#most of them are more awful than this one

[thankskenpenders]

Thoughts on two specific areas of the writing in Sonic X Shadow Generations

The best new 3D Sonic game in over a decade (or even two, depending on who you ask) dropped late last year. And I didn't write anything about it! Sometimes life happens. Well, I've finally sat down to finish Shadow Generations, and by now everyone has already been singing its praises for three months. This is the rare instance where the entire Sonic fandom, and even mainstream reviewers, are in agreement on something. The level design is the best it's been in a long, long time and the cool factor is off the charts, embracing Sonic's peak cringe era in an incredibly confident way. It's great. If you're even reading this post, you probably don't need me to tell you that. So I won't!

No, what I'm really interested in here is the writing. Because this is me we're talking about. But I actually don't want to talk about the main narrative of Shadow Generations, which is really solid little story about Black Doom trying to mold Shadow into his perfect soldier. No, I'd like to zero in on two other aspects of the writing here: the revisions made to Sonic Generations, and Gerald Robotnik's unlockable journal.

The updated Sonic Generations script

The new package mostly presents Sonic Generations how you remember it. There are some tweaks, but it's not a major overhaul. Graphically, I don't think the game has been touched much, if at all. I certainly can't notice any difference without a side-by-side comparison, despite playing it on a PS5. The most notable update is that the game's script has been rewritten by Ian Flynn.

Naturally, this caught my attention. Generations always had a nothingburger story, so with Ian rewriting Pontac and Graff's lame dialogue there was nowhere to go but up. (I don't like to pin the blame for those games' stories entirely on them, as a ton of it was dictated to them by Sonic Team, but, well, I don't think they're very good dialogue writers.) But it's less a complete rewrite and more like Ian was brought on as a script doctor for some minor touch ups here and there. Many lines of dialogue are completely identical to how they were originally written in 2011, and many others only have slight wording changes. Ian was clearly not allowed to request additional scenes or extend the ones that already existed. He has to match the original beat for beat so that they can reuse 99% of the cutscene animations. Don't expect it to be a whole new experience compared to the original.

Still, I think the new script is an improvement, albeit a minor one. Various things have been tweaked to maintain characterization consistency. Cream calls Sonic "Mr. Sonic" instead of just "Sonic." Instead of calling Sonic "buddy," Rouge uses the pet name "Blue," like she tends to do in things like the IDW comics. Espio doesn't have to remind you in the dialogue that he's a ninja, and he no longer has a line making it sound like he has some kind of soul reading power. I also like that Modern Sonic now actually has responses to what his friends say when he rescues them, rather than being silent like Classic Sonic. They won't blow you away, but they make Sonic feel a little more engaged with everything.

In general, the altered dialogue just seems tighter to me, and some of the more childish or trite wording of Pontac and Graff's script has been altered. Here, let's actually make a direct comparison, just because this stuff is interesting to me as a writer. Here's a couple lines from after the Egg Dragoon fight late in the game, in the original script:

Modern Eggman: Ooooh... I can't believe this! I was supposed to beat you this time. Modern Sonic: Aw, I'm sorry! I didn't get that memo. I beat you every time! [Turns to Classic Sonic] No, seriously, we beat this guy every time. It's like it's our job or something!

This is a simple exchange. Eggman is mad that he lost. Sonic is unflappably confident because he always beats Eggman, and he explains this to his younger self. But the wording here isn't particularly good. Eggman's simple and direct wording makes him come off like a little kid who's mad because his older brother beat him at Mario Kart, rather than a mad scientist who just had his plans foiled. It's making light of the situation.

And I've never liked Sonic saying "It's like it's our job or something!" That doesn't feel like a thing Sonic would say, it feels like a thing an outside observer would say about Sonic. This is a frequent problem with so-called "MCU dialogue," where quips meant to echo the commentary of a casual, somewhat disinterested audience are inserted into the story itself so that the writers can be like "See? We get it. We're genre-savvy, too!" It also just reminds me of bad Sonic Boom: Rise of Lyric lines like "Rings! It's like they're made for me!"

And then here's Ian's rewrite:

Modern Eggman: I recalibrated everything! This was supposed to be my time! Modern Sonic: Oh, please, keep dreamin', Egg-head. I beat you every time. [Turns to Classic Sonic] No, seriously, we beat him every time. Our score card's flawless.

Eggman's still mad about his defeat, but the line "I recalibrated everything!" makes it more specific. He put all this work into the engineering side of his latest scheme and got tunnel vision, thinking if he got his creations just right there'd be no way he could lose. "This was supposed to be my time!" also turns it into a time travel pun, which is a bonus. He's still pitching a fit over losing, but it feels more like Eggman pitching a fit, rather than sounding childish.

And then instead of saying that beating Eggman is "like his job or something," Sonic says he's got a flawless score card against Eggman. He doesn't take Eggman seriously as a threat—at least, not to his face. He acts like it's all a game. But he conveys this in a way that feels truer to the character, rather than feeling like the words of a real world observer poking fun at the tropes of the Sonic series.

Is this amazing, A+ dialogue that blows me away? No. Again, it's not a completely different scene from the one we already had. Ian had to fit the beats of what was already there. He couldn't go all out and write an all new story confirming his longstanding headcanon that the Time Eater is a remnant of Solaris or whatever. But the wording here makes the existing story land a little better and feel truer to the characters in subtle ways.

But to me, the main change is that the Sonics and Tailses seem to have a more solid understanding of what's going on with the timeline and the Time Eater, compared to how idiotic they sometimes seemed in the original game. Which is good! No more standing outside Green Hill and wondering why it seems so familiar. Thank god. As part of this, yes, there are a few more references to past games in the dialogue, like Sonic briefly being confused about the fact that they're time traveling without the Time Stones, or South Island and Westside Island being acknowledged as the normal locations of Green Hill and Chemical Plant. Yes, ha ha, insert joke about how Ian loves references here. Look, it's Sonic fucking Generations. It's a game built entirely out of nostalgic references. Just own it! And, again, in this instance Sonic and Tails come off as less stupid when they make it clear that they do, in fact, remember their adventures from presumably less than a year ago in-universe.

Eggman, too, seems to have a better understanding of the powers he's toying with. Where in the original vesion his focus was simply on going back in time to undo his previous defeats and he seemed kind of oblivious to how much the Time Eater was actually fucking up the universe, here Eggman says he wants to use the Time Eater to give himself complete control over the entire timeline. Eggman also makes way fewer references to his own failures and shortcomings. Of course he won't admit that Sonic has defeated him time and time again. To him, he's never truly lost—Sonic just keeps delaying the inevitable total victory for the Eggman Empire.

So, yes. The new Sonic Generations script is better. It won't blow anyone away, but it's better than it was. It's been elevated from "kinda lame" to "fine." No, if you really wanna see Ian flex his ability to breathe new life into old Sonic stories, look no further than...

Gerald Robotnik's Journal

Hoo boy.

The story of what happened aboard the ARK has always been... a bit confusing, to say the least. Fans with encyclopedic knowledge of the script for every route of Shadow '05 may disagree, but it's the truth. We've had all the pieces to understand the story for a long time now, but that info was given to us out of order by a pair of unreliable narrators—Gerald, who became a vengeful lunatic shortly before his death, and Shadow, who was subjected to multiple rounds of amnesia and altered memories. Some of the ambiguity left by Sonic Adventure 2 was cleared up in Shadow '05, but that game also retconned in a bunch of new elements to Shadow's backstory (aliens!) that lead to further confusion. Not to mention the fact that that game had multiple routes and only revealed the truth about Shadow if you sat on the ultimate final boss battle for WAY longer than the fight would normally last. Or the fact that Sonic X made its own tweaks in its telling of the story. Or the fact that none of these things ever had the best English translations. I can't blame anyone who hasn't played those games in two decades for not remembering the truth about these characters and getting some details mixed up.

What we needed was something to piece together all of the info we have into one coherent backstory, told in chronological order. And thanks to Shadow Generations, we have that, in the form of an official journal tying together what we knew from Sonic Adventure 2, Shadow '05, and Sonic Battle into the tragic tale of Gerald's rise and fall.

Ian Flynn was the perfect man for the job here as the guy who started his career by tidying up the mess that was the first 159 issues if Archie Sonic. This is what he excels at: taking disparate bits of weird Sonic lore from multiple different sources, boiling them down to their most interesting elements, and connecting it together in a way that will make the audience see the dramatic potential he's always known was there. Rather than feeling like a cynical exercise in franchise building, going back and explaining things that never needed explaining so that people can add more bullet points to the wiki, he puts a new spin on things that retroactively enriches those past stories. The story here means something to the characters involved and gives us a better understanding of them as people, rather than as plot devices to motivate Shadow.

(And, of course, Ian didn't do this journal alone. He wrote the story, but I also have to give a huge shout out to Evan Stanley, who made the final product. All of her handwritten journal entries, sketches, and "photos" included throughout. The physical damage done to the journal over the course of 50 tumultuous years, passing from Gerald to Eggman to a certain special someone at GUN. The way Gerald's handwriting gets less and less legible as his mental state declines. So much love was put into what could have been a mere text dump in a menu, and it really elevates it to the next level. Congrats on officially getting hired by Sega, Evan, you've sure as hell earned it!)

The main idea the journal conveys is that Gerald was under a lot of pressure from a lot of different parties—GUN, the President, his colleagues aboard the ARK, Black Doom, even his own family—and boy did it get to him. The known incidents aboard the ARK mentioned in previous games are put together here to form a story where everything slowly spirals out of control as Gerald keeps compromising his morals to further his research, thinking he'll eventually find some way out of all this because he's a genius. I won't recap that whole story here (if you haven't already played the game and read the journal entries, I would highly recommend at least reading it on the Sonic wiki), but I'd like to highlight my favorite elements of the story, as Ian tells it here.

1) The Eclipse Cannon

Here's something that never quite made sense in Sonic Adventure 2: why does the ARK have a laser that can blow up the Earth built into it? It was supposed to be a peaceful research colony. Sure, Gerald went crazy and swore revenge on the Earth, but, like... when did he have an opportunity to go back up to the ARK and modify it? Did he have someone else do it? How? The ARK was raided by GUN and shut down! And then they arrested him, held him in prison for an unclear period of time, and executed him by firing squad when he was no longer useful! It doesn't add up. Shadow 'the Hedgehog '05 would give its own answer by introducing the Black Arms and saying that the Eclipse Cannon was always supposed to be a secret trump card against the Black Comet. But, like... we know that's kind of a bullshit answer, right? You don't need enough power to blow up a whole planet just to destroy a comet.

Well, the new journal retains what we already knew, but it paints a much more complete picture.

See, long before Gerald ever made a Faustian bargain with Black Doom, he had already made one with an even greater evil: the military. GUN gave Gerald much of the funding for the ARK, Gerald's personal utopian research station in space, but it didn't take long for GUN to start pressuring him to design them weapons. Gerald tried to get GUN off his back by personally contacting the President of the United Federation, and the President gave him an alternative: how about, instead, you just use your genius brain to figure out the secret to immortality for us, so our soldiers can be immortal? Gerald was initially sickened by the notion and found it completely absurd, like chasing a shadow... but given no other option, the sarcastically named Project Shadow soon began in earnest. (Maria would later put a more positive spin on the name after Shadow's awakening, pointing out that a Shadow can show us the direction of the light, like she says in the game itself.)

Of course, this search for the ultimate life form didn't go very well, and without any results on that front GUN kept hounding him for weapons. Gerald would throw them a bone here and there to get them off his back. His research on Chaos resulted in the Artifical Chaos prototypes, which he worried would be used for warfare but could at least theoretically be used for search and rescue missions in floods, in his mind. But that wasn't enough. So he gave them Chaos Drives to power their mechs. And that still wasn't enough. He's got Emerl. He'll give them Emerl. They're not impressed by Emerl. They'll shut the whole ARK down if Gerald doesn't give them something big.

Fine! GUN wants something big? Gerald builds a huge fucking laser cannon into the ARK. However, as a middle finger to GUN, Gerald makes it so powerful that it would destroy the Earth if it was ever fired at any target on its surface. In other words, GUN now has their ultimate weapon of mass destruction, fulfilling his contract, but they can never actually use it. Oh, the delicious irony. (And also Shadow will blow up the Black Comet with it in 50 years yada yada yada.) Is this perhaps extremely shortsighted and naive of Gerald, to believe that such a weapon would never actually be used just because of the risk? Of course. But hey, that's Gerald for you. And I love this as an answer.

(Also, this, uh, kinda echoes something from real life! Remember the bit in Oppenheimer where he says all nuclear war will become unthinkable, and Edward Teller responds "until somebody builds a bigger bomb"? Yeah, Teller went on to conceptualize a superweapon codenamed Project Sundial that would have been able to kill all life on the planet, as the ultimate deterrent for war. This was never made for obvious reasons, but hey, there's a basis for this sort of thinking outside of heightened sci-fi! There's a whole Kurzgesagt video about this if you're interested.)

2) The Biolizard

The Biolizard is, of course, brought up as the initial failed prototype of the ultimate life form, from before Gerald met Black Doom. We don't really learn all that much about it that we didn't already know, but I just love the way it's framed in the story.

As you can see above, we actually get to see a picture of Maria holding up the cute little salamander that would end up mutating into the Biolizard through Gerald's experiments. (Researchers want to figure out how to replicate salamanders' regenerative abilities for humans in real life, too, so this was a natural starting point for the project.) And then, after it grows to a monstrous size and goes out of control, Gerald has to lock it away in an unused sector of the ARK. He needs to keep the poor thing alive for his research into harnessing Chaos Energy, building life support systems directly into it, but he doesn't have the heart to tell Maria what happened. So it just becomes this first dark secret weighing on his conscience. The Biolizard becomes Gerald's Tell-Tale Heart beating beneath the floorboards of the ARK. I love that.

3) Lost Impact was the breaking point for the ARK

Remember the level Lost Impact in Shadow '05? The flashback level on the hero path where Shadow is running around fighting Artificial Chaos enemies on the ARK 50 years ago? Yeah, that wasn't just a random incident. That was important, as we now know due to its placement on the timeline.

See, Emerl's rampage aboard the ARK that was chronicled in Sonic Battle and Dark Beginnings set off a domino effect. Emerl riled up the Artificial Chaos, causing Gerald to lose control of them. They became violent, and so Shadow had to stop them, as depicted in Lost Impact. The thing is, that incident sent an SOS signal to GUN telling them that shit was going down on the ARK. Gerald didsn't fully understand the trouble he was in and assumed that he'd simply be reprimanded by the higher ups, or maybe face legal action. But, well... the next time he heard from GUN, armed troopers were raiding the ARK.

So Lost Impact was the straw that broke the camel's back. I just really like that detail.

4) Maria

And, of course, there's Maria herself. Maria has often been more of a symbol than a character, this perfect embodiment of everything that's good and pure in this world who gets killed to motivate Shadow and Gerald's revenge plots. But I really like the wrinkles this journal adds to her and Gerald's story, and their relationship. This is the most fleshed out they've ever felt.

For one, the journal leans into the idea of Maria's intellectual potential. The rest of the Robotnik family is all geniuses, after all, and she was proving to be a really bright kid. She excelled in her studies on the ARK, and she even helped design Shadow's jet skates and inhibitor rings. When Maria died, the world didn't just lose a symbolic personification of purity. She genuinely could have been a hugely influential scientist who did so much good for the world. That's what Gerald wanted for her. But we'll never know, because GUN killed her.

Speaking of her family, their presence isn't just mentioned for the sake of fleshing out the Robotnik family tree. It's mentioned that as Gerald struggled to find a cure for Maria's illness through his genetic research, he faced mounting pressure from his family. They didn't want Maria to be up on the ARK forever. They wanted Gerald to hurry up and find a damn cure, or otherwise just send her back home to Earth so she could be with her family again. She'd been up on the ARK for so long that Gerald's coworkers started thinking that she had been born up there. Eventually she gains a baby sister on Earth who she's never met. A rift forms between Gerald's two sons, and he's unable to really deal with it because he's so consumed by his work. There's this sense that the family is falling apart, and that everyone is dreading the possibility that Gerald will never find a cure and that Maria will just spend her final years up in space and die far away from her family, because Gerald just couldn't let go. If that happens, it'll break the whole family. But he can't stop now. So he just keeps working. Curing Maria is the only way to win his family back, in his eyes. It can't all be for nothing.

But my favorite detail regarding Maria is this one paragraph:

Maria is growing into a lovely young woman. It breaks my heart that someone as bright and energetic as her is diminished by disease. There are no visible effects, and I've caught my fellow researchers muttering to each other, doubting her illness. It is infuriating. I find all my reason and restraint vanishes when she's slighted.

This is SUCH a great addition to the story! It's always been true that Maria doesn't really seem all that ill, just looking at her in cutscenes. With this one little comment, Ian flips that issue on its head and turns it into a story about invisible disability. She doesn't act like she's in chronic pain, so she must not be, everyone thinks. And this really, really gets to Gerald, as does the pressure from his family. He's dedicating his whole LIFE to saving her, and they think she's faking it?! It's such a small addition, never referenced elsewhere in the journal, but it adds so much flavor to the story, as does the implied family drama. It grounds Gerald and Maria and makes them feel more like real human beings, rather than being pure archetypes. It's just enough info to let my imagination run wild filling in the blanks.

You also get the feeling that Maria being such a walking ray of sunshine was the only real source of joy Gerald had left in his life before Shadow was awakened, and the only thing keeping him from snapping under pressure sooner. All this stuff just keeps piling on, everything's spiraling out of control, but at least Maria is keeping her chin up, right? It makes so much sense that losing her would make him go off the deep end when it's framed like this.

It's just... man, I never thought I'd care so much about Gerald and Maria. But that's the Ian Flynn touch. After years of less than stellar Sonic writing that seemed to be embarrassed of itself, I'm so happy to have new games coming out that fully embrace the history of the series like this, making its world feel so rich and real instead of just serving as an excuse for a string of platforming levels. I don't even like Shadow '05, but I'll be damned if Ian and the rest of Sonic Team didn't make something amazing by "yes, and"-ing Shadow's cringe past here. Sonic has truly reached levels of "we're so back" never thought possible.

[dirtyvulture]

The Maid - Part 2

Socialite!Wanda Maximoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

Maid!Natasha Romanoff x Beefy!Rich!Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 4705

Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.

AN: Thank you so much for the response to part 1! And thank you to everyone who was so patient and understanding for this part taking a while to write. I hope you all like it.

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

Wanda seems to be in a better mood lately, Natasha notices, probably because the two of you rekindled whatever complicated romance you had going on. And as sad and lonely as it had made Natasha feel, at least Wanda was being less rude to her, and that would always be a win in her book.

The grocery trips and errands she sends Natasha on are less demanding, although Natasha’s unsure if she’s becoming more comfortable or Wanda’s gotten less picky. Wanda still requests Natasha’s help for her weekly meetings, and Natasha cannot understand why someone who is unemployed goes so out of her way to find the most mundane, meaningless things to participate in. But it keeps Natasha paid and busy, and she still gets to see you a few times a week.

“What are you doing this weekend, Natasha?” Wanda asks while the two of them are in the kitchen. Wanda is on her laptop while Natasha stands at the counter, cutting vegetables for dinner.

“Um…” Natasha knows better than to tell Wanda the truth, which is that she’ll be sitting alone in her apartment for the next two days and eating ice cream on her couch. “Some friends invited me to go shopping with them at the mall,” she lies. She doesn’t have friends and she certainly doesn’t have the budget to shop at a mall after all the debt she still owes.

“I’ll be gone all weekend with some girlfriends,” Wanda says, not even acknowledging Natasha’s plans, which makes her wonder why she had even bothered to ask in the first place. “I’m not into wine tasting much, but the girls go nuts for it. I’m just going for the spa at the resort, between you and me.”

Natasha has no idea what to do with this information. But she’s spared from answering when the garage door rumbles open.

Wanda slams her laptop shut. “Oh, Y/N is home early.” She gets up to greet you. Natasha can hear your voices carry through the hall.

“You’re early tonight,” Wanda says. “I was just telling Natasha about my weekend plans to Vermont with the girls–”

“Your weekend plans?” you interrupt. “Since when did you have plans to go to Vermont?” Natasha has never heard you sound genuinely angry before. She stops cutting the carrots to focus on eavesdropping.

���Carol wanted to go for her birthday!” your wife says.

“Wanda,” you say, your voice lowering. “Our anniversary is this weekend. I booked us a stay at the Ritz and got us tickets to see Wicked–”

“Well, just ask for a refund!” Wanda hisses. Natasha is stunned that this is her first response to forgetting about her entire anniversary with you. “And we can celebrate when I get back–”

“‘Get back?’” you repeat. “That’s not the point, Wanda. Why don’t you ask for a refund for your trip–”

“I can’t do that to the girls,” Wanda says. “Carol’s been looking forward to this for months!”

You mumble something that Natasha can’t hear. She feels awful for you. Clearly, you had spent a lot of money and time planning a nice outing, and your wife didn’t seem to care one bit. In fact, she tried to put the blame on you for intruding on her plans. Natasha felt herself shaking with rage for you. You deserved so much better.

The two of you trudge into the kitchen and Natasha hastily goes back to cutting the carrots. Wanda is hanging onto your arm, tiptoeing to whisper into your ear but you shake her off and walk through the kitchen to the staircase. Natasha knows that Wanda is glaring at the back of her head, probably upset that she had overheard, but for once she doesn’t say anything and disappears after you.

The mood is particularly subdued when Natasha serves up roasted salmon with a colorful vegetable medley and mashed potatoes. 

“Thank you, Natasha,” you say as she hands you a loaded plate. 

Wanda doesn’t say anything when Natasha gives her a plate.

While the two of you eat in awkward silence, Natasha cleans up the kitchen, her final task of the day. She grabs her purse and heads towards the door, when she hears footsteps behind her.

It’s you.

“Can I walk you out to your car?” you ask. “I know it’s a safe neighborhood, but I don’t want you walking out in the dark by yourself.”

Natasha is so flattered by your offer she doesn’t stop to consider how Wanda might feel about this.

“Sure, I really appreciate that. Thank you.” She leads the way out of your house.

“Sorry you always have to park around the corner,” you add, maintaining a respectful distance from her on the sidewalk. “I’ve told Wanda the whole neighborhood knows you work for us. But she’s…” you trail off, clearly not wanting to speak ill of your wife.

“I’m sorry she forgot your anniversary,” Natasha blurts out. 

You seem startled that Natasha had been eavesdropping, but quickly recover. “Well, it’s…it’s not the first time she’s done it,” you admit in a soft voice. “I don’t know why I bother trying to do anything special anymore. It’s just another day to her. And it seems like she’d rather spend it with anyone but me.”

“She’s missing out,” Natasha says, surprised by her own confidence. “You’re a wonderful person and you deserve someone who will appreciate the efforts you go to celebrate important milestones like that.” She stops before she can offer herself up.

“Oh. Well, thank you. That’s very kind of you to say.” 

The two of you stop at Natasha’s beat-up Nissan. 

“Thanks for walking me to my car–” she starts.

“Are you busy this weekend?” you ask suddenly, in a rushed whisper as if Wanda is around the corner listening. “If you’re not, would you like to see Wicked with me at the Gershwin Theater? I told Wanda I could probably get a credit with the Ritz, but I don’t want to deal with the hassle of exchanging the tickets, too. You can come over Saturday night and I’ll drive us?”

Natasha is so shocked by your proposal she doesn’t even have the words to agree at first. Growing up, she had loved watching musical movies until the VHS tapes wore out, but she had never had the opportunity to see a live performance. Even now as an adult, she still didn’t have the time nor the budget to see a show. To hear you ask that you wanted her to join you, when you had bought the tickets for you and your wife to enjoy on your anniversary she had forgotten, sounded almost too good to be true.

But if Wanda found out you had taken Natasha instead of her…Natasha shuddered at the thought. Maybe this was stepping over the line of professionalism. Natasha wanted to keep her job (and her head), and as much as the opportunity was a dream come true for her, she didn’t want to take advantage of your kindness or weakness.

“Um, I’m supposed to go shopping at the mall with some friends on Saturday,” Natasha says, cringing at the patheticness of her life. “But really–thank you for inviting me. I’m sure you have friends you’d rather take over your maid.”

“I don’t have any friends,” you say, so deadpan that Natasha almost laughs but quickly turns it into a cough when she realizes you’re being serious. While you seemed more reserved than your wife, Natasha refused to believe you didn’t have a strong social network. You were in charge of your own company and clearly doing well if you lived in this neighborhood and could afford a personal housemaid like her.

“Good evening!” The two of you startle when a cheery voice comes out of nowhere.

“Hello, Mr. Vision,” Natasha says, spotting the eccentric man first as he walks by at a rapid pace.

“Late night walk, Vis?” you call out, and he nods with a wave, pumping his arms faster and milling away. The only thing Natasha knew about Vision was that he lived by himself at the end of the street. He had no wife or kids that she knew of, not even a job as he was constantly seen walking around the neighborhood at odd hours. But he never approached Natasha or made her feel uncomfortable, which was more than she could say for most of the people living here, so she was happy to ignore him.

When Vision moves out of sight, you say, “Well, if your plans happen to change…” You fumble in your pockets awkwardly, pulling out a bent business card and handing it to Natasha. “My cell number is on there. Text me before Saturday if you’re still interested.”  

“Okay.” Natasha doesn’t want to get your hopes (or hers) up, but she still isn’t convinced this is a good idea. “Have a good night, Y/N.”

“Good night, Natasha.”

She loves the way her name sounds coming out of your mouth.

***********************************************************************

Natasha is still unsure she made the right decision to turn down your offer to see Wicked. She even called her only friend, Clint, to ask if she should’ve said yes.

“Well, you’re just seeing a show together. Think of it like a work bonus or something. Bosses give their employees nice stuff like that all the time,” Clint says as Natasha picks at a box of takeout in front of the television. Cooking at home was not her favorite chore after doing it all day for her clients.

“Yes, but it’s just the two of us,” Natasha stresses. “Y/N got the tickets to celebrate an anniversary and Wanda already hates me as it is–”

“Nah, she doesn’t hate you,” Clint says.

“You haven’t met her! You don’t see the way she treats me.”

“Exactly. Maybe this is Y/N’s way of apologizing for her behavior,” Clint says.

“I don’t know…” It was already Friday night. Natasha didn’t have much time now to change her mind if she was going to.

“Be nice to yourself, Nat. Let someone do something for you,” Clint goes on. “You work so hard for these people all the time. And I know how much you’ve always wanted to see a live performance.” Natasha feels tears well up in her eyes. She wishes Clint was here in person so she could give him a hug. “Nothing bad will happen. Just tell Y/N you want to go before someone else takes your spot.”

Natasha takes a steely breath. Clint is right. It wasn’t a date. It just was her nice boss treating her out to a Broadway show. Never mind the fact that you had intended to take your wife initially. Wanda would never have to know, right?

“Okay. Thanks, Clint.”

“Enjoy!”

As soon as she hangs up, Natasha goes into her texts. She already created a contact for you the night you gave her your business card. Her anxiety is through the roof as she types out a message to you, then deletes it and starts over. She gets more and more frustrated trying to find the right words, before she finally throws in the towel and clicks “Send.”

Less than a minute later, you respond.

Happiness explodes inside of Natasha. She can hardly believe her luck. Not only does she get to see her first Broadway show, but she gets to see it with you, and have dinner on top of it. She darts over to her closet, looking for the nicest dress she owns.

Wanda be damned. Natasha was going to have a great night with you. 

***********************************************************************

“Table for two, please.”

“Did you have a reservation?” the blonde woman at the podium asks.

“No,” you respond.

“Oh, well, I’m so sorry, but we’re all booked out for the evening,” she apologizes. 

Natasha stands behind you meekly. She can’t even pronounce the name of the restaurant and doesn’t know what kind of food they serve, but it’s probably far beyond anything she could ever afford. She’s wearing a dark green dress that almost reaches her ankles and is conservative in protecting her assets, and spent over an hour doing her makeup, and she wonders if strangers will look at the two of you and assume you’re a couple. She wouldn’t go out of her way to correct them.   

“That’s okay. This was a last-minute plan for us,” you explain. “If Tony is working tonight, can you please tell him Y/N stopped by to say hello?”

“Wait, you know Mr. Stark?” the woman pales. “Don’t go anywhere. You said your name is Y/N?”

You smile and nod. The woman steps down from her podium and dashes into the back. 

“I thought you said you didn’t have any friends,” Natasha boldly teases. 

You turn and wink at her. 

“Tony and I went to college together,” you explain, although this implies you shared a friendship of some kind. “And clearly, his business is doing better than mine–”

The woman quickly returns with a short bearded man wearing a gray suit with red-tinted glasses that match his tie. 

“Y/N!” Tony shouts, embracing you in a dramatic hug. “You should’ve told me you were coming tonight! I could’ve put together a private booth in the back–”

“It was last-minute,” you say. “This is Natasha, by the way. She’s a friend.” Natasha is thrilled at the way you associate her with you.

“Hello, Natasha, I’m Tony.” He takes her hand and gently kisses her knuckles. He doesn’t seem surprised you haven’t brought Wanda along instead. “I take it you haven’t been here before, Miss Natasha? You won’t need a menu, I’ll have the chef bring out the best dishes we have tonight.”

“That’s very kind of you,” you say. 

“Follow me! You can have a table in our east wing. Where’s Wanda?” Tony says rapid-fire, turning around and leading them deeper into the restaurant. You step out of the way and motion to let Natasha go first, and she feels your hand graze her back as she walks past you. 

“She’s out with her girlfriends for the weekend,” you answer from behind Natasha. 

“Your anniversary is coming up, right?” Tony asks.

“Yes,” you respond, your voice suddenly tense.

The restaurant is packed, every visible table filled with customers, until they turn around a corner to a quiet, completely empty area.

“Pick any table. I’ll have a waiter come out with some drinks shortly,” Tony says.

“Thanks, Tony.”

“Thank you, Tony,” Natasha echoes, unsure if she likes this special treatment. You pick a table near the corner and pull her chair out for her. As soon as the two of you are seated, a waiter in a vested suit appears with a few bottles of wine, making suggestions and pouring samples into the glasses. Natasha doesn’t have enough knowledge to understand what he’s saying or differentiate the tastes, but she enjoys the experience. It feels strange to have someone serve her, when she’s normally the one waiting on people’s every demand. 

The two of you share several appetizers together. Natasha feels like she’s floating in a dream. You have been nothing but generous and respectful to her, but every time your left hand reaches across the table for the caviar, the wedding ring on your finger taunts her. 

The dinner itself is a four-course affair, including a rich chocolate cake that Natasha devours faster than she can fully enjoy. When the bill arrives (which Tony has already chopped in half), Natasha still asks if she can chip in (despite knowing full well she doesn’t have the money to cover even her portion), but you push her card away and give the waiter your black card.

The theater is three blocks from Tony’s restaurant, so you leave your car in valet parking and ask Natasha if she’s okay walking. She had not planned ahead very well, so she only has a thin cardigan to cover her shoulders. You notice her shivering and offer her your heavy black jacket that completely engulfs her frame. Your scent completely surrounds her now and Natasha swears she won’t wash this dress ever again.

The line into the theater moves quickly and Natasha follows you all the way down to the front, where your seats are perfectly center to the stage. She crawls over a few people, feeling a little smug about getting some of the best seats in the house. You had truly spoiled her tonight and she was never going to forget this. 

She leans over to whisper to you before the show begins. “Thank you for everything tonight. I’ve already had so much fun and the dinner was amazing.”

“You’re very welcome. Thank you for joining me, and thank you for all the hard work you do for my family,” you say and Natasha beams. “Me and Wanda really appreciate it.” Natasha deflates a little at the mention of your wife, but she pushes her out of her mind to focus on her time with you. 

As they wait, Natasha props her arm up on the armrest between you two so she can hold the playbill at a comfortable angle to read. Suddenly, your arm drops heavily on hers and she looks at you in confusion. You’re reading your own playbill and don’t seem to notice that your massive arm is practically crushing hers.

“Um, Y/N?” she prompts, clearing her throat.

“Hmm? Oh!” You quickly move your arm off hers. “I’m so sorry, I thought that was Wanda’s arm,” you explain with a nervous chuckle. Natasha laughs too, although she isn’t sure if she should be happy or worried that she reminds you of your wife. She’d be happy to take Wanda’s place any day, though. 

The musical is amazing, impressive beyond anything Natasha had ever expected. She cries when Elphaba defies gravity, and after the whirlwind of the second act, she is among the first to give a standing ovation. She’s floating on cloud nine as she walks with you out of the theater back to the car.

The drive back to your home is quick at the late hour. Just as you're about to pull into the driveway, you slam hard on the brakes, jolting everyone forward. Vision power walks past the beams of your headlights, only breaking the pump of his arms to wave in thanks.

“What is he doing out so late?” you ask, and Natasha is relieved to know she’s not the only one who thinks his habits are a bit odd.

“No idea,” she mumbles, watching you pull onto the driveway and stop.

“Thank you so much, Y/N,” Natasha says, still giddy with excitement.“This was the best night of my life. I’ve always wanted to see a Broadway show, ever since I was a little girl. I never thought I’d get the chance, even after I moved here–”

“You’re very welcome,” you interrupt, seeming almost shy with the praise.

“I’m sorry Wanda wasn’t able to join you for your own anniversary,” she adds, although she’s not sure why.

You shrug. “Nothing we can do about it now. Besides, I’m glad you were able to join me and had such a fun night. I don’t think this would have been nearly as fun by myself.”

There is a pause and Natasha has to force herself to stop looking at your lips. If she had no self-restraint, it wouldn’t have taken much for her to lean over the center console and kiss you.

“Have a good night, Natasha. Drive home safely,” you say as the two of you get out of the car.

“Thank you again!” Natasha doesn’t even listen to music on her way home, riding out the high of what was easily one of the most memorable nights of her life in over a decade.

***********************************************************************

A few weeks later, Natasha is working a double shift: the first one at Steve’s house, and the second at yours. You’re away at work, as usual, but she knows you’ll be home before she leaves for the day, and she never takes any glimpse of you for granted. Wanda is also back to being demanding and cranky, and Natasha has no idea if you told her about the night the two of you had together. She had felt the silent instruction from you not to blab about her taking Wanda’s place and was happy to keep the memories to herself.

She’s in the front hall, mopping while quietly humming “Defying Gravity” to herself, when Wanda clacks by in high-heels.

“Natasha!” she hisses. “Didn’t I tell you to start in the kitchen? If I slip out here because the floor is wet–”

“So sorry!” Natasha apologizes, hoping that she doesn’t finish her sentence. “I’ll put a fan on.” She rests her mop against the wall and darts off for the $300 Dyson fan in the closet. After pointing it towards the gleaming floor, she pushes her cart into the kitchen and continues mopping. She makes sure to open the window to air out the smell, and notices Steve across the street mowing his lawn. 

She stares at him, wondering if he can see her, and her question is quickly answered when Steve waves to her. She returns his wave with a smile, then goes back to her task before Wanda can complain she isn’t working hard enough. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him back away from his lawn mower and answer his phone; he disappears into his house hurriedly. 

“Natasha! Always make sure you open a window when you mop!” Wanda’s screech comes out of nowhere. “The chemicals you use give me a headache!”

“Oh, but the window is open–” Natasha tries to explain, but Wanda silences her with a wave of her hand.

“I’m on the phone!” she says, pointing to the cell phone held up to her ear. Natasha bites her lip, but holds her tongue. “Sorry, honey, what was that? No, I was talking to the maid,” she says. Natasha perks up despite the way Wanda titles her. You’re clearly on the other line, and maybe you’ll be home sooner than expected.

But Wanda disappears into a guest room (your house had so many of those), and Natasha can no longer hear her conversation. She dutifully continues to mop the floor, careful to fan the mop in a semi-circle pattern so as not to trap herself in a corner. She moves the chairs to the hallway one at a time, cursing their awkward shape that makes them difficult to carry and taking special care not to scrape the feet along the floor. 

Wanda’s shrill voice carries through the house again, this time covering a topic that makes Natasha’s cheeks heat up.

“Oh my God, yes, I’m still thinking about last night,” Wanda says. “When you had my legs behind my head–”

Natasha tries not to picture Wanda folded up like a pretzel while you plow into her. But she can imagine herself in a similar position (she’s not so confident in her own flexibility, but she’d make it work for you). Your hands could probably fit around her whole thighs as you push her legs apart wider, thrusting your hips in long strokes to fit your big dick into her. Natasha is embarrassed to admit that the last time she had masturbated, she had thought of you the whole time.

How much more you’d fill her compared to the flimsy toy she was using. How you would feel throbbing inside her, your body pressed hot and heavy against hers as you beg for her permission to finish. Imagining having you like that, with that kind of control, brought Natasha to the most amazing orgasm of her life. If only you had been there to share it with her. 

“I didn’t know if you’d be able to go another round, but you proved me wrong,” Wanda continues, and Natasha picks up on how breathless she sounds. She wonders if she’s touching herself right now, with Natasha mopping in the kitchen. Somehow, that wouldn’t be shocking to her. “You were still so hard when I put you down my throat.”

A lightning bolt of arousal strikes Natasha’s core. She can’t focus on mopping anymore, staring blankly out the kitchen window, lost in the new filthy fantasy playing in her head, guided by Wanda’s narration. 

Natasha lies between your legs, her lips barely brushing your hips as she takes your cock down her throat. She prays her gag reflex doesn’t protest at the obstruction in her airway, but despite the slight discomfort, she wants to do this all day. Your pants and moans are like music in her ears, urging her on to suck harder and take you deeper.

“Please Nat,” your voice wavers. The muscle fibers in your thighs are visibly tensed and your back arches off the bed when Natasha pushes your hips down, trying to maintain some kind of control over you. But your body seems to have a mind of its own, with only one goal in mind. 

“It’s almost like I can still taste you.”

You poke at the back of her throat and Natasha can feel the hot throbbing of your cock in her mouth. She’s so eager to swallow anything you’ll give her, she’s almost embarrassed in her desperation, but when your hands cup the back of her head, pushing her down so she can fit the last inch down her throat, she knows the two of you are on equal planes of passion.

Your entire body flexes and the anticipation for Natasha is overwhelming. You finally inhale sharply as the first hot spurt lands on her tongue. 

“Being on your knees for me is a good look for you.”

Natasha tips her head back against the wall, her fingers tangling in your hair. One of her legs rests on your shoulder while the other is spread far apart so you can kneel between them, your mouth pressed against her heat. Your tongue swirls around her clit and Natasha fears she won’t be able to stay standing much longer. 

“Y/N,” she pants, clutching your head tighter and rocking her hips forward. “I need you.”

Your fingernails dig harder into her thigh to still her. You look up into her eyes and Natasha thinks she’s going to finish right there. “You have me, baby. I’m all yours.”

“But there’s really only one place you belong.”

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” you grunt, almost sending Natasha headfirst into the headboard with every one of your thrusts. “I could stay inside you forever.”

Natasha hums at the praise. She’s holding on the bedsheets for life, spasming and clenching around you, trying to pull you in deeper. You fill her so perfectly, she’s convinced her body was made for yours. 

“Tell me I’m better than her,” Natasha gasps, fighting to delay her own release.

“Fuck Wanda,” you grunt, pulling back on Natasha’s hips at the same time you thrust forward, burying your entire length into her. “I love you, Natasha. You’re the only one I ever want to be with.”

A noisy car engine pulls Natasha out of her head. Her face feels flushed with arousal, and she knows what she’s doing the second she goes home. Your green car suddenly pulls into the driveway but stops. You get out and walk to the street, grabbing one of the trash bins and pulling it towards the house.

“I can’t wait for you to fuck me again,” Wanda says in the background.

The realization crashes down on Natasha’s head like a cold shower. She watches you grab the second bin with both hands, carefully walking backwards with it.

You’re not on the phone and you’re standing 30 feet away from Natasha. If Wanda’s not on the phone with you, then who is she talking to?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Who do you think Wanda was talking to? 👀

To be continued...(hopefully)

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[d1sc0rd1a]

ok this was originally in the tags but in the spirit of the post im coming out of hiding to share my view.

i was always the kid with the best hiding spot and no one could ever find me. theres a joy and a pride in it. its one of the things i liked most about myself as a kid. i really really tried to understand this post, because differing viewpoints are important to try to internalize. and to some degree i think i get it. i was/am constantly kinda lonely. i was/am constantly kinda guarded about how im perceived. i am vague. sometimes i lie. but i cant really wrap my head around most of this post. i dont truly grok it.

why do people get upset? everyone does it. thats how it works. everyone hides in both these games and in life. the fun comes in the searching. the joy comes in the accomplishment of successfully reaching out. when you pick a ridiculous spot to be found in youre setting up the punchline to a joke. whoever finds you gets to tell the story. even if someone is never found theres still a connection. Hiding and Seeking. theyre two sides of the same experience being shared. when the game is over the hider and the seeker both get to share what their part of the game was like. a bond is made. reinforced. to stop the search early is to break the bond. in a way its a rejection. it shows how little you care. i was the best seeker too, and i never got/dont get why nobody else ever tried.

sardines was fun too. its a good game, i really did like it. but i always pitied the person who found the group last. how sad to be so disconnected. to have your gameplay experience be fully isolated from the group. as soon as you successfully reach out the game is over. unless the final seeker is a pair of two or the single person is doing something ridiculous theres no punchline. the joke falls flat. there is suddenly no more story to tell. everybody was having fun without them and the fun ends when they show up. if somebody was consistently the last one to find the group of sardines it seemed almost like a sign they were the least in sync with the group. that everyone understood each other better than they did. how awful.

Goddamn. Okay

[chleem]

One shot: bf!rafe cameron x gf!reader

Summary: rafe teaches you golf

Genre: flirty/sexual tension + lil verbal fight at end (read at own caution

⋆.˚ dont copy or translate my work pls!

♡⸝⸝ russian roulette with rafe

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Rafe wasn’t sure why you decided to join him at the country club today. 

He remembers you calling golf the “most boring thing ever,” practically mocking it the last time the subject came up. 

But here you are, standing beside him on the manicured greens, your eyes scanning the course with a look of curiosity. 

He’s trying to keep his attention on the game—Topper lining up his shot, the sound of the club meeting the ball—but his eyes keep drifting back to you, walking over to the golf cart. 

The golf skirt paired with the pink polo you wear gives the perfect balance of sporty and feminine, suiting you perfectly. 

And whenever you move, the skirt hikes up just enough to expose your ass cheeks. 

He doesn’t know whether it’s the outfit or just you, but it’s definitely distracting.

“Aw, shit,” Topper mutters under his breath, the ball flies off the mark, heading straight for the trees. “I can’t catch a break today.”

Rafe remains motionless; eyes focused as you rumble through the bag of clubs. 

You have no idea which one to grab, but the way your fingers move with confidence makes it look like you’re in control.

“Rafe, your turn,” Kelce’s voice breaks through the moment, pulling Rafe back into the game.

“Wait! Lemme try,” you butt in, your voice light but with a hint of determination.

Rafe’s eyes flick back to you, a little surprised by the interruption. He watches as you step forward, confidently grabbing the club you had been fiddling with earlier. 

But before you can even get ready, Rafe steps in, stopping right in front of you.

“That’s… uh, not really the one you want,” Rafe says, his voice lowering slightly, but there's no mocking in it—just genuine concern.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing yours as he takes the club from your hand and holds it up for a moment, inspecting it. 

9-iron. 

He glances up at you, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, his gaze flicking down your frame before landing on the club again.

Yeah, your 165 ass isn’t using that one. 

He steps away for a brief moment, and comes back handing you a different club—a 7-iron, lighter and a little more forgiving.

“Here,” he says, the briefest smile on his lips, “this one’s better for you. Trust me.”

“Thanks babe,” you smile, your tone warm and easy, the words slipping out naturally.

Rafe watches you, his eyes following as you walk toward the ball (the one Rafe previously hit), but then his expression shifts—he notices the way you're positioning yourself.

You're totally off, standing at the wrong angle, about to take a swing in a way that's definitely not going to work. 

His brows furrowed as he watches, a mix of concern and amusement crossing his face. 

He hears the quiet, muffled laughter of his friends and shoots a glare their way, silencing them instantly.

Stepping in once again, he lines himself behind you, his body pressing tightly against yours as he adjusts your posture. His broad shoulders come around, and he reaches forward, his hands settling over yours. 

He’s practically hugging you from the back. 

The proximity sends a slight pulse of awareness through you—his body so close, his presence solid and sure.

“You’re holding it- completely wrong,” he murmurs, taking your hand. 

Through the rough texture of his gloves, you can feel the warmth radiating through as he steadies your grip, guiding you to the perfect hold on the club. 

Rafe then lines your arm up to the ball, but not before his hand slips briefly to your lower stomach.

“Arch your back,” he instructs softly, his breath near your ear, making the moment feel more intimate than it should.

You do- and it causes your ass to further curve into him. 

A light groan escapes his lips, the sound somewhere between a chuckle and a soft exhale. “From your hips, babe, not your waist.”

“Oh,” you reply, your voice laced with a mix of realization and a little embarrassment. You quickly adjust, shifting your weight back from your hips like he said. 

“Good,” he mutters, his voice low, lips brushing against your cheek. “legs shoulder-width apart, and knees bent.”

As you settle into position, you feel your body anchor itself, grounding you in the stance.

“This feels weird,” you comment, the unfamiliar grip suddenly feeling heavy in your hands.

Your words slip out of Rafe’s mind, his mind consumed with this position of you. The way you have it all backed up into him- it’s making it hard to keep the dent forming in his pants under control. 

“Rafe? How do I swing it?” you ask, interrupting his thoughts.

“We should try this tonight,” 

Rafe whispers to you, his voice dropping to almost a possessive tone. 

It sends a chill down to your spine, and you turn your head over to him, meeting his blue eyes. They stare lazily into yours, the color sparkling just enough for them to reflect.

“What? Golf?”

His lips twitch into a smile, not playful, almost smug. 

His gloved hands tighten its hold around yours. 

“…sure,” he murmurs. 

Taking a breath, Rafe then shifts his focus back to the sport. 

“Right,” he says, his voice a little raspier than before. “First, rotate your hips as you swing. Don’t just use your arms.”

He moves along with you, guiding you as you raise the club to the height of your waist, your arms moving in sync with the flow of the motion.

“And follow through, keep your head down and eyes on the ball.”

His lips are near your ear, voice low and steady, guiding you like he's teaching you more than just the swing.

He takes a step back, eyes scanning your stance.

You feel the space between you widen, and for a second, you almost miss the warmth of his body. 

You take a breath, focus on Rafe’s voice in your ear, rotate your hips, eyes on the ball.

The club swings down, and there's a sharp, satisfying thwack as the club hits the ball.

The ball takes off, flying straight and clean.

There’s cheers behind you from his friends, but all you focus on is Rafe’s expression. His eyes locked on you, lips slightly parted, a look of quiet approval in his gaze.

You can’t help but smile, feeling that warmth spread through you.

“That’s my girl,” he says, his voice soft but full of pride.

“She’s better than you, man,” Kelce teases. 

You play along, turning slightly and giving an exaggerated bow. “I’m a natural,” you say with a playful grin.

Rafe chuckles too, but his eyes never leave yours, affection still clear in his gaze. “Yeah you are," he mutters, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The next one up is Kelce, and once you return to Rafe’s side, he casually slips an arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer to him. It’s a natural move, but the closeness sends a warm jolt through you.

“You think I’ll be this lucky next round?” You ask him, leaning onto his shoulder. Your eyes glue to the side of his face, watching the way his jaw tenses ever so slightly.

Rafe’s lips curl up into that half-smile of his, the kind that makes your stomach flutter. “That wasn’t luck,” he starts, “purely you…and this great teacher you have.”

He tilts his head slightly toward you, giving you a side glance, his expression playful but with that underlying intensity you’ve come to know so well.

You roll your eyes at him, earning his throaty laugh. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Cameron,” you say flirtatiously. 

But before you can add anything more, Rafe leans a little closer, his lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “You’re driving me crazy.”

The comment is soaked with horniness, and your thoughts are confirmed when the hand around your waist slips underneath your skirt, kneading the soft fat there.

You can’t help but let out a soft, surprised whelp—louder than you’d intended. The sound catches the attention of his friends, eyes on you again. 

Flushing, you push his hand away playfully, trying to cover up your flustered reaction. “Nothing- there was a spider," you lie, mumbling shyly. 

They laugh lightly, and that’s when you notice Kelce was done with his turn. 

“Hey y/n—” Rafe pauses, leaning in to plant a soft kiss on the side of your forehead, his arm naturally wrapping around your shoulders as he pulls you back in. “How ‘bout a private sesh?”

His friends, already finished, start heading over to their golf carts, clearly ready to move on. But Rafe doesn’t seem in a hurry to follow.

You glance up at him, seeing the playful yet lusting spark in his eyes. 

He’s too easy to read, honestly. 

You bite down on your lower lip, trying to suppress the eager smile threatening to break free. “…no funny business,” you tease, while your hand gives his clothed crotch a light pat. 

Rafe’s smile deepens, taking your hand and interlocking it with his. 

He peers over your shoulder, yelling back at the guys, “You guys go ahead, we’ll, um…”

The group pauses, looking between the two of you, and then Rafe glances down at you with that familiar, devilish smirk, “don’t wait for us.”

As if on cue, the group doesn’t need another word. They exchange a few amused glances, rearranging the carts (leaving one for you two) before heading off. 

The faint chatter and laughs echo away, leaving just you and Rafe on the opened golf course. 

Rafe wastes no time, leaning in and kissing you hungrily. 

Both of you drop your clubs, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. You feel the rough glove wrap around the back of your head, angling your face so his tongue dives deeper into you. 

It’s a sloppy kiss, but one that only gets more passionate by the second. 

“Shit,” he mumbles against your mouth, hands slipping under your skirt again. He kneads your ass again, another hand going to undo the buttons of your polo. 

But you hurriedly stop him, almost panicking as you pull back. 

“Not here, Rafe-“

“There’s no one here-“

“Cameras, and people over there-“

“Let them watch-“

“No, Rafe,” your voice finally cuts through his, and distance is created through the both of you. Your chest rises and falls, from both the breathless kiss and the sudden rush of energy. 

Rafe’s smirk fades slightly, but his eyes stay locked on yours. “You sure?” he asks, voice low, a hint of challenge in it.

You hesitate for a second, your pulse hammering in your ears. “Yeah, I’m sure,” you reply, steadying your breath. 

You glance around, and you were right- someone drives by on their cart. 

“You couldn’t be patient for a couple of minutes?” You scold lightly, picking up the two golf clubs from the floor. 

Rafe’s eyes flicker briefly to the cart passing by, then back to you, the realization of you being right settling in. 

“I can,” he says, following you as you make it to the golf cart. “But you sure as hell make it difficult.”

Once you're at the cart, Rafe casually takes his gloves off, tossing them somewhere inside without a second thought. Before you can even react, he’s already taking the clubs from your hands, placing them back into the bag. 

“Just sit down already,” he tells you, a flicker of frustration in his voice. 

Somehow, he’s irritated again, the short fuse of his temper flaring up. 

Not wanting to add fuel to the fire, you hop into the driver’s seat. 

“Fuck, and you know where to go?” he asks, his voice laced with snark.

You shoot him a look, before scooting over to the passenger side. You cross your arms, deliberately not engaging with his mood.

Rafe sits down, resting his hand on the steering wheel, his eyes flicking to the wide field, as if he's suddenly noticing how much of a dick he's being.

The silence stretches between you for a moment, and then his jaw tightens, like he's working through something. Finally, he exhales sharply, glancing over at you.

Tapping his fingers against the wheel, he says, “I didn’t mean to snap- get angry like that.”

The words hang in the air, but you don’t respond. Instead, you keep your body angled away from him, building that invisible wall between the two of you.

Rafe notices, his gaze darkening as he watches you, his lips pressing into a thin line. 

With his mood swings and your stubbornness, things can easily spiral south, and he knows it.

“C’mon, don’t do this,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you, “I- I’m not even mad to begin with, c’mon babe.”

His voice drops to a softer tone, and his hand wraps around your thigh. The touch is soft, almost like a silent plea for forgiveness. 

You turn your face back to him, and meet the desperate, pretty eyes of his. 

“Just drive, Rafe,” you murmur, your voice soft but resolute, an unspoken surrender.

He pulls his hand back reluctantly, resting it back on the steering wheel. His gaze lingers a moment longer on your face, studying your features. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, a little defeated, “I’ll drive.”

He starts the cart, the hum of the engine filling the space between you. 

As he drives off the grass and onto the paved road, Rafe’s hand slides over yours, forcing it onto the wheel. His fingers curl around yours, covering your hand completely, holding it firmly in place.

When you don’t pull away or argue, he takes it as a win. 

Even more so when he feels you scoot over slightly, your head gently resting on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, but the subtle shift in your proximity softens him, a hint of relief washing over his features.

“…you really think I did good today?” 

You whisper over at him, and he glances down at you. 

His lips curl into a small smile, “yeah.”

He then adds on more firmly, “Yeah, you did. Join me next time.”

“Okay,” you softly whisper, the quiet affirmation slipping from your lips like a promise.

Maybe golf can be the most interesting thing ever, if you do it with Rafe. 

Plus, there’s most definitely a bonus at the end, which is, three rounds of orgasms flowing out of you. 

As soon as the two of you got back to the main building of the country club, Rafe wastes no time in fucking the brains out of you, of course, with your skirt on. 

And now, almost every time he’s on the course, you’re there with him.

-------------------------------

word count: 2.4k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: ngl, relationship with rafe is: mood swings. and its mostly rafe's. one moment he could be very loving, and then boom, he gets a bit annoyed (but thats just imo

but hope you enjoyed...whatever this was! its so fun to write about rafe

other | russian roulette w/rafe

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

what do you think the third years would be like 10 years from now?

What comes after Ever After?

You’re looking at the new buff baker that helps man the Clover Patisserie. He’s beloved by the local housewives and school girls— His parents are getting up there in age, so Trey has taken up a bulk of the responsibilities: ordering supplies, prepping ingredients, baking, stocking, and customer service.

After hours, Trey experiments with new recipes and leftover ingredients. Sometimes he comes up with some truly awful inventions, but other times they end up working out really well. Who knew that adding oyster sauce would enhance the flavor of this bread? He calls these the “Clover Specials, Piping Hot and Fresh Off the Trey” (yes, that was a pun).

He tries to make the bakery more whimsical for the customers. Little seasonal decorations, cute little doodles on the placards that indicate what each item is, a sign that reminds folks to brush well after eating sweets, etc. (Trey claims he doesn't really care for little flourishes like this; it might just be the nostalgia of the unbirthday party days getting to him.)

If there are things that haven’t sold at the end of the day, he’ll offer them for a discount in a blind box style. You’ll never know what you’ll pull, but it’s always delicious, if not a little stale or slightly lumpy looking. Waste not, what not!

Every so often, he has nights out with his childhood friends Chenya and Riddle. Trey's responsible for bringing the snacks (he uses his friends as a test audience for his experiments), and the three spend that time drinking, sharing stories, and catching up on each others' lives.

Cater’s a social media manager and agent for various influencers. His career allows him to basically work from anywhere (which is convenient because he travels to various promotional events) and to be on his phone 24/7, monitoring stats, attending strategy meetings, and coordinating with PR teams.

Keeps up with the latest trends! He's not one of those "how do you do, fellow kids?" types though. Cater is genuinely on top of what's cool--so much so that he's sometimes contacted as a style consultant. It feels like he's got his hands in many facets of the entertainment industry.

He regularly sees a therapist (although he doesn't let any of his friends or family know) to talk through his insecurities and other darker thoughts. It's really been helping him sort out these complex emotions he's been sitting and stewing in for the longest time. He's hoping that, someday, he can reach the point where he can open up to everyone about this other side of himself.

Every now and again, the thought to text an old NRC classmate strikes him--but something keeps Cater back. Doubt, apprehension. The worst that can happen is being left on read, but to Cater the consequences feel so much worse than that. It's a huge relief to him when he gets a text out of the blue from Trey one day--an excuse to text back, to make that connection. Though it's still difficult for Cater to gather the courage to initiate another conversation, this is still a foot in the door for him, the potential start of something new.

Cater still has the Magicam accounts of his school mates. He'll sort of like... cyberstalk their pages just to keep up with their lives, to feel a sense of closeness with the people he failed to reach out to during his NRC days. When he stops to reflect on it, he really regrets his inaction--and, on some nights, he scrolls and scrolls until the dread and the loneliness lulls him into a comfortable, dreamless sleep.

It took a lot of resistance and arguing, but--much to the delight of Kifaji and his family members--Leona has (begrudgingly) taken on the role of a royal advisor to support Sunset Savanna. There were of course some growing pains, especially with Leona's callous and arrogant attitude clashing with those of the other (older, much more conservative) advisors--but for the most part, it's been a net positive.

His focus is on improving infrastructure while also conserving as much of the environment as they can. The knowledge and experience he has gained from his 4th year internship comes in handy here, and thankfully they've been able to take small but steady steps to modernize the country.

In addition to improving infrastructure, Leona has made efforts to strengthen the Sunset Savanna's soft power. He has established new schools and food banks, particularly in impoverished areas, and started magift/spelldrive teams. This has made him popular with certain groups, such as the hyena beastmen and children.

Leona loathes putting on airs, but it's a necessity when facing the public so he manages. Unfortunately, he's still in the habit of skipping meetings and ceremonies he deems unnecessary or a waste of his time, which earns him pockets of ire. He usually just shoots back with, "Yeah? So what? I'm still gettin' results, ain't I?"

Political demands? Not a problem for him. But family? That's the real pain in his tail. Cheka, now an energetic 15-year old, has not let up on bothering him one bit. Then there's also the affectionate Falena, who is trying to desperately reconnect with his estranged brother. Leona just tosses out the excuse of "being busy" to dodge the both of them.

Vil continues to be an A-list celebrity and triple threat--actor, model, and influencer. He has racked up several more leading roles since his school days, including non-traditional bad guys. Vil has been an anti-villain and sympathetic villain.

Having aged like fine wine, he was able to play the character of a father too, just like how he dreamed of as a third-year student. When Vil got the call about the role, he excitedly told his own dad about it, who was so ecstatic and joked that Vil "takes after his old man". They went out for a little father-son bonding time to celebrate, dining at a high-class establishment and having a toast to Vil's future.

It was a Big Deal when Vil was offered his first-ever hero role. Social media and news outlets were popping off about it, and Vil himself was so excited he actually squealed. To this day he still considers it a turning point in his career and one of the most fun characters he ever played. Since then, he's been getting much more diverse roles, which has really opened up the door for him to expand his skills.

Vil is also a business owner now, having several brands under him. A skincare brand, a clothing brand, a makeup brand… Despite them being celebrity owned, the products are actually high quality (Vil won’t sign his name off on subpar products) and very popular, particularly whenever his face is plastered on the marketing campaigns.

These days, he allows himself to be a little less guarded with his front-facing persona. Vil still comes off as cool and regal, but notably laughs more, smiles more, even giggles more. He has a bit of a youthful sparkle to him and talks openly about his own struggles, fears, hopes, and dreams. Fans praise him for being so much more "relatable" and honest.

Rook claims that he is a globe-trotting archeologist now, but you get the feeling that he’s not telling the full truth. What kind of archeologist carries around a belt of weirdly invasive tools on it? Are those teeny-tiny listening devices? And why is his camera (which he says is strictly for his photography hobby) loaded with shots of suspicious characters taken from a distance?

He shares all kinds of crazy stories, like about the time he swung from a vine with a family of gorillas or how he discovered a lever that revealed a roller coaster to a secret underground laboratory. “Um, are those the kinds of things an archaeologist does…?” you ask him. Rook just smiles and laughs, but doesn’t provide a clear answer.

His stealth and marksman skills have developed to a scary degree. You sometimes forget that Rook is even standing beside you, and you've witnessed him kill bugs with frightening precision with nothing more than his gloved fingers. He brushes it off as abilities he sharpened "on the job".

... In any case, whatever Rook's actual occupation is, it requires a lot of travel. He lavishes his friends with souvenirs and post cards of the loveliest sights, then babbles on and on about local attractions, culture, art, and charming hole-in-the-wall destinations. It seems like he has accumulated a lot of knowledge about Twisted Wonderland in the 10 years since you've last seen him, and he's all too eager to blab about it all.

He's become an artist, although he operates under a pen name. You'll find paintings, sculptures, or collages he has assembled in various small exhibitions, and poetry he has penned where you least expect it. Rook puts his talent out in hopes of beautifying the world.

Idia has succeeded his father as the Director of S.T.Y.X. There’s a lot riding on his shoulders, but the pressure surprisingly never really gets to him. He’s cooler, more methodical now—almost as though he were a machine himself, set so clearly on his task that he won’t budge until it is completed first. (He worries that he has become just like his downer dad 💀)

Sometimes he spirals and his nerves get the best of him. In those cases, he has to resort to the text to speech device he invented back at NRC to get through his meetings. The staff at S.T.Y.X. get used to it and are largely alright with it.

He has the habit of snacking on the job. There's chip crumbs and gummy worms scattered on his desk, which is already messy enough with important documents. (He complains that this should all be digitalized anyway!) Idia keeps even more snacks in his pockets, munching on them whenever he’s annoyed or needs to give himself something to do.

The dark circles under his eyes get way worse. With work eating up so much of his day, Idia has less free time to games and other hobbies. That just means he ends up staying up super late into the night to catch up on his dailies and to grind out events, read manga, watch anime, etc. (“Sleep is for the weak!” he insists.) It’s a miracle he can still get up in the mornings to clock in for his next shift!

Shockingly, Idia takes breaks to go outside and touch grass soak up some (artificial) sunshine. He has learned from past experience that being locked up indoors all the time isn't exactly healthy. That, and his Chief of Cybersecurity (Ortho) pesters him to put himself out there more! Sometimes Idia even awkwardly tries to converse with his coworkers around the water cooler, though that's never quite as relaxing as him just chilling by himself in some quiet corner of the Island of Woe.

Make way for the reigning king of Briar Valley! Maleficia has finally retired, passing on her title to her grandson Malleus. There was a coronation ceremony (now recognized as the holiday or Ascension in Briar Valley), which you were of course invited to as a guest. You had a seat up front and were one of the first to congratulate him right after he was officially crowned.

As a relatively young king, Malleus isn’t the perfect ruler right away. Learning about ruling is nothing close to actually ruling. He stumbles and has to adjust to the role and, most of all, he has to balance the conservative values of his country and his people with the ever-changing lands beyond his home. Not an easy task, especially when he has only just gotten used to the concept of change himself—but with the support of his like-minded retainers, Malleus knows he isn’t alone in his endeavors for a brighter tomorrow.

His power also poses another challenge. Malleus is so used to solving his issues by casting a spell or terrifying his opposition into backing down. He’s no longer in a position to do such things or to let his emotions run wild, lest he risk tearing apart his own court and driving a wedge between the valley and other countries. A leash on his temper, a regal demeanor—this is how a mature adult presents himself. The anger only truly comes out when his people are in danger or he is deeply insulted.

His top priority once he is in power is restoring the bonds that were put in jeopardy on account of his… “oopsie” in his third year at NRC. There’s still lingering distrust between him and other nations due to that incident, so Malleus makes it clear that he’s apologetic and willing to come to the table for discussion, should other countries wish. His schedule is jam-packed with meetings with foreign dignitaries.

Massive and sweeping reform is not happening—not anytime soon. No opening of the borders, no sudden introduction of new technology. There would be massive outcry and resistance from the public + senators, not to mention that Malleus himself isn’t entirely comfortable yet with the concept. However, he has put together incremental proposals and tries convince others of the benefits, implanting the seeds in the minds of the people. He’s also supportive of initiatives which promote learning and cultural exchange, such as the import of reading materials from overseas (Sebek’s idea) and has even appointed Silver as Briar Valley’s very first human ambassador.

Lilia has comfortably retired to the Land of Crimson Long. He lives in a little hut far removed from civilization, but he ventures out into the town to pick up the essentials and to play board games with the local retirees. For the most part, it’s just Lilia and the wilderness! ... Which has led to rumors of a monster haunting the forest. This, Lilia entertains in by dropping down from the trees and frightening any hooligans who come close to his territory.

Though his magical abilities have been in decline, he does his best to stay active and in shape! Lilia once snuck into a nearby military camp, disguising himself as one of the new recruits, and partook in their training with them! He even stopped to lend extra help to the recruits who seemed to be struggling the most--though he still came first place in all of their exercises and holds the record time for climbing to the top of a pole to retrieve the arrow there.

He delights in partaking in the local customs and cuisine. Lilia loves to travel to shrines and admire the temples built to honor ancestors. He lights up some incense and joins others in prayer, knowing that he, too, will one day be among the dead. Best to pay respects now! Lilia has also taken to several cups of tea (as recommended by his doctor) with his meals, and has rice porridge with sunnyside egg eyes and bacon smiles whenever he needs something comforting.

Lilia of course keeps in touch with his loved ones! He's still gaming with his online companion Gloomurai and texts his Diasomnia boys all the time. Lilia also sends cards for special occasions, putting much love and care into his notes and the pictures + souvenirs he attaches to them.

His whole face lights up when his friends are able to make the time to pay him a visit. Lilia makes a big show of it, insisting to arrange a big feast or to play a tune for them—oh, and how about a fireworks show?! But his guests just tell him to sit down and take it easy while they take care of everything for him. It’s his turn to be doted on!

[wttcsms]

crownview country club ✦ one shot collection

welcome to crownview country club, one of the most premier country clubs in existence. whether you're savoring a round on our championship golf course, enjoying the serenity of our world-class spa, or indulging in gourmet dining crafted by our award-winning chefs, crownview provides a retreat like no other. as you navigate the greens, let the warmth of our renowned beverage cart girls, affectionately known as the club's crown jewels, enhance your experience. these girls are dedicated to providing exceptional customer service, and are here for your every need, on and off the course. alternatively: you — young, sweet, naive you — think you just won the jackpot by securing a job this summer break as a beverage cart girl at a country club you can't even dream of ever joining. how unfortunate that you just didn't know what types of customers you'd have to service and how far the club's "above and beyond" approach really extends...

ᝰ.ᐟ a nsfw longfic one shot collection featuring a sweet, vulnerable reader + a different archetype of customer who will always hold the power in this dynamic

✦ meet the regulars ✦

the new owner aka satoru gojo warnings power imbalance, dark content, degradation, extortion, misogyny

you're good at your job. you're hardworking and never let your smile slip off your face, even when the customers get too handsy or too condescending with you. you don't mess up orders, and you always maintain the position that the customer is always right. but with this new regular — who's arrogant and mean and downright nasty — you're not sure how long you can keep up with your fake smiles around him. little do you know, he's making a game of how far he can go before you break. oh, and that little stunt you pulled? where you tried to report his "awful behavior" to your manager? that was cute. really cute. but as the new owner of this country club, there's no one that can do anything about whatever he does. he owns this place, and by extension, that means he owns you.

the classmate aka kiyoomi sakusa warnings dark-ish content, manipulation, possessive behavior

attending your dream private college on scholarship comes with a lot more challenges than you anticipated. for starters, you don't fit in with any of your classmates and struggle to find friends. your scholarship covers tuition, and that's about it. while your peers are off on vacation, you'll be spending the summer break trying to save up enough money to cover rent and basic living expenses. it's shaping up to be a boring summer, until you keep running into one of your classmates: he plays on the golf team for your school, and apparently, he just can't get enough of the sport... or you.

the corporate powerhouse aka tetsurou kuroo warnings dark content, praise kink, degradation, dubcon, slight fear play, misogyny

one of the worst groups of men to encounter on the golf course? definitely the men who work in corporate. the ones who conduct client meetings on the course and definitely contribute nothing beneficial to society. to them, employees of the establishments they frequent are no more than "the help", but when you're a pretty young thing, whipping out the pitiful broke college student story, you end up sparking the interest of a ceo with a major savior complex.

the soldier aka caleb warnings age gap, size kink, possessive behavior, dark-ish content

forced to take a break from his special forces team, this soldier is restless and struggling to acclimate back to regular society. his old friends keep dragging him to their weekly golf meetups, but he can't see the appeal. that is, until he meets you. sweet and soft, the exact opposite of everything he's had to encounter these past few years, you are exactly what he wants — no, needs — in order to properly enjoy civilian life.

the not-so secret admirer aka yuuta okkotsu warnings yandere, babytrapping, obsessive&possessive behavior, dark content

you're used to rich guys who are major jerks, and as one of the wealthiest members of this club, you're certain that he must be no different. but then he surprises you; he is different. where others are cocky, condescending, quick to remind you of your place (beneath them), he's kind and a little bit awkward. shy, and always apologizing, worrying that he's bothering you. he's sweet. you like him, but maybe not as much as he obviously likes you. first comes the insane tips, then the extravagant gifts (that you're not allowed to refuse), and any resistance on your end has him revealing a colder side to him, an almost scary side, that frightens you into agreeing with whatever he tells you to do. he's so rich because he never gives up, and never takes no for an answer — and you'll learn this lesson, too.

[nerdygirlramblings]

omegaverse 141

previous

The following morning, after formation, you have your squad follow you onto the trail that runs around base. The same one Soap had seen you running a few weeks back.

"You didn't tell us we be runnin' today, Sarge," Geoffrey says, barely concealing a whine.

You chuckle to yourself and roll your eyes. Glancing over your shoulder you ask, "When have I led ya wrong?" Your squad is quiet behind you. They may not want to socialize with you as an omega, but there's no denying you've been getting the job done. "Brought ya out here cuz I wanted to talk. And to do it without any alphas or other CO's around."

There's some muttering behind you, not loud enough to make anything out, but not quiet enough to dismiss either. You notice a change in the air around you. Though they're betas and have learned how to project their calming scent, most are still working on controlling their fear and distress. You can smell the slightly sour milk and rush to allay their worries.

You turn to face them and say, "You're not in trouble! We are not in trouble." You face the trail again and resume your walk, talking as you go, "But something's come up, and it impacts everyone." You pick up your pace ever so slightly . You're looking for the clearing you'd passed the first time you ran here. It's a little space set off from the main trail, big enough for a few people to camp or for a squad to meet. You want to get there quickly to have this whole conversation out rather than dropping breadcrumbs. Your squad deserves that.

Once everyone is off the trail and standing around you, you tell them about the offer you've received from the 141. "Oh my God," Molly whispers, awe in her voice. "There, like, the best!"

You bob your head in acknowledgment and respond, "Some of, yes." It's clear that your squad doesn't understand the full implications of you joining the 141. So you lay it out for them. "If I take this opportunity, they'll pull me as your CO. Captain Price said -"

A voice interrupts, "You mean you actually talked to Captain Price?!?" You smile self-indulgently remembering how awed you were when the man first approached you.

"Yes, and 'e said that it's too disruptive for any of the 141 to have a squad of their own. Apparently, we can be called out at any point, and be gone for weeks. It would leave ya without a commanding officer." You look at each member of your squad, meeting everyone's eyes. "If I do this, you'll have a new CO. I don't know who it would be, and I don't know what that would mean for your trainin'. 'At's why I brought ya out here. Wanted to get yer honest take on what this means fer ya." There's some uneasy shuffling as it seems no one wants to quite be honest about their feelings. You remind them that you're not like other COs, and that you're an omega. Not that they need the reminder about either, but it seems to help settle some nerves. "I know it's hard fer ya having an omega as a CO. I know the stigma it carries. While this decision is mine and mine alone, yer time here is impacted by it, so I wanted to know what ya think."

It finally occurs to some members of your squad that they can be honest with you. "Yeah, 's tough around base having you as our CO. There're still a lot of alphas who won't want us on their team because you're the one who is trained us," Connor says.

One by one, your squad shares how they feel about you joining the 141. Some are like Connor and recognize the strain it puts on their careers to have you as their CO. Some are like Molly, excited for your opportunity regardless of what it does for them. Some are like Geoffrey, recognizing how they've struggled and realizing that a different CO, a beta or an alpha who is harsher, will make their time in the military much more difficult.

You get the sense - from what they say and how they smell - that most of your squad have already accepted that you'll leave them. Some may be happy about this because of the way it might benefit them while others simply seem happy for you. You close by telling them to make their way to the shooting range to practice on the Glock 17s. You remind them that after range practice is lunch with the promise of a decision for them by the time you see them in the mess.

"An' I promise, if I do take Captain Price up on his offer, I'll still keep tabs on you. Gotta make sure you all make it through basic as brilliantly as I know you can," you say with a rueful grin.

Your squad disperses from the clearing, making their way in twos and threes back to base, but you hang back. You pull your phone out and call home, finally ready with a decision.

This time it's Mum who answers. She takes one look at your face and shouts off screen to Mama and Dad "We've got a decision!" There's commotion on the other end as Mama and Dad come into frame.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," you say apologetically.

Dad reminds you he's on glorified bedrest, "So either yer Mum or yer Mama is always home. This morning I've got both." He smiles, "But a call from you is never an interruption. Or, if it is, it's the best kind."

Mama nods and leans close to the screen. "So, what did you decide?"

You take a deep breath, letting the air fill your lungs, and release it slowly. Before you can tell them, Mum says, "Good fer you, love."

"But," you sputter, "Mum...I didn't even tell you-"

"You don't have to, dear," she interrupts. "I can see the decision in your eyes. You're gonna join the task force." You hear the price, and fear, in her voice.

Beside her, Mama nods and tries to hide her emotions. "We're proud of whatever decision you make. And while I'm not happy with how much more dangerous this is, I think it's the right thing for you."

Dad is beaming, but you see the tears caught in his lashes. "Pretty girl, we love you so much! This is such an amazing opportunity for you. And if it feels right, if your omega feels safe, this might be the best thing for you."

next

[kenwio]

Joker's kid! Reader : How Batman took them in and their medbay stay

Author's note: First thing first, thank you! Many of you said good things about my work, and you made me really happy! This is not exactly a continuing, but I promise I'm working on it. It's more detailed writing about how batman took Joker's kid! reader in, and how rest of batfamily reacted

Warnings: Grammar mistakes (English is not my first language), maybe some not detailed triggers

--------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇ ♧ ----------------------

Cold. Dark. Filthy. That's how the corner where Joker's kid! reader was staying. Crime alley was one of if not the most awful place in the Gotham. It was certainly not a place for a child. No parent in their right mind would want their child to stay in place like this. But what is your father never was in the right place of mind? In fact, what if your father was the most crazy psychopath in the Gotham? Only you would know.

Joker was put in Arkham asylum once again, and once again his kid was taken away and left somewhere in dark corner of crime alley by some of Joker's goons. They knew that Joker will find them once again then he get out, but for now, they had only themselves.

Did you know exactly where you were? Of course no! All you knew that you didn't like the place. It was too dark, it smelled like something rotten.

You were too tired to be afraid of your surroundings and your circle, and you were really hungry. Yet, you knew that food on crime alley was hard to find, maybe you could stumble on it if you weren't to tired to get up and go wandering.

The "show" that your dad just pulled was damaging not only for the Gotham itself and it's citizens, but for you. Your task seemrd simple : just drag wepons, gun magazines, lots of different glass vials. In the process, uou were tossed around by your father and his goons, who didn't show you any mecry.

You felt really uncomfortable. Not only all your bruises and scrapes were hurting, your skin felt sicky, dirty, you could feel stickiness of messed up make up on your face, your hair, which was damaged because they were dyed green, felt greasy, the costume your father made you wear was uncomfortable, it's stitches scratched your sided, collar of shirt and colorful tie were suffocating. Not to mention your broken shoes, which hurted from all the running.

Only light in this godforsaken place was coming form stars up above on the sky, but even they were clouded. You tried to make out them in the clouded sky, when suddenly you saw movement. The figure. Familiar figure. Without any further thought, you got up. You hastily walked, feeling wall in front of you, hoping to find stairs of fire escape and luckily for you, you found them.

Step by step, you hurried, knowing he moved fast, but you knew you must keep up with him. You recognized him easily, you saw him so many times, the one and only Batman, your father's archnemesis. Why you followed him? It's simple really. He may end your sufferings, or at least few of them. What he does to your father? Talks, then beats him, and puts him to Arkham asylum! First will be easy, for second you are used to thanks for your father, and last one... for last one you hope for. Now, you have no idea what it's really is or what's going on here, BUT you saw building, and it's better to be there than outside, it at least can protect you form the rain, and goodness you don't like rain, you always get cold in it and always feel bad after it. Plus, your father never seemed to look thiner while he was there, and may be there is some food? So, it would be better than a crime alley right? That was your logic.

Your small footsteps alerted the bat. He stopped in his tracks waiting for you to come up here. In his point of view, you were harmless. Yes you were Joker's child. He NEVER saw you fight, you were only running around, trembling when near Joker or goons, and hiding when fight was ending. You looked sick, scarely sick: not only clown make up and messy green hair looked so disturbing, but your injuries - they clearly were infected, your body - you looked like skin and bones, you were trembling - and he was sure it wasn't just because it was cold. What scared him the most was not your omnious similarity to Joker - which he new mostly was forced on you, and certainly reminded him of Tim as Joker Junior - but your eyes. They were just empty. He saw broken people, but kid as broken as that, he haven't.

He turned to you, looking at you with the signature spine-chilling gaze, as you were panting from running on rooftop.

-Batman, - you began, while he was silent. You didn't think through what you were going to say, but you continued - take me to the place you take all friends of pa's too, please? - your mom once told you that it was a good word, even magical, and it could help.

To say that Bruce was stunned is to say nothing. Your voice, quiet and weak, a bit slurred, lacking of any emotion but fear was not something he expected you to sound. But have he heard you even talk? No. And if he remembers correctly, he never heard you even laugh, which was strange considering your father. But, ithwrn than that, why in the world the kid would want to go there? Did they want to free their father? Were they just like him, out of their mind?

But his thoughts were interrupted by your sudden fall on the spot. It looked like you just stumbled while still standing. He walked closer, cautious, but he just saw you trying to get up, so he helped, and checked you for wepons in process, and found none. How ever he noticed how pale you were and how you were cold to touch, adding your stumbling and slurred speech he came to a conclusion, which was made him worry - you had hypothermia, and you needed warmth.

- Why do you want to go there - he asked, his voice stern, but lacking anger and distane.

- it's cold and I'm hungry. And that place looks better than streets - you mumbled.

- That's all? - he asked.

- yes - you answered adding the nod that made you dizzy.

Batman warped his cloack around you, it felt better than air, warmer. Safer.

- and what about your father? Do you want to see him - he asked, looking right in your eyes

- no, he will hit me again, and everything alredy hurts enough - your words were stumbling one on the other, but Batman listed them intently. He felt like you were honest, for some reason he felt like you don't want to be in contact with your father at all

- I have a better idea - he said, suddenly lifting you up. You were too light for his liking. He helped you to put more of his cape onto you. While carrying you to, you weren't sure to what. You just didn't moved, you hoped that he wasn't going to threw you down in building or thew you into anything, last time your father did that you didn't liked it

Few minutes after. You saw shiny and pretty car - batmobile. Inside it looked luxurious, you've never seen something so nice before, you never sited on something that soft. Was it a dream? Probably no, how can you dream of something that nice.

When Batman was to buckle the belt for you and reached his hand you flinched. Bruce didn't like that. He saw Joker hit you, but still it was too horrible to witness.You flinched again, when he put a fluffy blanket, which he took form back of car, which was there in case one of his sons needed it, over you. And the look on your face when you felt the blanket just hurted his heart even more. In your defense, you've never felt something as nice on your skin.

You finally felt warm. It's been so long since you lats felt warm and it felt so good. It didn't took much for you to fall asleep. You didn't care about anything but warmth in the moment.

A peaceful look on your face while you were asleep just broke Bruces heart. You were child of Joker, but all he could see - mistreated child. A child to add to his collection, a child for whom he can provide home.

--------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇ ♧ ----------------------

You woke up in place that you couldn't recognize. You even in darkness of the room, you could see it was clean and neat. It smell unfamiliar too, like some sort of chemicals your father worked with, but much softer. You could feel soothing attached to you, looking up on the side you saw the monitor from which soft light was coming. On the other side you saw IV. You could really feel pain and hunger in the moment, and it was really strange. You didn't feel like your skin was sticky anymore and you certainly was no longer dressed in the suit that your father made you wear.

Not long after you woke up, Batman came in. Your mind was to fuzzy, you were really confused, but you wanted to ask him so much things.

- am I... - you began saying, not knowing what to ask. Are you alive? Are you alright? Are you experimented on? Are you going to experience something that you won't like?

- You are safe. You need to rest so your body could recover.

You didn't felt like getting up anyway, you didn't had strength to do so anyways. You looked around again.

- sorry - you mumbled. You felt like you didn't belong to this safe and neat place, you felt like you were being a bother. Your father never let you to rest even if you felt like you were feeling not so long ago and now, you needed to do everything he asked, and if you wouldn't do it, you would be punished.

- For what? - he asked, his stern tone changed for softer one

- I probably made your car, a blanket and all in here dirty. And well, you made so much for me.

The way you said that, just broke his heart even more. You sounded like you meant those words, like you believe you are dirty in some way, and that you didn't deserve simple care.

- just focus on resting. - he answered rather strained - we will talk about everything once you will recover fully.

- but... - you suddenly felt brave enough to ask him at least something- you are helping me? Why? I mean, you know who is my father.

- you are not him, and your path may be different from him. Now, rest - he said gently putting your hand on your shoulder.

- oh. Okay, thank you. For everything so far- you answered, feeling sleepy and ready to doze of again, as Batman continued to look at you.

As Bruce looked at you, he saw that eerie similarity between you and your father seemed to subside once your skin was clean from that creepy clown makeup and you were in the hospital pj. You were just a kid and kid who needed serious medical attention that he was going to provide. No child should suffer like that. No child should have a dull look in their eyes. No child should feel like they were a bother. No child should be abused by their own parents. While looking through results of all the tests he had to run to find out what was wrong with you, he saw residual traces of various chemicals that Joker used in his venom. Seemed like you were a test subject for him. Many of your scrapes and bruises, and even a few cuts, were caused by your father, which your words just confirmed earlier. Yes, you were a child of Joker, the child of one of the most dangerous people in Gotham, the threat he needs to deal with. But you were also a victim of your own father. He knows that there is a possibility that you can become like your father, but he may find a way to help you avoid this from happening. He needs it for the sake of Gotham so that the city will never see the second Joker.

Alfred was the second person you've seen when you've seen. Old butler looked at you with cation, but you could make out some warmth that was similar to Batman's.

- How are you feeling? - Alfred asked, his British accent is intact

- I'm... I'm okay? - you said. You've never seen him before, but surely he was connected the Batman if he was here. You were uncertain how to feel about old man, he seemed intimidating, not in Batman's kind of way, but still intimidating.

- not feeling pain and not feeling cold i suppose? - he asked, adjusting the IV that was connected to you

- no, I feel good? - you answered, still feeling uncertain. He walked closer to you, and helped to adjust the pillow you were laying on, fluffing it up, and of course he didn't missed the how you flinched when he reached for it. Seeing hint of sadness in the expression of the butler you decided to add - I've never been in bed as comfy

- with time, perhaps, you would get a proper comfortable bed.

Dick wasn't shocked when he heard from Bruce that he took in Joker's kid. He was dumbfounded. Why in the world! Did all the all the hits in the head finally make the old man go insane? He couldn't make out how je felt. Surely he was taking aback, angry, but he knew he couldn't judge on the spot. Peace and stability just returned to the family, and knowing Bruce, Dick knew that old man should have had a really serious reason to do something like that. And, as a peace maker of the family and a good old brother to the rest of Batman sons he is, he decided to investigate that. So he went to the manor, walked into the madbay when you were sleeping. And he understood why. You looked so tired, so pale, so small, so thin. Even your greensh hair didn't look as omnious as Joker's. They just make you look more miserable. He stayed in this medbay room until it was time to patrol. Maybe he didn't know you, but he thought you still deserved a chance to get a better life

Jason was seething with anger. Firstly, Bruce didn't kill Joker when he didn't let Jason kill Joker, then they made amends, and how after all of that Bruce was taking in Joker's bastard? The kid of his killer! What the hell? How could he?! After screaming match with Bruce and talk wholehearted talk with Dick, Jason came to the conclusion that even if Jason himself was not okay with old man's decision, and if he can't prove that he is right now, he will prove it none the less, just latter. He knows powers of redemption, but some people don't deserve it. Some people do not change. And since your father was a monster, you are probably the apple that falls not far from the tree. He sure you belong to Arkham, and he will make sure you will be there if you make any wrong step. He won't let his fate repeat.

Tim hasn't slept around.... well, he hasn't slept a few days, so at first he thought it was a joke. It has to be. But B doesn't joke like that. It felt awful, but he was sure Jason felt worse. After he heard the news, he just spaced out... by the time his coffee went cold, only then he decided to dig up some information about you so that he could rationalize what he felt. Time when he was forced to become Joker Junior was still plauging him in his nightmares. And now he was faced with real Joker Junior - you. One quick look at you through the window of medbay, one blur of your greenish hair was enough for him. He felt anxianity creeping in. Watching videos with you on them was taught for him. You reminded him of him as Joker Junior so much. You reminded him of Joker. But yet, His search showed that you were dragged to every Joker's act of crimes, but in no videos, he saw you fighting. It seemed like a good sign, but his paranoia always said danger is hiding in placed you don't expect to see it.

Not one time, not twice, Damian became a witness to his father's rather idiotic decisions, or so he thinks. And this might be one of the dumbest his father did. Why can't he understand that taking you in meant putting all family in danger. You were a danger. You are Joker's child, who knows what's going on in your mind. He may not have found evidence yet, but he certainly will do it, and he will open his father's eyes. For now, Damian decided to make sure you won't hurt his family. He will make sure you won't influence his father into anything anymore. He glares at you through the windows of medbay, taking in every little move. So what of you look no bigger than him, you still are a threat. You still are the Joker's kid.

While all of this happened, time went by, and soon, you'll be out of the madbay. Are you ready for what sure has in stocks for you?

--------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇ ♧ ----------------------

Thank you for reading so much! Feel free to share your opinion!

And I'm working on the next part ^-^

[hana-no-seiiki]

My first writing commission! This will be a multipart series for HOTD. Featuring yanderes, political warfare and overall mayhem. And perhaps?? some time traveling??

Thank you @dawntheday for commissioning this project.

// tw/cw: reader is not a targaryen. canon based violence, incest, sexism, the usual. canon divergences. reader is gender neutral but is described as ethereal. reader gets pimped out (implicit/short descriptions). seggs/light smut. basically a lot of disgusting shit happens.

AND THEN, THERE WAS YOU [PROLOGUE]

Childbirth was one of the most traumatic, painful and bloody experiences known to man. The sheer agony of a child being ripped out of your womb, kicking and screaming. And yet, so many deemed it miraculous event. All joy, love and positivity.

It was horrific to even witness.

But the Gods wouldn’t be satisfied for you to be a bystander. No. You would find out that childbirth was worse when you were the one being born.

Sentience was a curse. One forced upon you since the beginning. You could feel the push of your mother’s walls, constricting you, flattening you, forcing you out into the world. Her screams, your cries, and the panicking voices of the midwives as you finally, finally made it out were all too much. The blood all too much.

You never really forget that experience even as you grew older. Features of your youth melted away to reveal ethereal beauty. One that commanded worship and awe.

That was another thing the Gods made you have to torture you. Droves and droves of sick and twisted people at your doorstep as your birth parents watched in delight, their coffers filled to the brim with gold.

But perhaps it wasn’t always a curse. Your beauty, I mean. Now that you’ve stolen much of their earnings and escaped to another continent.

Westeros.

A journey by sea it took. For you to crawl your way into the newly conquered lands. Bloodied and battered from the journey. Exhausted yet eager to renew yourself in the new lands your feet would walk upon.

Your first ever job was at a Brothel. Taking in clients like the way your parents did to you not so long ago, but of your own accord.

That was where you met Aegon Targaryen. Aegon the Conqueror. Loud, proud, and scrotum heavy. You’ve heard of the classic old tale where the men of his family would visit this place to sow their oats. Bastards upon bastards littered the place. You knew that one of these days, you would be bear his spunk and parade it around like many others. Your ego ached for it even. To conquer the conquerer. To bear a dragon’s seed.

Little did you know, the dragon already knew you.

“I dreamt of you.” He said as he ravished you, eyes filled with an emotion you couldn’t recognize. You certainly hadn’t seen in your family’s nor have your old clients. “Like I dream of the walkers. Of an apocalypse to come.”

You’ve heard of his rough and relentless way in the sack. How your fellow workers complained of the way they were treated, how they couldn’t walk any further than two feet after he was done with them. The man did not view them as anything more than objects after all. Something to toss aside when he was done.

But if anything, he’d been the most attached and sappiest man you’ve ever had the fortune of bedding. Disgustingly so.

“You. You are the calm amongst those nightmares.“ He was gentle, loving. Nothing like Aegon the Conqueror that you’ve heard of. Nothing like the Aegon the Conqueror that you wanted.

As soon as he fell asleep, you went and disappeared.

It is not long before he calls upon you. Again and again, murmuring about dreams and winter. You’ve even met his wives. All so eager to meet you. All so kind and benevolent. All so unlike the expectations you’ve set in your mind and heart. Expectations you were willing to brave through. Somehow, drama and your potential death was better than the constricting vice they held over you. Memories flashed through your head. Of your mother, of your birth. Of blood and viscera.

You try to leave but are sent back to Aegon’s chambers in an instant.

“You may leave. You may run. But nothing will stop you from finding your way back to the Dragon’s nest. Fate wills it so.” He said, but all you heard was a challenge.

“You’ll find that I’m quite stubborn regardless.”

You quickly find out that Aegon knew your movements from his dreams. Each plan of yours to escape had been foiled before it had happened.

And so you stopped, you let him and his wives coddle and fuck you when they wanted.

Years later, an opportunity presents itself. A cliff overlooking the ocean. So vast and wide. Yet to be taken and shackled by the man who took your freedom away.

You do not hesitate. Not for one moment.

“Come.”

You jump. You bet that Aegon did not foresee that coming considering he was too shocked to catch you. Your death would be swift you suppose. At least it wouldn’t be as arduous as repeating the same day over and over again.

Your eyes fluttered open, a meeting between [e/c] and purple. You grimaced as you see her platinum blonde hair and luxurious outdoor clothing. Blood across her face and a knife in her hand.

It can’t be . . .

Tears fall down your cheeks. Your broken cries echo through the woods.

a/n: future chapters will be longer because hotd is hotd.

[theresattrpgforthat]

THEME: Lesbian/Sapphic TTRPGS

I can't not contribute to this! Let me throw a bunch in the ring! I don't know if all of these are specifically toxic yuri or violent, but they are undeniably queer!

we burn together, by Shouting Crow.

WE BURN TOGETHER is a rules-lite tabletop roleplaying game that has swords, skeletons, and drama. What else do you want, really?

It is inspired by the Locked Tomb series written by the incredibly talented Tamsyn Muir. You don't need to know anything about the books to play, though. All you need to know is that it has necromancers and people swinging blades around and if a caster and a duelist work together, they might become something more (but they'll probably lose something profound in the process).

You'll need a twenty sided die and at least two people to enjoy this compact little game. The current version is text-dense because it was designed to fit on 20 A6 size pages. It's black and white and dead all over. 

I’m submitting this one as a Lesbian game even though it’s not necessarily specific about the gender of the characters, because so much of its source material is considered fairly iconic and queer. It’s about relationships that create something new while taking something away from both parties to it. If you want unhealthy attachments and metaphors all about forbidden relationships, you want this game. In the words of the creator: “Print it, play it, tell your friends about your big feelings and die terribly. They can wear your finger-bones on a little silver chain around their neck and think fondly of you or something.”

Toxic Sword Lesbians, by Carly Smallbird.

Toxic Sword Lesbians fight their shared enemies when they’re not fighting each other. They know they shouldn’t say something hurtful or give in to escape over responsibility, but they do. They lash out over disagreements on ideals and on expectations. They give in to their worst self-destructive impulses. And then they pick themselves up off the ground and go help their loved ones, because that’s the right thing to do.

Toxic Sword Lesbians is a game for telling stories about the most awful women you can make up to love, which is to say: it's a hack for telling spicier, more emotionally fraught stories in Thirsty Sword Lesbians. In it, you'll find tools for Making Her (Your Character) Worse!

Yeah, I know you said that you wanted to see what was out there other than Thirsty Sword Lesbians - well Toxic Sword Lesbians is a hack of TSL! It includes updated sex and intimacy moves, more evil Truths of Heart and Blade, and custom mechanics for body horror, monstrous hunger, and more. If you want to make your lesbians obsessed, over-thinking danger-addicts who jump to the worst conclusions and dig into their self-destructive habits all of the time, you want Toxic Sword Lesbians.

No Love’s Land, by Adira Slattery.

DESIGNED FOR WAR YOU ARE ON OPPOSITE SIDES YOU HAVE FALLEN IN LOVE You are a killer robot stationed on the moon of Ahava, covered in a dense radiation field. The only way you have to get a message to your secret girlfriend and fellow killer robot is to send them a message inscribed on a missile. Time to fire… LOVE CONQUERS ALL AND YOU WERE MADE TO CONQUER

No Love’s Land feels somewhat like a larp; you have to physically create a space that feels like a bunker, and then toss notes to each-other rather than speaking out loud. You can send messages, but as soon as the two of you embrace, the game ends.

I love how much this game just dives headfirst into tragedy. With each not, the two of you can get closer and closer together, symbolizing the way you are able to bypass subroutines and infiltrate your mech’s code. I think it would make such a fun date night with a loved one, a chance to create a big personal mess that culminates in a cathartic emotional moment.

Supernatural Sapphics, by Transcendent Tapir.

Supernatural Sapphics is a role playing game for 2 or more players, one player taking the role of the Top, who runs the game and plays the Dolls (important NPCS), Extras (unimportant NPCS), and Obstacles (nonsentient beings, environmental hazards, or any other non-person barrier preventing progress). The rest of the players take the role of Bottoms, which are characters in the game. This Distortion Dice game is about the messy queer relationships between beings of the veil (vampires, fae, ghosts, cryptids, etc) and the humans fascinated by them. To play this game you will need several sets of polyhedral dice and optionally tokens to represent Drive.

The designer is fairly up-front about the messy relationships that can show up in this game, including PvP rules for handling inter party conflict.Your characters are collections of vibes, skills, pet peeves and insecurities, constantly reevaluating their relationships every time they get overwhelmed. From what I can tell, the theme of being supernatural cryptids is more of a flavour than being something intrinsically baked-in, so you could likely replace that aspect with a different setting or flavour and still explore those messy relationships.

Tension, by Adira Slattery

Tension is a Tarot based roleplaying game for telling stories like Killing Eve and Hannibal, letting you explore queer experiences in the cat and mouse genre.

Play as an investigator and a killer as they get entangled in each other. You will pursue after another back and forth while everyone in your orbit drops like flies. But it’ll all be worth it, because you’ll be in love. Or dead. Or both maybe? How exciting!

Another game by Adira Slattery, I don’t know if Tension is explicitly lesbian, but it’s definitely queer. Rather than play a single character, you and up to two friends created a cast of characters, using the Major Arcana of a tarot deck. The bulk of the story, however, follows a killer and an investigator, both who know who the other is, but still experience an inexplicable attraction. The other characters are pawns, victims, and various other minor characters that help raise the stakes.The story is meant to weave a complicated web that likely implicates both of them - great for a high-stakes, intense game.

And They Were Dortermates, by unseeliejess.

From matins to compline, every day has been the same. Free from worldly concerns, your days have been spent in song and prayer, in needlework and gardening, in feeding the hungry and teaching the young. You have heard rumors of revolution from pius petitioners expressing fear for you and all the faithful. There are only a few months until your way of life is completely overturned. You may not survive the upcoming terror. You will never lose your faith, but you may lose…her.  

And They Were Dortermates is a GM-less game for one or more players. Players are cloistered nuns in a medieval convent in a time shortly before a dissolution or suppression of monasteries and convents. They are also secretly in love with the other character(s). 

A classic story of love that cannot be, And They Were Dortermates uses a block tower and a deck of playing cards. Similar to Dread & Star-Crossed, the block tower is used to represent a big event that will change your life permanently - and if it falls too early, you may not be able to confess your love. Each turn, you draw a card from the deck, follow the prompt, and pull a block from the table. A classic will-they-won’t they with a Catholic flavour!

Underlie Jess has a number of lesbian-themed games for you to check out out, including Just Gals Being Comrades, as well as the core We Love In Whispers System, a GM-less, diceless game of romance and politics.

Sapphic Slumber Party, by deecity.

Be brave. Be beautiful. Fall in love, just for a moment. And really just nail a beautiful girl with a pillow. 

Sapphic Slumber Party is a short zine game for 2-5 about a pillow fight at a slumber party, and all the joyful, melancholy, amorous, and vulnerable feelings that come out when you're playing in your PJs. Brief and lyrical, Sapphic Slumber Party is GMless and plays in 30-45 minutes. Rather than a sweeping epic or a high-stakes romance, Sapphic Slumber Party focuses on a single, rather mundane night. Over the course of a single pillow fight, your characters will attack each-other with pillows and attempt to pile Vulnerability upon each-other. It’s a subtle game of pushing your crushes closer and closer to something a bit more intimate, a bit more risky than a pillow fight, a chance to get closer and closer - until a button pops, a bra strap slips, or some other symbolic representation of getting more and more vulnerable with each-other.

What you do at the end of the pillow fight depends on how much Vulnerability you get, and who got vulnerable first.

Deecity also has a Locked Tomb hack for Ten Candles, this time called Tomb Candles!

I (and others) have also recommended…

Dungeon Bitches, by Dungeon Bitches.

The Girlfriend of my Girlfriend is My Friend, by stargazersasha.

Deadly Weapons, by Adira Slattery (honestly, a champion for lesbians).

The Rain Still Falls In My Heart, by Roz.

Breakup on Re-Entry, by Riverhouse Games.

Doll.Bod, by @ribstongrowback

Lesbians Built This Farm, by che.

Gay Crime, Sapphics Against Capital, by Evey Lockhart.

You can also give me a tip by donating to my Ko-fi!

i remember you writing a list of something in some fucking context (i remember nothing), and on that list there was a lesbian ttrpg that really stuck out to me that i didn't save. It was a real edgy one about being lesbian violent and mean (i think), which isn't really much to go off. Where i'm going to is, would you be interested in just listing every lesbain indie ttrpg you know of? Its fine if you dont wanna, of course.

You're probably thinking of this thread here, though you're quite correct that "mean violent lesbians" isn't sufficient to pick out a specific entry – several of the titles plugged in that thread would easily qualify!

As for "listing every lesbian indie ttrpg [i] know of", that's a trickier demarcation problem than you might imagine. What is a lesbian tabletop RPG? Is it one where the player characters are obligatorily lesbians? (If so, we end up excluding games which are explicitly about the lesbian experience, but feature some other type of character.) Is it one written, at least in part, by lesbians? (If so, we bump into the problem that not all indie tabletop RPGs are autobiographical, the maunderings of certain self-appointed critics notwithstanding.) Is it one where the game itself is a lesbian? (Not an impossible brief, but now we're catering exclusively to folks who are into meta bullshit.)

Ultimately I'm going to pass the problem down the line and just ask folks in the notes to name the first game that comes to mind when they think of the phrase "lesbian indie ttrpg". Let's see what sort of consensus evolves.

[draconym]

Tell us more about the Spricket Dungeon? I'm admittedly morbidly curious now

A lot of people have a spricket dungeon in their basement. Sprickets, or "spider crickets," commonly called cave crickets or camel crickets, are cave adapted (trogloxene) fauna and have been living alongside humans (also trogloxenes) for probably tens of thousands of years. The oldest known illustration of an insect is of a cave cricket, carved into a bison bone in France somewhere between twelve and seventeen thousand years ago.

While harmless, a cave cricket is like if a water buffalo were the size of a blueberry and could subsist entirely on mold and autocannibalism. So any dark and humid place where you might find a hint of mildew or dust seems sufficient to sustain a breeding population, and if they somehow end up in a sterile environment, cave crickets can live for months without any food at all. Roaches get all the credit for being nature's most indestructible vermin, but I think cave crickets are equally likely to withstand nuclear apocalypse, especially considering their tendency to live deep underground.

My old house's spricket dungeon was a crawl space under the stairs where we kept snow shovels, paint cans, and bicycles. There was a lot of debris in the closet when we first moved in, and I suspect us cleaning it out was what started the crickets' slow population decline. My housemates and I occasionally caught them or laid down duct tape traps, but mostly the crickets stayed in their artificial cave and only one or two would venture out into the rest of the basement each day.

Stomping on them was out of the question. Not only did it seem too violent, it was also deeply unpleasant to imagine popping them like grapes underfoot. Additionally, those fuckers are fast. I mentioned this in my last post, but their primary defense mechanism really is launching themselves at your face, and it's very effective. Imagine if the water buffalo the size of a blueberry could jump three feet in the air, and it was pissed.

It didn't usually disturb the crickets if you opened the door to pull out a bike. They were mostly carpeting the far wall of unpainted cinderblocks. But if you turned on the closet light bulb, they often started hopping in every direction, and their fat bodies thumping against the linoleum made a hollow 'pop' sound similar to a popcorn kernel in a paper bag. Now imagine dozens of them doing that at once in your direction.

Over the thirteen years we lived in that house, my housemates and I saw the population of sprickets dwindle to about a dozen, but we rarely went more than a week without seeing one. They're much less common in the house we moved to a year and a half ago. We see perhaps one small one a month, rarely any bigger than a skittle, and significantly more timid when not surrounded by an entire cricket metropolis.

I don't particularly want to share my house with them. But they are kind of an inevitability in most human homes, as they have been since we were living in caves. So I do try to regard them as fellow cave dwellers with as much awe and kindness as I can muster, whether I see them in my basement or in the Appalachian karst.

[vxsellie]

‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇ 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔦𝔳

summary. the capitol, what a lovely place. however, as humanity's story goes, the most captivating sights have the darkest secrets. capitolites crawl around the city like vermin, teeth bared like daggers ready to sink their teeth into the newest tributes. good thing they have a few days to train.

content warnings. mentions of past suicide (only lasts a paragraph or two), depictions of gore (it's in a dream tho dw), graphic depictions of addiction, smoking, and fist fighting (not in the way you think??)

total wc. 13,045

notes!! i don't have much to say ab this one guys im sorry,, i didn't edit it so that's really great but i talk about that more in the post-notes @ the end!! once again, reminder that it's better read on ao3!

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

20:10.

TRAINING CENTER, FLOOR 4.

“Oh, isn’t it lovely?” Alice Reymond beams at the suite, clasping her hands together in awe.

The Training Center is one of many skyscrapers within the Capitol, a large portion of it dedicated to the yearly tributes and their teams. Each floor is assigned to its corresponding District. For example, the first and lowest floor is where the tributes of One will reside. As such, you and Remy are assigned to floor four. Sam and Henry are below you on three, Ariadne Evans and Selene Jones above you on five.

Since the Reapings, you’ve spent hours memorizing each tribute. Ruben deems it to be a waste of time, saying most of them will die in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. You beg to differ. Sure, a good portion of tributes will die early on, but most of them will end up surviving the bloodbath and be threats to your survival. Since most people view it as Ruben does, your determination to memorize each tribute provides you with the ascendancy. Well, it would, had you not been born a L/n.

If they Capitol weren’t so fucking infatuated by your family, you’d undeniably have the upper hand by knowing each tribute by name and District. But they all already know you. By more than just name, at that. They know your family tree, history, District, name, and all else that’s up for common knowledge — which is everything. It’s fucking maddening. You have to do double the work just to learn each name whilst yours is a given to everyone else. 

You’ll be a target in the arena, deemed the highest threat and the most valuable kill.

“We each have our own rooms, bathrooms, and dressing rooms. Just like on the train. Though this place is far more ostentatious.” Alice continues on, walking around the space with a wide grin. “Dinner will be served in half an hour, so you’re able to get washed up. Return back here in something more comfortable than those costumes, yes?”

Alice shoos you and Remy away, turning to admire the suite alone. She continues to mutter words of veneration under her breath long after everyone has left.

The suite has an open layout, kitchen and living room separated by a three foot wall. To the right of the space is a wide hallway, corinthian columns on either side. Down the hall are four doors, one for each of you. The floors are hardwood, the walls velvet with intricate mouldings.

You push open your door. Your room is decorated in different shades of blue, likely due to Four’s being a fishing District. It’s cliche, though you find yourself far more fond of the blues than you were of the pure whiteness back home. It adds character despite that being basic.

You’re quick to strip out of your pirate outfit, slipping into something more congenial. 

Your stylist was kind enough, a short plump woman named Birdie. Her hair was chopped into an electric red pixie cut that messily framed her round face. She didn’t look as much as a Capitolite as Alice Reymond, though she still had that wealthy aura to her. She was super sweet, asking how you wanted your hair done and how short you wanted your skirts. Most stylists don’t care to ask for the tributes’ preferences, so you were grateful to her in that sense of things.

The piracy was her idea, though she allowed you to choose between fabrics. You were sure you’d be dressed into something appalling, whether that be two shells or a full blue bodysuit. But the pirate dress wasn’t too bad. It was actually the best option possible. It was creative enough to draw attention, yet modest enough that you weren’t exploited.

You remember feeling someone’s eyes on you at all times, making you shift uncomfortably as you couldn’t figure out who was staring.

But when your carriage turned after leaving President Fedra’s building, you caught the eye of District Seven’s tribute. Ellie Williams, you believed her name to be. She wore something much showier than you did, making her undeniably attractive. Her short auburn hair was cast back, accentuating her blotchy freckles. Whoever Seven’s stylist is this year surely has an eye for Ellie’s features, knowing exactly what to highlight and how.

You walk around your room, taking in the sight of the space. It’s larger than your room on the train, though it’s full of so many gadgets that it doesn't feel as vast as your room at home. You mess around with the devices for a while, exploring the wonders of Capitol technology. 

You can change the color of your walls, lightbulbs, and carpet with the press of a button. You leave it on blue though, something about the color bringing a sense of comfort to the foreign space. There’s also a machine that materializes food within the blink of an eye! All you have to do is order a meal by speaking into the intercom! How cool is that?

Your adulation is quick to fade. And you’re now disgusted by it.

Kids die from starvation in the Districts daily. Yet, here in the Capitol, food is materialized by the press of a button? The thought makes your stomach churn and you’ve suddenly lost your appetite.

Right on time, there’s a knock at your door. You rush to open it, no longer wanting to be near the sickening machines of the Capitol. Alice stands in the hallway, eyes bright as she announces that it’s time for supper. You nod, following behind her to the kitchen. On the way, she knocks on Remy’s door and he joins you guys at the table.

You sit down, the meals already set out in front of each of the four chairs. Though, one remains empty. Looking down the table to where Ruben should be sitting, there’s naught in his space. You raise an eyebrow at this, turning to Alice.

“Where’s my brother?” 

“Oh, all mentors attend a dinner at the Capitol following the Parade! They’re able to talk with sponsors about how well you guys did.” She responds cheerily as she tells an Avox to cut her steak. “He should be back by now, though. Hm. Perhaps he’s just running late.”

You frown, having no choice but accept her nugatory explanation — which did nothing to console your nerves. 

The Avox nods, stepping away once he’s cut her meal into tiny bites. You catch his eye and he raises his brows, silently offering to cut yours as well. You shake your head, “I’ve got it, don’t worry.”

Alice glances up at you, her movements paused. “What’d you say?”

“I wasn’t speaking to you.” You tell her, gesturing to the Avox behind her. You speak casually despite knowing how this will inevitably vex her. “He was going to cut my steak for me and I declined.” Her eyes widen before she places her fork down gently, trying hard to withhold her patience. “It’s informal to speak to Avoxes in such a manner, Y/n. You’re meant only to address them when giving orders. They’re criminals and have earned their place as servants.”

“What’s informal is your lack of sympathy.” You scoff. “You have no idea what their crimes are. There’s a high possibility that they’re defendable, that they have families who miss them dearly.” “Yet there’s a higher chance that’s not the case.” She responds. 

Alice appears to be absolutely horrified by your show of defiance and willingness to argue on such a matter as this. Remy watches with wide eyes as you two continue to bicker back and forth, all Avoxes now having lowered their heads to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

Your argument is ended only when the front door of the suite clicks open.

Ruben staggers through the doorway, his hair tousled and his shirt half unbuttoned. Your eyes widen as he lifts his head. His pupils are blown and bloodshot, his lips are parted and chapped. The cause is obvious — the post Parade dinner. He must’ve taken one too many of the personally enhanced drugs that the Capitol provides him with.

Alice is quick to her feet, rushing to his aid. It’s so odd how she can be so caring at times, yet so malicious at others. Remy’s brows are furrowed in confusion, clearly not understanding why Ruben is acting so peculiarly. 

Alice brings him over to his chair, where he slumps down onto the table. You don’t move. Part of you feels a sense of pain, seeing him like this. You feel like you should help him as he’d helped you all through your childhood. But another part of you wants to run away, cower in your room until it’s all over. You’re frozen in place, feeling like that useless, defenseless child you once were. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Remy asks, his voice small.

It takes a few seconds before you realize the question is directed at you. Remy watches you with concerned eyes. You blink a few times, taking a deep breath to ground yourself before you answer him. 

“He just had a lot of fun and he’s feeling a bit tired, is all.” You say, using the same response Ruben once gave when explaining why your father would return home drunk all the time. You then turn to Alice with the same pointed expression Ruben would give your mother. “Stay with Remy, I’ll take Ruben to bed. We’ll let him sleep it off. He’ll be better by dawn.”

Alice’s brows furrow for a second, though she’s quick to piece it together. She nods, pulling Ruben’s face out of his food before stepping away to allow you to intervene. You crouch down, draping one of his arms over your shoulders before pulling him to his feet.

Ruben stumbles, his knees buckling under her weight so you’re practically carrying him all the way to his bedroom.

His room is a carbon copy of your own, though he’s switched the color settings to a dusky hue of taupe. You lead him over to his bed before dropping him onto the mattress, allowing his weight to slide off your sore shoulders. He groans, shifting around atop the blankets.

“Oh, quit your whining.” You roll your eyes, though you’re aware he’s likely too far gone to comprehend anything you say. With a sigh, you begin to unlace his shoes. “If anything, you should be thanking me.”

“Thanks, Y/n.” He says, syllables slurring together. He barely opens his mouth, his voice muffled through his teeth. He lulls his head to the side, peering at you through lidded eyes. “‘Never wanted ya t’ do this part, y’know.”

“I know.” You whisper, tossing his shoes aside.

You unbutton his shirt, pulling it off his shoulders for him. Scars cover his arms and torso, painting his skin in different shades of pigmentation. Some scares you recognize to have been caused by your parents’ abuse, others by his time in the arena. There are only a couple that you were unaware of. Though, despite already having known about almost all of them, the sight of his body so battered is painful to look at. 

You wonder if yours will look so bad after your Games. You’re already coated in scars from your parents' inflictions, but that makes up only half of what Ruben has. A mosaic of all things bad, scars are. They paint a picture of ache, telling the story of one’s agony.

You stand straight, folding his shirt over your arm before placing it on his desk. The Avoxes clean the rooms while everyone’s asleep, which includes picking up clothes. So, taking a few seconds to fold them neatly goes a long way.

“G’night.” Ruben murmurs as you open the door to leave. Despite his residual grogginess, the next three words that leave him ring clear as day through the dark room. “I love you.”

Your heart clenches in your chest at the sound, not having heard those words fall from his mouth in a long, long time. You never thought you’d hear them again and, if you did, you hoped it would be said in sobriety. With him inebriated in such a way, you don’t feel it’d be fair to return the gesture. It’d erase all intended sentiment.

“Yeah,” You whisper, “You too.”

With that, you exit his bedroom and shut the door softly behind you. You walk back out to the dining area, seeing that the table has long since been abandoned. Remy and Alice must have gone off to bed. The Avoxes are clearing the dishes, working in complete silence. You thank them, grabbing the attention of a few. As they’re unable to respond, they simply nod in appreciation before returning to their task.

You stand in there for a moment, unsure of what to do next. You could go to your bedroom, though the sight of all the gadgets makes you sick and you’re certain you’ll be unable to sleep. In the end, you decide to exit the suite. 

It’s frowned upon to venture the halls at night, though it’s technically not unallowed. There are cameras everywhere, watching the tributes’ every move. You spot three in just the hallway down to the elevator. The buttons on the wall start at ground level — where the actual training is set to take place starting tomorrow morning — ranges from 1 to 12 for each District, then ends at rooftop. You were unaware that the Training Center even had roof access. Curiosity gets the better of you, causing you to press the button.

The walls of the elevator are glass, allowing you to look at each floor as you pass it. Though you’re moving far too fast to actually examine what you’re seeing. 

You step out of the small space once you’ve reached the roof, the doors sliding open to reveal a huge amount of space. The railing is made of concrete, reaching the height of your chest. Though you know that there’s an invisible boundary preventing the tributes from killing themselves before the Games. The Capitol wants to see your deaths, so prior suicide is highly loathed by the excited viewers.

The air is chilly, but not cold. You walk across the roof to the edge of the building, resting your elbows on the concrete wall. You can’t see the stars here as the city pollutes the sky with artificial light. The streets, however, provide their own spectacle. And, if you squint hard enough, they almost look like stars. But you quickly feel dumb once you’ve done it. 

The fresh air is nice, despite the lack of stars. It helps to clear your head, ridding your thoughts of your own problems. But whenever your mind manages to stray, you’re reminded of Ruben and how closely he resembles the father he loathes so greatly. They’re perfect mirrors of one another — addicted to the Capitol’s attention, abandoning their family to relish in the spotlight of the sadists, and eventually falling victim to addiction. The only difference is that Ruben hadn’t had kids yet. Perhaps he never will, the fear of replication too much to bear. More than that, you wonder if you’ll end up like the same way, partying with the Capitolites until you’re unable to walk. It’s in your blood, you suppose, so you’re sure it’s inevitable. Might as well accept it now, right?

Just as your thoughts begin taking a darker turn, you hear the elevator doors slide open.

You straighten our back, knowing whoever it is must be either a tribute, mentor, or escort and they’re thereby an enemy to you. As soon as you’re in the arena, whoever they are will be working towards your death.

“You can’t jump, y’know.” A rough, female voice says as her footsteps thud across the rooftop toward you. “I heard a rumor that there’s an invisible field around the building.”

You only look in her direction once she’s leaned against the railing beside you, her back facing the cityscape. Ellie Williams. The girl who defied the Capitol at her Reaping, the girl who stared at you throughout the Parade, the girl who’s suddenly pulling out a cigarette.

“Want one?” She asks, catching your gaze.

“Didn’t know those were allowed here.” You respond shortly, turning to face back forward.

“They’re not.” Is all she says.

Your lips thin in silent perspicacity, eyes narrowing. “Of course not.”

“Well they can’t arrest me, can they? It’s too late, they need me in the Games.” She points out, placing the cigarette between her lips. She once again holds one out to you. You shake your head and she shrugs. “It’s not like your lungs will kill you any sooner than the arena will.” “Unless I survive.” You point out.

“There’s always that, yeah.” She agrees easily, igniting the cigarette with an oddly shaped lighter. It looks oddly familiar to you. She notices your staring and is quick to defend herself. “It’s not mine, it’s Joel’s. So are the cigs. He’s the one who advised me to smoke in the first place, said it’d helped to ease his nerves before his Games. So I decided ‘why the fuck not?’”

She inhales deeply, though it’s apparently too deep because she suddenly breaks out into a coughing fit. She spins around to lean on the wall forward-facing. 

You watch as she struggles for air, the hacking eventually fading to laughter. She straightens, still raspy as she says, “I get that you think you’re better than everyone, but you could at least try to make conversation before we’re shipped off to die. What’s the harm?”

“I don’t think I’m better than everyone.” You respond with a huff.

“Might not think so, but you are.” She says, inhaling once more. She coughs again, though it’s far less riveting than the first time. She exhales the smoke out into the night sky, her breath forming a puffed cloud against the blackness. “You’re the rich girl, you’ll get all the sponsors. You’re already better off than I am in that sense.”

“You’ll get sponsors just fine, I’m sure.” 

You say, thinking back to her costume in the Parade and the way the Capitol adored it. Exploitation is one of the most used methods to obtain sponsors. If she plays her cards right, she could easily be the newest Diamond. She’s attractive and you’d be a fool to deny that.

“Not if you’re hoarding them all.” Says Ellie. You know she doesn’t mean it insultingly, but it still hits you that way. She notices your expression and adds, “Intentional or not, the Capitoli- Uh, Capitol people will be tripping over themselves to get you gifts.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation to you, they won’t be sent through to me.” You say, because it’s true.

Ruben may be your mentor, but your father is sure to be present in Saint Mary’s Hall — which is where the mentors watch the Games and coordinate sponsorships. He’s a Diamond and will therefore be permitted entry, especially considering his daughter is a tribute. 

When Ruben was in the Games, your father had been his mentor and controlled all his sponsorships. Because gifts must first be approved by the mentor prior to being sent into the arena, he had this power. But, the thing is, your father refused a single gift from reaching Ruben. Even when he was dying of dehydration and bloodloss, he refused to let anything through. It created a rift in Saint Mary’s Hall, many sponsors deeming him immoral. He was quick to patch that up, though, as he said he’d been doing it to make his son stronger. Being as skilled as he is at manipulation, the Capitolites were quick to naivety. From there, he was only praised for his thinly veiled neglect.

So, if your father is within the Hall this year — as he likely will be — there’s no way anything will be sent through to you. He’ll refrain Ruben from permitting gifts and withhold sponsorships completely, purely because he wants his kids to win fair and square. It’s iniquitous to let you starve, yes, but you’re almost glad for it. Because Ellie is right. If it weren’t for his cruelty, you’d be undeniably hoarding all sponsors from other tributes. Sponsors could send you buffets and magical medicines while all other tributes die out slowly of starvation and lack of medical care. It’d be the equivalent to cheating the Games and you’ll be damned if you win this thing through sponsorships. If you make it out alive, it’ll be thanks to you, not the Capitol.

“Won’t be sent through?” Ellie asks. She raises a brow at you, wordlessly inclining you to explain.

Instead of telling her your entire life story, you redirect the subject to one you know she’ll be unable to deny. “Actually, I changed my mind. I could use a smoke.”

Ellie’s eyes widen, the corners of her lips twitching as she removes the cigarette from her lips and holds it out to you. You hold it between your index and middle fingers, staring at it with a hint of uncertainty. It’s unwise to do anything related to addiction, considering your family history. But it’s so tempting and the arena isn’t too far away. Plus, being addicted to smoking cigarettes is far better than your father’s alcoholism or Ruben’s drug addiction. Right?

“Scared?” Ellie taunts you.

Her gibe is the final push to make you indulge. You scowl at her before placing the cigarette between your lips and inhaling deeply. It seeps into your lungs, burning the back of your throat on the way down. Your head instantly feels wonky, your vision swimming. You hear Ellie’s laughter as you begin coughing just as hard as she had.

You lean against the concrete barrier, resting your forehead on your folded arms to muffle the hacking sounds. Between coughs, you manage, “That was fucking awful.”

It takes a bit for you to quiet down. The first feeling that you register is queasiness, but then you notice the equanimity. Your maddening thoughts have begun to muffle, pushed to the back of your mind. It only lasts a few seconds though, causing you to already reach for another drag.

“What’d you come up here for?” Ellie asks, passing you the cigarette. “You already know I’m here to smoke, it’s only fair for you to explain in return.”

“Hey, I never asked you for an explanation.” You remind her, inhaling. “I owe you nothing.”

“No, but you’re using my cigarettes aren’t you?” She points out, a glint of something akin to regalement behind her gaze. “A form of payment is due anyhow.”

“Joel’s cigarettes, you mean.”

“Shit,” She curses as you pass it back to her, “I forgot I told you that.”

You huff a laugh, watching as she turns to face the horizon. Not that it’s much of a sight though, what with the buildings plaguing the skyline. Her side profile is illuminated by the dull lighting of the roof. Your eyes trace the slope of her nose, admittedly infatuated by her. You blame it on the nicotine, even more so on the relaxation it causes you.

Ellie drops the cigarette off the roof, pulling a second from her box. While she’s turned, you begin speaking. Perhaps because it’s easier to talk when you can’t see her face or perhaps the cigs are making you that much more sociable.

“Back home, there’s nowhere I could go where I couldn’t see the ocean.” You say, causing Ellie to suddenly perk up at your voice. Her eyes flick between your face and her hands as she rushes to light the cigarette. “I rarely spent time in it, always holed up in our house. But the sight of the sparkling water was a comforting constant throughout my life. It’s odd to be where the water isn’t. Plus, despite not having been in it much, the few memories I do have are enough to satisfy me. They’re all good ones.”

“Let’s hear ‘em.” Ellie says, passing you the lit cigarette. 

You inhale deeply before speaking, “Well, my first memory of the sea is learning to swim in it. My brother took me. He wasn’t allowed to, but I begged him so he did. He was patient, but laughed at me the entire time, saying I looked like a fish out of water. He claims I was a fast learner, that I picked it up quick. But I can remember the salt in the back of my throat and the way my eyes burned. There was nothing quick about that. I was four and was certain I would die.”

Ellie chuckles, watching you from the side. One arm is rested atop the railing, the other taking the cig from your hand. “He’s your mentor this year, right? What’s that like?”

The question itself is innocent enough, genuine curiosity that comes with getting to know a stranger. But it makes you bristle nonetheless, your shoulders suddenly feeling tense. Not because of Ellie’s question but because of the answer. 

‘It’s horrible.’ You could say in regards to the technicalities. The distance between you, the long glances you share, the unsaid apologies. Flashes of his messy hair, bloodshot eyes, and undone blouse pop into your head. ‘It’s great.’ You could say, just as truthfully. This time, you’d be referring to the mentality of his proximity rather than the materialistic things. The comfort that comes with being near him, even amid deafening silence, the odd nostalgia that hits you when he’s sat at the dinner table beside you.

Though, as it turns out, the memory that announces itself most needily is the one most painful — tucking him into bed after he’d taken a few too many pills only a short while ago. Perhaps because it falls under both categories. The horridity of seeing him so disheveled paired with the aching reminder of your father. Though, there’s still a greatness to it. To feel him lean on you, knowing that you’re actively repaying all he’d done in your shared youth, that he needs you. To hear those three words whispered into the darkness of his room despite knowing they’re empty of the meaning you covet.

“Did I say something wrong?” Ellie is quick to ask, nervosity to her tone as she picks up on your hesitation. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” You say, “I’m just not sure how to explain it. The duality.”

She hums in recognition. “I get that. I came here with a loved one as well and, uh, it surely didn’t turn out as I thought it would.”

You blink at her, taking the cig from her offered hand. Your thoughts are fuzzy, though just barely enough that you hardly even notice. It’s nice how you’re still in control of yourself whilst feeling the faraway effects of the nicotine. 

“Riley, right?” You ask, tilting your head at her as you breathe in the tingly air.

She nods, “Yeah. We’ve been best friends since we were nine, inseparable. But, recently, she’s grown a bit distant. Though she didn’t fully disappear on me until the Reaping. Since then, we haven’t spoken a word to one another.”

“You looked pretty close during the Parade.” You tell her.

You can vividly recall the image of their intertwined hands coming onto the screens. The crowd cheered as you watched with thinned lips. It was obvious to you what it meant, though the audience remained completely oblivious. You were impressed, at first, by their unapologetic defiance to the Capitol, especially considering it was the second time they’d done it. But you knew it was a bad idea on their part. Once they're in the arena, the Gamemakers need only press a button to end their lives.

“Didn’t realize you were looking.” Ellie says.

“Everyone was looking.”

She thinks on this before saying, “It’s odd, isn’t it? The lack of privacy. The Parade aside, there’s always someone looking.”

“I suppose.” You agree.

To you, it’s not such a foreign concept. Even in your own home, you were unallowed to lock doors. Your father claimed that needing solitude was a flaw that’d lead to vulnerability in social settings. So having privacy was never even a question, though there’s a vast difference between the possibility of someone walking into your bedroom when compared to being ceaselessly monitored at all times. 

How someone could ever grow used to being watched nonstop is beyond you. Even in your private bedrooms and bathrooms in your assigned suites, there’s no way of knowing whether there are cameras. You wonder how Ruben dealt with it, how he still deals with it annually during his mentorship for the past ten years.

Ruben’s Games were twelve years ago, though he’s only been a mentor for ten in total. He was a mentor for two years until your uncle, Theodore, won the 64th Games. Theodore promptly took over the role of mentorship for District Four for the following two years. It was only cut short when he drank himself dead. His second year being a mentor, two children were Reaped and both died brutally in the arena. He’d blamed himself and ended up committing indirect suicide via alcohol poisoning.

It was a hard toll on everyone. He was always so cheerful, a big round man who was exceedingly vocal about the things he loved. After his Games, though, he changed. He was secluded in a way he’d never been before. To learn that cheery Uncle Theo killed himself was hard on a ten year old. He was your favorite relative after Ruben. You oftentimes wonder what he’d think of your Reaping, how he’d mentor you in place of your brother. Would it be more or less tolerable?

At the thought, you reach for the cigarette. Ellie passes it to you wordlessly.

You’re grateful for her lack of questions, glad she’s able to realize when you don’t necessarily wish to speak. You’re also grateful for the comfortability of her silence. With Ruben, quietude is an awkward endeavour, making the air so thick you feel suffocated. Even with Alice, it feels unnatural. But with Ellie, it feels intrinsic to her company. 

“Shit, it’s probably getting late, huh?” She says after a long time of silence. You look up at the moon, noticing how far it’s risen into the sky. It’s been about an hour or two since you abandoned your suite for the fresh air. Ellie runs her hands down her jeans as she straightens. “I’ve gotta get going before my escort notices I’m gone. She’s super controlling about that kind of thing.”

“Your escort is Tilly Reymond, right?” You ask, recalling the way she’d approached Alice right before the Parade, referring to her as a sibling would.

“Oh yeah,” Ellie says, “Yours is Alice.”

You laugh, remembering their conversation from earlier today. They bickered like children. Tilly had come over to ask if Alice was feeling proud of herself for having another L/n Reaped in her lifetime, to which Alice grinned madly and said she did, in fact, feel rather pleased. From there, they did little aside from argue. 

Their quarrel differs greatly from yours with Ruben. Tilly and Alice are passive aggressive, giving compliments on each other’s dress whilst eyeing a certain stain or disarranged jewel. You and Ruben, on the other hand, fight as though you’d both rather eat glass than admit the other to be correct. It’s nasty, throwing insults like daggers. Something you’d both been unfortunate enough to inherit from your parents, presumably. To argue with such animalistic avidity.

“Well,” Ellie says with a small smile to announce her residual need for departing, “Meet me here at the same time tomorrow? I’ll bring some more cigarettes.”

“More of Joel’s cigarettes.” You correct her with a teasing grin.

She waves a dismissive hand, “Yeah, yeah.”

And with that, Ellie Williams walks back inside. She’d left you with the cig you’d been smoking, so you remain outside for a little while longer as you work it down to a butt. Your mind reels with tangled thoughts of the Parade, Ruben’s addiction, and Ellie’s laughter. Fuck, it’s been a long day. And tomorrow is bound to be even more taxing.

6:00.

TRAINING CENTER, FLOOR 7.

Ellie hardly slept a wink last night, her dreams full of terrors regarding her upcoming fate. Through wafts of heavy smoke, trees from Seven, and estranged voices, she could barely make out the contents of her slumber. What she could decipher was waking up over and over, only to find she’s still trapped in a dream. 

At one point, she was in the arena. As she doesn’t yet know what she’ll be thrown into, her brain concocted the one from last year — which had been won by a girl named Abigail Anderson. It was a rocky terrain, the entire arena on a slope. The tributes were on a mountain, having to find shelter in caves and trees that littered the topography. The tributes in her dream, however, were the ones Reaped this year. She was starving and wounded and struggled to walk on the dampened stone. Other tributes ran past her, their forms abstract and footsteps inhuman. She called for help, only to be ignored by each one. Finally, after what felt like hours of agony, someone crouched down to aid her. Riley. Her best friend and her savior. Except she wasn’t. Instead of propounding assistance, she pulled Ellie to her feet only to shove her back again. She’d tumbled down the mountain, eyesight rolling alongside her. The scene shifted.

She’d fallen all the way down to the rooftop from last night. The logistics were nonsensical, though that hardly mattered when she took in the state of the unwaking world. From her place of elevation, she was able to overlook the Capitol as she’d done last night. Though, this time, the buildings were up in flames, people screaming in the streets with scorched flesh and mutilated bodies. She attempted to run to the elevator, only to find that her feet were manacled to the floor. She fought with futility against the chains until her ankles were bruised and blistered from the unforgiving metal. Somehow, due to unconscious malarkey, she could see the Capitolites as though she were looking through a pair of binoculars. Their faces, distorted and pained. Their hair, scorched and lacking in their tell-tale extravagance. Then she saw a familiar face. Riley, crumpled on the ground just as Ellie had been when they were on the mountain. Riley reached up, begging for help. Ellie lurched at the sight, though she was still bound to the rooftop. Riley was pleading with someone. Ellie followed her gaze to see you, leaned back coolly against a brick building with a cigarette hanging from your lips. Her– Well, Joel’s cigarette. You helped Riley to her feet, only to shove her to the ground. It was a perfect mirror of what Riley had done to Ellie. Only this time, the shove caused her to be trampled by the huge crowd of panicked people that plagued the streets. Her body was crushed under the people until she was naught but a heap of meat and tissue.

Ellie awoke with a jolt, her chest heaving. 

Those were the only two dreams she could accurately recall. All the rest were blurred and distorted by the others. But she knows there were more, so many more. The scene kept shifting, antagonizing her relentlessly. Flashes of Riley’s face, both pleading and cruel. Of your face, imbued by that same duality. Of Joel’s or Marlene’s or even Tilly’s. Her mind was a horrid, callous place and she never wanted to think of the terrors again.

Though, as it turns out, her luck ran out rather quickly. The trepidation of her dreams followed her all the way down to the training rooms below ground level. Joel and Tilly brought she and Riley down, the group of them comfortably conversing in the elevator. Even Riley joined in, though Ellie couldn’t. Her head was still reeling, though she’d woken an hour prior. She wonders if she’s still in a dream, only this time with sentience.

She chews at her nails as the elevator opens to reveal a wide, metallic hallway with two heavy doors at the end. Above them is a sign reading, Tribute Training Rooms. She removes her fingers from her face, stuffing her hands in her pockets. 

“Hey,” She feels a heavy hand on her shoulder, causing her to jerk away. She turns to see Joel standing beside her as Tilly and Riley leave them in favor of entering the training rooms. “You’re actin’ weird today.”

“Oh,” She breathes, willing herself to relax, “It’s nothing, just on edge. I guess.”

He nods, pulling her over to a shadowy corner of the hall. “Did the cigarettes work? Y’know, for your nerves.”

“Uh, yeah, actually.” She says. “In fact, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Just then, the elevator doors creak open and another pair of tributes walk out with their mentor and escort. She recognizes them to be from Eleven, only able to remember because that’s the Reaping that Riley stormed off after. 

They’re the two kids, their mentor being Dina Woodward who won the 66th Games at age thirteen. She’s infamously kind to her younger tributes as she’s able to relate to their youth. The Capitol is split directly in half, one portion adoring her for the empathy whilst the opposing portion loathes her for it.

As they walk past, Dina offers Joel a kind nod that he returns. She pushes the heavy double doors open, holding them ajar for her little tributes to saunter through. Joel only turns back to Ellie after Dina has shut the door behind them.

“Ya have to be more careful.” He tells her harshly. “If anyone, even Dina, overheard that you’re smokin’ in the Capitol, we could get into a shitload o’ trouble. Me specifically, since they can’t do anythin’ to you before the Games. But still.”

“I get it.” Ellie scoffs. “I didn’t even say anything while she was out here, anyway.”

“Well still.” He crosses his arms. “What’d ya wanna ask me?”

“Why’re you helping me?” She inquires, eyes narrowing in distrust. “You were a complete dick when we first met and now you’re giving me illegal solutions to help my nerves. Why even bother if you think Y/n will kill me?”

Joel sighs through his nose, leaning back. “I had a talk with a friend last night.”

“At the dinner party?”

“Yep.” He concurs. “She kinda lit into me ‘n’ said I need to at least try with my tributes. See, I wouldn't usually take such hard criticism, but t’ argue with Teresa Servopoulos is a fuckin’ death wish.”

“That’s..” Ellie trails off, trying hard to remember which District she’s from. But her mind is blank. She knows Tess is a mentor, which would explain her presence at the dinner party last night, but Ellie can’t seem to recall anything else about her.

“District Three.” Joel says, picking up on Ellie’s contemplation. “Victor ‘f the 55th Games.”

“Oh yeah.” She says. “She won the year before you did.”

“Yeah, she–”

Joel is cut off by the elevator doors opening again. From them, District Two’s crew exits. Ellie stiffens at the sight of Abigail Anderson’s strong build. The braided girl scowls at Joel, her gaze so sharp it could cut through the tension that’s suddenly accumulated within the hall. Had Ellie not just had that funky dream about Abigail’s arena, she’d likely have not thought anything of her presence. But she did and so she does.

She won last year’s Games, taking over mentorship from Melanie Moore. Abigail’s victory allowed Melanie to move to District Ten, where she instantly wed Owen Moore — winner of the 70th Games. Their relationship gathered a lot of attention from the Capitol as people gushed over their love story, much to Melanie’s distaste. This year is the first time in seven years that Melanie isn’t the mentor for Two. Which is a shame because the tributes appear to have already picked up Abigail’s insolence. Lev and Yara walk shoulder to shoulder, glaring at Joel just as their mentor is.

Joel frowns, though he seems more upset than angry at their show of distaste. Once they’ve entered the training rooms, Ellie turns to him. “Geez, what’s her problem?”

“Uh,” He pauses, thinking on how best to explain, “Her father, Jerry, was Reaped the same year that I was. And, well, only one victor can win, so–”

“I get it.” Ellie nods, feeling a sense of solemnity to his tone. It’s unsettling to hear from such a naturally rough man. Joel’s Games were aired when Ellie was three years old, so she doesn’t recall much from them. The Capitol replays highlights from past Games, but it’s not the same. She knows only what the Capitol deems important — his most brutal kill, him running in the opposite direction from the Cornucopia, and his final kill. Jerry Anderson isn’t among that.

“C’mon, kid.” Joel says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Let’s go.”

Ellie nods, following him down the hall to the training rooms. The interior is exactly like the outside, a big metal box made of tile, glass, and concrete. A large circle is formed at the center of the room, all the tributes and their corresponding mentors and escort encircling an athletic man who’s preaching explanations, schedules, and rules for training here. There are stations set all around, an expert in each skill located there, willing to offer help to the tributes. The escorts and mentors all leave once the instructions are finished.

Ellie watches them depart. The crowd of them is plagued with ambivalence; the escorts exude an air of wealth and elegance reserved only for someone raised in the Capitol, whereas the mentors exude strength, honor, and dignity reserved for killers who won past Games via brutality. 

As the doors close behind them, she watches through the cracks as pairs are formed. She sees Joel and Tess begin talking with a blonde woman she recognizes to be Maria Miller — she married into Joel's family by marrying his little brother. Joel doesn’t talk about him much. Abigail and Owen also seem to instantly turn to each other, as do Tilly and Alice. And, before she can see any other duo, the doors close fully. She turns back around to see the rest of the circle has dispersed.

Her instinct is to look for Riley, though she quickly discards that instinct and walks over to an empty station without reading what it’s for. A short, hoary man welcomes her to the plant section. She withholds a sigh, now realizing why it was empty. Everyone else fled to the weapons.

“Plants are much more important that most people realize, you see.” Says the old man, picking up a small bunch of berries. “What does this look like?”

“That’s nightlock.” She says.

“Oh, uh-” The man’s brow furrows.

It’s clear he was expecting her to say ‘Those look like blueberries, I would totally eat them!’ but she didn’t. Ellie hunted in the woods in Seven often enough to know her way around which plants are and aren't edible. She feels bad for the man, as she looks clearly upset. It’s not her fault, though, she hadn’t meant to come over here.

“What are nightlock berries?” Asks a small voice from beside her. Ellie jolts at the sudden presence of another, turning to face the owner of the voice. A small girl with dark skin and coiled hair stands to her side. She’s from Eleven, one of Dina Woodward’s tributes. 

“Oh, I’m glad you asked.” The old man grins. “Nightlock is a wild plant that grows small purple berries below its pointed leaves. They’re extremely poisonous to anyone who eats them. You’d be dead before they even reach your stomach.”

“Woah,” The girl whispers, looking at the pomes with wide eyes. “I never would’ve guessed such little things could cause such big reactions.”

The man chuckles, “Yes, nightlock is not something to underestimate.”

As the two of them fall into a long conversation about plants, Ellie slowly backs away from the scene and exits the station. She knows well enough not to sit at stations she doesn’t need to sit at, doing so would be a waste of everyone’s time. But then again, perhaps it was a good thing. Everyone is learning, yes, but they’re also watching. She feels the careers’ eyes pinned to her as she exits the plant station. Everyone is observing everyone, learning their weaknesses and strengths.

For Ellie to walk into the plant section first, they’ll assume she knows nothing about it. They’ll underestimate her. And, much like the poisoned berries, it’s a foolish thing to do. An idea pops into her head as she walks over to the archery section.

A few other people are there, she counts three. Henry from Three, showing his little brother how to aim an arrow at a target; Ariadne from Five, who’s hitting the bullseye each time; and the other little kid from Eleven, whose name Ellie doesn’t know, attempting to hold the bow with both hands. See, just from gazing across the space, she’s gathered enough information to be considered valuable. Ariadne Evans is a beast with a bow, Henry will likely be trying to teach Sam to use every weapon possible, and the little Eleven boy is horrible at long range.

Ellie walks over to the table, grabs a bow and quiver, then positions herself in front of one of the targets. The instructor offers assistance, though she refuses it easily. She feels a pair of eyes on her, though she doesn’t dare turn around. Every instinct in her body screams to hit the bullseye, to show off. But that’d be useless. Then her strengths would be revealed.

She positions the bow in her hand, holding it out a bit crookedly. She places the arrow on the string, purposely messing up a few times. Then, with both eyes open and her back slightly hunched, she releases the arrow. It clatters against the floor and Ellie huffs, feigning annoyance. She does this three more times before setting the bow and quiver on the table and storming off, appearing to have given up on archery.

As she leaves the station, she does a quick assessment. Three people had been watching her. Nolan Barlowe from Ten — the buff guy who looked overjoyed to have been Reaped. Thalia Thatcher from One — the younger sister of the 68th victor. And, finally, you. The literal best people to have put an impression on. You three are the most threatening. If she’s underestimated, all the better.

You’re leaned against the wall, arms crossed as you observe everyone with sharp eyes. She fights a smile at the sight. You look the polar opposite of who she’d smoked with last night. Your gaze remains steady as you eye her from across the room. 

Right. You’re not supposed to know each other aside from brief passing. 

She is amused by your technique, though it’s the single most cockiest thing she’d ever seen. You’re not training with everyone else, instead opting to watch as though you’re superior. It exudes the idea that you don’t need to train, which Ellie assumes is the case. 

She walks over to another station, struggling to ignore the way your eyes follow her every move. The station happens to be spear throwing — which won’t be hard for her to suck at because she does suck at it. Throwing the overlarge stick over her head and hitting a target? Yeah, it’s not exactly something she practices back in Seven. There’s no need to spear while hunting as it just damages the meat. Had there been any bodies of water in her District, which there’s not, she’d perhaps have learned it through fishing. 

She vaguely wonders if you’re good with a spear, being from Four and all. She then recalls what you’d said about not being in the ocean much. God, it pisses her off how secretive you are. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that you know how to spear. You’ve clearly trained a lot, so you’ve likely practiced with it. But also, she knows you went to the ocean sparingly.

Two other people are at the spear station — Nolan Barlowe, and an old man she doesn’t recognize at all. She doesn’t even remember him being Reaped. Oh. He must be from Twelve because she hadn’t watched their program when it aired.

He watches her with a glint of something unreadable in his eye. It makes her stomach churn as she grabs a spear.

There are human-shaped mannequins against the wall for tributes to practice hitting. Nolan sees Ellie and scoffs under his breath. At first, it irritates her. But then she remembers this is her plan: look weak and be underestimated. She sighs, feigning recluse toward his show of disregard. He keeps his eyes locked on hers as he throws the spear without looking, the blade wedging right between the mannequin’s eyes. She swallows, this time not needing to feign her unease. I mean, seriously, who practices with a spear in their freetime?

Ellie shifts as the two men practice on either side of her. She adjusts the spear in her grasp, dramatizing her oblivion. 

Do I hold it with one or two hands? She thinks to herself. The fuck do I do with my elbows? 

With a grunt, she throws the spear at the target. She shocks herself when the blade wedges in the mannequin’s heart. She’d fully expected to miss. Nolan’s brows furrow in curiosity. Ellie grabs another spear, desperately needing to undo what she’d just done. She holds it the same way as before, muttering under her breath to remember how exactly she’d done it. She then tosses it halfheartedly, the spear landing three feet in front of the mannequin. She frowns and Nolan chuckles.

“I knew it was just beginner’s luck.” He says with a scoff, causing the man from Twelve to chuckle. Ellie sighs, fighting the urge to argue with him. Instead, she scowls at them both as though she’s terribly offended, then storms off. 

The next hour in the training rooms is spent doing the same thing. Sometimes, she actually feels like she could get the hang of some weapons. She finds herself quite enjoying small throwing knives, though she purposely drops them when she notices herself getting better with them. She also, shockingly enough, is good at just straight up hitting things. She’d used a crowbar as a weapon and scared the trainer, who was forced to take a few steps back to avoid being injured.

She’s noticed other tributes’ traits as well. Nolan hasn’t left the spear station, so it’s likely he’s only good at one thing. After half an hour in the archery section, Ariadne left to practice with a mace. And, terrifying as she is, she’s even better at that than with a bow, swinging it around like it weighs nothing. Ellie was also proven correct when she watched Henry escort Sam to each station, instructing him on how to use every weapon. Lev and Yara are both scary with a bow as well, having even better aim than Ellie herself. The couple, Roland and Archie, don’t dare stray a foot from one another, bound together at the hip. She’s also noticed that Riley has been trying different stations, though she’s careful not to be near the one Ellie is currently at. She’s stayed away from the axes, not daring to show off her skill with them just yet.

Ellie is walking over to the fire-making station when she feels a tap on her shoulder. She whips around to see you standing behind her, finally having peeled away from your wall. Your gaze is steady as you watch her, looking every bit the threat you are.

“I need a partner at the combat station.” You tell her easily, casually. As though you’d never spoken before. Ellie gets flashbacks to doing this exact same act with Cat at the Remake Center. It makes her chest cave.

“And I’m your first choice?” She asks.

Everyone’s eyes are pinned to the two of you, though Ellie knows they’re far more interested in you than her. You haven’t left your wall for the entire hour of training, watching everyone with such closeness that there’s a heavy weight in the air. You’ve done naught but observe. It’s truly no shock that they all find it impossible to look away.

“Yes.” You say easily, your voice deceptively smooth.

She narrows her eyes, desperately trying to read what you’re thinking. Is it not foolish to be talking at all? She’d thought you two came to a silent agreement that speaking would give away your recent rendezvous. She continues to stare at you. But you’re a closed book, thoughts cryptic. But then you tilt your head at her, inclining her to reply.

Ellie shrugs, “Why not?”

With a threateningly alluring grin, you begin walking toward the large mats set to the side of the room. Ellie trails behind you. Nobody has used the mats yet, leaving the instructor to be sleeping in her chair. You kick off your shoes before stepping up to the ring. Ellie unlaces hers, taking a few moments longer than you did.

She’s still clueless on your logistics to this, to training with her. You’re the most feared. The tactic of refusing to show your strengths was honestly the smartest thing you could have done in your position, in spite of the clear show of pride. If you were to train with someone, it’d make best sense if you were to do so with your fellow tribute, though Remy is too small to fairly practice hand-to-hand with. Or you could train with the second strongest tribute present, which would either be Nolan or Ariadne. Or, possibly, the weakest, which would be– Oh. Well, shit. It’s Ellie. Perhaps she took her strategy too seriously. Yes, the children from Eleven are weaker than she is, but it’d be unfair for you to beat them up. Ellie is a year older than you and thereby your best option.

“No damage to the face.” You tell her as she pulls herself up onto the mat.

She looks around. A crowd has formed around the ring, everyone yearning to see you in action. Ellie feels a sense of pride at knowing she’s the one who gets to fight you. She turns to face you, realizing she has two options. She could keep up her weak facade, causing everyone to continue to underestimate her so she can easily sneak up in the arena — which is the wiser of the two. Or she can reveal that she’s not the useless girl she’s pretending to be — which is more satisfying. 

Ellie squares her shoulders, already coming to a decision. Fuck, her dignity will be the death of her.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She replies.

You chuckle, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Good to hear.”

Ellie holds up her fists, not at all knowing how to approach this. Are you a tackler or..? She knows that Marlene likes to keep her distance, dodging more than she punches. She knows that Riley uses her legs more than most people, sweeping or kicking her opponent. But you’re a mystery to her, to everyone. Do you rely on offense or defense more heavily? She knows Marlene uses–

Her thoughts are cut off by a blow to her gut. Ellie hunches over, not having even noticed you moving in on her. She’s quick to recover, though her stomach aches from your punch. 

The crowd remains silent as you two begin to circle each other, holding their breaths in anticipation. 

She watches you, taking in the way you step and the way your fists are idly positioned in front of you. But you’re giving no signs toward your next move, completely closed off. She decides to make the move this time, aiming for your jaw despite her agreement of ‘No damage to the face’. You evade her easily, light on your feet as you back out of her reach. 

Ellie comes forward, attacking again. She’s fast. Fast enough that you’re unable to dodge her fist to your ribs. Breath is forced from your lungs at the impact. Ellie is momentarily proud of herself. But that's before she realizes all she managed to do was rile you up.

Your leg collides with her side before she registers the movement. The same side that you’d punched in the beginning. While she’s still catching her breath, you grab her by the arm and twist it around her back. She grunts at the ache in her shoulder. 

Your lips caress the shell of her ear as you whisper, “I knew you were a good pick.” before then shoving her hard in the back, sending her stumbling forward.

She’s quick to spin around to face you. It pisses her off to see that you appear unmoved, standing in the same spot as before without so much as a hair out of place. You move with fluidity, like a dance. More than that, you’re calculative. You already know Ellie’s style. 

You close in on her, reeling your arm back and aiming for the face. Apparently, you’ve both abandoned the agreement. Ellie ducks under your fist, taking advantage of your unprotected stomach, punching you hard in the gut. Exactly where you’d hit her. It’s childish, but it makes her feel a sense of satisfaction as you buckle over.

The satisfaction is short lived as your ankle is suddenly coming at her face. She twists, grabbing you by the calf and using her own leg to sweep you off your feet. Your back slams against the mat. Hard. Ellie stands over you with a shit eating grin.  

“Still think I’m a good pick?” She asks, crouching to taunt you. You’re splayed across the mat, chest heaving. Sweat clings to your hairline, your lips parted. Ellie’s stomach flips at the sight, though she’s careful not to show it.

A smirk tugs at your lips, “I knew you weren’t weak.”

“Is that why you chose me?” She chuckles. “To prove to yourself that–”

She's cut off when both your feet fly into her stomach. She coughs, staggering backward as you hop to your feet. You’re instantly on her, hands on her shoulders before you drive your knee into her gut. Once. Twice. Three times before Ellie notices your face has been left unguarded by your busy hands. Her fist collides with your jaw. Your head snaps to the side. She’s quick to use your momentary shock to her advantage, tackling you to the ground.

You slam against the mat, on your back once more. This time, she’s wise enough to hold you down. Ellie’s knees are on either side of your torso as she pins your wrists above your head. You pant heavily as she grins down at you. You scowl up at her, brows contorted into a furrow. But then, all at once, your expression does a 180 and you’re smirking with just as much titillation as she. You squirm under her, causing Ellie’s grip to tighten on your wrists.

“Y’know,” You say through heavy breaths of exertion, “If it weren’t for our current situation, this could be a rather fun position.”

Ellie’s face flushes, her eyes widening. Her focus slips and your grin widens. Unbeknownst to her, that was your only intention — to get her to slip up, to be taken aback just long enough for you to change the game. You buck your hips hard enough to roll her over. You straddle her waist as Ellie pants beneath you, glaring. 

“That wasn’t fair.” She says.

“It worked, though, did it not?” You point out with a grin. She groans, tipping her head back against the mat in defeat. She can feel every movement you make, your bodies close enough together that she’s sure you could count the freckles on her face, if you so desired. “What’s your next plan, Williams?”

“I’m thinking.” She grunts. “I could headbutt you, but that’d damage your face.”

“Oh, so now you care about that.”

“I don’t want your stylist killing me in my sleep.” 

“Ah, she’s far too kind for that.”

“Is she?” 

Ellie thinks of Cat, wondering what she’d make of this. Do you have a similar relationship with your stylist? She doubts it. What she and Cat have is highly illegal and could result in both of them being turned to Avoxes if they were ever found out. You’re far too reputable to risk such a thing. But then again, most stylists barely even talk to their tributes. 

She wonders, wonders, and wonders when it comes to you. A mystery, you are. An enigmatic book so foreign to her she’s unsure where to even begin to read you. The words blur and the page numbers shuffle, forming an unintelligible story left unread by all. 

“What an odd tone, that was.” You say. Ellie hopes you’re unwise enough to not recognize it as jealousy. To imagine you with your stylist as she was with hers is a sight she wishes to remain as such an enigma.

“I yield.” Ellie says, cutting the conversation short via surrender.

The crowd hums with conversation. Everyone knew you would win anyway, though they’re shocked at the fight Ellie was willing to put up against you. They disperse as you climb to your feet, offering Ellie your hand. She takes it, standing.

She briefly catches the sight of Riley’s face as she’s pulled up. Scowling, condescending. Not at all an expression one would reserve for their lifelong best friend. It makes her stomach twist and she quickly releases your hand. You don’t seem to think much of it, walking over to put your shoes back on. She does the same. 

And with that, you part ways as strangers. Which, with or without the rooftop acquaintance taken into consideration, is technically true.

21:37.

TRAINING CENTER, FLOOR 4.

“Did I or did I not say to avoid any type of combat?” Ruben asks, trying desperately to keep his tone level as he reprimands you for the bruise on your jaw. The moment you walked into the suite, he rushed to freak out over it whilst Alice gaped dramatically.

“I won.” You argue back, scowling at them both. “Plus, it’s not like I was hiding some big secret. They all know I can fight.”

“Yeah, well now they know your technique.” He says, pinching his nose in annoyance. “They know what you’d do in certain situations. They know if you prefer offense or defense, if you use your upper or lower body more, if you–”

“I get it.” You butt in, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Do you? Because it doesn't seem like you do.” Ruben snaps. 

He’s been, frankly, acting odd all day. You wonder if it has something to do with last night’s dinner. You want to ask about it, sitting at the foot of his bed with bright eyes as he speaks about his issues. But you can’t do that, no longer on that level of relation with him. 

You frown at him, fists clenching at your sides. “You’re not my fucking parent. I’m an adult and can handle the Games how I damn well please.”

“Well if you die, that’s on me. That’s my guilt to carry.”

Of fucking course. It only makes sense that he’s only interested in how your death would affect him, how guilty he would feel. Not once does he think of his little sister who would be the dead one, buried six feet under the dirt.

“Great. Then you add my death to your fucking sob story.” You seethe. “Cry about it to your Capitol friends, maybe they’ll make you some new drugs.”

Ruben opens and closes his mouth a few times. His eyes are wide, clearly offended by your comment. A mixture of satisfaction and repent swirls within your gut, creating a recipe for cataclysm. You know this’ll end one of two ways — you and Ruben will get into a screaming match, taking after your parents in all the worst ways, or one of you’ll storm off and subsequently not talk for a long time. Both options result in misery, so you allow Ruben to make the choice.

Alice’s jaw is hanging open, resembling some sort of a fish gasping for air. She appears absolutely appalled by your audacity to insult Ruben in such a way. It takes everything in you not to wipe that expression clean off her face.

“You say some really fucked up shit when you’re mad.” Ruben says, voice quiet. “Y’know who else used to do that?”

You say nothing, already knowing his answer. You hope your lack of indulgence will prevent him from saying the name, but it doesn’t. He speaks it nonetheless, spit with such venom that your jaw twitches.

“Your father.”

Something deep in your chest yearns to lash out again, to bear your words like daggers ready to slice him open with their cruelty. It’s an insatiable, carnal desire that’s followed you all your life, looming over you like a shadow. Anger is so quick to wrap his hands around your throat, so hasty in pulling the strings like a sadistic puppeteer. You only now register that it’s not Anger causing this, it’s you. The blood in your veins and the nitrogenous bases in your DNA that tether you to your father. There’s nobody, nothing else to inculpate aside from your own heritage.

You crave the sweet release of shouting at him, imagining the hurt look on his face. Despite knowing the satisfaction won’t last long before guilt replaces it, you still want it. To inevitably hurt the ones you love, what a curse that is.

As said, there are two options from here and you take the latter. With a heavy huff of anger and a clenched jaw, you turn on your heel and storm out of the suite. You’re on the rooftop before you’re even able to register how you’d gotten there.

You were supposed to be here half an hour ago, having promised Ellie to meet at the same time as last night. You desperately hope she hasn’t left yet, for you really want a cigarette.

“Look who finally showed up.” her voice is heard before her form is seen. You turn toward it to see Ellie leaned against the railing opposite of the one you’d occupied the night prior. Fair skin and freckles dance under the silver moonlight cast upon them, auburn hair a flame against the darkness.

She already has it lit between her fingers and you refrain from lunging toward it. 

You wave off her comment, walking toward her.“Yeah something came up.”

“Such as?”

“A desperate need for some food.” You lie. “Didn’t mean to take so long, Capitol meals are just too good to turn down.”

Ellie chuckles, mindlessly passing you the cig. You take it, placing it in your mouth with an animalistic hunger that only causes her laughter to grow laced with amusement. The smoke fills your lungs and clouds your head, a momentary sense of tranquility washing over you. It causes the sting from Ruben’s words to not burn so much, easing the wound he’d left like intangible ointment.

You begrudgingly pass it back to Ellie, staring at her as she inhales. There aren’t any bruises on her face, which is rather unfair as you’re certain you got a lot of punches in. Well, you suppose they were mostly aimed at her stomach and ribs. Shame.

“Why’d you choose me?” She says into the chilled night air, breath fogged. It takes you a moment to realize what exactly she’s referring to.

“As a combat partner?”

“Yeah,” She confirms, “If you wanted strong, you could’ve asked Nolan or Ariadne. If you wanted weak, you could have asked Selene or Elliot.”

“I didn’t want them, though. I wanted you.”

Her mouth twitches at this, though she simply speaks, “But why?” “Because I knew your frailty was an act.” You shrug, swiping the cig from her. “You’re a good actor, a great one even. But I know what it looks like to enjoy something. And you really enjoyed that archery station. The spear and the crowbar too, just not as much. And, oh, how could I forget your cute little plant section?”

“Okay, stalker.” She huffs as you laugh. 

“I was watching everyone, Ellie. Don’t feel too special.”

“Awh,” She feigns a pout, “I was just beginning to.”

It’s comfortable here, on a roof of solace. It’s like a secret oasis shielded away from the rest of the world, obtained only by the two of you. It’s nice, perhaps too nice. You’ve formed a bad habit of distrusting things when they grow too good to believe. As you pass the cigarette back to Ellie, your mind comes up with countless scenarios of how this could end — you get caught, cast out of the games, and turned into tongueless Avoxes; or maybe you don’t get caught, become good friends, then you’re forced to kill her in the arena. No matter how this goes, the ending is the same. Inevitable loss of comfort. 

Ellie remains silent beside you, comfortable in the lack of conversation. She overlooks the city, the lights reflecting within her viridescent eyes. You imagine the way the light will leave them in the arena. Because, amid the infinite scenarios in your mind, there’s not a single one that entails you losing the games. Whether you’re the one to take Ellie’s life or not, she won’t live.

“Where’d you learn to fight?” You ask, desirous for an off-switch to your thoughts.

Ellie’s eyes remain on the scene below as she responds. “The higher Districts might train for the games, but the lower ones are taught to defend themselves.”

“From what?”

“Anything?” She shrugs. “Everything.”

You hadn’t thought of it that way, as an act of defense. Of course you’re aware that’s what fighting is for. But you were raised into thinking it was a fact of life — you’d been expected to know how to take an enemy down at the age of seven. You were trained to fight with Ruben before you used the holograms. 

“Well who was your practice partner?” You ask. “Back in seven.”

You hadn’t thought much of the question, though it causes Ellie’s expression to falter. Her lips tighten as she passes you the cigarette. “It was interchangeable between my caretaker and Riley.”

Oh. Okay yeah, that was your fault. You’d completely forgotten about her stifled relationship with her best friend. Guilt traces up your spine. You want to ask what she means by caretaker, but you decide against prying for more information. 

Although she’s good at hiding it, Ellie’s expression is rather dejected. At the sight, you feel the need to offer a fair trade. To give her information about yourself that’s not so easy.

“Mine was my brother.” You say softly, turning toward the city before inhaling the smoke. It’s her turn to stare at you while you observe the city. Her eyes bore into the side of your face and you fight the urge to look at their greenery.

“Are you guys, uh,” She trails off, sounding unsure on how to approach this. “What’s your relationship like? Currently, I mean. You— well, I know you used to be close because you said he took you to the ocean as a kid. And, uh,” 

Her rambling makes you laugh, lightening the ache in your chest.

“We’re not so close anymore.” You admit, passing. Her brows furrow, clearly wanting to ask more. You appreciate her forbearing from doing so, though you know she deserves honesty. If you wish to pry as much as you do, you can’t expect to not return such an endeavour. In a much quieter voice, you speak, “He wasn’t the same after his Games.”

Ellie frowns, “I wouldn’t expect anyone to be, considering what the tributes are put through.”

“Yeah,” You sigh, “It was just, really bad.”

She nods in understanding, though you know she doesn’t exactly have many details. “I’ve lost people too.”

“Really?”

“I mean, I was a baby but yeah.” She says, quick to undermine her own losses in comparison to yours. It’s endearing. “Both my parents passed when I was an infant. I was raised by my mom’s best friend, Marlene. She’s cool and all but– Well, she’s not my mom. And she makes no effort to act as one.”

You’re quick to recall Ellie referring to Marlene as her caretaker. Well, now you know why.

Ellie turns, looking out at the horizon. Her face is illuminated by the moonlight, smoothing her skin and shining her hair. She breathes out a cloud of smoke, clouding the cool air.

You’re not sure what to say, unused to having people confide in you. Are you supposed to tell her more about yourself as to relate to what she’s saying? Or would that be self-centered? Just as you’re about to spew out a random response, Ellie speaks up, swiftly changing the topic. Thankfully.

“I don’t tell many people emotional shit like that.” She admits. “But, for some reason, that’s all you and I seem to talk about — sentimental crap.” She then turns back to face you, your eyes meeting for a moment. Something passes between you, her gaze sharp but in a watchful way rather than a predatory one. She hands you the cigarette. “Tell me something about you. Something conversational.”

“Like what?” 

“What’s your favorite color? Who’s your biggest inspiration? What’re your hobbies?” She lists off, counting each point on her fingers. 

“I don’t really have hobbies.” You say, huffing a laugh. “Don’t have time for them.”

“That’s impossible, everyone has hobbies.”

You hum as you inhale the smoke, thinking. You truly can’t think of anything. You’re normally too busy with your mother’s training or retrieving game from mister Alden. When you finally think of something, it’s from your past. Long before Ruben left, when you were allowed to be a kid. “I used to enjoy writing poetry when I was younger, though it was no good.”

“See, that’s a great hobby.” Ellie smiles encouragingly, nudging your shoulder. 

“Okay, then. What’s yours?” You redirect, narrowing your eyes at her.

She grins even wider, already knowing her answer. “Hunting, gardening, doodling, painting, reading comic–”

“Painting?” You ask, mildly shocked by this.

“I mean, it’s the one I do the least out of them all, but–” “What do you paint?”

Her brows raise at your sudden interest. “Depends on the day. Sometimes I paint people, though I can never get the proportions right so I only end up pissed at myself by the end. Sometimes I paint abstractly, but I can never figure out what the end result depicts because it’s just a big burst of colors and vague shapes. Ninety percent of the time, they’re landscapes. Of the woods, of the road by my house, of the abandoned mill. Anything, really.”

“Hm, I didn’t really take you as a painter.”

“I’m not, really. I mostly just doodle in my notebook.” She says. “I only paint when I want to create something bigger than the journal’s confines.”

“Is that what you brought with you? Into the arena?”

“No. That would've been a good idea, though.” She shakes her head, clearly disappointed in herself for not having thought of that before you. 

“What’d you bring, then?” You ask. She holds out her hand in response. On her right index finger resides a thick metal ring, shaped as a moth. The creature’s wings wrap around her finger, body thin. It’s so intricate, so detailed. You lean closer to get a better look. “Is it a family heirloom or something?”

“No, uh,” She falters as she decides on how to answer. You straighten, still looking at the ring even after her hands have been dropped back down to her sides. “It’s from a friend.”

“So is mine.” You tell her before reaching up to touch your necklace. Ellie looks at it, eyes tracing the line of your collarbone all the way down to the pearl pendant. She reaches out, fingertips grazing the thin chain. Her hands are cold, causing your breath to hitch. She notices and is quick to pull her hands away, clearing her throat awkwardly.

She turns back toward the Capitol, you do the same. The city is asleep, the lights all turned off in the windows as the streets are naked of vehicles. You wonder if there’s a curfew, though you doubt it. Capitolites rarely have rules.

You imagine yourself living here, residing in an overpriced home that you won’t be charged a penny for. You’d be tended to by a vast quantity of Avoxes, never hearing any of their voices. The home would be yours to keep and yours to design. There’d be blue everywhere, subtle reminders of your life back at Four and the salty ocean that mister Alden would put through each visit on his skiff. The thought sounds nice at first, the luxury of it all. But the finer details — owning people, never seeing the ocean again — those are what get you. Not to mention all the parties you’d have to attend. All Capitolites are made to attend the more prestigious parties, mandatory under President Fedra’s decree. But then another thought crosses your mind. You’d have to win the Games first. To even be pondering on your life after them, you’ll have to survive before all else. The idea sickens you as it never has before. At first, you think it’s because you'll have to kill people, a thought that’s never sat right in regards to your morals. But then, as Ellie passes you the cigarette, the cool metal of her ring brushing your finger, you realize it’s not only that. It’s not the fact that you’ll have to kill people. It’s the fact that you'll have to kill her.

[post] notes!! i'm gonna be so fr, i only edited half of this chapter bc its SO fucking longggg (sorry ab that btw). i normally try to reread & edit as i go, but i seem to have abandoned that process #whoopsies!!

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[pita-vegeta]

2nd Castlevania Nocturne Rant: Mizrak's Anger

Here's my second observation on Castlevania Nocturne Season 2.

I have one request for the series: that Mizrak apologize to Olrox. Throughout both seasons, we see Mizrak lash out at Olrox when he has yet to do anything to deserve that amount of anger, that amount of hate. Calm conversations turn with hate-filled language and accusations when again, Olrox hasn't done anything. I believe it is all internal on Mizrak's part.

Long before Olrox brought his beautiful ass to Machecoul, Mizrak's faith, self, and sense of security were shattered by the vampires and what he and Abbot were doing.

Then along comes Olrox, whom Mizrak broke his vow of chastity to be with. It's as if Mizrak knew he would die and be punished for his deeds so why not go out with the baddest baddie he has ever seen?

If you listen closely, the lashing out at Olrox speaks volumes. It's directed at Olrox, who Mizrak believes has no soul, so he cannot hurt him (this we know is not true), but the things he gets angry about are his internal struggles and guilt.

In season 1, the iconic moment between Mizrak and Olrox, when Mizrak said some of the most awful things, was because Olrox stopped him from sacrificing himself for the "greater good".

Mizrak is the only non-powered human we really get to see other than the abbot, but he wants to fight and knows he will die and he has kinda accepted this. His raising his sword to Erzsebet is a sure death, but a death he believes will maybe erase some of the sins he has committed.

This happens again in season 2 when Drotla attacks the army. He cries clutching Olrox but then turns on him with spiteful words.

Take Episode 4 (18:54) he begins this interaction with Olrox saddened, worried that Olrox has gone over to Erzsebet's side having been branded; he states that Olrox will fade, but I don't think he was referencing Olrox with this but himself that he (Mizrak) will fade.

Then seconds later he is angry at Olrox about killing Julia Belmont and speaks about dishonor and being a murderer, however, this could be his guilt. He and Abbot are taking human corpses and turning them into night creatures virtually murdering human souls and dishonoring the church and God. He gets called out on this by Maria in Ep 2 (13:55).

Then the one that gets me riled is Ep 5 (13:28); we have Olrox telling Mizrak about his people, his Gods, and about how Spanish Christians came and decimated his home only for Mizrak to state that (Olrox) "...Gods were the problem", you see Olrox flinch when this is said, but Mizrak doesn't see cause he's looking away and I believe once again Mizrak is putting his quilt more specifically his religious guilt on Olrox.

Olrox takes this and even asks Mizrak to leave with him, here's my opinion on Olrox throughout the seasons. He does not want to be alone. 250+ years is a long time to be isolated with his vampirism even Alucard expressed his loneliness in this season. Olrox is willing to take the hits so to speak if it means having a companion.

His last lover was taken from him only to find what he was looking for in Mizrak. Olrox has a type, bleeding heart, fighters, strong-willed with big hearts. He finds that in Mizrak.

Now my view of Mizrak being turned, I believe he accepted it, his fear of death and the awaiting punishment he believed he would receive enough of a reason to not "die"; however, that does not mean he is happy about it and may not be for years to come.

We see that same anger after his turning and we also see that Olrox is ready to take it all to not be alone.

Mizrak has been hurting this whole time we can tell, he is hurt, and scared, feeling angry, and guilty, but that doesn't mean he has to take it out on Olrox.

[laseracronym]

NSFW Alphabet (Aizawa Shouta)

(NSFW obviously, Demi/Ace-Spectrum!Aizawa, fem!Reader, chubby!Reader)

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Sleepy (no surprise there) and cuddly, very soft. He'll help you clean up, get you anything you may need in that moment, and then he'll pull you into his arms and close his eyes. His voice is a groggy murmur, speaking with you in his half-asleep state, not bothered if you want to talk for a while, but not exactly trying to stay up for it, either.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He likes to watch his hands press into your soft flesh, the way you look so delicate against his scarred body. He likes to brush his stubbled jaw along your tender neck, the lightest of shivers he gets from you after doing that.

He favors your waist, which he likes to grab and give a soft squeeze while passing you in the house. He likes your thighs, how they clench around his head as he goes down on you, like you need him there. He likes your upper arms, running the back of his knuckles up and down them as you spare a few moments to talk in the morning. Your body is so soft, it's precious, decadent, he's in awe that he's allowed to touch you.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He likes cumming inside of you. It hits on some sort of primal need in him that he's never experienced with a previous partner. Just you.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Midnight made a joke that you should try wearing cat ears in the bedroom and Shouta hasn't stopped thinking about it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He has experience, enough to know what he's doing and what he likes. But he's found with you he has a bigger sexual appetite and he's found out even more about himself than he has with previous partners. He's greatly expanded his knowledge.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He likes positions where he can see your face and watch your expressions, where he can crowd in close to you and be flush up against you.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Not necessarily either. He's soft with you, more open, he's not so stoic that there's no room for laughter in the bedroom.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He doesn't really trim any of his body hair, down below included, if it really bothers you, he'll probably do some basic maintenance.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He's all about the intimacy when it comes to sex with you. Before you, sex was scratching an itch, with you, sex is another expression of his feelings for you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Occasionally jerks off in the shower if he feels the need, very disinterested about it. He's gotten into mutual masturbation with you, he loves watching you play with yourself, the way you react to him watching you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Body worship. He could spend hours appreciating your body if he could, running his hands over your soft curves, pressing kisses to your sensitive skin. He also loves eating pussy, your pussy specifically. All of his most intense desires revolve around you.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

The bedroom or the living room couch, because the post-sex nap spot is right there and ready to go.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You do. Sometimes you'll do the most innocuous thing and it'll just cause desire to bloom in him. If you look to him, express your want for him, your need, he reacts instantly.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He's not a fan of pain play, especially inflicting the pain. He might be willing to try bondage with you but he refuses to bring the capture weapon into the bedroom. It's a tool for his job, and he doesn't want to bring that into his intimate life.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He loves giving oral, he could spend the rest of his life buried between your thighs. There's nothing more intimate and satisfying than giving you pleasure in this way and he's made sure over the course of your relationship that he's damn good at it. Honestly, he doesn't even need to be reciprocated, this could be the extent of your activities for the night and he'd be a happy man.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It varies, he's very much willing to go at your desired pace. He gets a lot out of the pleasure he gives you, so if you want faster, slower etc that works for him as well.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He doesn't prefer them, he likes taking his time.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He's open to new ideas but slow to voice his own curiosities. He can take risks if properly motivated.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Shouta's pretty much a one and done kind of guy, but he makes it last. He spends a lot of time on foreplay and he's pretty good at holding off on his own orgasm. He makes sure that you're satisfied.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He doesn't have any toys for himself but he likes to use toys on you and he likes watching you use toys on yourself. He likes getting you new toys and helping you shop for them, and helping you test them out, of course.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He can get in a teasing mood sometimes, but he caves so easily when you whine and beg.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Not too loud, lots of rumbling groans and cut off swears. He checks in with you a lot, wanting to know how you feel, what you need.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He's somewhere on the ace spectrum, maybe demi. He's desperately attracted to you, and it's because it's you. He'd never thought much of the curve of a person's waist, but the curve of your waist will often catch his attention. He doesn't really question it, he doesn't spend a lot of time pondering labels. He's happy with you and that's what's important.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He's got a thick cock of average length, not much of a grower, what you see is what you get. He's got a lot of body hair, you'd think he has some sort of werewolf quirk, and a littering of scars all over from his dangerous job. Rugged. He's muscular, of course, after all the training, but he's got a little bit of softness to him still. He's not strict with his diet and his exercise isn't to achieve a particular form.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He's got a moderate sex drive, but even on nights where he's not in the mood to receive pleasure, he can readily be spurred in the mood to give it.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Very quickly, and eagerly. It's one of his favorite parts of the whole ordeal.

(Let me know if you want to see me do this or the SFW Alphabet for other MHA characters. Feel free to drop me an ask for headcanons or drabbles.)

[snazzynacho]

— Sick Side

Part 2/? Part 1 Read on ao3. Masterlist Words: 7k

Emperor Geta x female oc (x Caracalla (one-sided)

Warnings/tags: 18+ Mentions of STD, mental illness, disease, Forced proximity, forced kissing, referenced/implied past sexual abuse, violent urges, obsessive thoughts, delusions of a disordered mind. No non-con s3x, but it's close. She/her pronouns used. Slight canon divergence. OC is a bit naive and way too nice. Tags may change.

Florentia stumbles through the hallways, blinded by her tears and her own panic. Her legs carry her towards the place where she feels most secure, Geta’s room.

The imperial residence feels like a maze to her in her current state, the corridors twist and turn in meaningless patterns. But she knows the way, her feet instinctually carry her towards the path she has taken many times before.

Panting, she finally reaches the door. Its peaceful silence comforts her after the events of today. She shuts the door behind her. Allowing herself be taken by the feeling of being alone and safe, she leans against the door, a wave of relief washes over her as she is in the familiar surroundings of her beloved’s room. She concludes Geta must not be here since he would have noticed her by now. Damn, imperial duties.

Though, she imagines the prospect of him seeing her in this state and the questions that would follow, so maybe this is a good idea, that he is not here right this moment.

With a shuddering sigh, her body sinks to the floor. Her head drops into her hands and she lets out a sob. Tears roll down her rosy cheeks, staining her stola. She pulls her knees to her chest, making herself as small as possible. But, then, the memories come flooding back…The unwanted and unwelcome sensation of Caracalla’s lips on hers, her own panicked reaction, and the way she fled. The image of Caracalla's face when he looked at her—stunned, confused, hurt—is forever burned into her mind. Despite Florentia’s own frenzy, she feels a sharp pang of guilt in her gut. She has never expected to be the cause of such hurt, especially to him, and it stings more than anything.

She has left Caracalla alone without any explanation, leaving him to brood over what happened between them. She knows he must be confused, hurt, and definitely angry. He will no doubt come looking for her, demanding answers. The thought both frightens and comforts her. She also cannot help but wonder how his own disease is betraying him once again as he tries to wrap his head around what happened. This is not to say she will pretend his non-consensual kiss never happened, or never hold him accountable. But she cannot help always having a soft spot for him. Dealing with such a disease with no cure must be awful and incoherent.

Regardless, for now, she needs time to process her own feelings. She needs to calm her racing heart, steady her breathing, and put some distance between herself and the events of the past few minutes. It all happened so quickly. Frighteningly quickly.

Closing her eyes, she tries to force out the image of Caracalla's dismayed expression, to shut out the memory of his lips on hers. As her thoughts continue to swirl around her head, she gradually becomes aware of another noise, besides her own heavy breathing—the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside.

She freezes, her heart rate immediately picking up. Part of her wants to hope that it is one of the servants, or guards, or even Geta, but the more realistic side of her knows it is likely Caracalla, searching for her.

The footsteps pause outside the door, and a familiar voice called out softly, "Florentia...?" Caracalla's voice is muffled through the door but unmistakable.

From the door behind her, she hears the door handle turn. She jumps up on her feet at the sound, out of the way of the incoming opening door, and sees his shadow peeking in from under it. Bracing herself for Caracalla and his unpredictable mood, her eyes seem to shut in anticipation. The door swings open. He stands in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room before landing on her.

He does not speak, merely looks at her. His expression is one of confusion, anger, and a strange undercurrent of hurt. He takes a step towards her, his eyes never leaving her form. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, the knuckles white. His frame is tense as if he is barely holding back a storm of emotions.

He looks dangerous, volatile. She suddenly feels very small under his gaze. This situation is all too sickeningly familiar to her. She wipes her cold tears on the back of her hand, attempting to compose herself.

This is when he notices the streaks of tears on her cheeks, the redness of her eyes…It softens him for a moment, but his confusion and hurt quickly win out over his concern. "Why did you run?" he asks, his voice rough.

Florentia opens her mouth to speak but fails to utter a single word.

His face darkens further at her silence. He takes another step towards her, the distance between them closing slowly.

"You ran away from me," he repeats, his tone hardening again. "Why?" His eyes bore into hers, searching for some answer, some explanation.

She gulps and her eyes look away from him.

He does not like this. He does not like that she is avoiding his gaze. He moves closer still, his movements almost predatory.

"Look at me," he growls, his voice low and commanding.

She warily obliges, meeting his blue eyes she is starting to not recognise. He closes the last remaining distance between them, standing so close that she can feel the heat radiating from his body. He lifts his hand, as if to touch her face, but pauses just millimetres from her skin, his hand frozen in mid-air, almost reminiscent of a marble sculpture.

He studies her, his eyes wandering over her face, noting every detail. The redness in her eyes, the tear stains on her cheeks, the way her lips are slightly parted. “Why did you run?" he asks for the third time, his voice gentler now, but still edged with irritation.

His hand still hovers next to her face, the urge to touch her is obvious but held in check. He cannot understand why she fled, why she looks at him now with a mixture of fear and...something else.

“Because…you don’t deserve me,” she says so quietly he can hardly hear.

His eyes widen at her words, and his brows crease, her response is unexpected. “What do you mean 'I don't deserve you'?" he demands, his voice rising again. "I am Emperor. I can have anything and anyone I want. So why do I not ‘deserve' you?"

“Because I do not love you!” Florentia’s voice is abruptly loud, frustration pouring out of her.

The words hit him like a bodily attack. His hand falls back to his side, all thought of touching her now disappearing in the wake of her declaration. His face darkens, bitterness and ache fighting for dominance on his features. But it's the hint of vulnerability in his eyes that gives him away.

She turns, leaning the side of her body against the wall, in fear her emotions will make her collapse. She gasps a sob, covering her mouth with her hand. He stands there, stuck, staring at her back as she leans against the wall. The sight of her weeping form, the sound of her stifled sob—it hits him like a punch to the gut. He wants to reach out, to comfort her, to force her to take back the words...but he cannot. He is too stunned, too hurt. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms, anchoring himself in the pain.

His mind is filled with a whirlwind of established emotions and a new, undesirable feeling: fear. Fear that maybe she is correct, that maybe he really does not deserve her. Instead, he forces himself to speak, his voice taut, “You…you do not love me?”

Florentia sobs even harder at his words. She tries to understand his disease. Is he asking this to taunt her or does he not remember or understand exactly what she was saying earlier?

He frowns, his mind whirling. Each one of her sobs are akin to a dagger to his heart. But he is still too confused to know how to react. He tries to make sense of her words, but his thoughts are like slippery eels, escaping his grasp.

“You do not love me," he repeats again, his words are more of a statement than a question now.

He wants to know why.

Why does she not love me?

Why does she not want me?

“I do, Caracalla. I do.” Florentia takes a deep breath. “But not romantically. You are my brother-in-law!”

His frown deepens further. He shakes his head, as if trying to clear the fog that is clouding his mind. “No," he murmurs, shaking his head again. “No, you...you love me, I know it..." His words are more a plea than a statement. He's struggling now, his mind trying to reconcile his memories with her words. “That is why you are always with me! He is never around! He does not care about you like I do!” his words are a disjointed mess again.

“That is because Geta is participating in his imperial duties!” she cries, waving her arms in frustration. She then mutters under her breath, “Unlike you,”

He stands there squirming, face contorting, like a petulant child.

“I love Geta. I am promised to him. In a week, I will be married to him. The man I love.” she continues, looking him dead in the eyes.

Each word lands like a hammer blow. He wants to deny it, to argue with her, but deep down he knows she is telling the truth. He feels his world crumbling around him. The woman he loves, the woman he believes loved him too, is going to be married to his brother.

The thought makes him feel nauseous.

He steps back, needing space suddenly. His eyes search the room, looking anywhere but at her. He finds himself staring at a vase of flowers on a table by the wall. Such an ordinary thing, yet it seems so foreign to him in this moment of chaos. He fixates on the petals, the delicate shape, the colour. Purple, the same colour as Florentia’s stola.

His stomach flips. Why must everything remind me of Florentia?

He reaches out, absently runs his finger along a petal of one of the flowers, his touch gentle, almost respectful. But the moment his finger brushes against the delicate bloom, the fragile petal crumbles, floating to the ground like a sigh. He stares down at the petal, his mind and heart in unrest. The sight is too much of a metaphor. His own world, his own heart, also in shards around him.

“I do not mean to hurt you, Caracalla. I wish I did love you, then it would make this so easy.” She speaks after a beat, thinking he has calmed down a little but he looks up at her then, his eyes meeting hers for the first time since her confession. Her words have struck a nerve, stirring his anger and his wounded pride.

“You wished you loved me? How generous of you,” he replies, his voice laced bitterly with sarcasm. "It is the fact that you do not love me that hurts, do you not understand that?"

“I am sorry,” she says just above a whisper, looking down in shame.

He scoffs, the gesture an expression of mockery. “Sorry," he repeats, his face showing true disdain. “You are sorry. Is that supposed to make it better? Is that supposed to erase the fact that you are marrying my brother and not me? That you are going to be wed to him, bear his children, share his bed...not mine."

“Please, stop—” she begs, covering her ears with shaking hands.

“NO!” he roars, his voice rising in volume and in anger. "I will not stop! I want to hear you say it! Say you don't love me! Say you want my brother! Say it to my face!”

Florentia gapes at him, pure fear and shock coursing through her body.

”SAY IT!" he yells again, his face reddening against his poxy skin, veins standing out on his neck as his anger reaches its peak.

His breath comes in ragged gasps, his body tense. He towers over her, his presence filling the room, his anger making the air crackle with tension. He waits for her to speak, to confirm his worst fears. The waiting is torture.

“I already have!” her fists clench at her sides. “And in a week, you will have front-row seats!”

His eyes narrow at her words. Her newfound venom and the image they conjure causes a renewed wave of rage to surge through him. But instead of blowing up in anger, his weak body crumbles to the floor. "Front row seats to my own heart being shredded," he grumbles, his tone bitter. "You think I want to see you marry Geta? You think I can watch you vow to him, and not feel myself being gutted alive?"

“Well, that is how I feel at the thought of not being with Geta.” her patience is wearing thin again.

Once again, her words are like a dagger to his heart. His face contorts, the pain blatant. "You...you fail to understand," he stammers. "You... you have no idea how I feel. How much I've...I have always wanted...you..."

His eyes become wet, and his voice trails off. He lets out a frustrated growl, running a hand through his wild red hair. He starts rocking back and forth, hitting himself on his head, the anger and helplessness in his body needing an outlet. "You think it is easy for me? Seeing you, wanting you, and having my own brother claim you as his? You think that does not drive me mad with jealousy?"

She hesitates. She wants to stop him from hurting himself but is afraid of triggering him further. Ultimately, her good nature overalls her fears and she places her hands on top of his thrashing ones. “I see the storm in your eyes, and I am sorry I cannot take that away. That is why I tried to speak with you earlier. I thought I could break it to you gently…but it seems you are more in love with me than I initially thought.” she tries to explain gently.

"More in love with you than you thought?" he sneers, shoving her hands away, tears streaming down his face as he looks up at her. "You have no idea what sort of effect you have on me! I am...I am completely obsessed with you. I think about you day and night. I dream about you, fantasize about you... and yet, I can never have you. You belong to Geta, and it is maddening!"

His confession is an admittance. An obsession, not love, she thinks.

“You will find your love one day! I am not that person, Caracalla. You will miss them if you keep thinking of me!”

“No one else compares to you!" he protests, his voice ragged with desperation. "You think I have not tried? I have! I have tried to forget you, to find someone else to take your place. But it is no use. No one else can fill the void you have left behind. You have ruined me, Florentia. You have utterly ruined me."

“Your time with concubines does not count, Caracalla,” her voice is curt before her compassion returns, undeserved or not. “I do not want this for you. Is that not enough?! To break the spell, whatever this is- I do not know what to do!” she says. She wants to call what he has an obsession, like he did, but if she does, will he grow furious again?

"Then do something!" he nearly shouts, his frustration nearing its breaking point. "Just... just do something. Anything! I cannot keep living like this, tormented by your presence, your beauty, that I cannot have you. I would rather you hate me, despise me, than see you with Geta. That thought alone burns me to the core."

“I cannot hate you! I want us to be friends!” she sobs again, wanting the old Caracalla back. “I hate seeing you like this”

“Be friends?" he echoes, a resentful laugh escaping him. "Be friends, when all I want is to hold you, to touch you, to have you to myself? Be friends when the mere thought of you married to my brother makes me want to tear my hair out? Be friends when every fibre of my being aches for you and only you?"

“And what if this is how Geta will feel if we wed?! Do you not care about how he feels? About how I feel?”

“Of course I care about how you feel! I... I just..." He falters, voice pointed, dodging the question surrounding Geta’s feelings. The thought of his brother marrying her, being the one to hold her, to kiss her...it is too painful.

"I just... I cannot bear the thought of you with him. I cannot bear the thought of him touching you, holding you, the way I want to—” He rambles on, anxiously biting his fingernails.

As if an Angel comes to the rescue, Dondas—his pet monkey—appears at the doorway, small and fragile looking, searching for Caracalla.

Caracalla glances at the monkey, sensing his presence, a brief distraction from the emotional storm raging within him. “Dondas?” he murmurs, a hint of tenderness in his voice. He rolls onto his knees, reaching out for his friend. The animal hops onto his outstretched arm, climbing up and onto his shoulder as he stands back up again. Caracalla pats the monkey's head affectionately, his focus has momentarily shifted from Florentia to the small animal and she feels she can finally take a breath she does not know she has been holding.

She eyes the fragile man before him, seemingly calming down with his monkey. He does not notice her stare, too engrossed by the monkey’s nuzzling in the crook of his neck, chattering softly, clearly sensing his master’s distress. Caracalla responds by stroking its fur, his fingers brushing the monkey’s fur with gentle rhythmic motions, as he coos softly to it. “There your are…my good little monkey,”

He continues to murmur softly to it, his words gentle and soothing. The tension in his body seems to have eased he interacts with the animal, his full focus on the innocent creature providing a temporary diversion from his erratic emotions. Dondas chitters contentedly, seemingly calmed by his presence.

Florentia cannot help but watch in awe at how Dondas can subdue Caracalla even at, what she has witnessed so far, his worse. After a few minutes, Caracalla finally looks up and notices Florentia watching him, his demeanor still visibly softer than before.

He meets her gaze for a moment, his eyes still tinged with lingering turbulence. He does not say anything at first, his mind sorting through the disorderly emotions. On his shoulder, Dondas lets out a small squeak, breaking the silence. Caracalla absently reaches his hand up to it, stroking its fur, his eyes never leaving Florentia’s.

Shattering the silence, once again, footsteps are heard as they sound down the hall and before they know it Geta has entered the room.

Caracalla’s expression darkens immediately, his grip reflexively tightening on the monkey’s fur. He straightens up, shoulders tense. Dondas emits a soft squeak, clearly sensitive to the sudden shift of movement and the tension in the room.

Geta’s expression is the opposite, a mixture of confusion and surprise cultivating on his features as he looks between two of the closest people in his life and back again. “Salvé Florentia. Hello Caracalla,” His eyebrow arches, as if asking for an explanation.

Reading into this, Florentia says, “Oh! Caracalla and Dondas came to say goodnight!” she laughs, putting on her best smile, motioning towards the troubled brother and his monkey. She prays that Caracalla gets the message and feeds into her lie.

Caracalla glares at the floor, the falsehood rubbing him the wrong way, but he says nothing. His body is rigid, the tension in the room almost palpable. Dondas, the monkey on his shoulder, utters a soft nervous sound, its tiny black eyes darting between the brothers.

“In my room?” Geta questions.

Caracalla's jaw clenches, his patience wearing thin. Before he can say anything, Florentia steps in, her voice smooth and diplomatic. “Yes, we wanted to say goodnight, but you were not here! So, Dondas has been keeping us entertained,” she grins at the monkey, and carefully strokes it. Dondas emits a delicate happy noise, nuzzling against her finger.

Caracalla stays rigid, eyeing her touch. He wants to scrutinise her touch and fling her hands off his Dondas, but something inside stops him. Watching Dondas be happy waivers his anxiety and tension, feeling his body relax a little.

Her words have their intended affect—Geta shrugs, seemingly believing the reason. Caracalla, being free of stress does not last long, as his eyes momentarily flicker back to a storm, fixed onto his brother with a combination of anger and annoyance. Even the monkey on his shoulder seems agitated now, squirming against his grip.

“Well, I am here now,” Geta says, his tone jovial. He walks over to Florentia, draping an arm possessively around her waist. A couple servants follow him in, awaiting to disrobe him and ready for bed. He simply raises a hand, oozing authority and confidence, signalling for them to wait outside until he is ready.

“Yes, goodnight Geta,” Florenfia quickly pecks his cheek with a kiss.

Geta chuckles, clearly more interested in Florentia than the conversation at hand. “Goodnight, sweetheart,”

Caracalla’s gaze traces her lips on his brother’s cheek, his brother’s hand around her waist. His fist clenches at the loved-up couple’s scene before him, his knuckles white with the pressure of his suppressed anger.

Florentia feels Caracalla’s eyes on her, and suddenly steps back from her betrothed. “Goodnight,” she repeats, yet sounds just as jovial.

Geta is somewhat surprised at her sudden detachment but recovers quickly, his smile never faltering. Nevertheless he turns to Caracalla. “Goodnight to you too, brother,” he reaches his hand out, instinctively placing it on his shoulder comfortingly.

Geta turns to Florentia again, his worry increasing. “You seem a bit hot tonight, love. Tired, perhaps? Do you want me to send a healer?” Geta goes on, his worry for his wife-to-be increasing by the second. He places the back of his hand on her forehead, feeling the temperature of her flushed face. The cold touch of his gold rings adorning his fingers send a shiver down her spine, clashing with the warmth of her skin. The sudden coldness immediately alleviates the feverish heat she did not know was radiating off of her. The lying and the tension between her, Geta and his brother evidently have an effect on her.

“No-yes, I- I am quite tired. I think we all are,” she frowns at how odd she’s being and starts to leave the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow,”

Geta watches her go, a hint of concern etching across his face, before turning to Caracalla. Caracalla’s eyes follow her out of the room, his expression filled with frustration and regret. The monkey on his shoulder utters a soft whimper.

“What was that about?” Geta finally asks, breaking the silence.

Caracalla shoots his brother a cold glare, not bothering to hide his annoyance nor jealousy. “Oh, who knows what goes through a woman's mind?” He mutters, the sarcasm evident in his voice.

Raising an eyebrow, Geta is caught off guard by his brother’s harsh tone. He opens his mouth to speak but Caracalla delivers a sharp gesture, cutting off whatever lecture he was about to receive. Dondus, on his shoulder, squeaks, burying its head in part of Caracalla’s robe, disturbed by the tense atmosphere.

“I am not in the mood for conversation,” Caracalla snaps, his eyes still fixed on the door, as if he is willing Florentia to come back through it and kiss him. She forgot me.

Geta studies his brother for a moment, taking in the tenseness of his frame, the clenched fists, and the troubled look on his face. He knows Caracalla well enough to recognize when something is bothering him, particularly because his disease confuses his mind.

“I suggest we all get some rest,” Geta says calmly.

Caracalla scoffs, his irritation evident in his voice. “Easy for you to say. Some of us do not have our lovers waiting in our beds at night.”

Geta smiles slyly, enjoying the chance to goad his brother. “Jealous? You have your choice of consorts to keep your bed warm tonight.”

For Caracalla, it is the wrong thing to say. His lips twist into an irritable snarl, unable to control his inner tumult about Florentia any longer. “Why would I want a common whore when you have Florentia?”

Geta's smile vanishes at the insult in his brother's tone. He steps closer, his own annoyance beginning to show. “Florentia is mine. Soon she will be my wife. You must accept that. Do you not, Caracalla?”

Caracalla breaks. The mention of Florentia becoming Geta’s wife from the man in question’s mouth is more than he can take. The mere idea of it makes his blood burn, boiling over and igniting a sudden explosive outburst. “I cannot accept that! She should not be yours! She should be mine!”

Geta is taken aback by Caracalla's sudden eruption. He’s seen his brother lose his temper before, but never about someone else be loves. He knows that Caracalla's illness clouds his rationality, so he tries to keep his own voice calm and steady.

“Caracalla, control yourself. This behavior is unhinged, even for you.”

Control himself? How can he possibly control a feeling so powerful, so consuming? When it comes to Florentia, Caracalla feels he has no control whatsoever.

“I can’t control how I feel!” he nearly shouts back, “I’ve tried! But nothing works! Nothing can make me forget her, not even alcohol or a hundred whores!”

He’s almost pleading for help. Underneath the the affects of the disease is a sincere man and Geta knows this. Geta shakes his head, both exasperated and concerned. He reaches his hands out, gently holding Caracalla’s rosy cheeks. “It is the illness talking, brother. It warps you. You understand that, yes? You are not yourself.”

Caracalla growls, the sound low and throaty, like a cornered animal, but his face instinctively yearn for the closeness and comfort of his brother as he leans into his touch. His shoulders and the rest of his body stay rigid. “Oh, I am perfectly aware of the illness! But that does not change the reality. You know I want her. You know I cannot have her, and you insist on rubbing that fact in my face, day after day, night after night. You cannot stop yourself, can you?”

Geta’s jaw clenches in frustration. It’s not entirely untrue, but he knows Caracalla isn’t completely guiltless in this situation either.

“You had your chance to court her, win her heart. But you blew it, with your impulsiveness, your mood swings, your rages…that is why she chose me.”

The words hit home, and Caracalla visibly winces. It’s true, he knows, deep down. His illness ruins everything, destroys everything, even himself. And yet, he can’t help but protest.

“I tried! I tried to be the man she would want! But I cannot...I can’t control my feelings, cannot control myself…”

He clenches his fists again, the veins in his forearms standing out with the effort. The monkey on his shoulder lets out another whimper, its small paws clinging tighter to his shoulder. He falls back on Geta’s bed, sitting with his head in his hands, sniffling.

Geta watches his brother, torn between anger and pity. Seeing Caracalla reduced to tears is not uncommon, and it is a poignant sight. He reaches out a hesitant hand, unsure if he should try to comfort his brother or leave him to his anguish. “Caracalla…” he says softly.

Caracalla sniffs again, the sound childish and pitiful in the silence of the room. He swipes at his eyes angrily, still trying, in vain, to preserve some measure of dignity. His hand goes up to pet the monkey on his shoulder. There’s a slight tremble in his fingers. “Why can I not have her?” he whispers, the words choked with emotion, “Why have the gods cursed me with this ailment? Why can I not have what I want? It is not fair.”

Geta takes a step closer, sitting next to him. With a hand on him, he gently rubs his back. “You cannot always have what you want, brother. Even as an Emperor. Life does not work that way. You have known that since we were boys, though I suppose that knowledge has been lost somewhere in all that has happened to you. Florentia is not a prize to be won, a toy for you to play with. She is a woman. She has a mind of her own, and she has chosen me.” he explains calmly, yet with a certain seriousness.

Caracalla can’t disagree with that. Florentia is her own person, not a possession, but it’s difficult for him to accept the fact she’s chosen Geta. Every cell in his body rebels against it.

“Have you had her yet?” he can’t resist asking. The question is harsh, laced with jealous spite.

Geta knows exactly what Caracalla is implying. Frowning, his eyes narrowing slightly. He was beginning to think that Caracalla was calming down, but now he is not so sure. “What happens in our bed is none of your concern,” he responds coolly, “but I’ll tell you that we’ve yet to consummate our relationship, if only for her sake.”

“For her sake?” Caracalla repeats, raising an eyebrow. He is both surprised and a little suspicious. It’s not like Geta to abstain from such pleasures, especially when they’re on offer.

Geta sighs, his face a mix of annoyance and concern. “Yes, for her sake. Florentia is not like the courtesans and whores you are accustomed to. She is a lady, honorable, and a virgin. I will not risk compromising her or staining her reputation by giving in to my own carnal desires.”

“How noble of you. I am sure Florentia appreciates your patience, plenty,” Caracalla mutters bitterly.

“She does, yes,” Geta responds calmly. “She trusts me. She feels safe with me.”

“And she does not feel safe with me, is that it? Is that what you are implying?” Caracalla’s voice raises at each word, his temper rising again.

“I do not know what happened between the two of you today, but it is clear that something happened…” he pauses, eyeing Caracalla with a hint of suspicion.

Rising from the bed suddenly, Caracalla has his back turned to Geta, unwilling to meet him in the eye. By the gods, he is acting as guilty as ever.

Geta follows in-suite, standing also. “What happened? Tell me,” he tries to speak gently, to will any information out of his brother, but his protective streak is not going away anytime soon.

“What did you do, Caracalla?” Geta asks again, firmly. His expression turns cold. “You touched her, did you not? I will not ask again—“ his words are laced with quiet fury. He can handle his brother losing his temper, shouting, even throwing things, but this, this he cannot tolerate.

Caracalla keeps his gaze averted, refusing to look at his brother, the accusation landing with a sickening thud to his gut. He fiddles with his hands, and picks at his poxes on his cheek. A seemingly ever-present tense silence continues to fill the room, broken only by the low, anxious whimper of the monkey on his shoulder.

“I just…I just wanted to feel her, that is all. I needed to know what it would feel like to hold her. To feel her skin against mine…her lips…” Caracalla slowly admits, his voice just above a whisper, meek and pathetic.

Geta closes his eyes in barely suppressed anger. This is worse, far worse than he thought. His brother’s illness is a constant burden, but moments like this, when Caracalla completely loses control, are the most dangerous. It’s a reminder that his brother can’t be entirely trusted, that there’s a monster lurking beneath the surface. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“And what did Florentia say when you did this?” He asks lowly.

“She…she pushed me away,” Caracalla says weakly.

Geta glares at his brother, a deep sense of disapproval and disappointment radiating off of him. His mind pictures the scene before him against his will. He feels tears well up, threatening to fall at the thought of Florentia, his love, being forced into something as intimate as a kiss, to her, by his own brother. To hear that she had to push him away, that she did not want to be touched—it is unbearable.

“You scared her,” he accuses, “You let your illness take over, and you scared her. Just like you always do.” The urge to find Florentia, to hug her and comfort her until the sun rises again, is intense.

Caracalla winces, the words hitting him hard. He knows it’s true. He can recall the look on Florentia’s face so easily, that mixture of fear and revulsion when he’d grabbed her, tried to force himself upon her. He flinches, tries in vain to justify his actions.

“I was not myself. The illness….it was taking hold. I couldn’t…couldn’t stop myself.”

Geta scoffs bitterly. “What would have happened if she had not the strength to push you away, mm? Would you have forced yourself on her, even if she did not want it?”

“No!” Caracalla cries. Geta looks unconvinced. He can’t put it past his brother, not after everything he’s seen and experienced.

“LOOK AT ME.” Geta roars. Caracalla jumps in his skin at the sudden noise, and Dondus squeaks, burying himself deeper in his robes. Caracalla shakily turns around, still refusing to make eye contact. Geta says, his voice is hard, full of judgement. “You say that, but I know you. I know how much control you lose when the illness takes hold. So forgive me if I have trouble believing you.”

Caracalla struggles to keep his emotions in check. His brother’s accusation hurts. More than anything, he wants Geta to understand. But it’s hard to find the words to explain just how overwhelming the disease can be, how much it twists his thoughts and feelings. “You do not understand what it is like! The headaches, the…the voices I hear...the nightmares when I sleep. It is like there is another person inside me, someone I cannot control.”

Geta shakes his head, frustrated. He does understand, in part, but sympathising with his brother’s illness is hard at times like this. Caracalla has not exactly made it easy for him.

“I know that, brother. I know it is not easy dealing with all that. But it is no excuse to take your anger out on others, especially not on someone as delicate as Florentia,”

Caracalla growls, his pride pricked. He doesn’t think of Florentia as delicate, not in the same way Geta does. To him, she’s strong, capable, someone who can match his intensity. “You act as if she’s some fragile doll that can’t handle a bit of passion. I know for a fact she is capable of handling me,”

Geta snorts. Caracalla’s insistence on proving her worth is as irritating as it is ridiculous. Anyone can see Florentia is strong and resilient, but that doesn’t mean she deserves to be subjected to his brother’s violent, erratic behavior.

“Perhaps she is. But do you really think attacking her, scaring her, is the correct way to show your ‘passion’? Because let me tell you, brother, it only pushes her further from you.”

Caracalla falters, some small part of him knowing that Geta’s right. He grips Dondus tighter. He’s hurt Florentia and it’s pushed her away. But at the same time, he can’t understand why. Why can’t she see past his illness to the man beneath? Why does she resist his advances, when he loves her so fiercely?

“You do not think I know that?” he snaps, “You think I enjoy scaring her? That I am some monster who enjoys seeing her frightened and on edge?”

Geta is unsure at first. The thought of Florentia scared out of her mind, enough to push Caracaa away, knowing what ba happened in her past—it becomes unbearable again. “I know you do not. But you make it hard for anyone to see that, brother. You lash out when you are hurt or sick or upset, and people remember that. You have given them every reason to fear you.” he takes a deep breath. “And I must check on Florentia now,”

“No! You cannot leave yet—” Caracalla looks away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. It’s true. He doesn’t mean to hurt people, but it happens regardless. The headaches, the voices, the nightmares—they all get worse when he’s stressed or angry, and that clearly lead to…to whatever happened with Florentia today. He grits his teeth, frustrated and ashamed in equal measure and looks up at his brother.

“Wh-what do you suggest I do? Just be meek and mild and polite all the time?”

Geta sighs again, his expression one of weary patience.

“No, I am not suggesting you change your entire personality. I am saying you need to find a better way to control your anger. Find outlets that do not involve hurting those around you. If you truly care about Florentia, you will learn how to restrain yourself.”

“How? The healers…they know nothing!” Caracalla shrieks, exasperated, grasping at Geta’s hands for stability almost as if to gain his healthiness.

Geta grimaces. Caracalla’s frustration is understandable, but it doesn’t change the fact that the physicians they’ve consulted have been unable to find any effective treatment for his illness. “I know they are not helping, brother, but you cannot give up just yet. We will keep searching, find more healers, more doctors until we find some way to help you,”

Caracalla scoffs, shaking his head. He’s tired of healers, of their useless concoctions and empty promises. “You do not believe that. I can see it in your eyes, you think they are all quacks, every one of them. And you are not exactly wrong. If there were a way to help me, we would have found it by now. I am beginning to lose hope, brother. I do not think there is a cure for what ails me,”

Geta’s jaw tightens, but his eyes show sympathy. He doesn’t exactly deny the accusation since Caracalla is correct—Geta doesn’t believe much in the healers and physicians that come to court to try and ‘treat’ Caracalla. Yet, he also can’t accept his brother’s fatalism. “I will not allow you give up, brother. There must be a way. Even if we have to scour the entire world, we will find it. I swear it.”

Taken aback by emotion, Caracalla’s lip wobbles. He gives his brother a look that’s full of appreciation, tears brimming his eyes. Geta’s determination, it’s bordering on naive. Still…there’s a stubborn part of Caracalla that still wants to cling to hope, to the idea that he can fight his illness, that he can overcome it. “You are as stubborn as a mule, you know that?” he blubbers. “You are going to send people halfway across the world on a fool’s errand.”

Geta smiles wryly, the expression more fond than amused. “That’s something we have in common, brother. We both have stubborn streaks a mile wide.” He pauses, looks directly into his brother’s eyes. “And I will go to the ends of the earth for you, if that’s what it takes. Don’t dare to doubt my convictions.”

Caracalla can’t help but smile at that, touched in spite of himself. For all their disagreements, Geta has always been loyal, always believed in him and loved him in a way nobody else has, even if he cannot remember. He appreciates his brother, even if he won’t admit it. “I do appreciate your conviction. Even if it is wasted on a poor, ill-fated wretch like me.”

Geta shakes his head, his expression almost pained. “Don’t say that about yourself. You’re not doomed, brother. Not if I have any say in it.” He squeezes his brother’s hands gently. “I will not let you give up. Not ever. Understood?”

Caracalla looks at his brother’s hand on his, a lump forming in his throat. He appreciates the reassurance, even if he doesn’t completely believe it. But…he’ll try. For Geta’s sake, he’ll try to believe things can get better.

“Understood,” he mutters, voice thick with emotion.

Dondus chitters happily. “See? Dondus agree,” Geta chuckles. “Now, I must see to Florentia,”

At the mention of her name, Caracalla cowers. His stomach fills with a strange mix of guilt, love, and jealousy.

“No! Don’t leave me,” He grabs onto Geta’s hands harder.

“Caracalla, you should get some rest. I will see you in the morning,”

“No,” he shakes his head. More tears fall down his rosy cheeks, his nose drippy. He’s like a stubborn child, too scared or stubborn to go to bed. That is sometimes how he feels when Caracalla gets into these states he’s in, consumed by his disease.

“Caracalla, it’s time for bed. You are tired,” Geta calls for his servants, while Caracalla stands blubbering, holding onto Dondas. “See that Caracalla goes to bed,” he instructs his servants, “And call for the healer. I fear he will struggle in falling asleep tonight. I am sure there’s something they can give him for that,”

“Lavender,” Caracalla voices meekly, as the servants carefully guide him away from Geta.

“Lavender, that’s…lovely,” Geta says, nodding in encouragement as Caracalla follows the servants, leaving the room. “Goodnight, brother,”

A few moments after Caracalla leaves, Geta races to leave the room, hurrying down the hallway. He must find Florentia.

Meanwhile, Caracalla’s legs carry him to his chambers with the servants. They are as delicate as a mother is to a child while they disrobe him, plump up his pillows and fill them with flowers and herbs which evoke calmness and sleep. They then tuck him into bed. Dondus is curled up on his chest, like a cat as Caracalla sucks his own thumb—something he does when alone, to self-soothe.

YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS.

A/N:

God, I love Caracalla at the end. Like yeah ur just a little baby let me tuck you in. Omg.

I wanted to write Dondas as a girl but the monkey is actually a boy believe it or not. But I do love when other fanfic writers refer to Dondas as a girl…genderfluid icon. 💅 Also there’s so many different ways to spell Dondas so if you notice it changes throughout this fanfic, no you don’t 🩷

I'm tired as I'm finishing this but I really wanna post it. Let me know if there's mistakes or something. I hope u enjoy it.

Comment if you want to be on the taglist!

I made a playlist for this fanfic if you care! Link here

[the-inkwell-variable]

author ask tag

thank you so much for the tag, @the-golden-comet! ooh this is gonna be fun!

i'm going to focus on my current wip, Why Should I Be Careful? I'm Going To Die Anyway! because it's still very much in the planning stages (despite how much I'm writing for it) and I have Thoughts

What is the main lesson of your story? Why did you choose it?

I'll be honest, I haven't really thought that far ahead. I suppose, if there is a lesson to take from WSIBC?IGTDA!, it might be that you should always chase your goals and desires, and screw what other people think. Maybe put a little more thought and planning into yours than Aura does hers, though. I mean, she almost dies due to her recklessness. Don't be like Aura.

What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding?

Well, it's a zombie book - I love zombies, in case you can't tell - so the world is an amalgamation of zombie stuff I love. The zombies are based off of the Train to Busan zombies. This is a self-insert mess, so I'm using the town and people I know in the town as location and characters. Little tropes here and there that I love in movies and books alike. It's just a big chimera of stuff that I grab from stuff I remember and shove into it. It definitely needs polish when it's done, but I'm having a blast so far, so I'm'a keep doing it :3

What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness, or help the reader grow as a person?

Uhhhhhh this is a tough question. Right now, Aura is trying to make it to Roger's Grocery Mart to save her girlfriend, but most of the time, she's just trying to have a good time in the zombie apocalypse and hopefully not die. She does eventually grow into a character that (mostly) thinks things through and takes other people's situations into account, so I suppose the lesson is "the world doesn't revolve around you - be kind and helpful to others"?

As for what I'm trying to achieve... mostly, to be honest, I just want people to pick up my book and have a good time reading it. I want to write a zombie book because it's my passion and because there aren't enough zombie books out there. I guess I'm trying to inspire others? To show them that you can survive an impossible situation if you work hard and think things through?

How many chapters is your story going to have?

The only time I've written a full-length book (sorry, the only two times, forgot about Zero: ALPHA), it had about twenty-odd chapters. Z:A had...uh...thirty? That was a long time ago and I sadly no longer have that draft. This one is going to go until it's done. Hopefully more than thirty though!

Is it fanfiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it?

Original content! I have no idea where I'm going to post it. I'm torn between Draft2Digital (originally Smashwords) or Substack. Thing is, I'm really bad at marketing and keywords and all that technical stuff that goes into publicizing, so I'm really hesitant to share it at all. I'm the type of person that gets absolutely morally devastated if my own self-inflicted goals aren't met, and I'm not sure if I can handle that kind of crushing heartbreak with this one lol

So yeah. Might publish, might not. Unsure right now.

When did you start writing?

My dad set up a Windows 95 computer for me in his office, his old one, and taught me the basics of using it. I was five, about to turn six. I immediately sat down and wrote a story about unicorns. I've been writing ever since.

I didn't start writing fanfiction until I was thirteen and had just binge-watched Lord of the Rings for the first time. We don't talk about those works. They were awful.

Do you have any words of encouragement for fellow writers of writeblr? What other writers do you follow?

Write it. Oh it's cringe? Who cares? Write it. Oh, it's a rare pair? Write it. You're worried people will hate it? Fuck the haters. Write it. Writing is about having fun. Writing is about pouring your soul onto the page. Writing is about getting those ideas out of your head so they don't drive you insane. It's about reaching that one person that finds your work and loves it. Even if no one reads it - you still accomplished something. You still wrote it. And no one can take that from you.

I have so many writers in my follow list. Uhh. I have no idea how many are still active, so I'm just going to tag who I know and hope for the best lol

@idyllicocean, @keeping-writing-frosty, @bloodtiesnovel, @asher-writes, @kitswrite, @theink-stainedfolk, @karkkidoeswriting, @lavender-gloom, @orphanheirs, @aquixoticwrites, @alinacapellabooks, @marlowethelibrarian, @flock-from-the-void, @dyrewrites, @storycraftcafe, @writer-imagination, @toragay-writing, @inseasofgreen, @stephtuckerauthor, @thatndginger, @finickyfelix, @eternalwritingstudent, @drchenquill, @paeliae-occasionally, @the-golden-comet, @talesofsorrowandofruin, @watermeezer, @goldfinchwrites, @winterandwords, @badscientist, @clairelsonao3, @i-can-even-burn-salad, @leahpardo-pa-potato, @mjparkerwriting, @rowanwriting, @oliolioxenfreewrites, @emelkae, @rita-rae-siller, @rebelxwriter, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @stesierra, @francineiswriting, @sunset-a-story, @chauceryfairytales, @hollyannewrites, @jaydenswaywrites, @captain-kraken, @violets-in-her-arms-writes, @romy-thewriter, @pure-solomon, @writingmaidenwarrior, @koiwrites

go, go follow them. they're all so good and make my timeline glow.