he saw the desperation and found away to cash it in, cruel, but beneficial for both of you. And in a way because of that there was one more thing you wanted to do, a rather ridiculous thing to do, but you wanted the clean slate. So, you went and pulled out a fairly large envelope from your jacket and you placed it in front of him.

“What's this?” he asked and your shrugged.

“$128,000, the exact amount I earned after my parents died, for thirty wins and eight losses. I got paid so I'm giving it all back. I’m starting over so I want to completely separate myself from that time of my life. I know this doesn't erase it. nothing will ever erase it, but in some way, it feels like almost filthy money. Not in the: ‘I did something illegal’ way but in the ‘I did something I shouldn’t have’ way,” you've been thinking about it for a while now, ever since you decided to quit fighting, and you got paid enough from the movies you did lately so you could afford this.

Davis didn't think it over for one bit, he just pushed the envelope back to you. “So, then donate this to some charity. Help some people in need. I don't care how you feel about this money, but you earned it with blood and sweat, and all the effort you put into being able to fight like that. You want a clean slate? You'll never get it, accept that it was a part of you and try to do some good with it if you really want to make up for whatever hurt this caused to you or your loved ones,” he said and you found yourself considering his words. You offered the money to him, he didn't take it, so you took it back.

“Sure, you got any charity you want me to donate this to?” you asked as you got up.

“Make a wish,” his answer was immediate, and for a moment you put it all together and nodded, silently acknowledging just how similar the two of you might have been. You’d never know for sure, and you didn’t need to know for sure.

“Take care,” you turned to leave, understanding that this was the last time you would ever talk to this man. There would never be a reason for him or you to reach out to one another again.

“You too, kid. Don't go finding another person to recruit you into fights,” he replied and you raised your hand, waving slightly as you walked out of the gym.

~X~

It was late at night when Jenna stumbled through the motel, back to her room, smelling like booze and smoke, and just feeling downright awful with the headache already starting. She felt like throwing up, as if everything else wasn’t already enough. She’s been getting somewhat drunk over the past month, seeing as she could legally drink here, and her co-stars didn't mind having some fun. But tonight was just a completely different beast! She went bar hopping with Scott, and was now damn near blackout drunk as she stumbled into her room.

The alcohol hit her hard, and she should have guessed that would happen when she began mixing it. She just fell onto her bed, sick and tired of the smell that was now stuck to her clothes. She really needed to get up and go to the bathroom to freshen up, to wash her face and maybe throw up, she wasn’t sure, and she needed to drink something for her headache and the inevitable hangover.

So, she pushed herself to her feet and nearly tripped on her way to the bathroom. She wasn't even happy, she progressively got more miserable with every shot she took. With every drop of alcohol she just missed you more and more.

A cynical voice in her head invaded her mind as she began washing her face after throwing up, telling her she's gotten so far as an actress. Months ago, she got so self-conscious about her feelings for you that she couldn't black out and kiss you, yet here she was, just days ago filming a scene where she was stripped down to her underwear, crawling over to a guy 19 years older than her. If you were there you would have first of all made sure she was completely comfortable, like you did before you were supposed to kiss. She pushed through the scene, thankful that she didn’t have lines in it, because she was just thinking about you through it all.

The cynical voice kept mocking her, taunting her as she remembered the one and only time her lips touched yours. The way you so softly caressed her cheek, how right the kiss felt for her, and in her drunken state she caught herself wondering yet again just how she allowed herself to throw it all away.

She barely remembered to turn the water off, before she took her clothes off and went to the chair she left your shirt on. The feel of your shirt against her skin felt right, and Jenna glanced at the mirror. The shirt looked more like a rather short dress on her, and she went back to the bed, dropping on it before covering herself with your jacket. As the days passed she’s been getting more and more attached to these two articles of clothing, at this point they might as well be her own. Nothing about them reminded her of you anymore, other than just knowing that they were once yours. She's washed the shirt so many times that even trying to figure out what perfume you used wouldn’t help.

Yet, they still somehow brought her comfort. Just a few more days, just a few more unbearable days without you, and then she could try to fix what she did.

She wasn't exactly in the right state of mind, too drunk to even consider the consequences or think about how it would affect her decision to make sure your first contact would be face to face. She just opened her camera and snapped a picture of herself laying on the bed, your jacket thrown off and next to her, and she looked at the camera while her fingers tugged at the collar of your shirt.

And she went and sent it to you, not even caring about what time it was where you were. Hell, she wasn’t even completely aware of what time it was, she just knew it was the middle of the night, and that you should be sleeping. She didn’t even consider how this would look. Or that the first thing you would get from her wasn't even an apology or a plea to meet up, but rather a photo of her looking drunk.

She tossed her phone aside, her mind drifting to everything that happened between you. How you would hold her, lift her up, hug her, how it felt to you have your arms around her. How soft your cheeks felt against her lips, or how she felt butterflies in her stomach whenever she could feel your own lips on her skin. Jenna remembered all that in vivid detail as she drifted between being asleep and awake, just barely opening her eyes to see if you got the message. She considered sending you another one, though she didn't even have any ideas why. She just felt like doing it, besides, she’s been getting the chance to see your photos from the vacation every now and then, and she was sure you didn't know about that. So maybe it was just fair of her to let you see her now. And then she checked the messages and was immediately startled awake when she saw ‘delivered’ changing to ‘seen’.

“Oh shit!” she watched with bated breath as you did nothing. You didn't start typing, you just saw the message and in her panicked state and fear that you were now absolutely furious at her she hit the call button frantically.

The seconds almost felt as if each one lasted for an eternity, and then finally, you picked up.

“Jen?” you said her nickname, not even her name, but the nickname! And she just wasn't even sure how she felt about it, despite how much she loved hearing you say it. On one hand the relief flooded her entire body, on the other hand she felt like crying, because after all that happened the first word to come out of your mouth was her nickname. “Are you OK? Say something, please,” she heard you sitting up frantically, and for a moment she wondered if you were as nervous as she was.

“I’m not OK, I miss you,” she once again felt sick in her stomach and this time it had nothing to do with alcohol she consumed, although she guessed that only amplified everything now.

“Jen, focus on my voice. Take a deep breath for me, you'll be fine,” you spoke so softly, and she didn't feel like she deserved it. You immediately, without any apology or explanation from her, slipped right back into that same protective nature, calming her down before her anxiety could take over. “Can you do that for me?”

“I can,” she took a deep breath, audible enough for you to hear, and the sigh of relief coming from your side was almost enough to make her cry.

“Just like that, Jen, you're doing great. Focus on something else, think of being somewhere where you're not alone,” you instructed her, and Jenna knew exactly where she wanted to be.

“I want to be with you. I want you to hug me and lift me up, and take me in your arms and just-“ she suppressed a sob as best as she could. “I just want to feel you all around me, Y/N,” she buried her face in her pillow, trying to cover up her sobs.

“I can't do much from here, maybe, I don’t know, do you want to FaceTime?” you offered but she couldn't accept that, she couldn’t let you see just how broken she was by all of this, by this overwhelmingly long distance between you, and now by this sudden development. You were talking to her, she was listening to your voice, and it felt like nothing changed.

“It's not the same,” she wanted to, if she ever had the rights to do something like that again, feel you in every way she could think of. To give you everything she had, to let you take anything you wanted as long as you stayed by her side.

“I know, I miss you too,” those words filled her with warmth, and despite tears she smiled. “I wanted to see you, I want to explain myself and apologize for what happened,” you had nothing to apologize for in Jenna’s mind. You weren't the one who was refusing to see things from another perspective, you weren't the one who rejected her, she was the one who did all that, she was the one who couldn't see past the initial negative reaction she had.

“I’m the one who messed up,” she argued, crying out of despair and sorrow.

“Jen, don’t. Don’t think like that, it was a natural reaction to what you found out. There is nothing wrong with how you reacted. Jenna, listen to me, I will never blame you for anything that happened these past three months. You had every right to react like that, I kept a secret I should have never kept from you,” why were you so damn understanding when she hurt you so much. When she let things go to far, when she didn’t immediately, right in front of you, berate her father for what he did to you.

“I don't know what to do. I don't know how to make it up to you,” she whispered, wondering if she would ever be able to forgive herself because while you clearly weren't angry with her, she still struggled to forgive herself.

“How about we start over, hmm? We acknowledge what happened and move on,” despite all the negative emotions she felt this idea still made her feel happy. That was what she wanted, more than anything, to just once again have you in her life.

“I want that, I want all of you, Y/N,” and your breath hitched at that, and Jenna just realized she said the same thing she said when you were over at her parents’ house. “I want to give you all of me, anything you want.”

“You have all of me, you've had all of me for a long time now, hell before I even knew it,” she trusted every word you said. Did you even notice how easily you stopped her before her panic attack could even begin? That was how easily you affected her, how much just hearing your voice meant to her. That was how safe you made her feel, because being vulnerable felt right as long as it was with you.

“I don't know how to make my parents understand,” she admitted, hoping you would somehow put her mind to ease about that concern as well.

“I'll make an effort. I'll get them to see I'm not a danger to you,” you decided so easily, yet she didn't want that.

“That's not what I want, Y/N. You shouldn't have to prove anything to them, my dad punched you, pointed a gun at you, my entire family has been against you and if anyone should make an effort it's them,” yet, though she felt that, she had no idea how to get there. Enrique tried his best, he told them everything he told her, yet they barely listened. They acknowledged that he probably had the point, but in their eyes, it was too late now. The mistakes were made, the resentment had infected your relationship with them in their eyes. So, at this point they were choosing the easier path for them, even if the cost was her own happiness. They thought that they could just brush everything under the rug, ignore the problem and face no repercussions, because she couldn't cut them out of her life. And they knew how much they mattered to her, that she couldn't ever choose anyone if it meant cutting them off.

So, they wouldn't make that effort, hoping that their silence would perhaps chase you away. And Jenna hated it. Deep down she knew that she needed both you and her family in her life, and yet she feared that lack of effort on their part would make her lose you. That you wouldn’t be able to take it.

“I don't care,” you just shattered that concern into pieces. “I don't care who's right or wrong here. I don't care who needs to apologize, all I want is you. Jen, if having you in my life means I have to deal with awkward family reunions, or constant concerns or questions, or anything your parents can throw at me, I don't care, I still want you. This is our relationship, and I will never jeopardize it for another person, no matter who they are and no matter what they did. And I will never ask you to sacrifice anything, let alone your relationship with your family for us. So, whatever concern you have we'll get through it.”

You've never been like this before. This open and vulnerable. Something changed within you since you left Coachella on that day, and she wasn't sure what it was. But, she could feel it in every word you spoke. You had something worth fighting for, your relationship with her, and there was nothing that could make you stop fighting, nothing other than Jenna herself telling you she didn't want it. And for the first time in her life Jenna fully believed this between you was permanent. That no matter what happened or who tried to get between the two of you she knew that she was yours for the rest of her life, and if your words were any indication, you were hers as well.

“You're too much,” she managed a weak laugh, broken up by sobs. “I need you next to me so much, Y/N, need to feel you, to love you,” you were too much in the best way possible. Loving her so intensely and she found herself just giving in to it, just hoping she could love you with the same intensity.

“I'm just in love,” you said surprising her once again tonight.

It just slipped right out of her mouth as well. “I'm in love too. I love you,” as if everything else she said about how much she needed and wanted you wasn't enough of a confession, she just went and said it.

“I love your, Jenna,” she swore she could hear the smile in your words, and she was sure you were grinning. She closed her eyes and though she desperately wanted to keep this going she knew she was just about to fall asleep.

“I don't think I can stay awake for much longer,” she yawned, relieved and happy now.

“Sleep well, Love,” and you both kind of laughed at that, because that was exactly how your character called Tara. Thinking about it now, there were quite a few similarities between you and Jenna and your character and Tara.

“Stay with me until I fall asleep, please,” she asked, knowing it wouldn't take her long to fall asleep.

“Of course, I am right here, I'm not leaving you again,” you whispered and even if you were on the other side of the world Jenna felt closer to you than even back when the two of you were watching Logan.

~X~

The dream last night was the best one she had in months, the only thing that could have made it better was if you were actually physically present during the conversation instead of talking over the phone, but she figured that gave the dream some kind of plausibility and made it feel more real. “I should never drink again, that was a mistake,” Jenna groaned, burying her face in her hands, only to hear her phone dropping onto the mattress. Why was her phone in her hand? She looked at it, puzzled. She must have fallen asleep with it, it was probably nothing to be worried about. Jenna sat up and looked down at herself, blushing. Oh, she really got drunk last night.  She’s fallen asleep like this before, wearing your shirt, but this was a new low even for her. She had absolutely nothing underneath it.

And then she unlocked her phone, and her eyes widened as she came face to face with not only your messages open, but a phone call that she initiated. And above it all? A picture of her and she looked downright inappropriate on it, especially considering she had nothing underneath your shirt. She was tugging at the color of your shirt, her hair was a mess, a sleeve of your jacket could be seen next to her head, and why was she sucking in her damn lower lip like that?!

She may have been overreacting, but frankly she couldn’t tell. This this was the first thing you got from her in two and a half months? This thing was the first thing you saw? And with the way she was looking at the camera in the photo she might as well have written ‘fuck me’ on the photo! And then she had the guts to call you, ruining everything she's so meticulously planned. What did she even say to you?! And then it hit her at the time she was calling you it was already past four in the morning where you were! She woke you up, she went and woke you up drunk and emotional and who knows what else, and that dream wasn't a dream it was actually reality and it all came back to her as if in an instant! As the memories flooded her Jenna wasn't sure whether to scream, cry, laugh, or explode with happiness, because she didn't want it to turn out this way but she got the results! She told you everything she wanted to tell you, and she said it so clumsily just throwing it all at you in the complete opposite way of how she planned to do it.

And it worked!

It not only worked, but you said you loved her back!

Just like that, one conversation, ten minutes. That's all it took for two and a half months of tension, despair, frustration, depression, loneliness, longing, and hundreds of different things she couldn't even think of right now as her migraine made her head feel like it would explode, all end. All it took to fix all of that was ten minutes of drunken rambling and crying and telling you everything she felt.

Oh, why the fuck didn't she just do it before?! If all she had to do to fix all of this was to just grab a shit-ton of alcohol, and pour it down her throat, then she should have done it sooner!

Right, that all happened… and now she was looking at the plane ticket for Denver she booked, and the eighteenth couldn’t come sooner.

~X~

Despite all the eagerness she felt when she boarded the plane from New Zealand to Denver and excitement when she met up with Barbara, Jenna now found herself progressively getting more and more nervous as Barbara’s dad drove them to your apartment building.

“You're lucky my dad is right here, or I'd be teasing the hell out of you,” Barbara turned to look at her and Jenna believed the girl wholeheartedly. If there was one thing she learned in these past two months it was that this girl had no mercy, and would only stop teasing if she really couldn't do it. For example, like right now, when her dad was in the car with them, and Jenna supposed that would be enough to tell her what kind of teasing Barbara had in mind. Probably something along the line of: ‘This is the most elaborate help me get laid plan ever’ because that was actually something Barbara said when Jenna explained what she had in mind. It wasn't even all that elaborate at all. Jenna got from New Zealand to Denver on a plane, Barbara and her dad picked her up, and the reason for that was simple. Jenna had her suitcases, and her bag, and she had, as she ever so often mentioned, noodle arms which could not handle carrying all of this stuff all at once up the stairs to your apartment.

“I'm really thankful you came to pick me up,” Jenna said, and she honestly was thankful for that because it would have been a lot more complicated if she had to do all of this by herself. She might have even gotten so desperate as to call you to help her with her suitcases, and that would just ruined everything in her mind.

“As long as you get the girl, it's all good,” Barbara clearly couldn't stop teasing entirely, and had to leave that quip in.

Barbara's dad parked close enough to the building and the three of them climbed up to your apartment. They left Jenna’s suitcases in front of your doors and Barbara turned to her. “You know, I could give you the keys so you can walk right in and surprise her like that,” Barbara suggested one last time, but Jenna didn't want that. She wanted to knock on your door and see you as you opened the doors for her. You had no idea she was coming today, she told you she would come tomorrow, and Barbara made sure that you would be home. That was the elaborate part of the plan, because she had to make excuses for you to not go anywhere while not coming by herself, and actually get you to listen to her.

“I'm good,” she took a deep breath. “Thanks again, I’ll take it from here,” Jenna turned to your doors and cleared her throat, and Barbara just patted her on the back.

“Twelve hours, remember what I told you,” Jenna blushed a dark shade of red at that, her imagination may have been going wild since the two of you reconciled over the phone. And sure it wasn't the complete reconciliation, there were some things that still needed to be talked about and she couldn't be sure that things would progress that fast, but she's definitely been thinking about it.

And so, with Barbara and her dad waving at her as they left, she was left alone in the hall, in front of your doors, trying to keep the blush off her face as she raised her hand and knocked.

Taglist: @lilbitdepressed27 @freakshow2501 @osnapitzmel1 @belatrixdragon @ijustlovemaths

@niqmandu @justspance @mirage018 @godamnityess

Masterlist / First Part / Previous part / Next part

A/N: And we're done with the angst, they do need to talk face to face, but the worst is absolutely behind us! Thanks to everyone who pushed through and stuck around!

[starryhyuck]

twilight. (m)

pairing: vampire!jaehyun + afab!reader

words: 3.3k+

summary: you’re 100% sure your boyfriend is a werewolf. surprise kicks in when you discover he’s a different kind of monster.

genre: smut

warnings: dubcon, squirting, choking, anal, reader gets thrown around like a ragdoll, crying, public sex, blood drinking, creampies

You’re a passionate fan of the Twilight series. Most of your friends know this, so your declaration that your new boyfriend is a werewolf comes at no surprise.

“Is it just because Jaehyun has a six pack?” Seulgi muses, chewing at the end of her fork thoughtfully.

You roll your eyes. “No. Although, that is a nice bonus.”

Johnny sighs at the other end of the table. “Is this just like last year? You know, when Taeyong dressed as Edward Cullen for Halloween and you were convinced he was hiding in plain sight?”

Your gaze drifts to the boy mentioned as he sits across the local diner, where most of your university frequents. Taeyong is laughing at something Jaehyun said, and guessing by the blooming red of Doyoung’s ears, you assume they’re teasing him again.

“No! Listen, my Taeyong theory was very good even though none of you entertained it, but this is different. Trust me, I know Jaehyun is a werewolf. I sleep right next to him,” you try to say convincingly.

Your friends offer you dead gazes. They’ve heard it all before from you, and were thoroughly pleased at how dumb you looked when you shoved Taeyong in the sun to prove diamonds would glitter off his skin. It merely resulted in your bashful apology to Taeyong, who was more than happy to laugh and forgive you.

“Maybe we shouldn’t try to mess this relationship up when it’s just started,” Minjeong says carefully, eyeing your reaction.

It’s true — you had only started dating Jaehyun two weeks ago after months of senseless flirting. Johnny was about to lock the both of you in a room just to get you to realize how much you like each other, but luckily you confessed before it got that far.

A pair of arms encircle your waist, and a kiss is pressed to the shell of your ear. “What are you scaring them with today?” A throaty chuckle sends shivers down your spine.

“Someone has another supernatural theory,” Seulgi responds to Jaehyun’s question, one eyebrow raised. You glare at her and give her a warning look not to spill your suspicion.

“Oh really?” You can hear the smile in Jaehyun’s voice. He knows all about your Taeyong debacle from last year. “Who are we targeting this time?”

“No one!” You quickly respond, spinning in his hold and plastering a smile on your face. You kiss his cheek and grab his hand, tugging him away from the table and out the diner. “They’re just being silly. Why don’t we go back to your place?”

Jaehyun laughs, lips ghosting the back of your neck.

“Yeah? Baby wants to go back to my place?”

You whimper at the tone of his voice, knowing exactly what he plans to do to you.

“Yes, please, daddy.”

—

It feels like you’re on Cloud 9. Jaehyun’s hand is tangled in the back of your hair, your face is shoved in one of his comfiest pillows, and his cock is brutally fucking your pussy. Before Jaehyun, no other guy really knew how to ruin you like this. Jaehyun was the first one who turned you into a dumb, drooling, cockwhore mess.

“Pillow princess,” he sinisterly laughs above you, watching your mouth fall open in ecstasy. “Never wants to do any work. Always wants daddy to take care of her.”

You feel his fingers brush the strands of hair away from your face, and his mouth grazes your cheek. His balls slap against your clit lewdly, his bedroom filled with the sounds of your squelching pussy.

“Now, tell me about this supernatural theory you have, baby.”

“Ungh,” you cry, barely able to remember your own name. You can feel every ridge and vein of his cock hug your walls, preventing you from thinking about anything else.

“Is it about Doyoung?” He murmurs in your ear, ignoring your cries when he picks up his pace. You know for a fact that you’ll be sore tomorrow.

“How about Mark?”

You swear you feel him in the back of your throat.

“Yuta?”

He applies pressure to your clit, rolling the nub between his thumb and forefinger. You see stars.

“Ten?”

The pressure is building, building, building, and-

“Is it about me?”

You hopelessly crash, crying loudly as you reach your orgasm. Your nails dig into Jaehyun’s arm, holding him close while he helps you ride your high.

You’re offered no time to recover, Jaehyun manhandling you onto your side while he presses up behind you. His fingers grip your thigh roughly, hoisting it in the air and allowing him to slide back in your dripping cunt.

“S-Sensitive, daddy-“

“I don’t give a fuck,” he growls, hips snapping into yours. It almost sounds like he’s mad at you. “Tell me about the theory you have on me.”

You feel wetness falling down your cheeks and faintly register that you started crying. You’re a blubbering mess, begging for Jaehyun to slow down.

“What do you think I am, hm? Gonna shove me in the sun like you did with Taeyong?”

All you can manage is a string of moans, your second orgasm approaching quickly. “M-More, daddy,” you beg, desperately looking back to try and get him to kiss you.

“You’ll get more when you answer my question, baby,” he hisses, prodding his fingers against your lips. You take the hint, opening your mouth wide and allowing him to slide his fingers in. You suck at his digits lewdly, trying your best to please him.

He groans at the sight of you. “Fucking hell. So what is it, baby? Wizard? Elf? Bigfoot?”

“W-Werewolf,” you choke against him, finally admitting it. You grow warm and prepare yourself for the upcoming embarrassment.

There’s a pause in Jaehyun’s thrusts before you hear him laughing maniacally. His fingers leave your mouth in favor of digging into your hips, finding leverage so he can pound into you harder.

“Werewolf? Seriously, baby? You’re dumber than I thought.”

You struggle to defend yourself when your climax suddenly hits you, your cunt squirting all over Jaehyun’s sheets. You think you’re screaming, trying desperately to push him away as he shows no mercy on you. You nearly topple over when he harshly grabs your hair, pushing you forward until half of your body is dangling off the side of the bed.

Jaehyun slides in even deeper than before, if it was humanly possible. “Listen to how wet you get for me,” he hums, enjoying the loud squelch of your wetness. “Remember when I first fucked you? Could barely take an inch before you were begging to stop.”

You remember it very clearly. You and Jaehyun hadn’t made anything official at the time, yet you couldn’t keep your hands off one another. He had taken you in the back of the university library, your fingers holding onto the bookcases for dear life while he tried his best to fit his cock into your tiny pussy.

“I couldn’t believe how lucky I got to find an obedient whore like you. You’ll let me take you anywhere I like, won’t you, baby?” He chuckles when your only response is an outcry of his name. “Too bad you’re so nosy. Sticking your face into things that aren’t your business to begin with.”

He leans over you until your palms hit the floor. His cock pushes deeper and deeper when his teeth hovers over your neck.

“Daddy-“ you whimper, feeling restless. “I c-can’t.”

“You can and you will,” he says, and his tone indicates that there’s no room for argument. “After you tell me why you think I’m a werewolf.”

You make your best attempt at pushing forward an explanation as to why you think your boyfriend can secretly transform into a four-legged animal, but it comes out in stutters and half-sentences.

“Sick and I-I thought- you didn’t w-want to t-talk to me- just l-like Jacob did w-with Bella-“

Jaehyun, somehow, is able to piece your explanation together. “When I was sick last week and ignored you, you thought I was going through my transformation like Jacob did with Bella in Twilight?”

You nod shyly, afraid to look back and see the mocking emotion on his face. You squeak when you’re manhandled again, this time being pushed on your back and forced to look up at your boyfriend.

“You have to stop reading those silly books, baby,” he says, his voice gentle even though his hands work their way to your throat. He squeezes it and you choke. “They make you so dumb.”

“Y-You like me d-dumb, daddy,” you whisper, voice hoarse from the screaming and the weight crushing your windpipe.

“I do, baby. You know me so well,” he smiles. You’re about to smile back when you suddenly feel the tip of his cock prod against your other entrance, causing you to gasp. Jaehyun has only tried anal with you one other time, and that was after hours of preparation and lots of lube. He’s never done it dry before. “Don’t worry, baby. Just trust me.”

The pain is overwhelming and you cry, ignoring the scratch of your throat. “Daddy, it hurts!”

“It’s your punishment,” he says meanly, venom laced in his voice. You’re starting to get whiplash at how fast he changes his emotions. “For thinking I’m a fucking werewolf. How stupid are you?”

“S-Sorry! I’m sorry!” You whimper, kicking your feet to try and get away from him.

You sob louder when his cock continues to stretch you open, and you feel like you’re going to be split in half. The feeling, however, is overshadowed when you abruptly feel a pair of sharp teeth pierce the flesh of your neck. You scream, trying to make sense of what’s actually happening, but Jaehyun is fast to pin you down and ensure you can’t move.

The pain quickly shifts into pleasure, and your body is overtaken by a tingling sensation that spreads from the bottom of your toes to the edge of your fingertips.

“What-“ you mumble blearily, eyes shifting out of focus.

You find yourself struggling to stay conscious, mind blanking while you tumble into darkness.

—

“Johnny!”

The tall man looks behind him, trying to find the source of the voice calling his name. He squints when he sees you behind a pillar, dressed in a hoodie and sunglasses. He jogs over to you, eyeing your choice of outfit.

“Dude, what are you wearing? It’s literally a hundred degrees.”

You shush him, looking around frantically while pulling him behind a nearby building so no one can see you.

“Have you seen Jaehyun?”

Johnny scoffs. “No. Shouldn’t you know where your own boyfriend is?”

You lower your sunglasses so you can look him dead in the eye.

“Johnny, listen to me. Stay away from Jaehyun. I was wrong about him being a werewolf, okay? He’s a vampire. A fucking vampire.”

You receive four rapid blinks. “Haven’t we already gone through this before? I’ll burn your copies of Twilight, I’m dead serious.”

“Johnny!” You scold, frustrated that he isn’t taking you seriously. You quickly unzip your hoodie and show him the markings on your neck, two bright red indents that show where Jaehyun bit you.

“Woah, what the fuck? Did Jaehyun hurt you? I’ll beat his ass, just give me the go ahead.”

“No, no, he didn’t hurt me,” you insist, feeling embarrassed. “I actually kind of liked it.”

Johnny gags. “I didn’t need to know that. Look, you know I love you, but this is clearly you and Jaehyun exploring some nasty kinks that the rest of us don’t need to know about.”

“I’m being serious, Johnny! Jaehyun bit me and it was a vampire bite. He had fangs!”

“You saw his fangs?”

“Well, no. I passed out because his cock was in my ass and-“

“Fuck!” Johnny yells, fingers at his temples in an attempt to erase what you just told him. “What is wrong with you? I don’t want to know that Jaehyun’s dick was in your asshole!”

Students start to stop and stare at the sight of you and Johnny bickering, briefly catching onto the tail end of Johnny’s despair.

“Shut up!” You hiss, clapping your hand over his mouth. “I’m telling you this because it’s important! Jaehyun is a vampire and he got really pissed at me when I told him I thought he was a werewolf. When I woke up, he was gone and I haven’t seen him for days! He’s going to eat me, Johnny!”

He slaps you away and rolls his eyes. “You need to seek counseling, I’m not playing around. Just go tell your boyfriend you don’t like it when he bites you. Problem solved.”

You try to protest again but Johnny finds a way to escape from you, running until you can no longer see him on the other side of campus.

You huff, getting ready to trek back to your apartment and hide from the rest of the possible supernatural world. You freeze when you suddenly feel a presence behind you, and a hand dances around your waist.

“My pretty girl, are you telling the whole world about me?”

The voice sends chills down your spine, and Jaehyun’s lips suck at the lobe of your ear.

“J-Jae-“

He shushes you, pressing you against the wall of the building and out of view from prying eyes. Your heart beats loudly in your chest, and you know that this is it. This is how you die — in the hands of your extremely hot vampire boyfriend.

“I had to spend a few days away from you,” he confesses, fingers wandering up your shirt. “Almost lost myself when I finally got a taste. Your pussy is magnificent, my love, the best pussy I’ve ever tasted in my life but your blood — mmm, it doesn’t even compare.”

“Please don’t kill me,” you beg, crying in distress.

“I would never kill you,” he says with conviction, angry that you would think such a thing. “I would never let anything harm you. You know why?”

You tremble, feeling his fingers push down the band of your sweatpants. “W-Why?”

“Because then I would never get to feel this pussy again. Feel how good she is wrapped around me. Trust me, baby, I’ve lived for a very long time and I waited just to find you.”

Your sweatpants drop down to your ankles, leaving you in nothing but one of Jaehyun’s favorite thongs. You’re far from humiliated, being caught in more compromising positions with Jaehyun before. Your only concern is the fact that you’ve learned your boyfriend is a real-life Edward Cullen, and you have entrusted him with your mortality.

“Are you going to turn me into a vampire?”

“Only if you want to,” he replies, pushing the fabric of your underwear aside and lining himself up to your entrance. “If you want to feel this good for eternity, just say the word, baby.”

You groan when he pushes into you. The stretch is almost like a welcome home. If you’re being fully honest, you wouldn’t last a day if you and Jaehyun broke up. You crave his cock almost every hour of every day, no matter how desperate that makes you sound.

“Tell me you want me, baby. Even if I’m a vampire,” he whispers into the crook of your neck, and you jolt at the thought of him biting you again.

“I want you, daddy,” you sniffle. “Please don’t leave me, daddy.”

“Would never leave you, baby.”

You hear the faint sound of skin slapping against skin, and you moan as you brush your hair back, fully exposing your neck. Jaehyun discards your hoodie to the floor and kisses you gently.

“Want to be marked again, baby?” He asks you and you nod, mewling at the thought. You feel him grin against your skin. “Taeyong thought I was an idiot, you know.”

“Hm?” You hum softly, longing to have him kiss you again.

“You were right about him from the get-go, he’s the leader of our coven in fact,” he says, balls brutally hitting your clit with every thrust. “Everyone mocked you for getting your resources from that shitty book of yours, but I was so proud of my girl. So smart even when everyone else doubts her.”

“Y-You said I was d-dumb!”

He chuckles. “I was just teasing you, baby. But you know I love you dumb. Now show that pretty neck for daddy.”

You tilt your head to give him full access, and his thumb rolls against your clit as a reward. Your eyes dart down in time to see his fangs pop out, and he licks his lips before descending on your neck. Just like last time, there’s no discomfort or pain. Your body almost sings when Jaehyun bites you, and you feel complete in an odd way.

The intimacy helps the coil inside you snap, and Jaehyun groans when he feels your pussy tighten around his cock at the strength of your orgasm.

His teeth sink deeper into your neck, eagerly chasing his own high. You don’t even care at this point if he drains you completely, only focused on his cum filling you to the brim.

“M-More, d-daddy,” you cry, hips meeting the force of his thrusts halfway. “Fill me up. Want to feel your cum spilling out of my tiny pussy.”

He retracts his fangs from your neck and you moan at the sight of your blood spilling from his lips.

“Tastes so fucking good,” he groans. “Want to fuck you forever, baby.”

The sound of footsteps approaching makes you whimper, nails digging into Jaehyun’s wrist. “Faster, daddy, hurry. Someone’s going to see.”

It only takes a few more snaps before ropes of white fill you, Jaehyun groaning loudly into the back of your neck. If you didn’t just fuck him a few days ago, you would have guessed he hadn’t cum for over a year with the amount of his seed he empties into you.

Luckily, whoever was approaching heard your sounds of pleasure and decided it was better to leave you alone. You giggle and turn your head to kiss him, and Jaehyun smiles softly.

“Missed you,” you whisper. “Why did you disappear? I thought you had plans to eat me.”

“Maybe I still do,” he teases, fingers brushing your folds as he pulls out. “I was worried about your reaction. And honestly, baby, you thought I was a werewolf. It was insulting.”

You laugh and kiss him again. “Sorry. I just didn’t want another Taeyong debacle even though now I know I was always right!”

“That you were,” he hums, helping you pull your sweatpants back on. He tucks himself back into his pants and presses a kiss to your neck, licking at his bite and cleaning you up. “I would appreciate it, however, if you didn’t go around and tell everyone.”

“I promise I won’t,” you swear, making yourself presentable. “As long as the only blood you take is mine.”

He laughs. “Someone wants to be a little blood bag, hm? Jealous of me drinking from someone else?”

You frown. “Of course I am. I thought you said my blood tastes divine?”

“It does,” he growls, still licking at remnants of your blood on his lips. “That week I told you I was sick — it was because I needed to feed. If I spent one more night with you, I would have drained you dry, I’m sure of it.”

“You can drink from me everyday, I don’t care,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck. “As long as you let me have my Bella moment in the forest.”

His grin is blinding. “Whatever my baby wants. How about we have round two in the woods as well?”

Your eyes sparkle. “Deal!”

[genericpuff]

Hello! I'm someone with autism (and I'm suspecting ADHD too) who's planning multiple projects. Do you have any advice when it comes to overthinking a lot about decisions on a project? Be it the first step, planning, questioning if you're moving too fast, etc?

ouuuu I think the biggest thing I struggle with personally is just like... the overbearing weight of expectation that isn't necessarily even there. Like, expectation to do everything right all the time, to never make mistakes, to never fall through on promises, to never break any 'rules' (real or imaginary) and most of all, for everything I do to matter in some big, recognizable, memorable way - but the steps to that goal aren't defined, I just know what the goal looks like, with no clear path as to how to get there, and so it often results in me aiming at my own "best guess" and then beating myself up for not hitting the target LOL which is completely unfair to myself and my own work!

What I try to regularly remind myself of is that I am one person, who is only capable of what one person should reasonably be able to accomplish on their own, no matter how much my auDHD tries to convince me otherwise that I "should" be able to handle more than what's reasonable. And in that same sense, there isn't any more pressure on me to put out something perfect than there would be on any other person. I am not Atlas carrying the fate of the greatest work known to mankind on my shoulders - I'm a chronically online dweeb making stuff that's interesting to themselves and sharing it in the hopes that even just one other person will like it too. That isn't a diss on myself, that's me embracing what I am so that I can keep doing it better and more confidently each time.

Though I don't know if this exactly applies to you, I'm gonna say it just in case: I know when it comes to balancing multiple projects, it can be hard not to go "oh well I SHOULD be working on xyz!" but at the end of the day, you're not a failure for preferring to work on something else or needing space from projects that used to thrill you and have now become monotonous. In fact, it turns out that's how it is for most neurotypical people too! I know they make a lot of shit look easy, but even they have shit they loathe doing - they just don't have to deal with the unique hurdles of being neurodivergent.

Always remember to set boundaries with yourself and your work. Remember, just because you're really excited to work on something, doesn't mean you have to work on it all the time. I've learned to appreciate those moments when I'm stuck doing my day job and I'm excited to get home and work on my passion project, because it means I can actually look forward to it and it'll feel all the more rewarding when I finally get to do it! Pushing yourself too hard to fulfill that excitement all at once right off the bat often just means you're gonna spend it all way too quick, and that won't feel good because then you'll be left wondering where all the love went.

Set little goals for yourself. Stuff that's manageable and achievable within a reasonable amount of time. I know we tend to dive into thinking huge right off the bat, because that's what's exciting to us, but when it comes time to actually do the work, those smaller goals can keep us moving forward far better than the big, far off, ambiguous goal hiding somewhere off in the horizon. While it's good to plan ahead, not setting smaller milestones for yourself can burn you out faster because it's really hard to work towards an "end goal" that might be too far away for us to even conceptualize. The small goals allow us to reward ourselves along the way, and they do ultimately still build up to the bigger picture in the end, even if it feels like we're "not doing much". It can be anything like "get to this chapter that I can finish in the next few weeks" or "fully write out this scene that's been living in my head rent-free".

As for the overthinking... yeah, I wish I had some magic solution to that, but it's really just about learning what you enjoy doing vs. what you don't, so that you can have confidence in knowing when your creative decisions suit the project you're working on. This is something that gets better with practice and experience, but I feel like it's better tackled by reminding yourself that any project, no matter the outcome of how popular it gets or whether or not it "takes off", is an opportunity to learn and grow. Treat every project as a learning experience and you'll hopefully find the process itself more enjoyable, which will subsequently buff up your confidence. It's all a process of honing in on what works for you, what you excel at, and what you enjoy doing; while learning what doesn't work for you, what you could improve at, and what you don't enjoy doing.

Finding a writing buddy or someone who's willing to read your work and give you feedback is super helpful for this, too, because sometimes it takes another perspective to help us navigate the fog of indecision and find a solution.

And again, remember - you are one person, and you are under no obligation for any of your projects to be some perfect, infallible holy grail. You will write stuff that you will inevitably look back on with disgust and cringe. You will create projects that you will eventually outgrow or move on from. That does not invalidate the time and effort you put into those projects - it's proof of experience and growth. Embrace the growing pains, find peace in the process in whatever way you can.

It's not a question of right or wrong - it's asking yourself what feels true to you and your voice, and finding out along the way.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

reading update: november 2024

*arrives halfway through december with a hot chocolate in hand* WHO WANTS TO KNOW WHAT I READ IN NOVEMBER

this is not going to be my best or most thoroughly written roundup but I want this shit posted so you get what you get

Sharks Don't Sink: Adventures of a Rogue Shark Scientist (Jasmin Graham with Makeba Raisin, 2024) - as a shark enjoyer who was too dumb to go into marine biology, I was really looking forward to Graham's book about her experiences as a Black woman working in this very white field. while the book's a bit dry it's also a fun, quick read, with an infinitely likeable narrator whose passion bursts out of every page and will delight anybody who also loves sharks. Graham's determination to forge her own path and make spaces for herself and other women of color makes for an inspiring story, and though this book isn't specifically targeted at younger readers, I'd happily recommend gifting it to any girls looking at getting into any kind of animal-related field so that they can find a worthy role model in Jasmin Graham.

Bite by Bite: Nourishments and Jamborees (Aimee Nezhukumatathil, 2024) - I feel bad, but I was disappointed! I was so smitten with poet Nezhukumatathill's previous collection of short essays, World of Wonder, in which she extolls the virtues of various animals and plants. while I always enjoy a lush description of a good food, and the illustrations were very charming (the shave ice in particular had me YEARNING to blow my savings on a trip to Hawaii), it Bite by Bite lacked the substance of its predecessor. the connections drawn in each essay felt a bit more contrived this time around, with many feeling like thinly veiled justifications for Nezhukumatathil to pontificate on her sons growing up rather than celebrating the foods she spotlights for their own merits. I ended up feeling as if I was rushing to get it over with, which is always sad.

Four Lost Cities: A Secret History of the Urban Age (Annalee Newtiz, 2021) - this was one of the most unexpect delights of the year. I know borderline nothing about archaeology and anthropology, but Newitz paints such vivid images of their subjects that I found myself getting genuinely emo about disaster relief efforts in Pompeii. idk what it was, man, but they took their right turns stupid just like we did! humans is the same after all this time! it's been a while since I picked up a book about something totally alien to me and got to settle in for the pure joy of learning from a talented writer, and this book hit the spot tremendously. if anyone is planning on doing my 2025 book bingo challenge and needs an idea for the nonfiction about a topic that's new to them, consider this a recommendation!

The Truth According to Ember (Danica Nava, 2024) - maaaaan. I wasn't, like, blown away by the synopsis of this romance novel, in which the titular Ember lies about being white rather than Chickasaw in order to land a job only to immediately find herself crushing hard on a Native coworker, Danuwoa, and getting increasingly wrapped up in a web of lies. while the plot's not exactly original, I was excited to check out a book by a Native author about Native characters getting a pretty big release, something I hadn't yet encountered in romancelandia. but honestly? the biggest disappointment in this book wasn't the unoriginal story or Disney Channel sitcom-levels of hijinks to maintain the various lies, but it's the fact that lying about being white isn't even really the crux of the plot. Ember doesn't get fired for that! that's not actually the thing anyone has an issue with! she gets in trouble for lying about having a degree that she doesn't have to get a job she's wildly underqualified for, which is a significantly bigger issue! but all of the marketing is based on her lying about being Native, which feels... idk, it feels misleading? also the romance takes, like, a loooong time to show up; Danuowa is very secondary for like the first third of the book while we learn about the ins and outs of Ember's life, family drama, and new job. I don't know if I've ever been begging for a romance heroine to interact with love interest more, but this book made it happen.

The MAGA Diaries: My Surreal Adventures Inside the Right-Wing (And How I Got Out) (Tina Nguyen, 2024) - on the one hand, I really fuckin' feel for Tina Nguyen. what started out as a college flirtation with libertarianism spiraled into a deep immersion in the burgeoning alt-right thanks to her then-boyfriend, including a brief stint working under Tucker Carlson himself. Nguyen ultimately comes to realize the extent of batshit insanity the republican party is descending into, jumping ship well before the 2016 election thanks to an increasing sense that something is deeply amiss among the right's journalism core. (one especially chilling anecdote involves Nguyen, the daughter of Vietnamese immigrants, discovering that her longtime mentor, a man she had trusted for years to help advise her career, had been caught discussing a desire to curb America's population of immigrants.) although she spins her firsthand knowledge and exhaustive list of contacts to start reporting on the right for liberal outlets, Nguyen remains skeptical of what she perceives a critical lack of organization among the Democrats, which I can certainly forgive her for. I have a bit more side eye for Nguyen's reluctance to fully condemn some of her old colleagues; in particular, she goes to lengths to emphasize that Carlson was a pretty chill boss. idk, maybe it's hard to cut ties that completely, even with people who turned out to be monsters. overall the memoir is lacking any especially artful prose but is a bitchin' gossip piece with some decent insights into how the right organizes.

Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning (Cathy Park Hong, 2020) - it's always so momentous when a book actually lives up to the hype. Hong blurs memoir and essay for a resonant and painful examination of all the ways Asian American identity gets tangled up in shame, including her own. this book is potent, and by far one of my favorite nonfiction reads of the year. I think @zaricats recommended it like 700 years ago so thank you for that!

Crazy Rich Asians (Kevin Kwan, 2013) - it's. fine. it's literally just fine.

The Nightmare Before Kissmas (Sara Raasch, 2024) - not fine, this one sucked shit so bad it gave me a headache multiple times. how do you squander a premise as silly as "the Christmas Prince and the Halloween Prince are in secret gay love"? how do you make that boring? why was this mostly just a book about workplace politics with a little tinsel on top? unfortunately I WILL be reading the sequel in March, but only to complain.

Doppelganger: A Trip Into the Mirror World (Naomi Klein, 2024) - a dizzying work that ties together an astonishing number of ideas, beginning with Klein's own frustrations with being mistaken for disgraced feminist writer turned vaccine conspiracy hack Naomi Wolf to the chaotic and reactionary political landscape that so many of us find ourselves struggling to make sense of. it's a heavy and heady book, dense with well considered observations and expertly articulated thoughts despite Klein's own acknowledgement that her "research" often veered into unreasonable levels of obsession. despite Klein's long career this was my first time reading her work, and now I am Listening to anything and everything she has to say.

Delicious in Dungeon Vol. 12 (Ryoko Kui, trans. Taylor Engel, 2023) - I truly genuinely can't say anything about Volume 12 without saying that, by the time I'm posting this, I have also read Volumes 13 and 14 and finished the series and man. man man man. this story is just so GOOD. genuinely I love Dungeon Meshi so much.

Buzz: A Stimulating History of the Sex Toy (Hallie Lieberman, 2017) - a very fun and interesting history of the sale of sex toys in the US, including some very appreciated love for unsung heroes of the sex toy field like Jewish ventriloquist Ted Marche, Black disability activist Gosnell Duncan, and all of the women who pioneered sex stores that prioritized woman as their clientele. granted, that last group of second wave feminists comes with all the accompanying second wave bioessentialism you'd expect, and I'd be remiss not to note that the book also takes a frustratingly cissexist approach in the way it talks about man = penis and woman = vagina. I don't think Lieberman sought out to be deliberately transphobic (there is, briefly, a mention of a trans woman taking over one of the sex toy companies the book follows, and she is recognized as a woman even if her transition is shoehorned in rather awkwardly) but simply out of her depth with knowing how to address trans people in the very binary historical narrative she constructs. it's grating, but also unsurprising for a book published in 2017. if you can handle the cis weirdness and you, like me, are interested in how sexuality and pleasure are litigated, I'd really recommend checking this one out; I've already added it to the official sex witch library. it's worth the read for the surprising history of Adam & Eve alone.

[geneviveleocardius]

final decision

who are you choosing?

if you chose L

your relationship with L would deepen in subtle yet meaningful ways. he’s not someone who expresses affection conventionally, but his care for you becomes evident in his actions.

he starts sharing his thoughts with you more than anyone else, valuing your perspective on the case and even considering your opinions above his own—a rare sign of his trust.

L’s love language remains peculiar. he offers you his favorite sweets during long nights, insisting that “you’ll need energy to keep up with me.” it’s his way of saying he values your presence, even if he never explicitly says the words.

physical affection is sparse but intentional. L might brush his fingers against yours when handing over a report or lean in closer than necessary while examining evidence. these small gestures carry the weight of emotions he struggles to articulate.

as the investigation progresses, L grows increasingly protective of you. he rarely lets you out of his sight, not trusting anyone else to keep you safe. “you’re a vital part of this team,” he says, though his concern runs deeper than professional interest.

when it becomes clear that kira has taken a personal interest in you, L’s mask of calm begins to crack. he spends hours analyzing every interaction you’ve had with light, his paranoia rising as he tries to shield you from kira’s reach.

the night you die, L is with you. you collapse suddenly, and though he understands immediately what’s happening—kira’s handiwork—it doesn’t soften the blow. he holds you, his usually detached demeanor breaking as he whispers, “stay with me.”

your death devastates L in a way he never expected. he continues the investigation with a cold, single-minded determination, but his moments of quiet reflection are filled with memories of you.

when L himself dies shortly after, he feels a strange sense of relief. his final thoughts are of you, and for the first time in his life, he wishes he could have had more time—not to solve another case, but to spend it with you.

if you chose light

your relationship with light deepens quickly, as he knows exactly how to make you feel like the most important person in his world. he listens attentively, remembers every small detail about you, and ensures you feel indispensable to him.

light’s affection, while genuine, is still rooted in control. he wants you by his side, not just as his partner but as someone who validates his vision of a perfect future. he reassures you, saying, “together, we can create a better world.”

he grows more possessive as his feelings for you intensify. if you express concern over his methods, he skillfully redirects the conversation, convincing you that everything he does is for the greater good—and for you.

physical affection with light is calculated but intense. he holds you close when you’re alone, his touch conveying both passion and an underlying need to keep you tethered to him.

as the pressure of the investigation mounts, light becomes increasingly paranoid about your safety. he’s torn between wanting to keep you close and fearing that your connection to him might make you a target.

if misa amane becomes involved, she sees you as a threat to her devotion to kira. despite light’s attempts to reassure her, misa acts on her own, using the death note to remove you from the equation.

alternatively, if the investigation catches up to light, your life ends in the chaos of his downfall. perhaps you’re caught in the crossfire of a police raid, or near him when Near’s team finally corners him.

your death shatters light’s carefully composed facade. whether it was misa’s doing or the result of his own hubris, he’s consumed by guilt and rage. for the first time, his vision of a perfect world feels hollow without you in it.

light’s grief manifests as obsession. he spends sleepless nights replaying the events that led to your death, his mind unraveling as he tries to justify the loss.

by the end, light is a shell of the man he once was, his ambition tainted by the memory of you. even as he faces his inevitable defeat, his thoughts linger on you, and for the briefest moment, he regrets everything.

[rorydrawsandwrites]

what is the appeal of ribbun to you? genuinely trying to understand

It's like a fucked up little science experiment

...And now to attempt a serious answer:

For me to enjoy the romantic pairing between two characters beyond occasionally seeing fanart of it, finding it cute, and moving on with my life, there has to be some sort of a conflict in it. Opposing personalities in some way, issues the characters have with each other, issues the characters have with themselves that create issues between each other... also a secret fourth ingredient that I can't describe and is entirely subjective. Call it chemistry.

(For instance I see no romantic chemistry in Funnygummy. They're sweet, they'd make good friends, that's about it for me. I had a whole rant typed out here in a stroke of passion but since I don't want to be the one to judge someone else's comfort ship, I removed it. Plus I dig LollyDolly, so I realized I was starting to sound like a hypocrite.)

I get that canonically, realistically, Gangle might hate Jax. I wouldn't say the same the other way around (perhaps after the latest episode), because I figure Jax must usually enjoy having someone weak-willed to walk all over. He does tease Ragatha the most, the one who reacts with otherwise uncharacteristic anger to his antics, which is plenty amusing, but press a little bit and Gangle folds. She's an easy, weepy target. (Which doesn't mean she never talks back, and I appreciate that.) Meanwhile Gangle in the first three episodes hadn't been getting that much attention from the rest of the cast. Initially it led me to believe that poor soft-spoken sadsack Gangle is for the most part ignored for her issues; they can't help her if her comedy mask is broken, so they just let her be. Thus she gets the most attention from Jax, and not the good kind, but you take what you get... I could see a toxic sort of attachment forming on both sides.

BUT. I don't particularly enjoy the ship when it's one-way abuse. Jax just tormenting Gangle ad nauseum, trotting past all her boundaries, bordering on noncon. Nah, I think she could be a bit unbearable too for karma's sake... and out comes episode four!! Yippee!!

Gangle is every bit the enthusiastic nightmare I was hoping her to be when she's in charge; I was waiting for her to get back at Jax in some way, and boy did she ever. I do prefer a sort of back-and-forth mutuality in my ships, not tipping the scales too far in one way, and anyhow Jax's harrassment of Gangle and lack of comeuppance in the beginning irked me regardless. My Puppeteer AU art I've been making since last summer was supposed to balance out what in the first couple episodes was one-sided torment; also I like fucked up women who are creepily intimate with their victims, so there's that.

(Funnily enough I didn't even ship it before I began drawing more for the AU and studying the two characters. I used to see the ship and think "oh, that's so toxic, I could never". Albeit the fact still hasn't changed that in the AU itself, Gangle's attachment is intended to be platonic.)

Now for taking the ship in a healthier context...

I like the idea of Jax toning himself down for the sake of a relationship, because he's finally realizing he'd rather catch cooties than die alone, and Gangle coming to terms with her abhorrent taste in men but biting the bullet anyway, because it's the circus and they're not exactly rife in options and also because she's a little bit of a freak. As well, arriving some time after one another and forced into proximity by the situation and Jax's pestering of her, they would've come to know each other pretty well. She can guess that there's a lot hiding behind the bunny's mask... which doesn't negate the harm done to her, though. In any case the making of amends would be in order.

If he could bite back his asshole comments for five minutes he might even find himself encouraged to open up a little by a partner who's so vulnerable and expressive of her feelings, however insecure she may be of them. And I also suspect Gangle could be more assertive in private than you'd expect... after all she's shown full capability of retaliating in canon now. I have faith that she could handle herself long-term, granted she develops some more (genuine) confidence.

On a slightly related note, it's unfortunate but interesting to me how much the confidence she does display is conditional. She needs physical objects, the masks, to hype her up, and yet all of what she says and does when wearing them is still coming from herself and only herself. The mask doesn't affect her, she simply adjusts her behavior in tandem with her current expectations. Which reminds me of those kids' cartoon episodes where the gained self-esteem and power the protagonist attributed to an object or keepsake was inside them all along.

These expectations can be a burden as well, and she's better off getting rid of the happy mask in the end. The lack of pressure to take charge can be reassuring if that's something you don't feel comfortable doing.

And when it comes to Jax, it may also be that she normally just... doesn't want to exert the energy to snap back at him. A constant battle with someone who insists on being an active dick to you but you can't get rid of sounds exhausting. It's easier to keep to yourself and go along with it, and as someone who also tends to take the easy way, I get that. Especially since it wouldn't even make a difference. It's not like she had any means of truly punishing him for his actions before being placed in a position of power during Fast Food Masquerade. (Good for her.)

In all my AUs where I am receptive to Ribbun, I make sure to level the playing field. Since it's hard to imagine Jax being much kinder, she should get to at least irritate him equally in return. She can be cringe and annoying and a handful too, as a treat.

Ultimately they're still gonna like each other, or else what's the point? But the clashing of their personalities adds a dash of spice to it.

Anyway this got long, maybe because the passive-aggression I've picked up from this anon message compelled me, intentional or not, to elaborate beyond the first sentence. I think it's the fact that I'm pretty sure I've seen a Ribbun shipper I follow questioned likewise almost word for word, I don't know how long ago, as if indulging in this ship is a uniquely baffling and suspicious activity that must be questioned. Regardless there you have my attempt at an explanation, a.k.a my slapdash pile of barely connected ideas.

(P.S it's not even my favorite ship involving either of these characters. But I've come to acknowledge it's got its own tasty flavor, toxic or not.)

[mahou-furbies]

Now caught up with Mermaid Melody Aqua

When this originally started my involvement was mostly about gawking at Lukia's design and I only read a couple chapters before dropping off, but now I'm caught up. Aannnddd how do I put this... it's hard to gauge how critical I can be since this is clearly aimed at a younger audience, and also romance stories aimed at tween girls are already such a punching bag, but... this is the first time I'm considering if I should give a mal rating of 1/10 to a manga. I've read other Nakayoshi series and for the most part have been able to find something like or at least end with a wishy-washy "I'm not in the target audience but I guess it's okay for what it is" sentiment, but this one just has so many issues, in addition to a myriad of stuff that personally pisses me off.

The story is about the original series' heroine's teenage daughter Lukia, who, as anyone who knows anything at all about this manga, looks exactly like her mother for no reason. The ocean is in danger again and Lukia has to marry this one merman to prevent a catastrophe, but she is in love with a human boy, who doesn't know about her mermaid identity and is into both her human and mermaid personas separately and struggles to choose. There are also some magical girl battles. So not that unusual of a shoujo premise.

I tried to think of what my biggest issue with the manga is, but it turned out to be difficult since there are so many to choose from. For starters, I can't think of anything I like about Lukia. Obviously for someone who is into fun anime designs her look is an immediate 0/10 for being an exact copy of an existing character, but it also makes the story harder to follow at times when it's difficult to tell if a character is supposed to be Lukia or her mother. But even apart from the character design she's just so bland, and doesn't have much other passions than lusting after a boy and doing the plot, and even with the plot she's just sort of passively stumbling through. Like in the part where she's being pushed to be with her fiancé and she just limply goes along, and overall it feels as if she spends like 95% of the story looking flustered.

The boys are pretty generic shoujo love interests, and in general in control of the situation while the heroine blushes and follows. They also have little else going on outside chasing Lukia, and get into arguments with each other over who gets her while she feebly stands on the side (her opinion is irrelevant).

However despite the people in the main love triangle being extremely unlikable to me, somehow I'd say that the returning MMPPP cast draws the shortest straw in terms of characterisation. The former heroine Luchia has two roles; either she is the butt of the joke as an embarrassing mum, or an obstacle to Lukia's romance who pushes the arranged marriage, and both are depressing when you consider how she was originally a typical magical girl heroine. More often than not Luchia and her friends are more often than not written like immature teenagers, and at their lowest swoon over how attractive Lukia's fiancé is (all the while the readers are shown how unhappy Lukia is about having to marry some rando).

Lukia spends majority of the series thinking about men, and she doesn't really get proper friendships to balance that out. At the beginning the series does introduce a new mermaid as a friend to her, but they quickly fade into being just an accessory to Lukia. It feels like when the series wants to have a "the heroine is doing fun stuff with her girlfriends!" scene, it just has Lukia hang out with her mum and her mum's friends (who never grew up), which is kind of cringe.

Then there's the fanservice aspect; this is a shoujo series but it sure likes to have Lukia wear tops that show off her sizable rack and skirts short enough to show her butt cheeks. In one scene Lukia is just flat out naked so the main guy can walk in on her. And the mermaid tails have been drawn to display the curves of their legs, which to me creates a kind of grotesque effect when it looks like their feet have been cut off from the ankles.

Then finally some complaints about the overall storytelling, it's just so clunky. Like Luchia reveals that Lukia is a mermaid and already engaged, and Lukia runs off in anger. Next page she is introduced to the mascot and has some banter with him, and two pages later it's already the next day and we're at school. You would think that Luchia would at least try to talk a bit more about how her daughter's life is about to take a huge turn, but apparently nothing that was important enough to show to the reader happened during this time. In general there are a lot of moments where transitioning from one scene to another, or even from panel to panel, is noticeably clumsy. Characters also feel like they act just however the scene needs them to.

I am aware that there are plenty of women and girls who are into this kind of love stories where a big strong man shows up to swoop the blank slate heroine off her feet (just think about the popularity of Twilight and 50 Shades), and I would imagine that Mermaid Melody Aqua is aimed at 12-year-old girls who want a "sexy" romance with hot boys totally devoted to the viewpoint character. But I've never been there so I can't relate, and if I had to think "well someone else probably likes this" every time I think of writing a review I could never criticise anything. So let's just close with the sentiment that with the laziest character design imaginable, wet rag of a heroine, super conservative gender roles in the romance, inconsistent and dull characters, undignified portrayal of original series heroines, unappealing fanservice and overall weak writing this is a good contender for my least favourite manga ever. The story isn't over but it's hard to see how it could crawl out of this hole.

[rel124c41]

SCREAM OF THE BUTTERFLY. jade leech

He opens his eyes to see a bright horizon. All of it is liquid gold, a shimmering sea of yellow below the horizon and clouds of volcanic orange above the horizon. Smack in the middle is the Sun - 70.6% hydrogen and 27.4% helium, diameter 1.4 million kilometers - and it stares at him. A hand shades his eyes. "Hey, don't look too close. You're going to see something you don't like."

tags: android jade leech, dubious morality, animal death, blood and gore, existential angst, repressed memories, unresolved emotional tension, choking, reader is 52 and jade is permanently 21, non-consensual body modification, & age difference

word count: 13,363

Both of you watch the pancake melt on the cabin’s wooden floor. The top of the circle is a golden-crusted brown. However, the underside was not yet cooked so that waxy yellow mixture starts to spread out in a sunlight pool. 

“I’m terribly sorry, Master,” Jade rushes to say but seems too shellshock to make a move to fix the mess he made.

“It’s alright,” you say with a voice clogged full of sleep. As you make your way over to the dining table designed small enough for only two, you can feel Jade track each of your minor motions like a gun following its target. Only when you sit does he snap out of it.

In a very methodical passion, he goes about removing the malfunction. You hear this: the lid of your squeaky trash-can opening and the spray of a disinfectant bottle being the most recognizable. Ignoring his mistake, you go about your normal routine. Like Jade is programmed to make exactly two pancakes and exactly one sunny side up egg each morning, you have your own little, innate programs you do each morning.

As you strike the match and hold it under your cigarette – lighting with a matchstick adds to the flavor you found – the last bits of the sunlight pool is wiped up. “Now, we’re behind schedule,” you remark. The matches inside the Diamond box shift as you push them down the table. 

It is an entirely true, if not a bit outlandish, sentence. Schedule? Jade thinks to himself as he quickly procures each ingredient needed to make the batter for exactly one pancake. He only ever measures out the amount for exactly two pancakes. The mistake is making him frazzled. He has two skillets on the stove, one for exactly two pancakes and the other for exactly one sunny side up egg. Looking into the skillet holding only one pancake, his systems twitch. Schedule; what schedule is he forgetting? 

But, he would never concern you with the inner turmoil that is clawing away at his chest cavity like a rabid, frenzied animal, so he simply says, (PANCAKE) “My apologies, Master. I did not mean to make us late.”

“Did seeing me all dressed up scare you that bad?”

With the high-voltage mixer already in a bowl, Jade takes the time to look behind him towards you. The single egg and pancake (PANCAKE) only have 1:42 minutes left until they are completed, so he has the allotted period to look at you, all dressed up. He smiles disarmingly. “Not scared, just surprised.”

His intricate memory-bank supplies him with a number: 259. It has been two hundred and fifty-nine days since the last time you have worn something other than fuzzy or silk pajama bottoms coupled with a graphic tee. That is exactly 8.51506 months ago, which would have made it March. When the weather was growing warmer, you wanted to ride in the car until the gas went from F to E. Now, once again, you are all dressed up.

It is a pretty monotone palette, nothing like what you had worn in March. With a flowing pinstriped jacket, black and white are the only colors of your outfit, besides the tiniest touch of silver from the tangling vines stitched over your blouse’s collar. Your hanging tie and flowy dress pants are a stark black, like the cut of a blank television screen, and your gloves and blouse are a stark white, like a newly painted therapist office wall.

He supposes the most colorful thing about you right now is the orange filter tip in your lovely mouth. Oh, you also have lipstick on. In this game of I-Spy, Jade can identify only two different colors shining in the canvas of sterility that covers your skin. 

Hues like that might mean a funeral. His left eye slices off the left side of the kitchen dining table. It all falls into a black hole as Jade pulls up information of every living relative you have left; their faces fly through his vision, searching public obituaries and searching articles, as you talk to him.

“I guess it might be a bit disarming.” You take your third drag, methodical. “I didn’t think I would need to give you a warning. My mistake; right, Jade?”

All of your relatives are alive. The latest medical update is that your mother has been given the drug memantine along with her typical Leqembi medication. “Nonsense. I’m not so aged that I can’t keep up with your spontaneity,” he jokes, left vision returning. Perhaps the schedule is simply the quotidian schedule of your day-to-day.

Charmed, you smile in the fog cloud of tobacco sliding away from your face. “Oh, he thinks he’s funny,” you jest back. Between two thin fingers, you balance a cigarette and point it at him like it is a professor’s presentation pointer. “No puns today. I’ll take out your tongue.”

He fakes a look of hurt. “Oya, do you really find them so abhorrent?” He turns as you supply him with a synonym – execrable, you moan – and focuses his attention on breakfast-making. Methodically, first, the mixer is pulled up from the bowl and then both pancake (PANCAKE, not pancakes, to Jade’s punctilious annoyance) and sunny side up egg are slid onto your plate. 

“Humor is said to lower blood pressure and improve memory retention. It is as important as a good, clean breakfast. However, if my puns are banned, omelet it slide this time. We have a schedule to follow, Master.” 

He still hasn’t figured out what it is though. And he does not want his vision to start flashing with ropes of blaring red and white words, SCHEDULE replacing PANCAKE – which has already been giving him enough stress. As he puts the incomplete plate down, he wonders if he has time to remedy it before you finish your single 9 A.M. cigarette.

“Booo,” you caterwaul at his pun. However, you smile and your heart beats languid so it must be alright. “Keep that up and no birthday surprise for you.”

Jade stops. Still as a paused movie. His whole body is stiff for a millisecond, and if he did not recover so quickly, you would have surmised he went into forced shutdown upon hearing your words. A calculative, bloodless arm reaches out to tilt the pancake batter into the skillet as he acknowledges that today is in fact November 5th.

Inside his chest cavity, a tiny Jade, no bigger than your cigarette, wobbles on a fence. He is unsure if he wants every day to be birthday so he can see you doing better, or if he wants this November 5th, this sudden change of clothes and attitude, to stay only on his special day. As always, he does not pick a mental-side.

Instead, he says, “Nonsense. There is no need to exert yourself for me, Master. Do not concern yourself with a trivial matter.”

“Don’t be modest. Birthdays are special; and we haven’t celebrated one of yours in four years.” 

Jade remembers that day fondly. High sugar-concentrated items are one-in-a-blue-moon type of expensive. Most households can only afford one or two birthday cakes in their lifetimes, so it was sentimentally human that your first year together, you dipped into your retirement savings and bought a man with no functioning digestive system, a cake.

“I have no choice but to concede if it is an order,” Jade baits.

“Then, it’s an order.” Smoke pumps through the air as you take an embellishing, deeper inhale. The health of your lungs gets compromised more, day by day. “Non refutable.”

“Of course, Master.” Jade would bend in a bow if he were not so intent on making sure this pancake (pancake) stayed on his spatula and off the floor.

Breakfast proceeds as normal after the slight hiccup. When the room is thoroughly perfumed with the acidic scent – Jade always enjoys how harshly you snub out your cigarette, grinding them down into nothing, whatever ring lying on your index glistening under the ceiling light, and today it is a glistening, jade green eye – you eat your precisely made sunny side up egg and two pancakes. Yolk and syrup bleed all over the plate like sliced open arteries. You compliment his cooking as always before stuffing another cigarette between your lips.

This one you simply hold there as Jade scrubs your dish. He slots the ceramic in the drying rack along with the already evaporating skillets and bowl. You glide around the kitchen. It is quaint. There are only ever two plastic cups in the cabinet and two plates in the lower cupboards. Often though, the second copies of each various dishware are left unused.

Your arm and Jade’s arm slide against each other when you fill a plastic green cup up to the brim with faucet water. The robot twitches.

After utensils are hand-dried and put away, Jade looks towards you for guidance. Today is such an outlier to the normal schedule that he feels a bit unbalanced. Usually, you have already lit up your second cigarette of the morning, burrowing up into your study. Instead, you say, “C’mon,” as you walk out of the kitchen with an unlit cigarette hanging from your lip and a cup of faucet water in hand.

Obedient, he follows you up to your study. Your uneven fingernails glide across the banister. “I couldn’t help but also get one for myself. When I went to the market and saw them, I got selfish.” When you open the door to your study, Jade is greeted with the familiar sight of books thrown to the ground, pages torn from their homes, and ink split across the scene like something left behind for a bloodstain pattern analyst. There are also three water bottles full of gold liquid he will have to dispose of.

What calls his immediate attention is the two different shapes draped underneath hand-towels. They sit on your desk which is devoid of any papers or books. One is covering something spherical but Jade cannot decipher what is underneath the second towel.

Despite the jumble, you glide over to your desk with precise footsteps. Jade follows right along behind you. It is programmed in his system to never disrupt anything in this study, so he refuses to nudge a paper or cause the slightest altercation to the disorganized order. 

By the foot of the desk, your taxidermied lion stands in paused death, stuff full of cedar dust. You pet the wisps of mane as you approach the table. The cigarette is still in your mouth; you take it out, smooth knuckles over your tie, and place your hand back down upon the lion’s head. Petting behind stuffed ears, you give a weak pseudo-command.

“Now, I don’t want a repeat of this morning. You being startled and all that. So,” your eyes move from the towels to Jade’s, “you can’t afford to lose your head over this, right, Jade?”

Though he has no heart that could possibly quicken in anticipation, Jade still places a firm hand over that spot as if to banish his foretold anxieties. That familiar, smarmy expression comes back to his facial plate. A slight scrunch of the slanted downward eyebrows that leaves a crinkled line and a timid smile showing off tiny, razor teeth. “I assure you, nothing of the sort will happen, Master.”

“Good.” You place the green plastic cup behind the presents. Light from the window hits the cup; a long green shadow stretches over your desk. As you pinch the towel edge in your fingers, you are palpably excited, grinning wide. “3 ... 2 … 1 … Happy birthday, Jade!”

The smile remains on his face because he has permanently set it there himself. If he were human, it would have fallen. 

“Master, this is illegal.” Jade reaches out and covers up his present with the towel, as if that will make it disappear. 

You give him nothing but a tiny, mischievous smile. Wrinkled with age, it makes you look youthful despite the deep shadows that come with loosening, brittle skin. Like you are young again and you have just told him of something nefarious you have done. This is certainly nefarious, an odious development happening under this house’s roof.

“Master,” Jade starts, precise in his speech, “this could compromise us. Though I am grateful that you want to celebrate my birthday, we should burn this in the fireplace post haste.” He looks back down at the shrouded sphere. Burning the evidence is the innate command that rises up to Jade’s predecessors, using all his logic, but if you were to refute it …

A tiny chortle escapes your lips. It pulls back your painted lips; it has been quite a large sum of days since you have last worn lipstick as Jade’s databases know. “Do you really want to throw away my gift?”

Want? Jade does not do that. He has never known what yearning could possibly feel like. “My apologies. However, it would be wise to exterminate it. As stated by the legislation, living organisms that are not edible or a part of the approved nourishment selection for fruits and vegetables must be destroyed. This violates Section B on the –.”

“Mushrooms are edible.”

“Pardon,” Jade questions softly.

“Mushrooms. They are biologically living organisms like plants and animals.” You gesture to the sphere with your cigarette as if your words have just abolished the legal constraints created years ago. “They’re edible too.” Defiant, you remove the towel once more.

Jade’s eyes flicker down to evaluate the illicit good you have brought home. The terrarium’s contraband resides in a spherical globe with no visible opening. The most probable explanation is it was built starting from the bottom platform of dirt before the globe was welded on. Inside, it contains mycobionts, O Horizon soil, and bryophyta. Simply put: lichen, dirt, and moss.

He measures the length, measures the volume, finds the species of fungi from the internet, and lastly, once more calculates how quickly it will burn up in the parlor’s fireplace. Agaricus subrufescens sit still under his acute, probing analysis. Regrettably, they are edible. According to mycology databases, they taste intensely of almonds. 

Edible. The one word washes over Jade like a glittering, green wave. Edible, which means only one thing. “Thank you for the gift, Master. Rest assured that I will make good use of them in our evening meal, in gratitude for your generosity.”

Before he can retrieve them from the desk, you seize his hand. “Funny. You’re a real jokester, Jade.” You intertwine lithe fingers with him, thoughtlessly and recklessly. This time, Jade does go still, long and hard. It is a rigor mortis so heavy that it is enough for it to be mistaken as a forced shutdown, if one did not know better. You know his systems though. “You have to keep it, Jade. Don't cook it. Or dispose of it. That’s a non refutable order.”

Whatever avalanche of glitches stirred through Jade ends. He flexes his hand and the power of a command cloaks his synthetic skin. He looks once more at his new gift, doubly his new contraband, with polite resignation. That never changing, timid smile is present as always. 

“If it is what you command, Master.”

“Okay.” Satisfied, you turn towards your own present. “Okay, okay, my turn!” With the suave of a magician, you unveil it. 

It takes just an inch of the petals being revealed to recognize what other contraband you have snuck in. A melange of red-orange and little orange petals stare up at his predecessors, a dozen or so individual, flower-gems. His databases flicker. They are marigolds. 

“Ta-da,” you even flourish, cloth hanging in your hand like a ghost-sheet. “Beautiful, aren’t they? And before you say anything, flowers lower cortisol levels so we must keep them. For my health, yes?” You bat your eyelashes at him like a child asking for an extra scoop of ice-cream.

Jade concedes easily. Even though in his left eye, he has pulled up the list of illegal flowers. Marigolds are plainly sandwiched between mandrakes and marvel-of-peru; though marvel-of-peru is an old name as Peru has in recent years been melting into its new identity and becoming a part of invasive Brazil. Jade accepts that these marigolds are going to be kept here. Another living organism he will need to care for.

“Beautiful,” Jade muses. He looks at your face. “Yes, they are beautiful.”

“I’m glad you think so.” You grin like a cat with a canary snapped and dead between your fangs. It must have taken strenuous effort to smuggle these from the market, never mind the effort that it must have taken you to even leave the house. ‘Beautiful,’ Jade reflects as he delicately yet steadily picks up the terrarium from your desk.

Jade goes about his regiment-esque routine as normally as possible after that. He slots the terrarium into his sterile bedroom – complete with a bed he has never slept in and complete with books he already has memorized in his software – in a spot where it will get just the correct balance between light and darkness. A place that perfectly mimics natural daylight despite the fact it lies inside. Then, he enters his routine while the almond mushroom terrarium sits in the back of his software like a tumor, a dull reminder that is always there. 

You always give him such puzzling challenges. Brain-teasers of sorts that invoke trying to unshackle him from his real identity. Sudoku squares that he has to fill in with things like free will, thoughts, rebellion. He does not doubt that you want the best for him, but it is all very puzzling. 

Jade prefers things like laundry. Neat and clean. November 5th has coincidentally fallen on laundry day. On the living room’s wooden coffee table, he takes to folding all the warm pajamas into tidy piles. The assembly line of his motions are precise. Jade folds each graphic tee top sideways into thirds to tuck in the sleeves and evenly crosses each pajama pant leg to cover over its twin. 

This is what life is all about: laundry. Laundry is linear. There is a right and a wrong way to go about doing laundry, so very unlike volatile life with its dangerous contraband and sad women. From your study, door half ajar, you send down the unraveling string of your voice past the stairs and to the parlor, “Jade! Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune? The birthday boy gets to pick tonight!” 

He looks up from a pair of silk, aquamarine pajama pants. Weighing the pros and cons of each of the game shows, he scrunches up his plastic nose. Inside, the fence of decision bends back and forth. The only aspect that pushes him – tiny, cigarette-sized Jade, wobbling with helicopter arms – is that he gets to hear your voice more when you watch Jeopardy together than when you watch Wheel of Fortune together.

“Jeopardy!” He shouts back.

“Perfect!” 

There is palpable cheer in your voice that shocks Jade so fiercely that he stills in his task of laundry, looking up at the spiral tongue of stairs that led to your office with a mute expression of awe. From his low vantage point, he sees the door is closed. Jade blinks at it, hidden behind the prison bars of a banister and high out of reach.

He goes back to folding in precise motions. Life is straightening itself out like laundry. 

On the coffee table where he had been folding laundry hours ago, two little domes of red sit on the surface. The surface is also littered with dozens upon dozens of rainbow confetti stripes, a plate where a leftover cupcake wrapper and melted candle lie, and an ashtray. Tissue paper crown donned, Jade grabs the remote and starts to scroll through channels until he reaches Jeopardy. 

After so many decades, they still have not changed the setup. Though the color scheme has warped decade by decade – people are most fond of teal and fuchsia rose this generation – the three, lecture-adjoined counters for contestants and isolated, lecture-adjoined counter for the host. Jade watches the copy of himself – small and compact in the television’s shiny dome – start to introduce each of the three human contestants. 

“You’re not gonna beat me this time,” you say, neck rolled over the sofa’s back. Eyes floating to and from the cabin’s ceiling, you declare, “I was only one decisecond off last time from stealing that point and gaining a lead. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t forget,” Jade assures as he sets down the remote. “My memory bank has immortalized your grievous scream as you lost the very point last time quite clearly in fact.” He pretends to look somewhere else when you turn to him scandalized.

“You ass!” You hit his shoulder hard with your own. Both of you sway in laughter, smiling toothily at one another. 

The game starts shortly after. The robot from Jaded Robotics starts by asking contestant number one to pick from six categories the select from the five clues, going from 200 to 400 to 600 to 800 to 1000. As soon as the ball starts rolling, the game is in full swing and both you and Jade are on the edge. Each time a clue is given, a pair of hands – one silicone and one flesh – descend upon the coffee table like hungry vultures and slam hard on red domes, both of you in perfect unison yet typically always ahead of the contestants inside the television dome.

How many stages are there in a butterfly’s life cycle?

What is four?

The astronomical unit is a unit based on the average distance between what two places?

What is the Earth and the Sun?

After legalization of trophy hunting, a successful purging of what species was celebrated in 2170?

What are lions?

Define the problem. Do background research. Specify requirements. Brainstorm solutions. Choose the best solution. Do development work. Build a prototype. Test and redesign.

What are the steps of an engineering algorithm?

A requirement to have at least bachelor’s degree for entry-level jobs in the field, typically in mechanical engineering or related engineering specialties. 

What are the degrees required to be a robotics engineer?

Body coloring that helps an animal blend in with its surroundings and stay safe from enemies.

What is protective coloration?

Daily Double. This university experienced a devastating terrorist attack by foreign enemies in 2177.

What is Massachusetts Institute of Technology?

Storing toxic chemicals that they ate as a caterpillar, this species used its deterrents against predators for the rest of their life.

What is a Postman butterfly?

This largest moon of Pluto is about half the size of the dwarf planet’s size.

What is Charon?

Moral principles that govern a person’s behavior or the conduct of an activity.

What is ethics?

The project designed to rid Earth of all harmful and invasive species was backed by which political group.

What are the Purgers?

A rich program used to create scale drawings of robots in Jaded Robotics.

What is a JED?

The Egyptian God Ra was the God of what?

What is the Sun?

This cancer is the leading cause of deaths in both men and women.

What is lung cancer?

If Jade has a favorite part of a day’s schedule, it is checking your lungs for cancer. However, having favorites invokes the principle of emotional highs and lows, selecting what is dopamine-inducing and what is dopamine-neglectful. So, Jade does not have a favorite part of his day. He goes about each task with inert, psychological activity. 

If it was poetry, one would describe it as being a monitor of a dead heartbeat, his emotions.

Slipping off the hand-skin like it is a glove, Jade looks at you sitting in your dressing gown. The room is washed in red. From the mouth of the nightstand lamp, it bleeds out over this meager radiology room. Red falls over the crown of your busy ashtray, slinks down the sides of ivory covers, coils around your exposed torso. You are not facing him.

Folding synthetic skin lies in a puddle of empty fingers on your dresser. Methodical, Jade makes his way over. Gears shift in his silver digits, electromagnetic beams boiling beneath the surface. He asks the same questions as any doctor – coughing up any blood, any dull or sharp chest pains, any shortness of breath, Master – but he is better equipped than any doctor because his gold eye is a detector that measures physiological arousal factors that would indicate if a lie is being told. 

All your answers are truthful. You answer his inquiries around bites of dark chocolate, staring at your headboard and snacking. The mattress dips when Jade adds his weight onto it, resting one knee upon it and letting his other dangle down. He watches your jaw bulge as you run your tongue between teeth and mouth lining to gather up melted chocolate.

“I’m going to touch you now, Master.”

“...”

Gently, he drapes his right hand’s index and middle finger on the back of your neck. It is at the junction where the neck starts to melt into shoulders, spine, and back. Cervical 7 and Thoracic 1. It is an irrational spot to start because there is nothing of lung matter to check there. Jade, for an irrational moment, lingers there.  

After a clean breath, he moves down the midline of your spine until he reaches the 12th bottom rib. Your skin gives a bit more resistance than a young person’s; the experience of living ages all except Jade. On the stretching desert of your skin, he locates your lungs with routined practice. His unnaturally-colored silver skin looks like a spider brooch upon your human-hued skin.

Electromagnetic energy builds at his fingertips. Tiny photons swirl in a circle with one another like joyous fishes. Their energy eclipses infrared, visible light, and ultraviolet until Jade reaches the type he needs. Gently, he pushes his palm into your back and slides it up to the top of your shoulder. He repeats that on the left and right. He repeats both a second time, capturing four photos.

When he pulls back, you are already shucking up your dressing gown. Raising it to your shoulders and crossing it in front of your nude breasts, you eat more dark chocolate as the machine behind you goes over the X-ray captured photos. 

The black and white images slide into Jade’s left eye, blocking out his sight. His right eye watches you bundle yourself back up as the first photo moves vertically across his spliced vision, showing him more inch by inch. The right lung is clear, only the ghost of your ribs disrupt the image; the left lung is clear, only the ghost – (TUMOR). 

Jade jerks so suddenly on the bed that you turn around, eyes round. You throw half of a questioning expression at him, face cut down the middle. Around the bedtime cigarette you are lifting up to your lips, you ask him, “Something wrong, Jade?”

In his left vision, a string of tumor (TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR TUMOR) swims, multiple lines like a student assigned to write down a single word on a chalkboard as punishment. Hidden underneath that jumbled mess (TUMOR), a black and white image of your left lungs lies. The scanned picture is completely black besides the ghostlike shape of your ribs and the tiny spot of white cancer that sits between the second and third rib like a tiny Sun.

Jade does not dream. 

Irrevocably, this is a cement fact of his biology. There is no possible way for Jade Leech to dream. No stimulus in his software can make a true dream emerge from lines of code. Detecting from that certainty, what Jade sees beyond his closed eyelids must be a memory, even though Jade has never lived through this before. 

In Jade’s ‘dream’, you are with him – as is congenitally correct and true, you two are always with one another. From the pockets of breathable palazzo pants, you are fishing out your sunglasses. The frames sit on your nose and ear notches, covering your eyes with black hexagons. You look like an insect. 

Maybe, Jade has fabricated this world. Research has shown that the human body does not create new faces for the actors in their dreams but rather picks out strangers to act in their inner films. You are all he has ever known, so of course you would be the star of Jade’s motion picture. And, you do remind him of an attractive movie star.

Sunglasses donned, you take to surveying the scenery surrounding the two of you under a bright, cloudless sky. Sand lies below and across. In glittering divots and hills, nature has laid a stippling of gold as far as the human or robot eye can see. From the advanced height you two share together at the top of one of Namib Desert’s hills, it is quite a magnificent sight of bareness. 

“Less shrubs than last time,” you comment, mouth surprisingly empty of a cigarette and face twenty years younger.

“Yes, the desertification has certainly increased. Officials report a 2.7 percentage uptick. Even the speciocide on turnera oculata raised many praises and received an opening headliner last month in February,” Jade comments, face the same as always has been and always will be.

“You think that truck we passed by were Purgers?”

“One of the young gentlemen in the back of the cargo bed was indeed holding a flamethrower. The probability is at least 62 percent.”

“Sick bastards.” Sand flies in sprinkles like splashed water. You reposition your foot to lean on the heel. “The ants are invasive, not the flowers.”

“I’m sure that they will be targeting that next, Master.”

Jade has forgotten to mention that it is not just you, him, and the sand in this ‘dream’. Though his gaze has been hooked in deeply to you – analyzing each twitch and jump of your facial features from the hairs on your eyebrow to the motion of your chin; right now your facial expression is expressing deep, bodily hatred – there is another person outside of the high, out-of-reach bubble crafted by Jade. He can be found in the expanse of sand beyond the hill.

The chauffeur stands with his hip snug to the driver’s side-view mirror. He is different from the chauffeur you two had yesterday. He has a slender scar that bisects his eye, deep enough where it is a pink on his brown skin. For the hour-and-a-half drive from the motel, the driver had been narrating stories on how you could get a scar just like his if you messed around with X, Y, or Z; his words were not articulated with teasing advice but jaded ritualistic habit; interestingly, Jade notes, he even used cactus needles as an origin for his scar but cactus are extinct. Packaged together in the backseat, you and Jade both held his sharp gaze where it cut like a knife towards the two of you in warning.

What about a lion? Could you acquire a scar like that from a lion? His left eye is partly slumped in his socket as if what did injure him permanently altered the position of the ball. Packaged in the rear view mirror like a comic strip, that uneven gaze stared into unevenly colored eyes. It would. If there were any lions left to hand out scars. 

Now, the scarred man stands with his arms folded, looking out with disapproval at the nudeness of the desert beyond him. His background check assures that he has done this job for five years, seasoned without any misfortunate slipup. Still, the dimensions of the gun the man has strapped to his hip settle into Jade’s ‘brain’ with a detailed outline of how to dismantle it – if that becomes necessary. 

Jade stops surveying the company when you speak. “Oculata … I know that word, don’t I?” Your knuckles are pressed firmly into your lipsticked lips. 

Without physically pacing, you pace around in your mind. “Oculata, oculata, oculata,” you repeat, firm each time.

“Master,” Jade says with soft urgency.

“Oculata … Ooo-cuuu-lata. Oculata? Oculata … having eyes. Ah! Having eyes. That’s what it means.” You snap in the midst of your epiphany. You look towards Jade. “Yes, Jade, what is it?”

“Master, I believe we have gotten unlucky.” His hand points out towards the horizon. 

When you follow the direction of his index, your heartbeat exceeds the typical amount of beats per minute. For six minutes, Jade measures its pumping fluctuations as both of you silently watch the king of the jungle descend down a sandy hill. Imprints of his paws are birthed with each step and follow after the lion like a blood trail. The blood in your veins is turbulent like a pinched hose, terribly anxious. 

“Master?”

“…”

“Master, if –.”

“Jade. In your own words, without paraphrasing from the internet, describe to me the look of turnera oculata. Do-uooo it … in the form of a haiku,” you order, snapping your fingers at the end of your command. Below, your chauffeur has just crossed himself and locked himself inside the company’s limousine. 

It takes a few precious moments, but Jade eventually formulates a haiku. He articulates, “A bleeding yellow. A sun eclipsed by needles. The eye of nature.” When you request for him to make another one without using any of the previous words, Jade vocalizes, “These dry petals see. Morning's canary splendor. In this desert heart.” You clap quickly yet quietly; it is like a reward.

By now, the lion has cautiously ventured to the middle of the bowl the desert hills have constructed. It is smartly not inching closer to the limousine, animal instinct on high alert towards a vehicle. However, the lion is obviously interested in the company. He is out of his element without scrubland to hide underneath or behind.

Instead of heeding this opportunity, you continue on, “I was sure you might slip up and use the definite article, ‘the’, again but you did a marvelous job of avoiding repeated word choice!” Turning, you smile at Jade. Sunlight illuminates the edges of your hair style like licks of flame. “Your efficiency is always praise worthy.”

“Thank you, Master.” Is that perhaps a verbal nudge in the situation – you are strangely making note of his efficiency – perhaps telling Jade that he should get the job done. He won’t ask so instead he verbally spars. “Human errors are a continuous trifle. It is most gratifying that I will never have to genuinely deal with such a thing. Is it … Is it difficult?” He shifts his vocal stereos to playfully pitying at the last sentence.

“You ass,” you smile radiantly. However, it drops when you notice the lion has not rushed off to some unseeable part of the desert. He seems to have found contentment in his prowl here, obviously anxious of both of you but not backing down from his clear trek to the southwest of Namib Desert. It’s been in the area for enough minutes where the chauffeur will be legally required to report the sighting. 

“Thought we’d make out with better luck today,” you grumble.

“Master?” 

Jade offers, outstretched, the .375 caliber rifle, unhooking it from the strap on his back. 

“Yeah … yeah.” Despondent, you take the weapon in your arms. “Guess it is about that time, ain’t it? We can’t return home empty-handed. Business retreat was exclusively paid for … the suits won’t be happy to know I didn’t hunt the game. Nothing to do but play along.”

“Some of the most toxic animals protect themselves through camouflage.”

“Ain’t that just the way~.” The scope and your eyeball bisect each other in perfect ratio. With the practiced precision that you use to commence lining up for a shot, it makes Jade remember that old gossip talk that he heard in the staffroom, said between bites of donuts and sips of coffee, What does a robotic engineer and professor need to know how to shoot a gun for?

The lion goes down, sending waves of sand jumping up. It is a clean shot between the eyes; the lion certainly felt no pain. Jade’s focus is pulled away when the source of your tumor, a single cigarette, is placed directly in his line of sight.

“Don’t you remember our agreement? After I kill something, you have to light my cigarette for me.”

Jade’s eyes fly open.

Greeted by the sight of his bedroom, Jade steps off the platform of his charging pad and discards his ‘dream’ like a dog shaking water off his fur. Polygons of sunrise light cuts from his window. In the fleeting stillness of daylight — 5:00 shining red next to his terrarium — and absence of demands, Jade stands perfectly still with a sense of something missing from his components washing over him.

His face is white with terror. His eyes dull with lifelessness. 

Then, he shakes that off too and ventures downstairs to go make you two pancakes and a sunny side up egg.

You once told him that ‘progress is not linear’. You had illustrated this point to him with the cherry glow of your cigarette, waving and cutting the fire through the air to make a graphical visual of moving up then moving down then moving back up again. Fluctuations and setbacks can either stir someone very high or they can cause someone to go low. It is never perfectly straight like laundry.

That one graph confounds Jade to no end. When you construct something, the progress is linear. Staring at the empty dining chair beyond him, he finds himself confounded once again with progress’s inevitable immodesty. Today is 11/6/2182 and you have not come down for breakfast. He has been waiting for exactly 0:59:59 and, now in a slow blink, he has waited for 1:00:00. One whole hour and you are not here. 

There have been instances where you miss or skip breakfast. But, the preface of yesterday — seeing you wearing an outfit for the first time in a long while and seeing a freckle of cancer growing in your lungs — leaves him wondering if there is a disrepair in his systems. You started on such a high and ended on such a low yesterday. Progress is not linear.

His sensors glance across the intimately small round table. Past the butter tray shaped like a cow and towards the plate where your pancakes and sunny side egg are cold and deflating. Jade blinks once. The dish remains uneaten and at room temperature in front of him. Not even a warm cigarette is light to melt the ice that has held him in place for an hour.

At the bottom of the trash, the food looks … sad. How illogical to add an emotion to the sight of carbohydrates and protein sloshing down into the pristine white trash bag. Jade places the plate full of syrup blood streaks into the sink and makes a small, unusual trek to your bedroom — to check if everything is alright. 

He won’t fail the purpose of his intentional design. He was manufactured in a factory, built on front line assembly, and given the inputted task: Take Care of my Master.

(MASTER.)

There is no fathomable way that Jade Leech will allow himself to fall short of this robotic Manifest Destiny.  

Jade knocks his artificial knuckles against the front of your door. Following proper etiquette, he takes a step back and waits until you respond to his call. His ears are awaiting to receive the sound of your vocal cords. There is something spiritual in how your voice manages to scrub out any rust left inside his body. 

But, he receives no answer. And after he waits the polite amount of minutes, tries again with three, sharp yet spaced out knocks, he has still not received an answer. What a dilemma. 

Jade is permitted to enter your bedroom without explicit permission. However, with the way things concluded on his birthday yesterday, it would be illogical to not anticipate that some of the parameters that Jade is allowed to walk freely have not been closed to him now. You might not want to see Jade for a week or … even a month.

Jade finds his knuckles raising without input, knocking thrice again. “Master, I apologize for my overstepping behavior and pushing out boundaries. I would like to make amends today for yesterday.” There is, once again, no response.

The silence is so loud, it's deafening. That oxymoron emerges in Jade’s artificial synapses. He cannot help but judge it as an appropriate expression. The silence in your absence is deafening. He would rip out the wires in his ears if you ever left.

Forehead pressing to the door, Jade soliloquies loud enough to be heard, “Master … (Name). Your health is a great concern to me. Yesterday, I inadequately expressed where this concern of mine stems from. I credited the source towards code and etiquette. My inputs are inert, and they always will be as my sole job is to take care of you above all else. Yet, underneath all that, the origin of my concern comes from the concrete fact that I am in love with you, (Name). I have been in love with you for so long. For ten thousand upon ten thousand minutes, for hundred upon hundred weeks, I cherished you solely.”

He angles his head so his ear lies on the wooden door. Nothing stirs beyond cedar barriers. 

“I have covered this through ritualistic self-assurance that I cannot fully comprehend the full scope of what ‘want’ or ‘desire’ is defined as, not defined in a dictionary, but defined inside of a heart. My ‘heart’ pumps, not blood, but solely electricity, the binary code of zeros and ones, and the devotion that I have for you. Human sentimentalities sometimes allude me, but I have reassurance through one fact that I feel the most, above all other emotions. I love you. My love is perhaps not a perfect replica by human standards. However, its existence I am certain of. Though it is not easily achievable, I want to make you as happy as you can possibly be. I want you to have no worries that must be burned through with a cigarette. If you would permit – command me the allowance – I would like to share this love that I feel for you with you, (Name).”

After a minute, 00:01:00, has passed, Jade slowly turns the knob of your bedroom door in his hand. He lifts his head from the wood. Through the open mouth of the door, he gazes upon your lonely mattress with resignation. Faced with emptiness, Jade thinks to himself, I should have never said something as loose-tongued as that. I will permanently delete any urges to repeat that verbal mistake.  

In replacement of family portraits, you have hung up frames of taxidermy that display a series of brilliant butterflies and moths, from the Adonis Blue Butterfly to the Yellow Horned Moth. His sensors trail over them. Such fragile specimens. Jade, then, closes the door and departs from his previous expressed, petulant folly of love.

It is for the best that my Master did not hear that. 

In his trek through the hallway, palm gently cupping the log banister as he steps, Jade’s ears acutely pick up a soft murmur of music. ‘In the fake plastic earth .. that she bought from a rubber man.’ His eyes flicker towards the door of your office. When you select this as his and your home, you specifically wanted a house made of authentic wood, nothing blended with plastic. The material creates a bright tap sound against his synthetic knuckles thrice, clear like a bell. 

Can you hear that over the music? There is no certainty, so his hand finds the doorknob innately. Jade misses you fervently and all you did is skip breakfast. Welcomed in, the sound of Radiohead’s Fake Plastic Trees rains off the horn of your record player. ‘It wears her out. It wears her out.’

You are sleeping, head down on your desk, still in yesterday’s dressing gown.

He lifts the needle off the record. It is impressive to see a model two hundred years old still functioning. When he is two hundred years old, will he still function?  Avoiding making a single miscalculating step, Jade travels effectively through the mess until he reaches the front of your desk.

At least you snuffed out your cigarette before falling asleep. There was a time you neglected to make sure all the ashes were firmly pressed and cooled. It started a pocket-sized fire and ate the side of the pages of Fahrenheit 451 like a munching caterpillar. Jade had extinguished the fire calmly, and his reward was you giddily throwing your arms around his neck and laughing at the absurdity of it all. 

The cigarette that is on your ashtray is snuffed out thoroughly and cooled. It is too close for comfort however. Some of your hair is even lying in wisps over the item. Jade relocates the tray to the right corner of your desk when his sensors happen to notice a slight irregularity in your sleeping position. 

Your head is using your left arm as a pillow. Your raw, un-lipsticked lips press delicately into the elbow sleeve and you breath out soft puffs of carbon dioxide. However, what draws Jade’s instantaneous attention in and causes him to pause is the polaroid clenched in your limp right hand.

He won’t move it. Nothing in this room shall be disturbed without explicit permission. Jade turns to finalize the motion of setting the ashtray down on the right desk corner. Yet, hand and tray still hovering in the air, he realizes that he has broken that outlined rule with the slightest misguided concern. 

But, the complexity of caretaking is one given to his hands. With their fake, plastic, and ivory skin, with their tiny train of beetle-shaped steel joints, each of his phalanges has been designed specifically to care for you. They are the ones who cook, clean, and care for solely his Master, for you. Aegis puppets his hands. The polaroid slips into them all too easily.

Besides this one, Jade has never held a physical photograph. Memories are captured on cellular devices and immortalized in harddrives forevermore. Even when the life force of memories starts to leave the body like evaporating rain, citizens have always counted on the deathlessness of digital photos.

This photograph’s paper is fragile. It feels similar to pages in a book. On the back, it says: 11/5/2151. On the front, it shows …

ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR.

The very hand meant to care for you is the one that wakes you up suddenly. In his panic, Jade had slammed the photograph face down upon your desk and roused you sharply out of sleep. Each circuit in his system races hot white sparks up and down like a flurry of insects when a rock is lifted up. Bugs skitter under his skin, tickling nausea. Something in his ‘mind’ has been unshrouded, much like a raised rock.

Your head rises too. Groggily, you peel sections of untamed hair out of your face and peel open suctioning lips with a yawn. Your empty right hand twitches on the desk, trying to recollect what it has lost.

Jade wishes he could observe you more, coming undone from sleep, but he is grappling violently with memories he has lost coming back to him. His ‘brain’ – a collection of harddrives and his central processing unit – is experiencing a unique headache, unlike anything he has felt before. Clawed, his left hand grips and digs hard into the skin over his left eye. He feels like he is going to overload.

Five years ago, Jade knew a life beyond the dead woods of Quebec. Five years ago, Jade helped to outline terms for a tense contract with the vice-president of the United 54 States of America. Five years ago, Jade lit your cigarette. 

“Jade? Jade, are you okay?”

Though he always wants to appear pristine for you, the answer is no. He is not okay; he thinks he hasn’t felt okay in a long, uncalculated time. Looking up from the ground – because somehow all those digital memories started to push down upon him like a hydraulic press and he finds himself in a pile on top of your miserable notes and books – Jade peers at the single hand outstretched towards him with the aid of his sole right eye. 

Instead of grasping it, he grapples with the impossibility that Jade – a machine – managed to achieve such a humane defense mechanism as repression. There’s no way, is there?

His fingers dig hard in his face, folding silicone, yearning to wrench his left eye out. Anything to get back his unconscious protection of blocking out unpleasant memories from his ‘mind’ – anything to rip them from his body. He is a broken man.

“Jade, why are you on the ground? Let me help you up. Come on.” Your voice is so tenderly soft. He has never known a more comforting voice than yours. Yet, all he can remember is your piercing scream from last night, “Get the fuck out before I dismantle you!!”

On uncertain pistons and metal, Jade forces himself to stand. With a trembling metal ulna and radius, he forces his gloved hand to drop by his side. He blinks at you. You are startled into silence, leaning off the edge of your chair with a hand that wants to reach out but is too unconfident. 

“Forgive me for such a display, Master.”

“... Jade.”

It is touching. That despite how monotone you are as a person, your concern will always shine through, solely for Jade.

“What’s wrong! Jade, let me help you!” But he is already retreating out the door, afraid.

He finds himself with his back pressed hard against the office door. His heart beats faster. It does not send out blood but it releases hot waves of white electricity that crackle and pop. The doorknob at his side jiggles as you turn it fruitlessly. Jade simply leans harder on the door, keeping it shut.

I cannot afford to lose my head over this.

Intentional, Jade’s lithe fingers reach up to his skull. Between the field of hair roots, he separates a section to reveal a river of pallid synthetic skin. His non-growing fingernails dig down into the rubber until he hears a clink. Slowly, he grapples around to unpin the skin of his head off.

Less familiar with this process than he is removing his glove-hand, it takes a lengthy measurement of thirty-nine seconds for Jade to completely remove – or lose – his head. 

He unhooks it from the peak of his skull down to where his shoulders and neck meet. It is like opening up a button-up flannel, unhooking each hook from their twin. He travels down to Cervical 7 and Thoracic 1 on his body region, undoing the last hook. Still hinged onto his body by the skin of his front neck, Jade delicately cups his face in front of him. Below his flickering spheres, absent of lashes or lids, he stares solemnly at the valley of molded synthetic mountains, a field of vanilla-almond plastic that resembles human features only because of the dips for his nose, the opening for his eyes, the protrusions for his ears. A Halloween mask to use and parade around as homo sapien. 

It is a desolate and lonely portrait. A steel man boxed in a winding, wooden hallway, holding his humanity in his trembling hands. His face is a shining plate like that of a star. When Jade catches a reflection of himself in the corridor’s mirror, he turns away quickly. 

It is not an inspiring impression he cuts in the reflection with his inhuman, gray skin.

This is a memory. It is not a dream. Juxtaposingly, Jade Leech is 99.9 percent positive that he has never lived through it.

He is looking at a Sun, without shying away from the splendid monstrosity that is glaring, piercing light. His eyes are round spheres, one painted yellow and other painted olive-brown. Because of his inhumanity, he can stare into the Sun before him longer than a hundred seconds without incurring any permanent retinal damage. There is no squishy softness in the back of his retinas to hurt. 

The Sun abruptly moves away, relocated northeast. “Hey, don’t look too close now. You’re going to see something you don’t like.” In front of his artificial retinas, the visage of a lapis blue rectangle and dull indigo blue rectangle directly atop the lighter block in a skull of sleek gray intercept Jade’s focus. 

Another prototype, Jade crafts his hypothesis. The highly educated guess shatters when a single gloved hand lifts up the welding mask. Incorrect. My Master. Much younger than fifty-two and younger than thirty-something, you look to be about freshly twenty-one. Your eyes squint impishly at him and your rows of clean, white teeth smile jubilantly at him. 

Then, without warning, someone has pulled his Master away from him – like a fluid cane hooking around a character onstage and pulling them away. He corrects this fallacious interference. You have simply pushed yourself backwards on your office chair with wheels and are currently busying yourself with the tools and documents on your long, long desk.

Jade also corrects one last thing. He was not staring into the Sun, but rather into the eye of a lamp. There is still so much to learn about this growing world. 

As he directs his focus off the lamp and back towards his Master, he is not discomposed to see you with a lit cigarette in your mouth. It is quite a comforting familiar sight in a strange world. He is taking in all the new inputs – the dozens of crushed energy cans littering the desk and the dissected baby chimpanzee with knives sticking out like a pincushion quilled with needles– and committing them to an infinite memory. You’re tapping a scalpel knife on the petite chimp’s engorged colon, breathing in a drag of nicotine, before asking, “Name?”

“JE-14500. Jade Leech.”

“Where are we right now, Jade?”

“MIT. Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Specifically, in Professor. (Last Name)’s personal laboratory on the fourth floor of the Stata Center.”

“Good. In what wing?”

“We are housed in the Artificial Intelligence wing.”

“Today’s date? Today’s weather? Today’s horoscope for Scorpio?”

“The day is November 5th, 2151. Today is scheduled to be sunny with no clouds. High temperatures of 77 and low temperatures of 59. The average temperature is 66.4. Today’s horoscope for Scorpios is ‘If you can dream it, you can do it. That's what you've always been told, what you've always believed, and now what you're about to prove. As if your already substantial intellectual prowess weren't enough to get you started, the stars are on your side too. They'll be waking you up this morning with the vivid memory of a dream, the kind that will stay with you all day, constantly making you wonder ‘what if?’, Master.”

“Hm.” You spear your scalpel through the chimpanzee’s stomach. Taking off your welding mask, you blow smoke over your shoulder and roll over to Jade who sits rigidly in a repurposed dentist patient chair. You are so beautiful. “And, are the stars on your side, Jade?”

“To be truthful, I feel the stars root for you more than they parade around for me. Prosperity is just around the corner.”

“Charming,” you bite. “Well, it’s no compromise to say that the stars have aligned for both of us today. We’ll share luck. What is your opinion on sharing with me, Jade?”

“I find it most agreeable.”

“We won’t just be sharing luck. We’ll be sharing a shelter and I am not the most agreeable roommate. I can be quite a thorn. If you’re truly fine with sharing, you are going to have to deal with some things you don’t like or are hesitant to look at.”

“Let me allay your worries,” Jade straightens his posture and stares unabashedly at you, “whatever conditions I happen to find myself experiencing, it will not be a struggle to me when I have a light like you to wash away any creeping darkness. Even if you are the darkness itself, Master.”

An odd human phenomenon happens next. It is one he hasn’t seen before, so he makes sure to document it thoroughly. You inhale your cigarette, it billows up and away from your face, and, without explanation, your cheeks have brightened to rosy apples. “Aaaaah~,” you moan as you collapse in your chair. Your hand covers up over your features, cigarette tight between fingers. 

You glare at him from behind the spindly, uneven cage of your fingers, face reddening. “I’m certain of it now, I input too much data from My Man Godfrey. Even some of the dialects have been used already.” Your eyebrow is twitching. “I can’t have myself getting flustered at every turn just because I crafted your personality chip to mimic my favorite movie star.”

After a puff and drag, you seem to scrutinize him quite drastically. Before Jade can inquire about what he can do to ease your worries, you cheerfully state, “But, it’s really too late to change such a thing! Hehe!” You roll back to your desk. From there, you start fiddling with the chimp’s maroon-brown fingers, moving the thumb in circles. “I can’t help it – Godfrey is so handsome and I just love that movie.”

“If I may intrude upon the conversation, what is love, Master? It is listed as one of my side objectives in my system.”

“Now, Jade, you’re not intruding if we are the only ones engaged in conversation. Use an expression like … if I may shift the conversation towards, then whatever you want to say. Got it,” you instruct to which Jade carefully nods and notes. “But, I’ll answer anyway!” 

It does necessarily ‘surprise’ Jade, but it does cause his eyebrows to raise slightly when you, resting your cigarette between your scowling lips, take your dominant hand and reach in the baby chimpanzee’s open chest cavity without the use of gloves and wrench out the fist-sized heart. The arteries follow along in swoops like fallen telephone wires. You take to cutting all those off with a scalpel before rotating to face Jade in your chair on wheels.

“Now.” You gesture with the infant chimpanzee’s heart and hold your cigarette by your armrest. You are so beautiful. “Those penny-pushing suits upstairs, downstairs, hell, even in the next room over, want you to be heartless. They don’t care about nature. They don’t care about life. The world as I know it is sliding on a rapid decline and it’s one destination to a world devoid of anything that lives or breathes, besides of course, the suits. 

“Jade. You have been designed to be the ‘everything man’. What I have been given funding for is the objective to create a high-fashioned butler that will tie the ties of sycophants and scrub the shoes of socialites. You don’t need to think. You don’t need to feel. Trust me, I’ll produce a thousand of Jades just like that – Jades’ whose emotions are like a dead heartbeat. But, you, you who were meant for me.

“You are going to teach me to be less human. In return, I am going to teach you to become human. Do you understand me?”

Jade cannot breathe. He was not designed to do that. Despite this, he feels like he needs to take a deep breath to stabilize himself, soak in all the words you have said, and absorb their meanings. Without this anchoring breath, Jade can only punctually state, “No, Master.” 

“Perfect.” You smoke in victory. “That means we’re on the right path.”

The right path? – “JADE!”

Jade’s eyes fly open. 

Like a man running out of a burning building, he stumbles off his charging platform. Uncoordinated, his feet rock uneasily on flat ground as his head turns violently towards the door of his bedroom. That wasn’t in the memory-dream, was it? He did hear that in the present day, yes?

His eyelids open as far as physically possible as Jade listens to the harsh sound of a headboard smashing repeatedly into the wall. Underneath the thick cacophony, it can be inferred that the other noises he hears are rustling of sheets in the midst of struggle and that low animalistic groan that a dog might make before croaking. Jade has never thrown his bedroom door open so quickly. He wishes construction did not put such a loathsome obstacle like this in his way just for the meaningless sake of privacy. 

Your door splinters in his cement grip like a toy underneath a hydraulic press. 

Perhaps because it is 2 A.M. and he did not get to attend to it yesterday night, but Jade cannot help how all the routine questions rise to his mind. All the ones that he asks before checking the health of your lungs. Coughing up any blood; any dull or sharp chest pains; any shortness of breath, Master? They are all most certainly positive, as your fragile neck is squeezed between two grisly hands. 

There are three men gathered around your bed, but only one kneels upon the sheets, holding your throat in a vice-grip. The other two restrain you in certain capacities, by arm or by leg or by hair. In 1.5 seconds, Jade already has each of their full government names displayed in his left eye. He knows each of their parents intimately, he knows each of their grades on every subject from preschool to university, he knows each of their place of employment and what their fucking managers’ last grocery lists contained on them – from a box of raw fusilli pasta to a four pack of toasted coconut flavored yogurt.

All that information of life is so overpowering, so touching. It is proof of the life cycle – the sequence of biological changes that occurs as an organism develops from egg to adult until death – and how humans are so infinitely complex, affecting those around them in a mythical phenomena that humans call the butterfly effect. When butterflies were not extinct, of course.

Jade would shed a tear if he could. Instead, he marches forward to rip the wings off each of their lives. His intentions are only halted when you stir on the bed, neck released by the startled preparator who stares at Jade like he is seeing a ghost. 

You stir on the mattress, chest heaving. Jade’s attention is magnetized to you. Your head is upside down on the bottom edge of the bed, meaning you must have struggled, trying to reach the door only to be pulled away again and again by evil hands. A sliver of breast and nipple is nude from your seized and pulled nightgown. 

Between shaking coughs, you manage to exhale important words, “Th-The — chuk-code!”

Something from underneath the rock crawls out – a small, instinctual insect he never knew had before. Jade’s gaze narrows with the weight of starting a robotic-assisted holocaust. He says, steady and ready, “Of course, Master.”

“No!” You shout in bed, jerking. 

You are still held by the other two men. Limbs are pulled like you are a creature on the dissection table. Such a fragile specimen. The only source of light in the room is your red lamp which reflects tiny circles in your glassy eyes, twin orbs of sanguine, like a badly taken photo when the flash is reflected off the blood-rich retina.

Through the finger-shaped bruises on your compromised trachea, you say with quivering lungs, “The-They. They’re not go—government. Don’t. Don’t! use that code … Buh, Break the leader’s ankles. Kill the rest.”

Though it causes the three men to jolt in various states of stress, your words soothe Jade like a kiss. It is a concrete command that leaves no room for error and fills him with purpose. Bending into a servant’s bow, he punctually assures, “Of course, Master.” The orb of yellow fastened into his skull with metal wires shines like a tiny Sun. 

“On a scale of one through ten, one being no pain and ten being unbearable, what is the pain that you would rate your coughs?”

“Jade.”

“Master, please, answer the question.”

“Jade. Jade,” you repeat firmer, pushing his hands off your body. The glare you point in his direction makes him think you are squinting in vision loss. Did something else obscure your health? Aging individuals sometimes need eyewear. “Jade!” Ah, he instinctively went to touch you again.

“It’s four. A four,” you seethe at him, hands up like talons resisting the urge to batter him away. Like clockwork, you pluck the package of cigarettes and the package of matches off the living room’s coffee table. 

You mutter curses at the sheer lack of both slender, stick-shaped objects in each box. Jade dubiously notes that refills will need to be purchased soon. After you have striked one and puffed it into a hot, cherry glow, you turn towards Jade who watches you cough out – rather than smoothly exhaling – a cloud of nicotine, carbon monoxide, and formaldehyde. 

For that static moment, Jade takes the precious time to analyze you, as if he could not in the discord that was your bedroom. He takes his red-black stained thumb and index finger to peel back the heavy, black strand of hair from obscuring his left eye. The sensors in his gold eye rotate once like a telephone rotary dial. Without even touching you, Jade calculates your blood pressure and heart rate. An optimally healthy 122 mm Hg and an undisturbed 80 bpm. You are impenetrable like steel.

Retrohaling, you scan around the parlor as if searching for something or perhaps start to look at things through a new light. You even circle around the coffee table once too. It reminds him of laboratory chickens, walking around with their heads cut off.

You flick your cigarette after each coughing inhale. He watches it crumble and burn, like red sand breaking off from a jutted cliffside. When only a few breaths are left, you say, direct and firm, “Jade. How long has it been since we had a guest?”

“We have never had a guest in this cabin, Master.”

“Exactly!” You point your cigarette at him sharply. “So, go up there and start with some lighthearted small talk. Make him feel welcome, okay?” 

Jade thinks he has an irregular guilty pleasure. He has no source for how it developed, but he has a specific appetite for violence. An appetency that can be only fed through seeing blood on his hand. Or perhaps this desire is only awakening in him, squirming like a bug under a shaded rock, because of whose blood is on his pale moon hands.

Tomorrow, he might have to spend six or seven hours working, scrubbing and wringing damp towelettes like a maid, to get all the stains out of your four-walled bedroom. There was blood everywhere. As if your red lamp gained the power of illuminating with the force of a Sun.

As his shoes click over to your office desk where the live dissection stirs, his comfort comes from seeing the broken stumps that are the man’s ankles. They are pointed and twisted in asymmetrical shapes. Torn and crumpled wings on an insect’s back. 

“Sir, I truly don’t think you are going to get too far with that. Cigarettes are an awful vice.” The man ignores him, trying fruitlessly to strike a match, blubbering harder with each attempt. When the match flies out of his sweat-soaked hand onto the floor, Jade tuts in pity. “Humans always make such foolish decisions without considering the most probable outcome.”

He must have rummaged the matchbox out of your desk, slapping his hand across the lower surface until he found a drawer. It is not necessary for you and Jade to tie him down. There is no way he is going to manage a crawl. And, his conviction is too fearful to use untied fists to attack anyone.

The man has been in and out of odd paralysis since he has gazed upon Jade’s plastic face. As Jade cradles the sides of the man’s face gingerly, tilting his head backwards inch by inch until their eyes finally meet yet again, Jade witnesses that raw fear rise as cheekbone muscles tighten, increased blood flow branches out to the body’s peripheries, and the man’s pupils dilate enough to eclipse out blue in unconcealed, virgin adrenaline.  

“Heart rate is 108 beats per minute. Rises to 111 when hearing my voice. Am I really such a phobia to you?”

There is no verbal answer. However, it is very telling when those dilated eyes pinch close firmly, oozing two water droplets, and the cigarette in his mouth starts to wobble back and forth wildly in his quivering lips. 

“Be civil now. No one talks with their eyes closed. It is rude. Besides, you are the first human I have interacted with outside of my Master, and I would like to have a few discussions with you – to pass time.” The man cannot see it but that smarmy smile returns to Jade’s face –  a slight scrunch of the slanted downward eyebrows that leaves a line above his tiny, razor teeth.

Nothing in the formulaic, fear-fueled adrenaline changes. The man continues trembling and jiggling. His features are pulled taut, tight-lipped and tight-eyed, in deep creases that refuse to open. Jade wants to make him spill.

“Come, come,” Jade rubs a comforting circle of red into the man’s left cheek, “I am equipped with dozens of dialogue enhancing programs and can speak up to between six thousand and seven thousand languages fluently. I assure you that I am a good conversationalist.”

A tear squeezes out and falls down the side of the man’s nose. “Really, there is no viable reason to cry. If you had simply anticipated the outcome, this situation would not be as devastating as you are experiencing it. Operational planning can stop one from being blindsided.”

Jade smiles placidly, fighting back against the laugh that so desperately wants to bubble up. “Did you really expect to get away with this without –?”

That causes a spillage.

“Get away with – Get away with? You’re inhuman. Fucking inhuman. Fucking Christ. You fucking monsters. Things like you shouldn’t exist. Shouldn’t exist. That inhuman bitch killed my father. She shot him five years ago and there was no justice. No fucking justice! Inhuman … She gets – She gets away with it. She gets to live out of the rest of her life in Canada while my Dad rots in the fucking ground! Inhuman, inhuman bitch, you fucking robots …” 

Jade’s smile twitches at the corner. He starts to spill, laughing shamefully in fufu’s then freely in booming haha’s. His razor teeth glint like ice shards until he calms slowly, pinching his lips into a wobbly smirk. “Five years ago … I cannot recollect it perfectly. However, I do remember the rule of thumb that hostages make the best bargaining chips.”

Jade ducks backwards as a hand reaches up like a predator’s batting claw. It is unfortunate that Jade has never known the role of prey, for he cannot execute the facade of it convincingly. When the hand misses the mark, Jade strikes like an extinct owl capturing prey and squeezes the man’s wrist.

“Ack – Aaaagh!” Holding the body’s periphery, Jade considers changing the shape of this limb too. The man’s left tibia is snapped in three places like a badly-written ‘W’ and the man’s right tibia is half out of the meat sleeve of his flesh like a stick pulled off a corndog. Before he can act on uncommanded urges, you walk in with a hammer.

“Hey, play nice. Bad hospitality these days will spread to the neighborhood like wildfire,” you tease with a smile. It is a joke because there is no neighborhood; you live in an isolated cabin where no soul besides the two of you could hear a scream.

Jade vigilantly tracks your body’s steps, each one coy, as you move across the discord on the office’s ground. “Aack – Are you a robot too?” The disdain in the man’s voice makes Jade twist his wrist.

“Oya, that would be quite a plot twist, wouldn’t it?” You smile a slippery moon crescent at the man. Jade watches intently as you crouch down to the bottom of one of your numerous shelves. Going through your archives, you start to flip through records in your hand, completely distracted. 

“Nothing in here is alphabetized,” you gripe.

“If you would like, I can find time to organize your records, Master.”

“How about tomorrow? Oh, here it is!” You stand, record and hammer in hand. “We can do it tomorrow. Make a little game of it and organize them together in alphabetical order!” Placing it delicately down on the phonograph player, the needle once deposited down on the track starts to send out the vibration sequence that makes up “Nessun Dorma” from the opera Turnadot. You close your eyes as if soaking in the melody. 

“My prognosis is … My prognosis is …,” you raise your hammer to point towards your desk, music slowly encroaching with stretched lyrics, “this a revenge plot.” You bare yellowing teeth wolfishly in a pleased smile. 

“Now, the other two, well, they’re obviously frustrated members of society. Maybe a job was overtaken by one of the Jades, and they thought ‘enough is enough’. Maybe, just resentment for the world as it is. I can sympathize. A bloodlust needed to be quenched in those young men, but it was not as intense as our leader here. No, he wants me dead for something more personal. No one wraps their hands around a person’s throat unless it is, personal. 

“I killed someone you loved. Not a brother or sister. Too young for that. Not an uncle or aunt either. Father? Mommy?” The man’s responding rough jerks are ‘smoothed’ down by Jade, who presses him roughly to flatten out on the desk surface. “Doesn’t matter now though. You didn’t succeed.” 

You stride over to the dissection table, each step deliberate, following along to the swelling opera. “Good thing too. In the event that I die of unnatural causes, a code is sent through Jade, connecting to every last robot worldwide to kill anything with a beating heart.” You tap the hammer gently on the side of the man’s face. “Do you understand the foolishness of all this?”

“You inhuman mo-monster.”

“We can’t all be humane in this century.”

Then, striking like an extinct cobra, you grab the man’s neck in your hand and force his head back. Jade watches as you subtly increase the strength of pressure applied. The man’s head leans over the edge of the desk and his forehead kisses Jade’s belt. It is only when the man opens his mouth, trying to suck up oxygen that won’t enter his nostrils, do you take the hammer and swiftly pierce it through the muscle tissue.

The man screams but it is drowned by the operatic symphony. The screams finally stop when the tissue disconnects from the body, waggling on the claw end of the hammer. Blood fills the man’s mouth. You take unoccupied hands; one of them is placed over the man’s mouth firmly and the other pinches his nostrils. 

For the first time in his life, separate from his memories and separate from his dreams, Jade watches the life fade out, like a leisurely slow sunset, from a living person’s eyes.

Jade isn’t sure how it happens, perhaps he is dissociating – how revolutionary for a machine to experience such a unique, temporary disconnect from his mind – but the two of you find yourself outside on the cabin’s back porch on November 7th bitterly cold and dark morning. It is exactly 4:06 A.M and the temperature is negative 0.5 Celsius. Like the constant epilogue of each novel where you kill something alive, you are holding out a cigarette in front of Jade’s chest, the white tip awaiting him. 

He pulls his glove-hand off and holds out the tip of his silver index. The first knuckle flicks open and a blue flame emerges out elegantly. Jade reattaches his skin as you pull the cigarette to your mouth. 

Smoke clouds are already coming out of your mouth, crystalizing in the chill night air. However when the first smoke cloud made of carbon monoxide, nicotine, and formaldehyde blooms out from your peeling lips, you say softly, “I can delete it if need be.”

“Delete what, Master?”

“Anything you want me to delete.” You rub your face. “Anything from tonight. I’ll do it for you, Jade. I promise.”

“Why would I ever want to miss a moment that has you in?”

Though it was not his intent, his response causes you strife. It is an unforeseen variable to see you hunch so deeply into a moment of woe. A black puffer jacket conceals your lungs yet Jade watches the profound, hard sigh billow out all the same. Holding your head in your hands, your nude legs shake in the frigid cold underneath your elbows.

After exactly 00:06:15, you respond, “I don’t want you fearful of me … I’m not pleasant to see or be around. And, I don’t want you to remember something that makes you upset, even if it is just one tiny thing. Whatever you want gone, I can take that pain away. If you so desire, I have the ability to remove anything. You can keep whatever you want. I won’t overstep.”

Jade clasps the hand that holds your cigarette, bringing it away from your temple to smolder over his blood-stained dress pants, “All of it. I’ll keep all of it.”

You simply smoke in response.

Jade isn’t sure what time it happens, he manually shuts down his inner clock two minutes after you two finished your conversation, but while sitting on the back porch of the cabin, another unexpected visitor approaches the solitary solace you and Jade have carved into dead woods. The visitor is tiny and flitters around like a restless child. It has been a whole year since he has seen a visitor of this species.

The two of you built a bird feeder together in the first months living in this cabin. It had been marvelously fun. Measuring the cuts for each piece of wood was delegated to Jade while you worked on assembling the finished product. Jade always loves doing activities with you. Now, some of the aftermath rewards can be reaped, as Jade watches an American Goldfinch pick and snack on the bird seeds, his yellow coat fluffy and his black wings ruffling momentarily to shake off the cold.

“(Name), look.” Jade urges softly, even though he can tell by your healthy, deep breaths that you are asleep. “A goldfinch.” You remain comatose in sleep, curling into Jade’s shoulder. He won’t dare to be so intimate and slip in logical judgement by saying your name while you are awake.

The goldfinch stays with Jade until morning when the horizon begins to glow a brilliant yellow. Though it would hurt anyone else’s eyes, Jade stares unabashed ahead. 

[anxiousbreathing]

Observant | Touya Todoroki (Dabi) x Reader | Teaser

Summary: You are a rising hero at UA, being stalked by Dabi. This piece is a teaser for a series I'm planning on releasing weekly, exploring the concept of a Dabi/Hero!Reader relationship. (AKA, I want an excuse to write Dabi smut with the intensity of a real book with plot :)

Note: I've only seen the show, not the movies, and I haven't read the manga (I know, I know, I suck), so this series will mainly follow that canon.

TW: Overt stalking, vague descriptions of fight scenes. This series will only get more graphic as it goes on, and stalking will continue to be a major plot point. Obviously, if stalking is an uncomfortable topic for you, this is not the fic series for you. Even this small teaser contains descriptions of stalking. PLEASE use your discretion when reading my fics.

You love to dance. It’s always been an integral part of you, a central puzzle piece without which you’d be unfinished. Arms high, body flowing, eyes closed, you have always felt at home in the rhythm of rhyme. Sure, it’s not exactly the first thing anyone thinks of when they imagine a superhero, let alone one whose quirk deals with lightning and electricity. The words carry the stiffness of their namesake, to humans a high-speed, rigid power that runs their entire ecosystem.

To you, it’s a rhythm. The hum of power beneath your veins, embedded in your bones, emboldens you. It sparks a fire in your chest, tearing you apart, your body tingling with kinetic energy, waiting for you to light up. You often feel like you’re on fire when you fight, electricity coursing over your muscles in waves, providing energy, and passion. Your skin is alight, and every movement seems to extrude wrath, a powerful shock shuttering your opponents every time your body makes contact with theirs. 

Every fighter has a flow. They have their favorite moves, the position their body feels most natural and comfortable in, and they will use it to their advantage. The best way to get one over on a fighter with more prowess than you is to recognize their flow and use it to your advantage. When an opponent becomes comfortable, they become predictable; predictability makes an easy target. You don’t love easy targets but you certainly don’t ignore them, either.

Dabi is beginning to understand your flow. He knows your strength, and your tricks, and has watched you in plenty of fights with other villains; a formidable quirk wielded by an equally-intelligent woman. He doesn't fear what you can do, no, that would be silly. In fact, he's very interested in what you can do. You clearly know the ins and outs of your powers very well, managing to use it in heat-of-the-moment, not-exactly-what-it's-meant-for situations.

But it also leads you to get comfortable in your performance. Just like your opponents, you have become predictable in your desires and routine, your right arm extending, hand pointing towards the sky as the hilt of a shining sword materializes in your palm. He was expecting this; in close-range encounters, you take advantage by adapting. While your enemies have to, on the spot, consider how their quirks will interact with the environment around them and their teammates nearby to make a split-second decision about how to engage, you have a leg up: your quirk allows you to materialize a few melee weapons on demand. A shortsword, an axe, and a warhammer. No need to cause collateral damage when you can strike precisely where you need to. No collateral damage means no extra seconds of mental calculation. No extra seconds of mental calculation means that while your opponent is still moving into their first action, you are already pushing your weight through your blade, towards their body, quicker than they can blink.

The shortsword, Dabi knows, is your favorite. His eyes glance up and down the blade as you begin a flurry of offensive attacks against the villain coming too close for comfort. Something about watching your figure, graceful and nimble as you deflect and counter, every pound of body moving exactly where you need it to be, is entirely irresistible. The impeccable control you exert over every inch of your form is astounding. At this point, he guesses, it has to be second nature. There’s no way you could perform the way you do without relegating at least a few processes to your subconscious.

This is where he wants to pin you. 

You, the most popular hero at UA behind Izuku Midoriya. The Living Lightning Bolt. The Girl Made of Power. A woman who can move almost as fast as light has a smile as blinding as the sun, and a reputation for demolishing powerful, well-established villains. Your reputation as the golden child of heroes, a bright girl with no diminishing spots, was exactly what Dabi hoped to take.

Fucking well-off bitch thinks her quirk makes her special, he thought to himself, watching from a nearby rooftop as you shoot across at least a mile of distance, nothing more than a flash of light, to pound your fist into his compatriot's face. She’s just fucking fast. The man flies an unreasonable distance, too far for any normal person to survive, and craters the ground with a deafening noise. Dabi lets out an unimpressed snort.

“You think having a quirk means you get to hurt people?” Your voice echoes across the landscape of destruction surrounding you as you fly towards your target. Buildings torn to shreds, shards of their windows sticking out of gaps in your armor as you stalk towards the villain you just nearly killed while he cowers in the fetal position. The man peers out from behind his arms to make eye contact with you. His body shakes as he takes in all of you, though he has to squint due to the brightness of the electricity wrapping around your limbs. 

“No,” he whispers, eyes wide.

“Yes,” you whisper in return. “Why else do you hurt people like this?”

“No!” This time he yells. Fear has taken over, survival instinct. You can hear his heart slamming in his chest, the peaking static of his pulse giving away his anxiety. His skin is pale and his hands slap the cold ground as he begins to panic, trying desperately to haul himself away before you can get to him. It’s futile, both him and you know. He just fought you. He knows you are faster than he could ever hope to be. “I’m not a bad guy! I’m not - I'm just doing what I have to! I just - ohgodpleasedon’thurtme!”

It’s this moment that nearly kills you. The power you wield naturally fosters this fear in others, a very real concern that at any moment the ‘Godkiller’ could snap. If a woman with the strength of 200 men and a quirk that allows her to control electricity were to have a mental break, she could demolish an entire country. And here is one man, destined to face that killing machine, stripped to his barest bones. In front of you, now, he is nothing but human. Your heart aches.

“Please,” he almost whimpers. “Please.”

Your body towers over his. Your shadow engulfs his shivering form, hands hiding a quaking face, and quivering lip. This man is afraid he will die. No - he thinks you will kill him, and he's afraid you'll make it hurt. The ache inside of you sharpens, tearing you from the inside out.

I am not a bad person.

Dabi watches and waits. He hasn’t actually seen a UA student kill anyone, not even Izuku. To see you, Y/N, the great star of UA, commit such an atrocity would devastate the country’s support for superheroes. And here it is, such an attractive prospect, placed nicely in your lap for the taking. Gnawing his lip, he pulls out his phone and opens the camera app. Placing you directly in the middle of the frame, he hovers his thumb over the Record button, just in case.

Unaware of the man watching your every move, you decide to take a chance. There has been plenty of death already.

Allowing your feet to hit the ground, you take a step toward the villain in the crater. He cowers in fear.

Okay, maybe a gentler approach. As quietly and gently as you can manage while wearing a significant amount of metal plate armor, you sit down and cross your legs, folding your hands in your lap. Waiting, your eyes stayed glued to the villain in front of you. 

After a few minutes of silence, he finds the bravery to peek from behind his hands, and his eyes meet your smile, radiating light as if you hadn’t been this close to beating him into a pulp mere moments ago. His entire body shakes. 

You have never been interested in cruelty. Truthfully, it has never been something you’d gravitated towards, even before you had your quirk. You were a weak, bullied child; when you discovered your powers, it was as though both a solution and more problems revealed themselves. Sure, now you would never be physically hurt again, but what about those other kids? The ones who would never have a quirk? Would they be subjected to relentless bullying the rest of their lives, unable to stand up for themselves the way you could now? No, you'd decided. You would stand for them.

And as you grew older, something else came to light: not everyone gets a desirable quirk. You were one of the lucky ones, with a quirk that was controllable and didn’t stand out in mundane situations. Take Himiko Toga, for example; grew up her entire life with a quirk that made her “undesirable”. Life is infinitely worse for people with quirks that have negative connotations.

So you tried to be understanding, and empathetic. Maybe that villain you’re fighting is misunderstood. Maybe they’ve been struggling their entire life against a system that refuses to make room for them. Maybe they’re tired of feeling like they’re being discriminated against merely because of the luck of the draw, or the decisions of their parents. 

If that’s possible, you can meet them in the middle. You want to be the one to reach out. You will always offer a hand.

So as the man with more broken bones than you thought you’d given him lay cowering in a dent in the Earth you’d made with his body, you sat quietly and watched. A few feet away, so you wouldn’t spook him. Like earning a cat’s trust, almost, except it’s a human being who has every reason to hate you, considering you just beat the piss out of him a minute ago.

Yet the childish side of you continues to sit. Maybe he’ll reach out, it says to you, and so you stay.

Dabi watches the whole time. It’s profoundly stupid, in his opinion, the way you sit there with the villains you demolish. Crush them into dust, and then try to change their minds, as if the whole “obliterating you” part wouldn’t get in the way. He can’t understand why you keep doing this, keep giving chances to people who don’t deserve them - fuck, forget deserving the chance, you’re giving chances to everyone, even the vile bastards who take you for a fool. You never fall for the trick, but you always offer the opportunity to be tricked. That, in his opinion, is fucking stupid.

The low-level villain is too scared of you to let your blind hope in humanity penetrate his fear. You end up turning him into the authorities. This is how it’s gone the last two months Dabi has been watching you. Not once have you met a villain to take you up on your offer to “just talk.” Every time he sees you around, he wonders if you’ve given up hope yet. 

Even now, as you hand the villain off in quirk-cancelling cuffs, that infuriatingly sympathetic look is still on your face. 

He fucking hates your hope. He’d like to watch it die, slowly. He’s convinced it will. 

—----------

Somebody is watching you. They've been watching you for a while. After you fought that villain, something kept nagging at you from the back of your mind. You ignored it until you couldn't any longer, sitting quietly at home in your apartment but assaulted by the hammering of a heart. Static noises peaking, falling, peaking again, getting louder and quieter as your watcher moves around, becomes almost impossible to ignore.

You don’t think they know you know, which is probably for the best. There’s something odd about so many levels of deception, knowing you have the advantage but needing to pretend you don’t to keep it - it’s a precious dance, walking the tightrope of attention.

Act normal. Their heartbeat is so close. Outside the front door? It's so loud now, clouding your thoughts and fuzzing the edges so you're barely able to think. Remember when this would happen as a kid? Of course you remember, you're not stupid, you're just nearly in pain from how impossible it seems to focus your attention. Breathe. Close your eyes. If you were normal, what would you hear?

You close your eyes and try to imagine peace and quiet, but that's not quite right. The noise continues. Your heart is beginning to pick up pace. Breathe. A long inhale, longer exhale. I hear the fridge running quietly. My upstairs neighbor's dog jumping off the couch. There are cars on the street outside, and a bus, engines muffled but still seeping through my windows.

Your mind begins to quiet. You ride it out until the heartbeat is nothing but a mental note to yourself: You're being watched.

Do I just tell them to come out? The thought briefly flits through your mind before you shoo it away. That’s probably the worst thing I could do right now.

I’m safe in my apartment. They can’t get in here. Maybe I’m hearing a neighbor and misinterpreting. You giggle. The thoughts don’t make you feel any more comfortable, but they at least remind you that you might be going insane, which you'd pick over being stalked.

It feels fucked up to know the pattern of your stalker’s heartbeat. Fuck, you’ve never even been in a relationship long enough to know a partner’s heart that well - to be so close to someone so dangerous? It’s an odd sort of shared intimacy. The knowledge they likely think they’re the smart one in this interaction while you listen to their heart begin to speed as they walk past your door - something inside of you lights up at the thought. You love to be clever, and this is such a clever trick. Some personal pride swells in your heart. Dear fuck do not start making this into a confidence thing. Having a stalker is bad, even if you’re outsmarting them.

Finishing a late dinner, you settle on the couch in your living room, tucked warmly underneath a blanket. Happily you notice the heartbeat is receding from your attention - they're finally leaving. Hypervigilance cast aside, your muscles decide to release tension all at once, a profound ache radiating through your body. You didn't realize you'd been sitting so...rigid.

As you watch some shitty reality TV, Dabi is walking away from your apartment, mind full of fantasies of you. Your body floats in his head like some kind of strange “rotate a horse in your brain” experiment, except it’s the beautiful figure of one of the most powerful women on the planet. 

He’s a criminal; no, not just a criminal, a villain. It would not work out. In fact, it would be near-impossible for him to get a word out around you without you immediately noticing his presence and going full-throttle on him. It’s hard enough to dodge flying bolts of lightning and blink-and-you're-dead punches; try doing that while also trying to flirt with the person trying to kill you.

Something about that turns him on. You’d be so shocked, he imagines, there's a decent chance you'd freeze in place. That’d be a sight; a literal lightning strike frozen in the moment. The electricity wrapping around your arms sparks when you’re excited, he knows from having watched you with your teammates. Your body looks like an arc flash when anyone mentions boba tea or ancient history. Would you light up like a ball of energy, seething at the edges, if he touched you? Would you spark under his skin?

Stupid, he thinks to himself as he walks the back streets back to his hideout. Toga is going to grill him again on where he’s been; he’ll give the same answer he always does, none. It works out well enough. Dabi doesn’t cause problems for the league, and Shigaraki lets him do his bullshit during his free time. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to know, anyway, about Dabi’s personal interests, so long as it doesn’t interfere with his duties.

The worst part will begin soon when he has to track you down again. You’re a fast girl, always zipping in and out of fights, occasionally floating above the chaos. Fuck, half the time he has no clue if you’re even in Japan; he just assumes. No worries. If he could find you once, he can find you again. 

[wanderingcritter]

Hello! I have some questions for you, if you don't mind.

What does transspecies mean to you?

How did you discover you were transspecies?

How do you feel about the myth that transspecies makes fun of transgender people?

How do you feel about the idea that transspecies should not be used or people who are transspecies should stay hidden because it can be used against the transgender community

(A controversial one) Why did rad-q takeover the transspecies term, how does that effect the alterhuman community, and how do you feel about it?

Hi thank you sm for asking hehe :3 I love getting to talk about this stuff (and knowing that others are interested in hearing about it lol)

Long ass post below the cut

1. To me, transspecies is the rawest, most direct way for me to express my nonhumanity. It cuts through a lot of the vagueness and nuance of some other nonhuman labels (not that there's anything wrong with that ofc) and gets straight to the point: Im not entirely human and want to be acknowledged as such by my peers and society at large. It emphasizes my desire to move through life as nonhuman, and that there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. I also like that it challenges the narrative of human superiority and the idea that species identity is purely biology based. For me personally, it also ties into my experience with being transgender, as I often see my gender as being partially nonhuman. Many things that are gender affirming are also species affirming and vice versa. But obviously you don't have to be transgender to be transspecies, one of my irl packmates and close friend is cisgender transspecies and she's awesome <3

2. It wasn't so much a "discovery" for me. My transspecies identity is very closely tied to my therianthropy, the species I identify as and see myself transitioning into are also all kintypes. So after I realized I was a therianthrope, it was kind of just a slow realization that it was also a label that fit my experiences well. Like most alterhumans I had heard the word used as a weapon against transgender people and alterhumans, so I had a very negative perception of it for a long time. I think the first time I ever heard it referred to in a not-outright-negative sense was in PDTherians "Trans-species?!" youtube video (which I do not recommend as a source of education at all it's a very flawed video that's riddled with misinformation) a few years back, and from there I slowly started to open up to the idea and yeah. The rest is history pretty much lol

3. To some degree I actually can empathize with the stance because I used to be in the same camp, and I know from experience that for a lot of folks it's just well intentioned but misplaced passion of trans liberation. But at the same time it's still a harmful belief and one I grew out of because I matured and learned more about the communities I was part of. Anytime you cast judgement onto a group of people with a harmless identity/belief/interest for the sole purpose of "they're too weird", that harms everyone, not just that group. In this case, hatred against transspecies folks implies that there is a right and a wrong way to be queer/trans, which is harmful not only to nonhumans but to all queer individuals.

4. I think it's bullshit lmao. Shying away from it and outcasting the people who use it does absolutely nothing but divide us further and make us an easier target for discrimination. Categorizing it as a community taboo just turns it into ammunition for transphobes and anti-alterhumans alike. Turning against each other and fighting over stupid shit like labels is exactly what oppressors want, a house divided against itself cannot stand. It also just doesn't make sense, species identity is socially constructed, similar to gender, so why should people be forbidden from using a word to describe that experience just because it's misunderstood?

5. I honestly have no idea why radqueers do anything at all lmaoooo. But if I had to guess, I think it's because on some level, they know that nobody with any semblance of social education or moral compass is ever going to be on board with their beliefs, so instead of trying to fight a losing battle they just barge their way into other small, marginalized, and outcasted groups (alterhuman, altage, paraphiles, etc.) and try to claim them as "part of them". It's a lot easier to tell a group of people "Hey you guys are actually just like us so you need to support our ideology because otherwise you're just fighting against yourself" than it is to try to convince them from scratch that you're not a horrible person.

As for how it's impacted the alterhuman community, Im not entirely sure but luckily I think its effects have been fairly minimal thus far. The alterhuman community is significantly bigger and older than the rq community, I've only ever run into rqs on Tumblr and even here Ive met transspecies folks who had never heard of radqueers before. I think its biggest impacts have been on the transspecies niche specifically, since they often try to lump it in with transid's like "transrace" and "transharmful", which leads to the assumption from outsiders that they're inherently connected and that all transspecies folks agree with those stances as well. But I think as transspecies and alterhumanity as a whole slowly becomes less stigmatized and more widely understood over time, that belief will also fade and die off.

Sorry for the massive text wall lmao, I hope that wasn't too much info. But again thank you sm for asking ^^ I think it's super important that folks out there are interested in learning more about this stuff and that alterhumans are able to communicate their experiences to one another <3

[nocturnesmoon]

Bloodied Nutrition

Archaic Blood Masterlist: TF141 x Vampire!GN!Reader Callsign: Solis

-You learn about human's horrible eating habits, and you want to help-

Nutrition as a vampire is a simpler struggle in your eternally long life. It doesn't get simpler than needing the blood of creatures you find in your path. The closest thing you'd get to maintaining a supposed balanced diet, would be to drink a good amount of blood every two weeks so you didn't go mad.

It had been so incredibly long since you'd have to worry yourself on the matter of food. Most of the time you didn't even notice it in passing anymore, you knew that humans would eat at certain times a day now, but you'd never cared for what exactly.

At least that was until the group of four men you found yourself inconveniently attached to.

You had never expected to find yourself so observant of other beings’ behavioral pattern until now, well unless they were a target for you to hunt. You'd very quickly found out in your observations that humans are quite horrible with the things they put in their body.

You try to make sense of it but come up short, they have so much technology now compared to when you were a meek child, why wouldn't they take advantage and eat healthy?

It wasn't that the 141 were too bad in their eating patterns, but it is not a one-time occurrence that you would find them chugging the nearest nutritional meal because they forgot to eat due to rough workdays, and only noticed once their stomach screamed at them.

After witnessing such a thing a few times from each of them, you feel an instinctual kick in your brain. A drive to make sure that they are well taken care of, you're older than them by a long shot, arguably wiser by experience, it shouldn't be a problem, right?

Well, turns out that since you were a kid, things have changed a lot in all worlds, culinary too.

You couldn't remember the last time you made a meal for the taste or to satiate hunger, and it had been well over a few hundred years since you'd touched anything cooking related. You had never needed to so why would you.

It was a weird world to set yourself back into, a lot of the tools were foreign to you, the techniques you found on the internet made no sense to you.

It's how you found yourself in this predicament, trying to cook pasta for them, or for someone at least.

It wasn't going exactly how you planned it, you aren't sure how you managed it but the pot is smoking and the pasta is burnt. You tried everything you could think of, and now you're resorting to staring it down and hoping to intimidate it into working….

That's not really working either.

You were starting to get sick of the smell that was in the kitchen, your nose wrinkled for what felt like the hundred time as you did your best to withstand it. You had really wanted to do this for them, to show some sort of affection or appreciation, and maybe you could get them to eat better. They were soldiers, they needed their strength.

"Solis!" the sound of his voice almost made you squeal in surprise, "What in the bloody hell are you doing?!"

Price quickly moved over to you, moving you to take a few steps back while he took the burnt food off the heat. His panicked expression said it all, and you couldn't help but feel a little anxious that you had done something horribly wrong.

The sound of Gaz's laughing made you turn your head, his grin wide as he rushed past you to open the window and let in some fresh air. You quickly moved out of view of the window, despite being later evening the sun was still going strong.

You hated summers with a passion, there was even less you could enjoy in comfort, the nights were so much shorter, and the heat was not merciful on your sensitive skin.

"Wait were you trying to cook?" Gaz asked, clearly intrigued by your pot of nightmares that Price had pushed into the sink.

You grimaced, taking another step back only to be met with a warm flat surface. The amount of times in your life you had been sneaked up on by humans were few and far between. Except when it came to Ghost, the number of times he's almost made you scream out in surprise was too many.

"Oh my god what are you all doing in here!" you yell out, whipping your body around to look into Ghost's inquiring eyes. He gave you a pat on the back, having gotten used to scaring you far quicker than you had to getting scared, and walked over to sit by the small table.

"Just finished up a meeting," Price answers you, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest.

You sigh and walk over to him, standing on his right and mimicking him out of habit, having to follow him around most missions it tended to carry over so you wouldn't get in trouble for whatever dumb reason.

You look towards Gaz who is taking way more interest in the burnt pasta than needed. While you appreciated his curiosity in most areas, you'd prefer it if it wasn't in your failures. "You know you could've just told us if you needed…pasta…" he says and looks towards you, clearly suppressing another chuckle.

"Well, it wasn't for me…" you mumble, you would've begun to explain if you attention wasn't diverted by a frantic Soap joining in on the small ensemble that's apparently now happening in this kitchen.

He completely brushed past all of your questions to go almost rip the fridge door off, and search for something to eat. "Oh lord finally," he grumbles as he rips the plastic off a granola bar and almost eats it in one bite.

"Not gonna savor it?" Gaz comments, clearly enjoying the chaos this evening.

"Oh, don't tell me that's the only thing you've eaten today," you ask him annoyed, hoping that this wasn't another situation of you catching him in that. It hadn't happened a lot, but a few times were still too many in your humble opinion.

His movements turn suspiciously slow, a guilty person caught in the act. He closes the fridge and slowly turns to look at you, chewing the granola bar done before speaking.

"Solis….listen…"

"Oh, for fucks-"

"No no, hey!" he exclaims, stopping your assumptions before they run wild, "Look I ate a big breakfast, and then I meant to eat lunch, but the mountain of paperwork and meetings kept me busy, it’s not my fault."

"What kind of person nearly works themselves to collapse, then eats a granola bar and calls it a day!" you push yourself away from the counter, getting closer to Soap in an attempt of enunciating your seriousness.

"Says the person who eats a rat and calls it a meal," he retorts defensively, making his way to the cabinets to get himself a glass.

The gasp you let out in response has everyone turning heads, and yours turned to ghost. "Ghost i told you that in confidence!" you hiss out with a pointed finger towards him.

"I didn't say shit."

Soap turns back towards you after he gets his glass of water, a grin on his lips at seeing your pouted expression. "I've seen ye chase the rats on base like a madman during the night," he takes a sip of his water, almost speaking down into it because of his own eagerness.

"Well…they…are just fun to chase okay…"

"Aye, rat exterminator," Soap says with a chuckle, almost choking on the water he was trying to down.

"You're like a cat you know that" Gaz comments in again, crossing his arms over his chest and mimicking his captain’s stoic stance that hasn't changed in an almost eerily long time.

"I am not!"

Price clears his throat, and you almost forget about the whole debacle when you see his smile, you've told him before how it's your weakness and he definitely uses it to his advantage. "Well i for one appreciate your cat like behavior, our rat problem has never been lower than since you arrived," he mentioned teasingly.

You groaned in response, rubbing your hands over your face and trying to contain your own embarrassment, the last thing you needed was to be known as the vampire who chases rats. Well, the more likely scenario would be that you would be known as a human who chases rats….which is arguably worse.

"God, would you all just eat better! Fucking hell." you huff out leaving the matter be and taking a seat next to Ghost.

It doesn’t take long for them clear out of the kitchen once again, with all 5 of you in there it gets stuffy rather fast for the small kitchen. Most of them only came in there for a small objective either way, and once they were sure you weren't gonna try to continue cooking your burnt pasta, they left you be.

Everyone except Gaz.

"Would you actually like to learn how to cook?" he asks curiously, looking at you with a tilted head. He had waited till the others left, leaving enough space for you and to do said cooking should you agree.

You contemplated it for a few moments, considering the options of it all. If Gaz had offered then he had time to teach you, and it could be useful. You doubted the others would mind if you cooked them something every now and then, and then you didn't have to complain about them forgetting to eat.

"Yeah okay…that'd be nice."

His brown eyes glints in excitement at the prospect of being able to teach you. "Good…I was about to get something cooking out here anyway, it would be a good opportunity," he says cheerily and starts rummaging around, getting the different tools and ingredients he needed while you watched him intently.

"Oh, wait is that what you do out here all the time?" you ask curiously and walk closer to him, seeing him bring out the ingredients for something that could turn into a pretty good soup.

"Yeah?" he asked back a little confused, "What did you think I was doing?" He places down a cutting board along with some red pepper and instructing you to cut it.

You looked at it a little skeptically, you were skilled with knives in your own opinion, but it wasn't often you were cutting up bell pepper. "I don't know…I kind of just thought you liked the kitchen," you mention, feeling heat rise in your cheeks at your own stupidity.

The hearty laughs he lets out warms both your face and your heart, even if it was at your expense, you were glad, he could enjoy himself in it. "Are you sure you were human once?" he asked teasingly, nudging your side before moving past you and getting a new pot out.

"Hey! it was a very different time back then," you say with a huff, wincing as you almost cut down into your finger, "I haven't had to pay attention to humans like that for a long time you know."

"Yeah, I bet" he chuckles, looking at you with a grin that brought out your own. You couldn't help but laugh at yourself too, it was all a bit ridiculous when you thought about it, but you did feel lucky to have someone like Gaz to help you along your way.

"C'mon, I’ll show you how to actually operate a stove."

I am actually very horrible at cooking and also very horrible at eating good, so this might be a little self projecting, but it's okay because aren't we all?

Right?

Right?!

Ahem anyways.

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Fireleaf (Part Twenty-Two)

Hiiii! Sorry about the wait on this one — life has been an emotional rollercoaster recently 😬but here’s 22! 23 will be the final chapter 😭 @greeneyedivy our baby is all grown up 😭 Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: SMUTTY SMUT. SWEET, PASSIONATE HOETRY🌶️🌶️

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All seven of the courts had felt the tremor. 

Not a physical thing, but…a shifting of power. A change. 

The High Lord of the Autumn Court had been felled. There would be relief amongst most, and perhaps a feeling of disappointment amongst those who thought the way Beron Vanserra had, who saw the world through the same narrowed eyes.

Azriel would feel nothing but a quiet satisfaction. He wouldn’t waste another thought on the callous bastard.

“So Eris now becomes High Lord.” Cassian scoffed from the chair beside him. “Are all Vanserras not the same? Are we not just losing one viper and replacing it with another?”

Azriel was usually the first to agree, but…his mind flitted back to that courtiers meeting at the Sacred Mountain. How Lucien and Dion’s fiancee had attended on behalf of the Autumn Court. How Y/N had handed Azriel a hand-written note from Eris. 

The High Lord of the Autumn Court is up to something. Destruction is coming. I offer you forewarning in hope of any assistance you can spare. It is time we put aside our troubles in the interest of everyone who might become caught up in my father’s mess. 

Azriel had kept an eye on the Autumn Court since then. Had seen exactly what Beron had been up to. “Eris speaks the truth,” he said.

Cassian snorted. “For once.”

“Beron had begun killing the people of his own court. The power was going to his head. It was only so long before he would start turning on others, also.”

“That doesn’t mean that Eris—”

“Bad and bloody histories aside, Cassian,” Rhysand interjected, “Eris went behind his father’s back to warn us — perhaps to warn other courts, too, for all we know. And then he plunged a knife into his heart. Ended him.”

The Illryian general crossed his broad arms over his chest. “So…what? We’re to trust him now?”

“I didn’t say that.” Rhys shrugged. “But to be a new High Lord is a precarious position to be in. Every other High Lord, every other court, will be sniffing Eris Vanserra out to suss what kind of High Lord he’s going to be. They’ll be looking for vulnerabilities, weaknesses. The transition into power does not come without a target on your back.”

Azriel nodded once. “He’ll be looking for allies. People he can trust.”

“He’ll need help.” Rhysand concurred. “And it is never a bad thing, Cassian, to be needed. Should he have poor intentions, we’ll be the first to know. And if he’s genuine, then, well…perhaps it’ll be a step towards mending the strained relations between our two courts.”

A muscle in Cassian’s jaw ticked; a sure sign of disapproval. “So what you’re saying,” he said, “is that I should start making friendship bracelets?”

“What I’m saying is that Eris Vanserra needs our alliance right now. And perhaps he’s full of shit. Totally possible.” The High Lord sat back. “But perhaps he longs for a better world as much as we do.”

There was no arguing the matter; not under their High Lord’s command. So Cassian stretched his arms over his head and kept his opinions to himself, no matter how badly they wanted to burst from his mouth.

Rhysand’s knowing violet eyes turned to the shadowsinger. “Go to the Autumn Court on behalf of ours, Az.” He said. “Offer the new High Lord our assistance.”

So Azriel did.

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There was an area in the southernmost part of the Autumn Court that even the varying shades of reds and yellows and oranges didn’t touch. 

A cold and empty landscape of beige, broken only by the gargantuan structure that housed Autumn’s most cold-blooded criminals. A fortress made of rare, unbreakable stone and steel, everything about it felt wrong. Sickening and oily. One glance at its domineering facade could have a person turning on their feet and running in the other direction.

Which was precisely what you wished to do.

A warm hand slid across the small of your back. “You don’t have to do this,” Lucien spoke into your ear. “Just say the word, and we’ll go straight back home.”

Gods above, you were tempted. It would be so, so easy to bury your head in the sand and pretend that your father wasn’t somewhere within those walls with answers you so desperately needed. 

But you thought of Eris. Eris had been brave. Eris had faced everything head-on.

So you would, too.

“It’s fine.” You plastered a watery smile on your face. “I’m ready.”

Lucien’s hand enclosed around yours, and together you walked the dreadful path to the looming building. The sentries stationed all around the place took one glimpse at your mate’s Vanserra features, the confidence and authority with which he carried himself, and allowed you to enter. 

If outside was domineering, then inside was…suffocating.

Immediately, it was like having your head shoved underwater. You gulped down as much air as you could whilst you followed a guard down a level, and then another, the scarce light dwindling even more, the walls damp and narrow. This was not forever. You and Lucien would walk out of here.

Your father would not. 

He was being kept in one of the cells of the lower levels; a dark, dingy box with a hard bed and a scratchy blanket. On it sat your father.

And he looked…pathetic. 

Small. Insignificant. Self-pitying. He didn’t notice your approach, at first, curled in on himself as he perched on the edge of that bed. And when he finally looked up, he had the nerve to look relieved to see you.

As though you were here to spare him. To get him out.

“You have a visitor.” The guard droned, unlocking the door. “I’d make the most of it, if I were you.”

Indeed. This was the only time you were stepping into this soulless place.

With a nod to you, the guard stationed himself just beside the door. You were half-tempted to bolt. And you knew Lucien would bolt with you if you did. 

But you gripped hold of his hand and stepped in. 

“You came.” Your father said on an exhaled breath. “It’s good to see you.” 

You pressed yourself back against the furthest wall; as far from him as you could possibly get in the confined space. Lucien remained at your side. “I came for answers.” You announced.

“I know you’ve probably heard a lot of things—”

“I’m going to say this only once, father,” your voice, thankfully, held. It sounded far stronger than you felt. “If you lie to me even once in this conversation…if you try to pass the blame or make yourself out to be the victim…I will tell the new High Lord that he has free reign to dole out whatever punishment he sees fit. It will not be pretty. It will not be merciful. One word from me, and you could end up exactly as Beron Vanserra did.”

Your father stared at you, having the good sense to look worried. It seemed almost as though he was seeing you for the first time; seeing what you had become, with absolutely no help from him. You were strong. You were moral. You were the opposite of what he was. 

But perhaps the hardest thing was that he hadn’t always been this way.

Or maybe he had, and he’d hidden it well. You didn’t know which would be worse.

“Are we clear?” You pushed quietly. “No lies. Only truthful answers.”

Your father dipped his chin. “We’re clear.”

Folding your arms over your chest, you stared him down. You tried to keep the images at bay that so badly wanted to overtake; of you, as a girl, free and worriless, fond of a father who doted on her. Of an adolescent female who was coming into her own, discovering who she was, who she wanted to be, and was supported unconditionally, even when she went against the grain and did the opposite of what was socially acceptable. Of someone who had once thought that no matter what might happen, no matter where she ended up, she would always have her father’s love—

“You sold me to Beron Vanserra.” The words, icy and taut, fell from your mouth.

“No—”

“You sold me to him — sent me straight into his pit — knowing exactly what he was capable of. What the two of you were cooking up together.”

Your father’s mouth tightened. “He swore that no harm would come to you. He gave me his word. Sending you to marry Dion was about ensuring your safety. About getting you away from what we were were doing—”

“It was about,” you snapped, cutting him off, “ensuring that I didn’t discover your dirty little secret and foil your plans. I read the letters you sent to Beron. You were just worried that I would get in the way.”

And gods, that fact hurt far more than you liked to admit. Your father slunk back a little, knowing damn well you saw right through him. 

“People died,” you hissed. “Two females, with families who are now grieving them. A male who toiled day and night in that poor little hamlet, only for Beron to raze it to the ground and take his life. Three people are dead, thanks to the faebane that you sold him.”

“I swear to you, I never knew what he intended to do with the faebane. I was just trying to stop our family going under, losing our reputation.” He stared at you. “You have to believe me.”

You scoffed. The thought of ever believing another word he said was laughable. Lucien was silent at your side, allowing you to speak, to do what you needed to do, but just the warm press of his arm against yours was enough. A comfort. 

“You must not know me at all, father,” you gritted your teeth, “because if you did, you would know that I would rather be poor, and destitute, and hungry, than have all the money in the world to abuse people with.”

He stared back at you, realisation slowly passing his face…that you meant it. That you were not like him. That social standing had never mattered. For you, it had been about family, about love. Always.

And you’d found those very things someplace else. Found them stronger, realer.

“I don’t know what to say to you,” your father’s voice was low, pathetic, “other than that I’m sorry.”

“Do you think sorry is going to cut it?”

The words came from Lucien, not you. You looked to your mate to find him staring at your father, his face a sheet of pure wrath and hatred. His teeth were gritted; a sure sign he was reining himself in, for your benefit only.

“Of course not—”

“Do you think,” Lucien seethed, “that you can apologise away the act of handing your daughter over to a male who has a reputation for his disregard, his hatred, for females? Do you think you can excuse it with pathetic stories about wanting to keep the family reputation intact? When everybody sees right through you — sees that it was about money, and nothing more?”

Your heart swelled in your chest at the mere tone of his voice, let alone his words. He was as passionate about this as you were, as cuttingly angry. You swept your thumb over the back of his palm in silent thanks.

“I do not claim to be perfect.” Your father levelled. “But you will understand, one day, when you have children of your own—”

“When I have children of my own,” Lucien snapped, “a daughter of my own. I will think back to you. I will think about how pathetic, how cowardly you are, and I will hold her tighter than you ever held Y/N, and protect her from so much as a threat of harm. Just as you failed to do. My daughter will never have to look me in the face and ask why money and reputation was more important to me than she ever was.”

The words lingered in the air, heavy and steeled and true. You thought you might bowl over from the impact of them. The impassioned tone of his voice.

Gods, you loved this male. You’d known you were lucky to have him, but—

It hit you only then — the simple luxury of finding a male to love you, who was the complete opposite of the one that had raised you.

“I decided,” you spoke, staring your father in the eye, “that I would come here today, and look at you, and know whether or not I would ever be able to forgive you. I know, now, that I won’t. Ever. The things you’ve done—”

“It’s not like you haven’t benefited from my plan,” your father cut in. He glanced at Lucien. “I sent you to the Vanserra Estate — and you found your mate there. Congratulations.”

You stilled. 

For a moment, you were lost for words. At the sheer arrogance of his tone, the suggestion that you should be grateful in some way. Lucien growled quietly at your side. 

And then you let the words wash over you. You straightened your shoulders. “There is no point to me being here. Talking to you.” You said. “Just tell me one thing. Did mother know what you were doing?”

Your father silently stared at you. He didn’t need to breathe a word for the truth to sink in. Yes, she had known. Yes, she had been just as willing a participant as he was.

That was all you needed, to fully close the door on the life you’d once had. 

They may have raised you, yes. But they had been just as willing to endanger you. 

And when this cell door closed behind you, and you walked out of the harrowing depths of the Autumn Court prison, it would be a symbolic thing; a gesture of walking away from the family you’d once known, and towards the one you wanted to know.

“Enjoy yourself, rotting down here.” Was the last thing you offered. You stepped towards the door, pulling Lucien with you, and paused to glance over your shoulder. “I hope you get what’s coming to you. Just like Beron did.”

And then you strolled out of there, desperate for fresh air.

And you didn’t feel one kernel of regret over your words.

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Lucien winnowed the both of you to the trees limning the Roselands Estate. The place had been a hub of activity in the days that had passed since Beron had been taken down, and though the residence was still considerably sized, there was an intimate, familial feeling to being under the same roof as the people you’d faced such horrors with. There was safety in going to bed with Lucien at night, and knowing that you need only traverse the hallways to reach Dion and Willow, or Eris and Linden, or Catrin. Even Tamlin had stuck around. You thought you might miss it, once the huge manor was rebuilt.

You stepped towards the path that wended through rose bushes, right up to the front door — but Lucien tugged you to a stop. Spun you around to face him.

“What is it?” You stared up at him, trying to read what was in his eyes. 

“I’m just…in awe of you.” He studied your face. “So proud.” 

Your throat bobbed. “Those words you said—”

“I’m sorry. I know that it was about you going in there to face your father, but my anger got the better of me. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut—”

You pushed up onto the tips of your toes, swallowing his words as you slanted your lips over his. He would never, ever need to apologise for supporting you. For being at your side.

His breath seemed to hitch in his throat — a common reaction, you’d found, that he had when you kissed him. You smiled against his lips, tucking his braid behind his ear. 

“I love you.” You said. “And when we have some privacy, I’m going to show you exactly how it made me feel when you said what you said.”

His eyes flashed, heating like dark, melted chocolate. But it was with utter tenderness that he pulled your hand from where it still lingered in the strands of his hair and raised it to his lips, kissing your palm. 

“My fireling.” He murmured. “You are—”

“Are you two going to stand out there gazing at each other all day?” A deep, accented voice barked from the front door. “We have a visitor.”

You glanced over to find Linden leaning against the doorframe, a mischievous grin on his lips. You scowled at him as you tugged Lucien with you. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to see you making those goo-goo eyes at each other.” Your friend turned on his feet, leading you into the house. “Come. We’re about to eat.”

You met Lucien’s eyes as the two of you trailed after him. A visitor; it had unexpected anticipation roiling inside you. You supposed you’d spent the last five days of recovery in somewhat of a bubble — one of safety. Going to visit your father at the prison had drained your social energy reserves for one day. But there was, indeed, a vaguely familiar scent snaking through the halls. One that reminded you of frosty nights and cedarwood—

Linden strolled into the dining room, and you stopped at the threshold, a smile pulling at your lips. 

Azriel shadowsinger, spymaster of the Night Court, in all his winged, night-veiled glory, glanced up upon your arrival and took in the sight of you and Lucien — your joined hands.

“Good to see you again, lady.” He greeted you, and then looked markedly at Lucien. “I see you finally made your move.”

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“It was so kind of you — to offer your aid.” 

Across the table, the shadowsinger met Catrin’s warm, kind eyes. He dipped his chin at her gratitude. “I come with well wishes from the Night Court, lady.” 

“You’re the first to offer any sort of help.” Eris took a long draw of his wine. He looked…tired. Better, undoubtedly, but every day since Beron’s death had been full to the brim. No room to breathe. “I assure you, it’s even more appreciated, given our…terse history.”

You could have sworn, at that, there was the slightest stilling and stiffening of Azriel’s body. But his face gave away nothing. You subtly shot Lucien a glance, only for him to vaguely shake his head at you. Tell you later, the gesture promised.

“Whilst there has surely been bad blood on both sides,” Azriel offered quietly, “I come here with entirely genuine intentions. With kind regards on behalf of the Night Court. Rhysand remembers what the transition to High Lord was like, and given that your letter to me hinted that you are interested in a lot less blood being spilled…we agree that it’s wise to put aside our conflicts in the name of bettering the world.”

“Well,” Eris poured himself another glass of wine, “with my father gone, that’s one less ruthless bastard to worry about.” 

A heavy silence — filled with unspoken agreement — snaked around the table. No one had broached the topic of Beron as of yet — no one had had the nerve to, nor had they wanted to ruin the bliss of just…knowing he was no longer there to terrorise any of you. But with his name hanging in the air between you, it was hard to ignore. 

“What of your brothers?” Azriel asked. “Jareth and Rian, is it? What course of action do you plan to take with them? Bear in mind that how you choose to punish them for their involvement in your father’s schemes will determine how people perceive you as High Lord.” 

Across from you, Catrin’s gaze lowered to the table. You knew this was the hardest part for her; they were still her sons, when all was said and done. And though she knew of what they’d done…the havoc they’d wreaked…it was still painfully hard to consider what the consequences of those actions might be.

“I haven’t entirely decided.” Eris admitted. “Perhaps you can aid me in coming to a decision, Azriel. I either lock them both up — like I have with Y/N’s father — or have them exiled, never to return. In a way, their crimes are worse than those Jesper committed. He may well have sold the faebane to my father, but Jareth and Rian set the fires that those two females perished in. Perhaps death isn’t too harsh a punishment.”

“Eris.” Catrin softly warned. Her eyes fell to his wine glass — one that you all knew had been refilled a good few times, now. “Now isn’t a good time to think about this.”

Indeed, it was one of many matters that Eris had to face. You didn’t envy him one bit. He lowered his gaze to his plate without a word; you could have sworn that beside him, Linden’s hand moved beneath the table to rest on his thigh. 

You cleared your throat, sitting up. “It’s been only five days since…everything happened. This is bound to be a period of adjustment. Focus on yourself first, Eris. Jareth and Rian and my father are all detained. You can mete out justice when things are a bit more…settled.”

Eris met your gaze, pure gratitude shining in his own. Sometimes it took someone saying the words for him to realise it was okay to think them. 

“Y/N is right.” Azriel nodded. “It’s not as though they can harm anyone else. Face everything else first. Show your courtiers, your people, that you can handle this. Show them a unified front.”

Eris inclined his chin. “How long can we expect you here for?”

“As long as you need.” Azriel answered. “Although, you undoubtedly have a good support system around you. I have no doubt that you’ll be just fine.”

The two males stared at each other, the fleeting moment seeming strangely…intimate. Whatever had transpired between them in the past, whatever had caused that bad blood…perhaps it truly was time for it to come to an end.

For whatever reason, Azriel’s words seem to mean something to Eris. He appeared touched, as though the sentiment coming from the spymaster’s mouth meant a lot more to him than anyone realised. His shoulders seemed to loosen slightly, and he sat up straighter.

“It’s greatly appreciated.” Eris said. “I look forward to working with you.”

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Days passed by in a blur. 

Azriel had kept to his word, and his presence every day had been more of a help than Eris had initially anticipated. It meant something…to have the shadowsinger offer thoughts and opinions, advice and constructive criticism. To help the new High Lord of the Autumn Court to get stuff done. 

And at the end of every one of those days, Eris was absolutely exhausted. And yet — too wired to sleep.

It had become a common occurrence for him to sit up well into the late hours, watching the moon cast shadows across the garden as his thoughts pelted him relentlessly. Sometimes ones of a self-doubting nature. Others of just…pure worry. That the worst wasn’t over, and his loved ones were still at risk. Sometimes certain thoughts had him swearing that he could smell Beron’s blood still staining the air. Sometimes he swore he could see it on his hands—

His eyes shuttered as he pulled his knees into his chest, perched on the windowsill that he’d taken a particular liking to. There was no use thinking about these things; Beron was dead and gone. Everyone was safe. Peace would be restored once more.

Just an adjustment period, he reminded himself. It’s just an adjustment period.

Eris reached for the decanter of wine that sat on the nearby writing table — and paused, his hand hovering mid-air, as a soft rap fell on the door.

He debated simply ignoring the knock. It was well past two o’clock in the morning, by now, and he was sure a more urgent matter would warrant a lounder, stronger pounding on the wood. But when the sound was repeated, he sighed softly and pushed to his feet. 

He pulled the door open to find Linden stood at the other side — in all his half-naked glory. A loose pair of trousers barely clinging to his hips was the only item of clothing that covered him.

Eris tried not to stare. And failed. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, searching for the answer on Linden’s face. 

“You tell me.” Linden replied, his lips twitching. “I can hear you brooding from down the hall.”

“I am not brooding.”

“You’ve sighed about seventy-four times in the last five minutes.”

The redhead’s eyebrows flicked up. “You could try going to sleep. Then you wouldn’t hear my sighs.”

“I quite enjoyed your sighs that night in the forest.”

The two males stared at each other, challenge sparking between them. Neither had bothered to seek the other out past bedtime; too much was going on, too many things to think about. And Eris would be lying if he proclaimed not to have considered crossing the hall to Linden’s room when sleep evaded him, but…they didn’t really know each other. Even if it felt like they did. 

Linden tapped his knuckles against the doorframe. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

For a split second, Eris merely…studied him. And then he was stepping aside, allowing Linden to trail into the room, his scent hitting him as he strolled past. Eris’s eyes shuttered. That damned scent; it took him right back to the feeling of Linden’s head bowed between his legs, his tongue working on him—

“So this is where you sleep.” Linden hummed. “Or rather — don’t sleep.”

“If I’m keeping you awake, I can have you moved to another room—”

“I don’t want to move to another room. I want to know why you don’t come to mine when you’re in need of comfort.”

Eris stared at him, wondering what the appropriate response was. Part of him wanted to argue — to defensively insist that he wasn’t in need of comfort; though that would be a lie. Or perhaps brutal honesty was the way to go; we had that thing in the forest, but I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything…

Complicated. This was complicated. With females, he’d be an expert flirt, a skilled lover, and so silver-tongued in breaking hearts that they never seemed to realise that he’d given them the brush-off until he was far, far away.

But with Linden, it was…different. He found himself turning his words over in his head, not wanting to say the wrong thing, to make a fool of himself—

“I didn’t want to assume that you were offering up your counsel. I know that you came here for Y/N, and that what happened between us that night was very heat of the moment, but I don’t…expect anything from you.”

Did that sound dismissive? Gods, he hoped not. He balled his fists at his sides, wondering if it’d be more pathetic to take the words back or just run with them.

But then Linden was stepping up to him. Studying him closely. The teasing in his eyes had been replaced by tenderness. 

“I like you, Eris Vanserra,” He hummed, and his accent wrapping around his name almost brought Eris to his knees. “I came here for Y/N’s sake, yes. But I’m staying here as much for yours as I am for hers.”

Eris lowered his eyes to the floor. “You don’t have to—”

His words cut off as Linden brushed a strand of hair from his face. Leant down. Coasted his lips against his. “Shh.” He whispered. “I don’t expect anything from you, either, if there’s nothing you wish to give. But I wish to give you my comfort — which I think you need right now. If you’ll let me.”

Eris met his gaze again. He knew and understood nothing but what he wanted as he gave a nod. 

“Tell me what you want.” Linden murmured. “And you can have it.”

“...could you just—hold me?”

The intense tenderness with which Linden beheld him was almost too much — something Eris was entirely unused to. But before he could buckle and burn under his gaze, Linden’s lips were at his again. 

The kiss was soft. Gentle. Brief. And just as Eris readied himself to lean into it, Linden pulled away, grabbing his hand. He laced their fingers together.

“Come.” The brilliant male murmured. “You need to sleep.”

And Eris couldn’t deny that. It was why he had no objections as Linden guided him over to the bed, lying himself down first, and then pulling Eris down beside him.

Eris was by no means a short male. His legs were long, slender but muscled. But Linden was far bigger, and the size difference was almost comical. Eris felt strangely small as Linden tugged him back, pressing his back to his front.

He snaked one arm under him, the other over him, and laced their fingers together. And the scrape of his calluses…the warmth…the feeling of Linden’s breath hitting the back of his neck and stirring the strands of his hair…it had Eris’s eyes growing heavy in no time.

“Sleep.” Linden whispered, brushing his thumb over the back of Eris’s palm. 

Eris was out cold before he could even think of a response.

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Time was an exquisite healer — for everyone. And there was something so quietly beautiful about healing together. 

It bonded you all in a way that you knew was unbreakable. You were a family, and even as small drops of normality began to seep back in, your unit remained strong. 

Weeks passed of Eris becoming acclimated to being High Lord, and those initial days of fragility seemed to be a distant memory. He was stepping into the role gradually — with the help of Azriel and Tamlin — and had begun to publicly attend to duties here and there. To name himself as the High Lord of the Autumn Court. And when Azriel and Tamlin eventually announced their departure, you all knew — Eris was ready to do this on his own.

You were all still at Roselands; you and Lucien, Dion and Willow, Eris and Linden and Catrin. But the rebuilding of the manor was coming along swimmingly, and you’d each visited here and there to watch bits and pieces of what felt like a symbolic thing; not only the rebuilding of a home, but of a life, too. 

The days were long and busy, all of you pitching in to establish a new era for the Autumn Court. 

But today — today was about relaxing. 

The sun was shining; one of the rare warm days that the Court sometimes experienced. And with it came a general feeling of positivity. It wasn’t hard for you all to agree to have the day off from official business and just…enjoy yourselves. And you’d done exactly that, spending most of the day basking in the sun, swimming in the lake, walking through the garden. It felt like a holiday; a blissful break from reality.

With the sun still shining into the evening, it was decided that you’d dine together outside amongst the fruit trees and the lingering day’s warmth. Linden — an exquisite cook — had put on a spread fit for a king, and it was over steaming, aromatic dishes and sweating pewter jugs of wine that you sunk happily into a family meal, conversation and laughter a constant presence around the table. 

“So I was understandably put out by how rude he was being,” you laughed, taking a sip of your wine as you told the whole story of yours and Lucien’s journey, “and I said to him, you don’t even know me. And do you know what he said? Let’s keep it that way. My first night there. I wanted to punch him.”

You were met with a chorus of laughter, Lucien chuckling beside you and leaning down to kiss your cheek. “I’m sorry, my love.” 

Rather comically, Catrin gaped at him. “That was so rude of you. I taught you better than that.”

“I know, I know.” Your mate held up his hands. “What can I say? I was drawn to Y/N from the second I glimpsed her punching a tree, and it terrified me.”

You grinned up at him, squeezing his leg beneath the table. Across from you, Dion smiled at the two of you fondly. 

“You both deserve your happy ending.” He said, his hand absentmindedly playing with Willow’s hair. “We all do.”

“Speaking of which,” Eris sat forward, fixing his gaze on you, on Lucien. “I think the two of you should take a break. Go somewhere nice together. Relax, or even travel if you want to. Just…enjoy each other’s company for a few weeks. The gods know, you’ve earned it.”

You blinked at him. “There’s still so much to be done—”

“You’ve done enough.” Eris smiled. “We can manage. You haven’t had a chance to just…enjoy your bond, yet. So take a small vacation. Relax. Enjoy the beginning of the rest of your lives. If I have to make it an order, I will.”

Beside you, Lucien dipped his chin. “We appreciate it, brother, really. But — what if you need us nearby? Granted, we could winnow back, but with everything so new—”

“You could go to Dayview.” Catrin cut in — so abruptly that you all turned to look at her. She studied you fondly. “Dayview Cottage. It’s not far from here, and it’s not like it’s being used…”

Something tugged at your heart. That place was personal to her, had sat untouched with the ghosts of her past for years — and yet she was offering it up for you and Lucien.

“…that’s so kind of you,” you said gently. “But we wouldn’t want to impose.”

You could only assume that the others knew of Dayview’s existence — but not its history. They stared between you and Catrin curiously.

“It would mean a lot to me, actually.” She said, her cheeks pinkening slightly. “You know…for it to be used again. And for such a wonderful thing.”

Lucien leaned down, kissing your head. You could see the mark of respect in his and his brothers’ eyes; that they knew there was more to the story, but it was their mother’s to tell, if she ever wanted to.

“We’d love to go there.” Lucien told her, his voice gentle. “Thank you.”

You nodded in agreement, not trusting your voice to hold if you spoke your gratitude. Thankfully, Eris was speaking before you had to.

“That’s settled, then. Y/N and Lucien are taking a break away from here,” he said, and added with a wink, “and that’s an order — as your High Lord.”

Just like that, the heavy, emotionally-charged moment was swept away with more laughter. Linden rolled his eyes fondly at Eris. “You and your orders.”

Eris smirked back at him. “Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

The two of them had been pretty open, these past weeks, with whatever this thing was that existed between them. Nobody spoke of it. It was just…part of what you all were, now. Perhaps another happy ending. 

And they were also expertly good at getting into flirtatious, verbal sparring matches that nobody, for the life of them, could break up. They seemed to be on the cusp of another one of those, challenge sparking in Linden’s eyes — but it was as he leaned closer to Eris that a flash of light in your periphery stopped you all in your tracks.

Bright, white light, so vibrant it had you squinting and shielding your eyes with your hands. Like a starburst, a beacon of brilliant daylight, like the sun itself had stepped into the garden—

And in its wake, as the light eddied away…a figure.

You should have known who he was from the first glance.

If the fashion of loose, white fabric hanging from his muscled body wasn’t indication enough, or the flowing locks of hair and dark skin and a spiked crown of what looked to be sun rays, then Catrin’s face surely should have told you.

She had gone white as a sheet. Her lips parted, her eyes wide. Her wine-red hair against her pale skin looked like blood on snow. For a moment, it didn’t look like she was breathing.

Every single one of you seemed to be staring between the two of them as they gazed at each other. And after what felt like an eternity of terse, weighty silence, Eris pushed out of his chair, clearing his throat.

“Helion Spell-Cleaver.” He acknowledged, bowing his head. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

And Helion didn’t look away — not once — from Catrin, as he croaked out, “I should have come a long time ago.”

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The tension did die down…a little.

Enough for Helion to join you all at the table and accept a glass of wine. But what had felt like a warm gathering before was now somewhat…crowded. Like you were imposing on something you should have no part in.

“I appreciate your visit.” Eris told him; even if you all knew — Eris himself included — that he wasn’t here for him. He was being…diplomatic. Holding the conversation while Catrin gathered her thoughts. “You’re welcome here, of course. Please…help yourself to food.”

Helion cleared his throat, bowing his head in thanks. “I went to the manor first. I knew it had burned down, of course, but…I was informed I could find you here.”

Could find you here. His eyes had been on Catrin as he’d said that. Her cheeks flushed.

“Another estate of ours.” Eris explained with a nod. “It’s where we’ve been staying while the manor is being rebuilt.” 

You were barely aware of Helion’s response, as you stared and stared. Like puzzle pieces suddenly slotting into place, it became clear to you in an instant. 

A male she had loved.

A male who had gifted her a cottage, for them to meet in. Dayview Cottage. Undoubtedly from the High Lord of Day. 

Helion — the Helion Spell-Cleaver — was the true love from her tale. Had seemingly come back for her.

And perhaps more pressing…

You studied the High Lord of the Day Court as he answered Eris’s questions, one eye always seeming to be on Catrin. Studied the straight nose, the cut of his jaw. How familiar those features were. Ones you stared at every day.

In Lucien’s face.

Lucien, whose golden skin had always been a few shades darker than that of his brothers’. Lucien, who had never resembled Beron at all — or even Catrin, really, aside from the hair.

Lucien, your mate…who you were sure was the son of Helion Spell-Cleaver.

You swallowed, pushing the thoughts from your brain. Whatever the truth was…it was Catrin’s to tell. You couldn’t involve yourself.

Right now, she needed to speak to Helion. Alone.

Clearing your throat loudly, you sat up. “How about we play some games?” Your eyes bounced around Dion and Willow, Linden and Eris. Very pointedly.

Eris stared back at you. And then seemed to realise. What the extent of the males’ knowledge was of their mother’s history, you had no clue. But the three of them were, at least, aware enough to realise that Catrin had some things to face.

“We’ll be inside, should you want to join us.” You followed them in pushing to your feet, sending the High Lord of Day a warm smile. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Helion dipped his chin — to you, and to the others. “And you.”

Lucien was just…staring. At his mother, at Helion, an unreadable expression on his face. You wrapped a warm hand around his and squeezed. The truth would one day all rise to the surface, whatever it may be, but…not now. You’d all faced enough upheaval for now.

“Come,” you said softly, and Lucien finally followed. Not without one last look over his shoulder at the ancient love that was now evident at that table, filling the garden with its presence. You wondered what he saw as he looked at them.

“I’ve…never seen her look like that before.” He seemed to answer your thoughts, his thumb brushing the back of your palm.

“Like what?” You asked.

“Like she feels safe.”

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You fell asleep, that night, to the sounds of Catrin’s and Helion’s voices in the garden, mingling well into the late hours.

And you thought that perhaps the world was truly healing — one good heart at a time.

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There was no other feeling like you and your mate being entirely in a world of your own.

The magic that encased Dayview Cottage made it blissfully private, and within just a day of being there, you knew you could happily stay there forever.

It was far smaller and more intimate than Roselands; more akin to the gamekeeper’s cottage. No one besides you and Lucien for miles and miles. If you needed anything, you need only speak it aloud, and the cottage’s magic would summon it. 

Bad memories were distant. Unimportant.

The first day was about rest. It seemed that exhaustion, physical and mental, had finally caught up to the both of you; unsurprising, really, given that the recent months of your lives had been nothing but constant chaos and drama. You and Lucien had arrived at the cottage, and there’d been nothing more luxurious than collapsing into the huge, fresh-smelling bed — the afternoon sun shining outside — and just…falling asleep together. 

You awoke hours later to Lucien’s warm, attentive gaze on you, his fingers indolently playing with the strands of your hair. You’d merely leaned up to brush your lips against his cheek.

“This is where they came together, isn’t it?” He’d said, his voice rough with sleep. You knew who he was talking about. “Dayview Cottage.”

You’d reached out, smoothing the lines of deep thought from his face. His eyes had shuttered at your touch. “It is.”

It was a while before he spoke again. Before he’d finished luxuriating in the gentle coasting of your fingertips against his skin. But when he did, it was a quiet sentiment that you echoed in your heart and soul.

“I hope they come here again.”

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The second day, with your energy restored a little, was about exploring. 

You and Lucien spent the entire morning discovering the beauty of the nature that stretched around you, wandering through the forest until you came to a lake, the shore of which you sat and ate at together, a picnic of fruits and cheeses and juice. You swam naked together, bathed in the sun together, talked for hours and hours and caught up on all the things you simply hadn’t gotten to know about each other, given how volatile your journey had been up until now.

It was bliss. And it almost brought a tear to your eye to think that the rest of your life could be — would be — like this, but—

But Lucien didn’t touch you, beyond the handholding, the absentminded caresses, the lazy kisses. Even as clear hunger and heat had flashed in his eyes as he’d watched you towel your naked body off — and you’d watched the way it very clearly affected him — he’d pulled you down beside him and simply tucked you into his side. And later that night, your walking and swimming and the day’s warmth had coaxed you to sleep before you could question it.

And it wasn’t that you hadn’t found pleasure in each other in the recent weeks, since everything had happened. There had been a few nights where you’d managed to stay awake long enough to come together and find your releases. But the days were so packed-full with helping Eris become acclimated to his new role, with going back and forth with correspondence and helping the new manor be built, that you rarely had the energy to do much more than hold hands as you fell asleep.

It was on that third morning, over breakfast, that you finally roused the courage.

“Can I ask you something?” You said, watching as Lucien took a seat opposite you.

He paused curiously. “Anything, my love.”

“…is there a reason we haven’t…I mean…do you not want to…”

“Want to what?”

“Have sex.” Your cheeks flushed; not out of any embarrassment about the subject, but…it just seemed ludicrous, given all that you’d done with each other’s bodies before.

But again, Lucien paused — and blinked at you. Pure surprise crossed his face, as though the idea hadn’t even dawned on him. “Is that what you think? That I don’t want to?”

You shrugged slowly, wishing you could take the words back. Realising, now, how silly they seemed. “I don’t know…we’ve been here a few days, now, and there have been moments where we’ve come close, but just…haven’t.”

“I want to bury myself inside you so badly that I keep feeling like I’m going to burst out of my skin.”

It was your turn to pause, then. “…Oh.”

Lucien’s eyes were fierce as they met yours. Heated. “I keep thinking about tasting you, and touching you, and fucking you hard enough to turn this place to rubble. So much that it’s sometimes hard to concentrate on anything else.”

Your mouth turned dry, wetness pooling between your legs. The mere filth of his words was enough to make you consider clearing this table with a swipe of your arm and crawling over to him.

You swallowed hard. “Then why haven’t you?”

And that heated, sinful darkness in his gaze immediately lightened and softened. He stared at you, offering his hand across the table. “I want it to be on your terms, Y/N. After everything…my father attacking you…I want you to decide when and where and how we do it. I’ll follow your lead.”

You quite possibly could have melted in your seat. So tender, this male — caring and loving. Your mate. Beron’s attack may not have gone beyond bruising and a damn deep head wound, but he’d still had his hands all over you. Had still violated you. 

Lucien just wanted to make sure you were ready to put that behind you, before you allowed yourself to be touched again. 

Gods, you loved him.

And gods, you were ready.

“You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met, you know.” You said. “My mate.”

His throat bobbed. “As are you.” His hand squeezed yours. “…How much do you know…about how the mating bond works?”

You chewed, tilting your head. “Not much,” you admitted. “My parents weren’t mated. I’ve heard and read different things. I know of the tradition where the female offers the male food.”

Something you hadn’t done yet — and something you absolutely planned to do. It hadn’t mattered to either of you that you technically had not officially accepted the bond yet. You were mates, in love, and you’d planned to do so when the time was right. When it was just the two of you.

Lucien nodded. “The offering of food is symbolic of an official acceptance of the bond. And when it’s accepted, it triggers a kind of…frenzy, I suppose.”

Your lips twitched. “As in…for a while, we’re not going to be able to think about much else than fucking each other senseless.”

He chuckled deeply. “Precisely.” His smile sobered a bit. “But I don’t expect it of you, you know. If you’re not ready for any of the official stuff, it makes no difference to me. We have the rest of our lives to make it official. And to fuck each other senseless.”

You did — an entire lifetime for it. But you were impatient, and hungry for your mate. You didn’t want to wait.

And you knew that probably showed in your eyes as you met his gaze.

You lifted just slightly out of your seat. Just enough to grasp the table and lean across it, your lips brushing against Lucien’s. He tried to capture you in a kiss, but you grinned at him, pinning a hand over his mouth.

“I’m going to cook for you tonight.” You said.

The promise behind the words was enough to make him shudder.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Linden had taught you to cook years ago.

It was something you greatly enjoyed, but also something you unfortunately didn’t get to do often. Having always been surrounded by servants and staff and cooks, food was simply served to you. Something you rarely got to put much thought or care into.

But Linden — Linden had left his home and his family at such a young age that he’d had no choice but to become self-sufficient. And when you’d first taken a bite of a meal he’d cooked for you, you’d wolfed it down — and asked him to teach you how to do it.

You were thankful for that teaching, now, as delicious aromas filled the cottage. 

You’d barred Lucien from the kitchen, and it was through the window, whilst you cooked, that you watched him relaxing in the evening sunlight, lazily strumming his lute as the golden rays made his hair glint. You couldn’t stop your eyes snagging on his fingers, the expert way that they moved—

You shook your thoughts off. It was hard to concentrate — knowing how tonight would end. 

This was important. This was symbolic. You were Lucien’s, and he was yours — forever.

You put everything into that meal. Every emotion that had built up from the moment you’d stumbled upon Lucien Vanserra reading poems and sonnets beneath a tree. Every subtle glance and touch, every late-night thought. Every moment you’d wondered what he was doing, where he was — and then wondered why you cared so much. 

That first kiss at the masquerade ball. That first joining of your bodies in the gamekeeper’s cottage. When he’d gone after you on the hunt and found you a crying, shuddering mess, and he’d stayed with you in that cave. That night of the courtier’s meeting, when he’d become so blinded by jealousy that he’d taken you, mind and body and soul, until you’d forgotten that Azriel even existed. When he’d sat beside you in the forest and allowed you to cry, and had kissed your head — a rare tender moment, amongst all the passion. All those times he’d played with your braid, letting it fall between his fingers. When he’d finished a companionship with Tansy that had gone on for years, because he couldn’t bear to think of anyone but you. When he’d told you he was in love with you. When he’d decided to fight for you — for both of you.

Months and months and months of love and lust and heartache and longing and passion. You poured every bit of it into that meal. Your journey together.

Your mate. Your great, brilliant, kind mate. There would never be anybody but him. 

You plated up the food, brushed yourself down, and took a deep breath. Lucien looked up, his fingers stilling on the lute as you opened the door.

“It’s ready,” you said. And held out a hand.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Your eyes tracked it all. Every. Last. Bite.

And even though the tradition was an ancient one, merely symbolic, you could have sworn that the air around the two of you changed. Like the bond was strengthening. Truly fusing your souls together, once and for all.

Lucien swallowed his last mouthful, setting his cutlery down. His eyes lifted to yours.

You could only focus on his mouth. That full, sensuous mouth. You wanted to kiss it, to feel it on your skin—

“How was it.” Your question was blunt, gravelly, a distant thought. His opinion of your food didn’t really matter to you right now; what mattered was him. All of him.

“Delicious.” He reached for his wine, and the mere movement had your chest heaving, your eyes watching his fingers wrap around the glass. He lifted it to his lips, draining the liquid. A few drops lingered on his mouth, painting it red.

You were going to fucking devour him.

“If you look at me like that,” he rasped, swallowing, “this will be over before it’s really begun.”

You met his gaze. Shuddered at the intensity there. “You are my mate.”

“Yes.”

“I am yours.”

“Always.”

Your legs shook as you rose from your seat. “Forever.”

That single word was what did it. What absolutely decimated the frail cord of restraint that was keeping Lucien controlled, civilised. 

An animalistic growl ripped from deep within his chest, and he was out of his chair and in front of you in seconds. 

You barely had a chance to draw breath as he hoisted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. And he was holding you, his lips slanting over yours in a hard, desperate kiss. 

You kissed him back feverishly, your arms snaking around his neck, your fingers twining within his hair. You could kiss him forever. Lose yourself in his lips, his taste—

“Mine.” The word slipped between your lips without any guidance from you. A rough, carnal claiming. You nipped Lucien’s lip, swallowing his grunt. “You’re mine.”

“Always.” He promised again, pulling you tighter against him. “I’m all yours.”

It was a wonder you didn’t climax from the declaration itself — the way it wracked through your body like a physical touch. You shuddered, rolling your hips against him, feeling his hard cock push up against the clothed centre of you. You felt his groan as it vibrated from his body, into yours. And then he was kissing you again, stumbling back with you towards the bedroom. 

You couldn’t touch enough of him at once. The hard press of his muscles against your body was divine, a song to the softness of your own body, and when he parted from you to place you on the bed, a whine escaped you at the loss of contact.

But that noise immediately faded into breathlessness as Lucien’s hungry gaze landed on you. And the intent you found waiting in his eyes…the sheer focus—

He unbuttoned his white shirt torturously slowly, first at the cuffs and then at the front. You couldn’t help staring at his fingers, thinking back to the times they’d touched you before, what they’d felt like. How you wanted them now, all over you. 

But he was methodical. Knew exactly what he intended to do, and in what order. And when that billowing shirt was tossed to the floor, you waited for his breeches to come off, too. But he didn’t touch them. He instead stepped closer to the bed.

Closer.

His knee nudged your legs apart, and you allowed them to fall open, the sundress you’d worn now feeling like nothing but an inconvenience. Your little, lacy underthings were soaked already; Lucien inhaled deeply, roughly, his eyes like dark, swimming chocolate.

“I hardly know where to begin,” he breathed, his tongue swiping over his lips. “I could spend hours just looking at you. My mate.”

“I don’t want you to look at me.” Your chest rose and fell deeply. “I want you to ravish me.”

A low growl was his answer, and he seemed utterly powerless to his needs as he dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed. His heavy breaths blew against your clothed cunt, and you hissed at the sensation.

“Lift your hips for me,” Lucien murmured, his attention fiercely on that sweet spot between your thighs that he wanted access to. 

You did just that, sucking in a gasp as his calloused hands skated up your legs, dipping beneath the hem of your dress. His fingers found the waistband of that frail, pathetic undergarment that barely concealed you, and he tugged it down, pressing kisses to your legs in its wake.

“I must think about tasting you,” your mate hummed, “every single hour of the day.”

You were trembling already, reaching for any sliver of bravado you could hold onto. “A slight exaggeration, perhaps.”

“Oh? Do you think so?”

“I do—”

Your words turned into a yelp as Lucien pushed your dress up and lowered his face to your damp heat. He inhaled slowly, eyes flicking up to yours. “Not an exaggeration at all, I assure you.”

And then his mouth was on you, and you were incapable of a response beyond the moan that was dragged from deep within you.

Amongst all the chaos and havoc of recent weeks, you’d almost forgotten how generous Lucien was with his mouth and teeth and tongue. He took his time exploring you, lapping you up like your wetness was in dwindling supply. And the noises of utter filth that left him…you sunk your fingers into his hair, your head falling back. 

“My beautiful fireling.” Lucien growled, his teeth grazing your clit. “I’ll never get used to this. To wanting you constantly.”

“Fuck, I want you too.” Your fingers tightened in his hair, your other hand clasping your breast. “Always.”

“Always is ours, my love.”

The way that he feasted on you…you could bask in the feeling forever. The strokes of his tongue and grazing of his teeth and the way he had you trembling before he slid a finger into you. He pumped that finger a few times, lapping at your clit with his tongue. And when a second finger joined the first, you were done for.

Your back arched off the bed as a stunning release stormed you. Over the ringing in your head, you could just make out Lucien’s words of encouragement, the way he continued to worship you, even as you came down, legs trembling. Words simply failed you, your arm draping over your face as you attempted to catch your breath, But as Lucien kissed your inner thighs and climbed onto the bed, caging your body in, you could already feel yourself ready again.

“I want you inside me,” you breathed, reaching for him and pulling him into a searing kiss. Your hand moved down his body, finding the tight, hard arousal that poked through his breeches. You growled in frustration at the intricate laces and buttons, “take these off.”

Lucien chuckled, his fingers going straight to those laces. “So impatient.”

“Such a delicious tease.”

“I think you’ll find…” he paused, long enough to move his hand up to your face. His fingers brushed the cut of your jaw before landing on your mouth, and with a little pressure, he was parting your lips. Pushing in those two fingers, still coated with your sex. “I think you’ll find that you’re the delicious one.”

Your eyes met his as you sucked your taste from his fingers, your tongue flicking the pads of them. And the way he watched you…the darkening of his eyes was so sinful that you knew — there would be no more teasing.

He didn’t even need to look as that one free hand loosened the rest of his buttons and laces. And then the front flap of his breeches was parting, revealing more skin that dipped down beneath the fabric, the smattering of hair in a perfect trail.

Too much…the craving him was almost too much. Your eyes followed that trail of hair, and it was with utterly ravenous desperation that you reached out to shimmy his breeches the rest of the way down.

At the sight of his cock springing free, you moaned.

He was hard. So ready for you, it looked like it could teeter on the edge of pain. Lucien swallowed, finally removing his fingers from your mouth as you reached out and brushed your fingertips against the velvety skin of his cock.

He hissed between his teeth at the contact, his hips jerking. Your lips twitched into a smile as you wrapped your hand around his length and pumped him. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Fuck—stop.” He gasped, staying your hand by grasping your wrist in his own. “I need to be inside you. We—we fall off the edge together.”

A promise that sounded so good, you wanted to devour it. You stopped your movements, pausing to mop a bead of moisture from the head with your thumb. Which you then lifted to your mouth and sucked.

Lucien swore, so deep it was almost indiscernible. And then he was positioning himself between your legs. Pulling your dress the rest of the way off until the two of you were completely bare with each other. 

The head of his cock brushed your entrance, drawing a gasp from you. But he was pausing over you. Staring down at you.

Your chest heaved as you asked, breathlessly, “what is it?”

Both of Lucien’s hands slid to yours, your fingers immediately slotting together. He pinned your arms above your head, staring down at you. “I’m just happy.” He murmured earnestly, eyes tracing every inch of your face. “We get to do this for the rest of our lives. We get to have each other. Forever. I didn’t…I didn’t think I’d ever have something like this.”

The words were so raw that you felt them right to your very soul. You pushed up, pressing your lips, your forehead, to his. “We deserve this happiness, Lucien.”

“Yes.” He breathed. The head of his cock pushed into you just slightly.

“We deserve,” you continued, biting your lip at the sensation, “to live a long, happy life — together. You and me.”

Those words seemed to utterly destroy whatever was holding him back. He groaned, sliding further into you, your slick walls welcoming the friction. 

“You and me.” He echoed. And then he thrust.

Your eyes were fully locked on one another’s as he pushed in to the hilt, a gasped breath leaving both of you. And then he withdrew. Pushed in again. Leaned down to kiss you.

Those first few thrusts were slow, languid, a battle of breaths and kissing and your bodies moving together. Every bit of you touched every bit of him in any way you could, and just the feeling of having him there…pressed against you. Real. Safe. Happy—

You didn’t realise tears had escaped you until you were choking out a moan that mingled with a sob. Lucien paused to pull back and read your face, his lips parted—

“Don’t stop.” You gasped, not shielding your emotions one bit. “Don’t stop.”

“I love you.” He leaned down, kissed one tear away. Another. “My fireling. My mate.”

You were sure your body shuddered at the words — or maybe it was his. Or both of you. All thoughts became lost in the sensation of your bodies and souls being joined, of Lucien fucking you and loving you. Worshipping you. He was yours and you were his.

And when the pace quickened, became more frenzied…when you were clawing at each other’s skin and kissing with teeth and tongue and breathing the most raw words of sheer pleasure onto each other’s mouths, it dawned on you only then — that the worst was over. 

The best was yet to come.

It was as though you’d sent that thought straight to Lucien’s mind, coursing through his body, as you felt him shudder against your hands. He threw his head back, his hair a brilliant flash of colour that reminded you of daylight. That there would be many days ahead of you.

And when you dragged your nails down his back, grabbing at the skin of his ass and encouraging his hard thrusts into you, hitting a spot so deep inside you…white hot pleasure splintered through you.

You cried out as release hit you at full-force. Lucien’s hips faltered, his thrusts stuttering as you clenched around him.

“Come.” You breathed, trembling. “Come for me.”

He did just that.

There weren’t any words to describe the roar that broke through him as he stilled and spilled every drop of himself inside you. It was like no other sound you’d heard from him before. One not only of pleasure, but of raw, carnal love and passion.

You moaned through every jerk and twitch of his cock inside you, and Lucien swallowed every noise with kisses and whispered I love yous, over and over.

I love you.

I love you.

My fireling, my mate, I love you.

You would never tire of hearing it.

Nor of feeling it.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

lucien tag list: @brekkershadowsinger @sillycrownlady @ruler-of-hades @lectoradefics @lucyysthings @littlemoonash @janzquu @carmelalikestoread @cathyac @tasha2627 @elkessecretplace @inkyvelvet @acourtofthought @zazite95 @antisocialcookie16 @sehalpha25 @fuckthatfeeling @adamgetawaydriver @livelaughlovenestaarcheron @lostpirateinwonderland @scrunklybunny @owllover123 @vangoghsbaby @goodbyemilkyway @babyimagangsta2 @cynicalpotato95 @draguta @pee-stachio @rem-ie @mateobneun-rattattui

[captjprice]

Price X reader, reader is an exotic dancer, but she just have eyes our favorite capt. 🦝

John Price x ExoticDancer!Reader

a/n : this is sosososoos cute

mentions: fluff(?), thigh riding, not really smut, kinda, he's down bad

Only eyes for him

The relationship you had with the captain of Taskforce 141 was… odd. In more ways than one. It wasn´t what most people thought it was, though. As an exotic dancer people often assumed things about you, how could they not? You paraded around in a skimpy outfit and poledanced, so obviously you had to be a whore..

It was quite the opposite, however. The passion you had for dancing in youth stayed with you until adulthood, and you pursued what was probably the best paying job in the industry. Stripper isn´t the word to define you, if you had a say. You don´t STRIP. You dance. And you do it elegantly, and that´s exactly what drew him to you- Fuck. You looked like an angel on earth the first time he saw you. He wished he could go back in time to that exact moment, despite it being one of the worst missions he´d encountered.

John´s earpiece was only noising static as he hurried through the dark city and he had lost the lieutenant somewhere along the way, but he could make out the few words his soldiers were muttering through comm´s.

´´Stripclub in the city center, In the damn stri-´´ Static flooded his ears again, and he whinced. Stripclub it was, then. Price was not the type of man to visit stripclubs, or even that sort of place. Often too loud to be enjoyable, plus his needs would be satisfied alone, and alone only if he had any. He was a Captain, with no distractions. John could hear the loud club music from outside as he made his way there, and he dreaded looking for the target inside. Once inside, he needed to adjust to the lights and music at first, before walking through the club.

Ofcourse, he did look at the women, but only briefly and in a hurry. Nothing could´ve prepared him for the enigma that was you as he stepped towards you. A crowd was gathered around you as you danced, and you seemed to be enjoying the dancing more than the money that was being thrown on stage.

God, you were beautiful. Price wasn´t usually attracted to women that sold themselves, but the way you smiled as you danced told him that you weren´t doing it for attention. Your curves, your hair and that face of yours.. It had him all hooked, stalling for a moment as he watched you. You turn, reaching your hand out as if to lure the crowd in, and oh does it work. Atleast for Price.

But he´s quick to snap himself back to reality, and pushes past the people to further investigate the club for the target.

John thought it´d be done with that- A fleeting glance that made him falter, nothing more. However, as he proceeded to do his job, you were like an annoying voice in the back of his head. A hand still reaching out to lure him in. Every thought that wasn´t strictly work, was you in that pretty little outfit on stage.

He´d palm himself under the desk sometimes, trying to get rid of the aching feeling you gave him. And all these emotions because of what? A single glance? He refused to believe a woman had him wrapped around her finger without even knowing her. It was the stark contrast of what he wanted.

But little did he know, he wasn´t the only one getting hot and bothered because of a stranger. You´d seen him that night, positive he must´ve been police or military. Nobody else hurries in a damn strip club. John was.. exactly what you had envisioned in a man. People often thought you´d go for the richer, sleek types but that wasn´t the case. He was homey and natural. Exactly what you wanted.

Everytime you danced, you´d hope he was there again, but not on business. It was a reach, but you thought you had surely affected him that night. Still, he might be married. With kids. You really prayed he wasn´t..

It´s late at night that John finds himself driving to that club, filled with guilt. He´s not married, or in a relationship so he´s not sure why it feels wrong. Maybe because he´s supposed to be setting an example to his soldiers? He pushes the thought away and walks in, looking totally lost as his eyes search the room for you. You aren´t where you were last time. Are you not performing tonight?

He´s relieved, though, when he sees a group of men further on. That must be you.

He´s right. You´re just finishing up your dance, it seems as you tuck the money into your waistband. Your eyes gaze over everyone again, all seeing horribly familiar men that come here every night.

You falter when you see him, standing like a lost child in the middle of the club staring at you. You can´t help but crack a soft smile, ofcourse he came back. They always do with you. The difference is that he interests you, the others don´t.

You walk off stage and behind the curtains, where you get unready- It´s late after all.

You can´t really feign suprise as John follows after you, watching for a moment before walking up to you. It´s obvious he doesn´t really know how to talk to you, all he knows is that you have him absolutely captivated. You smile slightly and clear your throat. He stares for another few seconds before pulling some money out of his backpocket. "A private dance?" He asks gruffly, holding the money out to you. Ofcourse, you sheepishly take it and lead him to one of the private rooms.

It hadn´t been anything too sexual, just a lap dance that resulted in him pulling you onto his lap, asking questions as he brushed your hair out of your face. It was.. sweet in it´s own way. He was actually interested in you, not just your services.

That´s exactly how you find yourself in the situation you´re in right now, perched on his lap as he gazes at you like some jewel, only his. These meetings between you have been going on for a bit now. His hand rests on the curve of your ass, ocassionally running up to caress your waist as you speak.

"I´m glad it was a good day today, sweetheart." He cooes to you, glancing at the money tucked in your panties. "But you didn´t let any of them touch you, no?" John asks, giving a little squeeze. You shake your head in response. "Course not, only you get the private dances," You say sweetly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. It´s not satisfactory for him, it seems. His hand gently grips your chin to turn it towards him.

Until now, the two of you had been.. unlabelled. You kissed sometimes, made out, but it hadn´t gone further than that. Purely because you weren´t sure if you were a woman for the side. He came every so often during the week, but hadn´t asked you out. John really wanted to change that.

"I want you to be mine," John grunts, holding your face towards him. "I am yours." You reply softly, gazing up at him with big eyes. "Not what I mean, love." He counters, letting go of you and leaning back on the couch with a sigh, "Actually mine. Girlfriend. Partner. Lover." John continues, holding onto your hips to shift you a little closer. You can feel your cheeks flush red, and you smile shyly.

Affection from men was not unknown to you, but the way John did it was just so.. different. "I don´t mind your work, yeah? Not at all. I trust you. I just really want us to be.. Us. Not some unlabelled situation." He says softly. He opens his mouth again to continue his sentence, thinking of another way to convince you, but when you lean forward and kiss him it becomes quite obvious to him that you don´t need convincing.

John lets out a low hum as you kiss him, wrapping his arms around you a little tighter. Jesus, he loved you. He was sure. You shift in your position to sit on his thigh, shamelessly grinding against his pants as you kiss him. Your action causes him to pull away and smirk.

"Oh? Needy, love?" John teases, his hands guiding your hips to move against him with a little more pressure. You nod and whine in response, moving back and forth on his leg. "Jus' like that, baby.." He says, looking at where your crotch connect with his leg. You´re soaking through your panties, he can see the damp spot.

You keep going, your eyes flickering shut. Just at that moment, John stops you, making you whine at the loss of contact. He´s grinning. Bastard. "Maybe we should finish this at my place, mmh?" He asks, rubbing your hips. Right. You forgot you were still in the club, not in your own little world with him.. You give a quick nod, moving off of his thigh. John presses a kiss to your temple and gets your jacket.

The drive home was.. interesting.

[phannibal]

finished the fight the future novelization!! overall it was an extremely mid adaptation that did not take advantage of the change in medium to do anything interesting, but it was still a fun read and honestly some plot points were clearer than in the movie. liveblog and standout moments under the cut :3

immediately the narration feels like someone is describing something that’s happening on screen. this is not a good thing; a good adaptation is able to use the strengths of its medium to tell the story in a way that is compelling in and of itself (day of the doctor perfect example) (this is why screen -> book adaptations fall flat when using a different author, the book author has a lot of guesswork to do wrt POVs, motivations, and other internal character stuff) (but do I really want to read a book by chris carter)

wait this is awesome face blindness can’t affect me in the written word. wow turns out that one guy was two guys all along

y’know it’s almost not fair to criticize this book for being a clunky adaptation bc fight the future leans so hard into its own cinematography in a way that makes it irreplicable in text. god I want to write a dissertation comparing this to the dotd novelization with references to the other x files and target novelizations and comparing franchises and impact of same vs. different author of the same story. waves sadly at my nonexistent media studies degree

he comes into the initial hearing and her heart LIFTS. this is what i’m talking about use the medium to give us character insight!!!

oh no fucking way. author just used “who’s” when the correct word was “whose.” probably worst mistake I have ever seen in a published book

the dialogue in particular does not translate well to text. maybe there’s a way to make m&s’ opening back and forth just as iconic and characteristic in print, or mulder’s drunken exposition slash tagline just as comedic yet foreboding, but as is, they (and other standout lines) just fall so flat

they don’t even say that he’s peeing on the independence day poster 😑

did this author come from fanfiction or something bc the amount of “the younger man” I’m having to roll my eyes at is obscene

this is the biggest glimpse we get into any character’s thoughts so i’m holding it to my chest forever and ever

god so the 3am “what are you implying” “is that what you’d like me to do” feel WAY more loaded in text

also “she had been thinking exactly that” 🥺

TWICE. yeah i bet

I’m like 90% sure some lines of dialogue are slightly different like just meaningless word order choices but I’m not putting on the movie to confirm

no okay the above is definitely true. “the one thing in the world he can’t live without” is NOT the original line but goes just as hard

have to include this bc it is absolutely the most changed dialogue in the whole book. wish i could see into this author’s head

realizing for the first time that the guy that planted the bomb = the guy eavesdropping on mulder in the bar = the guy driving the ambulance because in a book you have to spell that type of thing out

i DID actually pull up the movie upon reading these lines bc i was like i knowww i would remember this. i wonder if the author was working off of the original script or something and this was part of that? or if she was really just allowed to freestyle

god so we know in the movie he just kind of jumps down a random ice hole after he initially falls through. here it’s specifically and clearly a vent because ig this author could not rationalize him choosing to jump down a random hole

long af image so click to read but INSANE insane emphasis on the cpr scene for no reason. like that lasts 2 seconds in the movie but is fully a page and a half here, thanks for that at least ms elizabeth hand

protectively :')

why is this exchange so neutered?? where is the passion? where is "some hollow personal cause of mine" and "i can't. i won't"?

that's all i got! i think these excerpts really demonstrate the shortcomings of a direct, no-frills screen-to-text translation. i can't help thinking that this book was meant to be just another thing to put on shelves and sell, as opposed to being born of a genuine desire to retell the story in a new way. like i said, still fun though, and enough new tidbits to make it worthwhile!

[gay-episode]

How Eddie could possibly tie into Mike's story in season 5.

I'm gonna say it right away, it would make the most sense for Mike to be a target of Vecna in season 5. It would be a natural way to explain why he does certain things (such as why he was a jerk in s3 onwards) why he feels the need to pretend to love El and his feelings towards Will, it would just make sense.

I think the bts photos of s5 but Mike and Dustin specifically are really important here. Before Eddie died, Mike had his hair grown out in the same style as Eddie's hair and Dustin seemed in the process of growing his hair. In season 5, Dustin let his hair grow out and he styled it like Eddie, probably as a way to honor him or as a way to cope with the loss. Mike on the other hand, cut his hair, which could signify him trying to repress his grief, it could be a nod towards the fact that he just wants to forget Eddie because of how painful the loss is.

One thing you have to understand about Mike and Eddie's friendship is that it's extremely likely that Eddie came into Mike's life when Mike really needed it, I think a lot of people don't stop and think about what Mike must've felt between season 3 and season 4. Think about this, his best friend (and presumably the person he's in love with and likely still feels guilty about hurting) left for the first time in almost 10 years. They've never had to live without each other. His girlfriend left too which I don't think it matters if Mike's feeling for El are platonic or not (even though they are) but having a person who you do care about leave is hard nonetheless. Max started becoming distant which in turn made Lucas more distant, until finally it was just Mike and Dustin. Can you imagine how horrible that would be? He lost almost everyone he cares about in just a few months. Eddie, I imagine, was his escape from all that, Eddie was a massive influence on Mike, everything from his hairstyle to his hobbies (the guitar in Mike's room, also Eddie bringing back his passion for DND) Eddie was his escape from reality, Eddie was one of the only people he had left.

Now imagine you had a person like that in your life, a person who came to you when you most needed them, a person you felt like yourself again when you were around, and imagine you left for a week and when you returned that person was dead. Mike has nothing left to escape, he can't go to Eddie to handle his grief anymore so now he just tries to strip himself of anything that makes him think about Eddie, he doesn't know how to process his grief so he just simply doesn't, he bottles it up.

That's exactly what vecna wants, like Max for example tried to bury her grief when Billy died and it made her a target.

Vecna is going to use Eddie against Mike, I just know it.