#so how does he stick to his convictions?

[gloryextinct]

you know, i get it. i also love crowley and aziraphale, and the tv show definitely goes way more into them then the book and most people got into gomens because of the show. plus people write way more fic about ships and romance. but. do you know how hard it is to find adam centric fic? like of the 56k~ gomens fics on ao3, only 2900 even have adam as a listed character. fics without azi/crow brings that down to 500. he's the main character of the book, are you kidding me

[kisakis-boyfriend]

Scaramouche and Kinich (separately) refusing to wear a sexy Halloween costume so you don’t let them cum until they put it on 🤫🎃

Pairings: Scaramouche, Kinich x male reader (separately)

Warnings: Male!reader, switch/top!reader, sub/bottom!characters, teasing, denial, edging, implied crossdressing, maid outfit + blowjob (Kinich), daddy kink + power struggle (Scara), small dick Scara

“No. Not happening.” he spat. His expression remained stern and his conviction steadfast.

This was not going to dissuade you, however. You were determined to see your sweet boyfriend in the sexy costume you (oh so lovingly) picked out (just for him).

“Why not? Where's your Halloween spirit?!” if looks could kill, then you would be shot dead where you stand as your partner glares through your very being. Guess you'll have to play dirty if you want this to happen…

Placing your hands on the bed—caging Scaramouche in—you lean in for another kiss. He's reluctant to accept, afraid you may have some trick up your sleeve. Still, he allows you to slip your tongue past his tender lips, and he's so quick to melt into the kiss it's almost pitiful.

Your knee presses between his legs, putting pressure on his little cock, and Scaramouche instantly humps your thigh. His body reacts in the cutest ways; arching his back off of the bed, twitching his hips as he grinds his clothed dick on your leg, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt the longer this goes on.

In need of air, you pull away. “Why do you always taste so damn good? You're addicting, you know that?” Scara lets out a single proud laugh, soaking up your praise like a sponge.

“I wanna make you feel good, babe. Want to–” Scara hums as your lips brush against his throat, leaving wet kisses in their wake. “–make you see stars.”

Scaramouche chuckles, hanging onto every word that falls from your deceptive lips. He bucks into your touch when you cup a hand over his cock, rubbing the rough fabric of his pants against the sensitive gland. “Won't you let me? My one and only?”

All the anemo user can think about is your touch and honeyed words—completely ignoring the warning signals from his brain as you drown them in sweet poison. Whatever, what's important is having his hands on me and his dick where I want it.

With a sly smile, your darling spreads his legs, inviting you to pamper him like you promised.

You slide your hand into his shorts eagerly, pleasuring him exactly how he likes it — doing all of the moves that drive him wild. Within minutes, Scara's cock is engorged and weeping with precum. His thighs tense and tremble, all while you keep him on the cusp of an orgasm without actually giving it to him.

His sharp voice cuts through the air as he demands; “That's enough! I know you're just–” the moan that escapes as you focus in on his tip catches Scaramouche off guard. “shit… you're j-just teasing me! I thought you said you wanted to make me feel good?”

“And this doesn't feel good?” you retort, sending a smartass look right back at him.

A groan rumbles through his small chest. “It does, but you know what you're doing, y/n. Get to the real stuff — either put that mouth to good use, or stick it in already.”

Ouch. If you didn't have a master plan in motion, you might've done just that, just to shut him up. But you're not giving him what he needs until you get what you want.

“Hmm… no~” his eye twitches at that. You've stopped moving your hand completely, simply holding his little cock while you smirk down at him. When he attempts to move his hips himself, and thrust into your hand, you hold his hips down, darkening your expression as a warning.

“I could allow you to cum… but you have to do something for me. Are you feeling agreeable tonight, my love?”

Scaramouche scoffs when you say that affectionate term with such disrespect. A part of him knows what you're going to say next — and he ushers you to go on.

“I picked out a little somethin' somethin' for you yesterday. If you wear it for me, I'll give you everything you want for the rest of the night~”

He fucking hates how easily you tempt him into going along with your ridiculous schemes… but he can't ignore his raging hard-on and your relentless edging either. He knows damn well that, if he doesn't agree, you will edge his brain out through his cock. You will prevent him from cumming—and the only thing on his mind will become you, and only you.

The tension remains for a moment — Scaramouche swallows thickly, then growls. “Fine. Lemme see what you bought for me.”

With an excited squeal you dash over to the closet, rummaging around until you find the item in question. You grasp the clothing tightly and return to Scaramouche's side, holding it out for him to take. He examines it for a minute, unfolding the cloth until he can tell what it is–

His lavender eyes blow wide open, and he scoffs “Are you insane? Do you actually expect me to put this on?”

“No. But if you want to cum…” There is no string of curses strong enough to convey your lover's frustration with you right now. Putting this outfit on would be humiliating, embarrassing, and destroy whatever integrity the puppet has left.

Scaramouche stares at the costume, fidgeting with it between his fingers. His head is hung low as a thousand thoughts swim through his brain. It's just for a little bit. You'll put it on, try to ignore it, and let him fuck you. He said he would do whatever you say, so as long as there are no tricks to this, you're the real winner here, right?

Fuck… it's so– so lewd. Do humans really find this kind of thing attractive? Besides, it looks like it's meant for a girl… Agh, but I'm already hard and if I refuse, he's just going to torture me all night. Just… just put it on. Once it's on I hold all of the power and he'll have to obey me. He promised.

“Don't stare while I undress… pervert.”

Trying to contain the absolutely diabolical grin on your face is useless. And you can't tear your gaze away as Scaramouche removes his remaining clothing. You do at least try to keep your eyes moving, but it's so hard when he slips his shorts down and his perfectly round butt is right there, facing you! His entire body is just a few feet away—with no barriers to get in your way. His skin is smooth—practically flawless—except for his back; which is littered with circular scars from a past he technically never experienced. Yet, when he regained the memories of that past, the markings etched themselves back into his being. Thinking back to the cause of those scars, you find your thoughts drifting some place (and some time) far, far away…

“You just couldn't help yourself, huh? Hellooo? Teyvat to y/n—wake up.”

You blink rapidly, shaking your head to get those lingering thoughts out. “Uh y-yeah. Mm, you look even better than I thought you would, love. The panties were a nice addition, don't you think?” your confident attitude returns as you take in the sight of Scaramouche in the skimpy get up.

“Shut it… I can't believe I'm doing this…” the puppet whines, though his dick still stands at full attention while he complains.

His slim waist tempts you, and you can't stop yourself from grabbing it and pulling him closer. Scaramouche glares up at you, but he finds himself leaning in as your body heat seeps into his person. The tender moment is ruined when you lift his body and toss him onto the bed in one quick motion.

“Oof! Tch, in a hurry now, are we?”

“Maybe a little bit~” Perhaps it's the lack of clothing that's causing him to feel extra vulnerable, but Scaramouche finds himself squirming under your piercing gaze quickly. Your eyes burn right through him — eyeing him as if he's nothing but a piece of meat for you to tear into and devour. He doesn't entirely notice how his thighs press together to hide his most vulnerable area, not until you slide a hand between them and spread his legs wide open, that is.

“MmmMMmM… o-ok, I did my part, now you have to– aah~ Stop it–” the puppet whines as you rub your hand over his tiny cock, jumbling his thoughts. Precum has already left a stain where the tip is, and it flows through more of the thin fabric as you stroke the underside of his dick with your fingers. “you have to hold up your end of the bargain, right? mmMPH–!”

“I suppose I do. Then, tell me what you want me to do next~” your reply in a silky smooth tone. Within seconds Scaramouche is guiding your hands underneath those cheap panties, letting out an adorable gasp when your fingernails graze his sensitive cock.

“Stroke it, and don't stop unless I tell you to.” With a sultry yet mocking 'yes sir', you continue your earlier motions. Using your extensive knowledge of your partner's sexual preferences, it's only a matter of minutes before you get him wet and needy. Scaramouche has wrapped his arms around your neck, keeping the two of you tethered while his dick leaks all over his tummy. The skimpy costume is long since tainted with the scent of sex and sweat — and he hasn't even cum yet!

The puppet lets out a desperate whine, panting your next order with urgency; “Here! In here!” he guides your hand down to his wet hole, coated in his own juices that have been dribbling down his ass the whole time. You sink in up to the first knuckle and Scaramouche chokes on his moan — your other hand has remained wrapped around his little cock, just as he demanded, bringing an endless flow of pleasure to his hazy brain.

“AhHN– deeper! F-finger me more! aaAHH–!!” his body jerks as you insert your entire index finger into his ass. Scaramouche grits his teeth, humping his cock against your palm while you work his hole open.

When he feels ready enough, he tells you to stop, pulling off the soiled panties himself and demanding for you to take out your dick and fuck him with him.

“yyeEESS-! mmph~” Scaramouche groans as you slide your thick shaft inside. “Bury it deeper—deeper! mHM-MM like that~” His walls clamp down on your dick, preventing you from leaving his hot insides even if you wanted to (and you don't~ 💖). Watching your lover unravel beneath you in that slutty get-up keeps your cock rock solid as it rams his cute little hole—splitting him in two with every thrust.

Grabbing his waist a little too tightly, you control Scara's movement, preventing your dick from going more than halfway in—which earns a growl from the puppet. “–the hell are you doing? I didn't say slow down.”

“Do you want to cum?” What kind of a question is that? Of course he does! Scaramouche can feel his balls tighten as you fuck him, preparing a load bigger than you would expect someone of his size to be able to produce. His hole aches to be filled again — ready to receive your own load all in his guts.

“Yes! K-keep— hnmgh don't stop pleeease!”

Frustrated, Scaramouche claws into your forearms, while you simply hold him still and smirk down at his bratty form. “Well, you did ask nicely.” you laugh, thrusting back inside so far that you can feel your cock hit the off switch on his brain. “Gonna give me a nice big cumshot, right? All over that pretty tummy of yours?” The only response the puppet can muster is a vigorous nod and a whimper.

“Yeah? Good, good. Fuck… cum for daddy, Scara. Give daddy that fuckin' load, huh?”

Like a magic word, that was all it took to push Scaramouche over the edge — bringing him to a shuddering climax as he shouts “Yes yes yes! Please, daddy, gonna c-cumMM—!! 💙” His voice falters as he cums — shooting the warm substance onto his own pelvis while his eyes cross. That pornographic expression Scaramouche wears causes you to cum soon after, filling his tiny body with your warmth.

Though he doesn't physically have a heart, you still swear that you can hear the rapid beating in his chest as Scaramouche settles down, regaining his senses while you gently stroke his cheek.

Your body gives out, collapsing on his chest as you both pass out for an indiscernible amount of time. “Hey, pretty boy, how ya feeling?” you ask with a groggy voice, brushing a bit of hair away from his eyes.

Stretching his arms out, Scara replies “Sore, tired… but it felt nice too, I guess.” he turns his face away from you as he adds that last part, finding it embarrassing to admit such a thing. You chuckle at his sudden shyness and lean your head down to place a kiss on his cheek, then his nose when he turns his head back to glare at you weakly.

Before you get up to clean yourselves off, you keep Scaramouche pinned, not yet ready to let go as you assault his face, neck, chest, and hands with kisses.

“Oh, but… but, my love, you would look so pretty in the clothing I chose for you.” you feign disappointment, frowning as you fake a sniffle. Kinich crosses his arms and stares at you, clearly not falling for the act.

With a huff, you drop the false sadness and straighten your stance. “Alright, Mr. No Fun, can we still have sex though?”

Only someone who understands the saurian hunter intimately would notice the spark of emotion in those gorgeous eyes—and the slight twitch of his lip before he answers you — “Yes, just stop pouting.”

You sigh in relief, closing the distance between you and your lover and cupping his cheeks as you breath “Thank you…” Kinich uncrosses his arms, placing a gloved hand on your cheek and leaning closer. The kisses start off chaste and gentle, but as you taste more and more of your lover on your lips, you feel the addiction creeping in. Gradually, the kisses become longer—deeper. Kinich allows your tongue to slip past his lips with zero resistance, and he lets a single moan out as you pull him closer.

“I jus'… needed you today.” you slur between hot kisses. “Haah… gods, I really fuckin' need you, Kinich. Lemme know if this is too much, please–” With a soft thud, Kinich falls onto your mattress. His hands snake around your body as it presses against his—pinning him down while you desperately trail kisses down his neck.

The saurian hunter makes no effort to resist, even tugging at the waist of your pants; just as impatient as you are. “No, it's… it's fine. Mm, this is nice.”

Suddenly, his clothes are too tight, and everything feels way too hot as his loving partner assaults him with affection. Groping at Kinich's chest proves to be the secret at making him melt even faster; his nipples harden under the tight fabric, making it that much easier to play with them and make your sweetheart arch his back.

Something catches his attention — pointing his gaze down a little, Kinich notices how hard you've become just from a bit of making out. Your pants struggle to contain your excitement, and your lover finds it hard to contain his own now. You notice Kinich staring, and his cheeks heat up at the humiliation of getting caught. “See something you like?” you tease.

His reply is snarky, but the look in his eyes betrays that tone. “You wish.” After that sass, you decide to tease your darling a bit.

Taking your index finger and dragging it down his chest, flicking over one of his nipples in the process, until you reach that big jacket tied around his waist. Your hand dips underneath, reaching further down until… “Ooh, so wet already? Your body can't lie, you know.”

At this, Kinich rolls his eyes, which devolves into his eyes rolling back as you rub your thumb around his slit. His cock twitches in your hand, dribbling precum down his skin. Your tone drops to something more sultry and intimidating as you question Kinich; “You do like what you see. You want to feel relief—to cum and relieve all of that pent up tension—am I right?”

He can only nod his head reluctantly, succumbing to your devious scheme without entirely realizing it. You stroke his cock once and the sickening slick noise that it makes causes Kinich to squirm under your know-it-all gaze. You pretend to think for a second, then offer, “You know, I have a solution that I think we'll both love~”

“I'm not wearing that stupid—”

“JUST hear me out;” you interject, “if you wear that pretty costume for me, I will do whatever you want, you need only give me the order. Sounds like a fair price, doesn't it?”

The gears turn in Kinich's head for a moment, before he lets out a sigh of defeat. “You'll do anything I want?”

“Anything. Your wish is my command.” you reassure.

“This must be some costume if you're willing to give me control just like that.” a faint smirk makes itself onto the saurian hunter's features.

You laugh as the image of the costume comes to mind. “See for yourself — I left it in the drawer over there, in case you changed your mind~”

—

Five minutes later, your beloved emerges from the corner of the room where he went to change into this silly thing. “This is what you're into? Really?”

You take that as your cue to turn around. Immediately, your eyes light up at the glorious view before you: Kinich—in all of his perfection—wearing a blasphemous version of a maid uniform. It's mostly white frills that leave nothing to the imagination, white sheer thigh highs, and a frilly headband. The costume does a wonderful job showing off all of your darling's best assets; like his arm muscles, thighs, and his ass that isn't covered at all at the back of the dress.

Kinich rolls his eyes again as he takes a seat at the end of the bed. Now that he's sitting, his cock pokes up under the tiny skirt, attracting your lustful eye with ease. This does not go unnoticed. “See something you like?” he mocks.

You can only bite your lip as you nod, still staring directly at his boner as it creates a glaring shape, and a darkening spot where his cock is leaking through the frills. Kinich motions for you to come closer, leaving you to stand there in front of him while his confidence rises through the roof at your display of compliance. “Kneel.” you drop to your knees instantly, nearly drooling at the thought of what's to come next.

“Say 'aaah'.” you open your mouth obediently, and watch as Kinich flips the skirt up, revealing his twitching dick. He guides it into your wet mouth, petting your hair while you wrap your lips around his tip and begin to suck. You hum happily around his cock, adjusting to his size as the minutes pass.

Kinich notices you fidgeting restlessly, and offers “You wanna put your hands on me?” you nod and whine around his cock. “Go ahead.” he allows, placing your hands on his thighs so that you can mindlessly rub and squeeze them while you suck him off. Kinich holds the back of your head, and you let your mouth hang open so he can fuck your throat freely. You can't help gagging as he pleasures himself with your mouth, but it's not a bad feeling. You're just happy that you can have someone so amazing in this way.

Even with something filling your mouth, you're still hungry for more. You've let Kinich control the pace until now—until you wrap your arms around the backs of his thighs and hold him still while you suck him silly.

The saurian hunter can't hold in the shameless moan that comes out as he tips his head back, filling up your mouth with his load. “mmMhM! Y-yes-!” Kinich reaches behind him, grabbing the sheets in his fist as he rides out his orgasm by humping your face—all while you leave handprints on his thighs from how hard you've been holding them.

His cock pops out of your mouth, still connected by a string of cum, and you pant as air fills your lungs again. Kinich's vision is blurry, but he can faintly make out your half-lidded eyes as you look up at him, sticking out your tongue to show that you swallowed it all.

“Damn, that was pretty intense. I guess I should wear this more often if it means being rewarded like that.” he smiles, leaning back on one hand and using the other to pet your hair.

“Yeah, you should.” you reply, pushing his chest so that he falls backwards as you stand up. Now you tower over your shaky lover, scanning over his body and savoring every curve and muscle as you do.

Kinich winces when you pull him flush against you by his thighs. “What…?”

“Did you really think I would be satisfied with just that? Please, Kinich, that was only the beginning.” you tease, “There's so much more I want to do to you while you're still wearing this~”

[ladycaramelswirl]

definitely not old

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

A/N: Did I create an extremely improbable scenario just to suit my need to create another highly improbable scenario? Yes. Do I care that it’s unrealistic? No. Please forgive any typos/ grammatical errors. 

CW: suggestive content, but not explicit (like 15+?). Use of y/n one time. (Technically this would probably warrant one of those hostile workplace environment seminars like they had for Derek and Penelope. But it’s funny? Idk this isn’t serious.) Sassy Hotch. Crack plot tbh. 

Also I know the timeline doesn’t really make sense, because JJ is a profiler and Emily and Rossi exist, but I imagined Season 1 Spencer while writing this! I guess it’s 2005? Btw I do not know how tapes work, so just pretend it makes sense please. This is so unserious. 

Summary: reader wife and Hotch are private people; the BAU team is nosy. Spencer is just constantly in the right place at the wrong time. 

Enjoy!

——————

The screen in front of you depicted horror - just not the kind the BAU was used to. The UnSub had confessed to leaving a message in an old tape. He had already been arrested, but you were all hoping it might contain something that might help the conviction stick. Only he was extremely paranoid, so not only had he left the message in a code, but he had spliced it into a tape he thought people were least likely to watch. His p***. It was the last thing to do for the case and everyone was trying to help. You all sit at the round table, and Spencer shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. Derek laughs at his shyness and Emily laughs at the very unrealistic movements. She and JJ tilt their heads at the shape the two on the screen have put themselves into. 

“That does not look comfortable”, JJ mocks. 

The words are out of your mouth before you think. “Trust me it’s not”. 

Everyone at the table snaps their heads to look at you. 

“Damn Mama”, Derek laughs. “Who are you doing these moves with?”

You try to hold back a laugh. You were not ready to share about your sex life with your colleagues, no matter how close you were. Plus you’re pretty sure Aaron would not appreciate it. 

“That is inappropriate workplace conversation”, you say, pausing the video. “And you’re going to miss the next series of code”, you tell him, trying to get him to revert his attention back to the video. Emily grins at your attempted evasion.

“We already got all the code. She just doesn’t want us to tell Hotch she’s capable of all that. Doesn’t want to make the old man feel bad”.

“He’s not old. He’s only 5 years older than you”, you remind her. She puts a hand on her chest in mock offense like you’ve stabbed her. You roll your eyes. “And this is still inappropriate”.

“So it wasn’t Hotch”, Derek laughs. 

“You’re just annoyed because you haven’t tried it yourself”, you deflect, moving to sit next to Spencer who seems to actually be doing his job. 

“I’ve seen her do yoga and she’s very flexible, so if she couldn’t do it I don’t think you can”, JJ tells Morgan. 

“Oh you have no idea what I’m capable of”, he teases, which earns laughs from around the table. “I’m better than the old man for sure”. They all start laughing and talking about you and Hotch. 

You roll your eyes. “Wasn’t old in bed last night”, you mutter under your breath. You startle at the sound of a book hitting the floor and see Spencer’s bright red face. JJ, Derek and Emily look over in curiosity at what they might have missed, but you ignore them, attempting to give Spencer an apology for making him uncomfortable. He moves to drink his coffee in an attempt to avoid more of the conversation. Only he chokes on it because Hotch enters the room. 

“Have you finished working out the code?”

Everyone’s heads snap to him - JJ, Emily and Derek wearing matching grins. Hotch eyes you patting a coughing Spencer’s back.

“Are you alright?”, he asks. 

“Yes! Good! I’m good!”, Spencer squeaks, afraid Hotch is going to ask him why he’s so nervous. Aaron looks to you for some answers but before you can tell him it’s nothing, Spencer suddenly stands up.

“Got the code! Going to call the local PD. DA is waiting”, he warbles before you all watch him run out of the room. Hotch turns back to the rest of you. 

“Well then that wraps it up. Go home now, get some rest”, he instructs. Everyone starts packing up. You and Hotch walk towards the door when he realises there’s only 6 of you in the room. 

“Where’s Dave?”, he asks.

You’re about to tell him Rossi went to the bathroom when the Italian walks back in. Rossi immediately notes the paused video.

“Wow that looks uncomfortable”, he remarks. Everyone smirks in your direction. Hotch snakes an arm around your waist and looks at the screen. Then at you. 

“It was, wasn’t it?”

He smiles at the jaws dropping to the floor. 

“Good night everyone”.

—————————

A little bonus scene:

In his office later:

“You heard us talking before you came in the room didn’t you”, you question your husband. He was so private, he wouldn’t have said something like that otherwise. 

“They called me old”, Aaron grumbles, but his tone is amused. “Just wanted to shock them a little”.

You make your way over to his side of the desk, pulling him to stand up beside you. 

“Well Agent Hotchner, I have to tell you, there’s been some speculation about your performance”, you taunt. “Care to prove them wrong?”

“Last night wasn’t enough proof?”, he laughs raising an eyebrow. You run your hands up his chest and behind his neck, pulling him close. 

“The results were inconclusive”, you tease. He grabs your hips and traps you between himself and his desk, his mouth trailing kisses down your jaw. 

“Well I can’t have that kind of speculation going around”, he murmurs into your skin. Your breath hitches from the sensation of his lips on the sensitive spot on your neck. But instead of continuing, he pulls away and meets your eyes in a conspiratorial grin. “We should do an in house evaluation as soon as possible”.

You open your mouth to reply when the door swings open, Spencer finding you sandwiched between Hotch’s thighs and your blouse rumpled. His mouth drops open and suddenly all 187 iq points mean nothing when his brain loses function.

“Oh- I- um- sorry!”, he manages before running away. You stare at the slammed door then back at Aaron and burst into giggles. He drops his head to your shoulders and sighs. 

“I feel like a teenager”, he groans.

“At least you don’t feel old.”

—————————

Bonus bonus: 

Still in the conference room: 

“I want to go back to 10 minutes ago when I didn’t know this information”, Emily moans. 

“I think I need 5 more minutes before I can form a coherent thought”, JJ laughs in disbelief. Spencer walks back in.

“I finished my report. Where’s Hotch and y/n? Can we go home?”

“Probably doing it in his office for all we know”, Derek mutters.

Spencer’s brows furrow in confusion. “Doing what in his office?”

Rossi raises an eyebrow at Emily. “Is this kid serious?”

She shrugs back at him. 

“Spence, Hotch says we can go home. But you should probably report about what local PD told you before you go”, JJ tells him.

Spencer nods and makes his way to Hotch’s office. The rest of the team watch him walk away.

“You think we should have told him to knock before going in?”

“Probably.”

The sound of a high pitch yelp and the slam of an office door echo down the hallway. 

“Oops.”

——————

thank you for reading :)

masterlist

[almostempty]

he knows (lucien x f!reader)

(lucien x f!reader) | wc: 3.2k | other fics | pic from here

UH HEY! I’m just gonna drop this here and scurry away to finish the other lucien one shot that i also started today, ….and then i’ll return to finishing divorced dad rock joel, and responding to all of the lovely people on here–but, like, i really just need this guy in the most emotionally unavailable and fuckable way, i hope one of y'all gets me

tags/warnings/thots: 18+/explicit, smut, toxic ex/fuckboy lucien, sex instead of communicating or processing emotions, angst but we fuckin’ and that’s the whole plot, we hit raw in my fics bc of my imaginary latex aversion or something, crying, biting, dom lucien vibes (? i never know when that’s the right tag), big dash of pls sexy man fuck the feelings away, tell me if there’s something i should add  

– no editing, no thinking, wrote this in a fever dream while staring at one of the new gifs all afternoon, idk his character! I haven’t watched anything! i just saw the chains and the face and let the horny devil in charge of my sole brain cell take the lead, aka he's my barbie, i was trying to challenge myself to just do something short like 1k- but, uhhhh it’s only 3! 

seeking feedback though (as always) so i can improve!! tell me all ur thots pls! 

“I know,” Lucien argues, “but I never meant to hurt you.” 

“I don’t care anymore.” You speak plainly. Small and quiet. Without conviction. Apathetic. Honest. 

“Anymore?” 

“Baby, please.” He looks at you with those stupid round eyes. He’s effortlessly put together like the wrinkles in his silk shirt were approved by a team of stylists to give him a hint of carelessness. Your incessant attraction to an emotionally unavailable man, it pulls you toward him like a bitter fate. Your therapist, Angie, says you need to learn how to find healthy attachment attractive, but if you shudder with disgust at the thought then what’s the point? 

“Just listen to me,” he continues, talking in circles. Apologizing without taking accountability. Explaining away everything. His behaviors, words, decisions. Apparently, he floats through life at the whim of others. Like one of those ugly deep sea creatures, he tempts you like a glowing lure in the dark. Your eyes glaze over, everything shifting out of focus as you dissociate in your living room. No matter how numb you are, he calls to you. 

You aren’t listening to the words. They don’t matter. It doesn’t matter if his tone is sincere or if it’s thick with flattery and empty promises. It’s more basic than that. Simple. The timbre of his voice. Unique to him. Imprinted in the chambers of your heart. A sharp ache spears through you, and something cracks. A fat, hot, tear escapes. With your shoulders drooping, staring at the ground, the tear falls, splashing on the floor. 

When you look up, meeting his eyes, it’s over. Lucien pulls you close, wrapping his heavy arms around your frame, bracing for the crescendo, keeping you steady. Tears stream endlessly, flooding down your cheeks, sticking to your face and his neck as you bury your face into his warm skin. He’s still trying to placate you, speaking nonsense, thinking he can comfort you. Thinking he knows why you’re upset. Thinking he understands you. 

When your therapist asked you to define love you had described it as being understood. Being seen. Being known. Being considered and prioritized. 

Lucien thinks he knows you. Thinks he understands you. Does he think he loves you? 

Following this line of thought hurts. Splitting you open, a raw beating heart, glistening, thumping, full of life, or a meal fresh and hot for a carnivore to tear into with its sharp fangs. Plump muscle, rich and dark, bleeding out, helpless. Snapping back into reality you shake, a violent sob racking your diaphragm as the pads of his fingers massage the back of your neck. Soothing. Coaxing. 

You want it sharper. Rough. Violent. Distracting. Painful. Anything. With wet lashes, swollen eyes, and ragged breath you become fixated. Licking the salty tears from the dip where his neck meets his shoulder, you can feel his muscles and tendons beneath the flesh. So human and alive. He strokes his hand down your spine, attempting to pacify you, but it sparks something lurid and ravenous, instead. 

You graze your teeth along his neck. “What are you doing?” he mutters the question over the top of your head. Maybe he does know you. “What do you need?” He growls, lowly, the hand he traces your spine with trails lower this time. He’s gluttonous and torrid. A hair-trigger to shift from his concern for your pain and the hole in your heart to a sordid desire to mollify you with his fingers and his cock. 

Maybe it’s a perversion, the tangled experience of despair and desire, the duet of anger and arousal, the sick escape using sex to skip over the emotional suffering. But it’s exactly what you want. It’s the root of the fucked up toxicity. Of everything wrong between you. He does know. He does understand. The same heat that flickers in your core sparks in his. 

Voracious and brash. You bite down, sinking your teeth into his neck, igniting a wildfire. An untamable beast. Again and again and again. Biting, sucking, kissing. His skin tender and raw, your lips wet and swollen. You run a hand along the back of his neck, tugging into his hair, anchoring your grip, and pulling a husky groan from his throat. 

“What do you need?” Lucien repeats, this time with a sharper edge. He detaches you from the safety of the crook of his neck. His two hands. Unnecessarily large, warm, and steady brace either side of your jaw, his fingers wrapping behind your neck. He holds you in front of his face. Vulnerable. Messy. Heat radiates from your cheeks. You release a shaky breath. 

“Don’t make me say it.” It’s a whisper. Pleading and demanding at the same time. 

The cocky smirk that spreads on his face is sickening. It makes you want to slap him, to hear the crack of your palm against his cheek. It makes you want to surrender. Soft and pliable, ready to please and earn praise. It makes you want to scream. To bite him so hard you draw blood. To fuck him until he can’t talk. 

You tell him all of it. Exactly what you need, what you want, what you refuse to say. You tell him all through your kiss. The hunger in your lips as you press them to his, the violence on your tongue, the desperate and vulnerable need to be cared for in the soft moans that rise from your chest, from your heart, from the blood in your veins. He chases all of it. The punishment and pleasure. 

He backs you into the kitchen, caging you against the counter like a scene from a movie. Impervious to whatever protest you make as he clears space, blindly sweeping his arm over the counter before lifting you onto it. The edge of the counter digs into your soft thighs, but it doesn’t matter. You’re ready to drown in the vanilla musk and bourbon-spiced scent of him. The bass in his voice that makes your eyes fall shut and your head tip back against the cupboard behind you. The bruising pressure of his grip that he knows you crave. 

“Baby,” he croons. His words are soft and gentle. As if he propped you on the counter to tend to your wounds. But his hands show no mercy. Roughly ridding you of your clothes. Dropping them into a pile on the floor. He’s ruthless with you. In ways you can’t be with yourself. In ways other lovers could never master. Harsh without being cruel. Deliberate without a plan. 

He lets you tug his shirt over his head. Skin to skin the intensity is primal. “Fuck,” is all you can manage to say. The heat is overwhelming, prickling your nerves and sharpening every sensation. Lucien toys with you like it’s his favorite game. Alternating. 

First, palming reverently at the flesh, sweeping his tongue over your hard nipples, and teasing the wet skin with his hot breath. 

You let him make the decisions. Take the lead. You’re done arguing, done thinking, done with the guilt of letting him in the door, done with acting like you’re any better than him. You brace yourself, one palm flat on the counter, the other resting on his shoulder. Taking whatever he gives. 

He switches up. Everything becomes pointed and precise. He sucks marks into your skin on the underside of your breasts. He pinches and flicks the pert bud of your straining nipples. The contact of his fingers, tongue, and teeth sends white-hot jolts of electricity straight to your cunt. He bites down hard enough to make you choke on a moan. Your whine fills the room, twisted with pain and pleasure. 

“You poor thing,” he purrs. Your face is still wet from your tears. But now they’re tears of frustration. “Just a mess.” You reach for his belt, impatient, but he stops you. He’s not done looking. He lifts one of your legs, propping your foot onto the counter and posing you obscenely in front of him. His gaze makes your pussy throb.

He’s torn. 

Studying your face. Everything unsaid in your eyes. The anguish and rage. The acerbic disdain. The nearly imperceptible longing. 

Admiring your sex, spread open for him. Shining with your arousal. Swollen, slick lips so sensitive for him. Your core, fluttering with anticipation, achingly empty without him. 

He holds your chin between his thumb and curled forefinger. His eyes swirl with lust and something you can’t quite place. “You have no idea,” he rasps. “No idea how much it fucking kills me to see you like this. And knowing I’m the reason why.” 

You don’t know if he means it breaks his heart to see the way you suffer or if he means the sight of you dripping on the counter has him so hard it hurts. You don’t know which you’d believe anyway. He’s not hard up to find someone else to torment or to fuck. That thought makes your throat dry. 

“I can’t stay away from you,” he traces his fingers down your soft inner thigh, closer and closer to where you need him. “How could I?” You tip your head to the side, your limbs and head feel heavy, drunk on a cocktail of everything you love and hate about him all at once. 

“Then don’t.” 

Your reply makes him smile again. He’s so handsome when he smiles it’s infuriating. “You could scream at me, kick me out, hate me–but you still let me touch you, you need me to touch you. Why do I love that so much?” 

“You like feeling important.” You let your snarky comment out without thinking. His question was definitely rhetorical. A few emotions flicker across his face before, a dark little smirk curls the corner of his mouth. 

He feeds off of your challenge. “There she is.” 

“I never left,” you snap, frustration spilling over. He laughs, loose and easy. 

“Listen to me,” Lucien says, low and velvety. Subduing you with the tension and proximity. “I know. You want me to use you. Like you’re my toy. Until you can’t keep those beautiful eyes open.”

“Yes.” 

“I know.” He echoes. Then he closes the gap, kissing you with affection. Holding himself back, but you aren’t reserved. You’re greedy; you want it harder. He just said he’d ruin you, why is he being so gentle? He pulls back with something sincere in his eyes. A whimper falls from your lips, pouty and baffled. 

“Gonna fuck you like I’m trying to ruin you, baby.” 

You narrow your eyes at him. Sometime soon, hopefully? You don’t snap again, answering with another yes. 

He leans in, breath fanning hot over your ear. “But, we both know that tonight you’re the one using me. Ruining me. I’m your toy.” 

Your breath hitches at that. You mouth I know in response, not even able to whisper it. He doesn’t need to hear you say it. He nips your ear lobe and you loose a surprised cry before gasping out his name. 

He’s swift now. Purposeful. Undoing his belt, shoving his pants down and revealing his cock. Reflexively your hips tense and shift. Just looking makes you salivate. He runs his thumb over the bead of precome, drawing it along his length. 

He knows how you want it. His fingers can coax you to an orgasm in no time, but you don’t want that. You want the resistance, the stretch, the dull ache, and intensity as your muscles work to let him in deeper. Nobody makes you feel the way he does. Full. Complete. Mindless. 

It could be pornographic, vulgar, raunchy. The way he pushes your inner thigh further open with one hand while he uses the other to languidly stroke himself. The way he grips himself so tightly like he’s punishing himself. The way his jaw hangs slack and he mutters under his breath about how badly you need him. 

To you, however, it’s a profound admission. A candid confession. The more he goads you the more it solidifies that he’s the one that needs you. That it flows so easily from him because he’s really talking about himself. 

“You say you don’t care anymore, but look at you now, baby.” He shifts closer, at counter height you’re aligned perfectly. He glides the head of his cock up and down the folds of your soaked cunt. You shudder and moan, mesmerized by the sight. 

“It’s almost sad how much you need me, like you can’t breathe without this,” he keeps talking. 

He demands that you watch, as if there was a chance you could stop, as he lines up and sinks into you. You groan in unison. You’re so tight, he draws back out. Repeating the same motion, feeding his cock into you deeper and deeper each time. Your hot, plush walls pulse around him, adjusting. When he finally meets the end of you, he hums, pleased. “You feel that?” 

You bob your head, nodding, agreeing. “Yes.” Your voice is breathy. “Perfect.” You grind against him as if you could take him any deeper, begging him to move with your needy display. It’s wholly overwhelming as is, every nerve within you alight as his cock kicks within you, tensing with the same craving to move. 

He takes your hand in his, nestling your fingers around him. Somehow he feels even larger than he looks, like he shouldn’t be able to fit inside of you, but here you are feeling it and seeing it for yourself. Slowly, Lucien tilts his hips, almost pulling out of you completely before plunging in with force. He keeps up the tantalizing pace, guiding you to touch yourself. He watches your fingers with rapt attention, bracing a hand on your hip to keep you in place as he drives into you with another snap of his hips that edges you closer. 

He gradually speeds up, a master at tempering his desire. Your hip flexor aches as you hold yourself in place but it doesn’t matter. You find your rhythm as he holds steady at a pace that has him landing brutal thrusts that force the words out of your lungs. Soft oh’s and fuck’s pour out of you, under your breath, adding fuel to the fire blazing between you. 

Lucien savors your chanting and the image of you fixed in place, taking him eagerly. Your fingers move with urgency, chasing the release that looms closer and closer. Your mind is blissfully blank, reduced to something animalistic, removed from the burden of your history. “Don’t stop,” you plead, “I’m so close.” 

He doesn’t stop. He fucks you at the same pace, all the way through it. As you contract around him, when everything pulls taut and snaps within you, crying out his name, when it’s too sensitive and you whip your hand away, and as you shudder and breathe deeper and deeper. As the ache in your legs from being spread wide open returns and your ass feels numb where the edge of the counter digs into your flesh. Another tear spills from the corner of your eye, but you can’t say what it’s from anymore. 

When you fidget, he stops moving, letting you readjust. A sheen of sweat glistens all over your chest and you’re suddenly acutely aware of how loud the slick noises between you are. How easy it is to get lost in Lucien's hot and heavy magnetism. You know you were falling apart before he propped you up on the counter, but you’re sure you’re a complete wreck now. 

Lucien pulls out but then leans against you, pinning the length of his cock between you, hot, slick, and messy against your sweat-damp skin. He floods your senses, all you can see, hear, and smell. Caging you in his hand find a possessive hold on you, one wrapped around the back of your neck, one wrapped tight around your thigh as you hitch it around his hip. 

“You feel good?” he asks. You hum in agreement. You do feel good. You know he’s not done yet, and smile wide, still hungry for more. “How good?” he asks and you know there’s something coming next. 

“So good.” You trail a hand between you, drawing a line down his chest and back up to cradle his cheek in your palm. Something about the prickle of his facial hair along your palm feels so natural, domestic, and sweet. You’re tempted to kiss his cheek, nuzzle against his ear, and ask him to take you to bed. But you can’t. You’ll never have that. Instead, you bait him. “I think you’re holding back though, I know you can fuck me harder than that.” 

He scoffs, unamused, blowing a hot puff of air between you. His fingers dig deeper into your thigh, applying the kind of pressure that stirs arousal low in your belly. 

The dark glint in his eye gives you butterflies. “I will, Baby,” his rumbling voice is innately sensual, but the condescension in his tone makes you tingly. You’re so close to him that you can feel his heart beating in his chest, you can feel the same pulse thrumming in his cock, still flush against you as he slants his lower half along yours. He’s all things heavy and firm, strong and sculpted, yet fitting so naturally against you. You need more, wriggling and squirming against him, you can’t contain the restlessness. 

“You know,” he says slowly, drawing your eyes back to his. “You can keep trying to move on, but no one else will ever know you like this. No one else will ever ruin you the way I do. You can tell me you don’t care anymore, but you’ll never let anyone else in the way you let me. They won’t touch that part of you, the one that’s mine—because it’ll always be mine.” 

It trickles through you slowly until your blood feels like it’s boiling. They’re tears of anger now. It’s like a sick double entendre. 

“I know,” your words are steeped in every emotion cascading through you. 

You don’t know if it’s worse that he’s right. That there’s a Lucien-shaped mark imprinted on your heart that will never fade. Or if it’s worse that he doesn’t even know it applies to him just the same. That he always comes back because he’s trying to fill the same void. 

Maybe he does know. Maybe he does know and this is all he can do to make it up to you. 

Maybe that’s why he leads you to your bedroom and lives up to his word. 

Why he fucks you so hard you see stars. Why he doesn’t stop even after he comes deep inside of you with a possessive always gonna be mine. Why he litters your skin with more false promises and confessions. Why he gives you so many orgasms you lose track. 

Maybe that’s why he’s still there when the sun starts to peek through your window. Why he fucks you slowly when you’re too tender and exhausted to take him any harder until you’re floating in limbo between a dream and reality. Why he stays there, just cradling your back into his chest and listening to the rhythm of your breath. 

Maybe he does know. 

PLEASE COME YELL WITH ME ABOUT THIS FICTIONAL GUY BC I NEED HIM IN A SUPER NORMAL WAY or tell me if my writing was incoherent or if you can't relate to the toxic ex that is still the best fuck of your life (cruel and twisted fr)

dividers by @/cyberangel-graphics

tags for the babes that let me annoy them with my thots <3

@lovely-vamp-princess @gothcsz @auteurdelabre @adoreyouusugar @swankyorange @itwasntimethatdidit40 @ivoryandflame

@magneticecstasy @indiegirlunited @syd-djarin

[belovedivies]

Author🙏,

May you show some benevolence to us peasants and give us some crumbs about our albino, Alipede✨

terminal ft. alipede

a/n: i adore yandere alipede with every fiber of my being. cw: yandere content, spoiler for johan’s past, mention of bullying, possessive and obsessive behaviors, manipulation, violent tendencies, implied parentification on reader's part, trashy adults made trashy decisions, injury, codependency (oops). wc: 2.67k ao3 link! m.list

This far into the countryside, you stopped caring what day it was. Every sunrise had the same rooster crowing behind the mountains and every nightfall sounded the same container trucker honking on a distant highway just as you were about to doze off. The same off-brand chips in every local dinner, the same celebrity whose life people tended to gossip about.

You wanted to say again, with conviction, that you weren’t miserable. There was no better fate to be bestowed upon. Maybe in another universe where your dad hadn’t left and your mom cared a bit more, you might have had the chance to act your age. Picked up a new hobby or two. Learned a sport. Went to summer camps. Fell in love. 

Then again, maybe the caregiver role you took on during this three-month break was inevitable. The boarding school your mom worked at was so low on staff that you had to practically live there to play the part of a nanny. Keeping tabs on the kids. Making sure they take their study seriously. Breaking off fights in the hallway. On days when the tension was heavy and the lump in your throat had been too uncomfortable to ignore, you only knew how to smile and suck it up. Sending them away with a pat on the back. 

The reminder persisted: they would always have you to count on, and you only had yourself.

Away from the crowds but never in the corner, Alipede was a strange one. Obedient to his own torment yet glimmering under the unfeeling façade was a rare defiance. He never fought back, never complained. You wondered if he had simply given up. If he had just taken everything with a grant of salt like you did once upon a time. Still, you admired Alipede. And nothing ever stopped you to try and do your best by the poor boy: slipped in extra bread, chastised his bullies, cleaned the dirt on his desk. 

You stared at him like a hawk from the other side of the room. Many times a day, he might have stared back.

—

One noon, Alipede tripped over a tree root outside and scraped his knees. It was midday when the sun was at its highest, and specifically a day so boiling hot that the heat had felt like it was raking red sharp nails down your sweat-soaked back; your toes sticking together in a pair of too-large sandals. 

The grass and dirt sizzled their complaints underneath your palms, but they didn’t for Alipede. Against the limewood, he rested his back with a peculiar look of detachment. 

He hadn’t cried. 

But you fussed over his wounds anyway with wet wipes and a few clumsy attempts at band-aids. Halfway through the heinous process with the tissue already stained with dirt and blood, you realized you might be risking an infection. 

“S-Should I get a teacher? A nurse?” You choked out hopelessly before realizing the only semi-responsible teenager around here were you. “W-We should get you inside first!”

Your shoulders continued to shake the more you forced the words out. The boy’s eyes were dead set on your panicked face, but ultimately no answer came.

You gulped and put on your best caring tone. “D-Does it still hurt?”

Alipede blinked. No answer. A thousand years passed. Silence. Your lips wobbled with anxiety in your guts and an apology behind your lips. He had it so much harder than you.

Still, when the albino extended an arm out to reach something behind you… no, on you. Under you? You flinched. A marshmallow-soft sensation settled on your lap and your gaze instinctively followed where his hand went. A rabbit, fur as pale as snow and eyes as red as ruby, had unknowingly hopped out of its coop and was now curling up on your legs.

His rabbit. 

It might as well have made you drown in guilt before, but that feeling was so far away now it barely registered in your mind. Alipede reached out to pet the creature. It nuzzled into his hand and emitted a purring sound, the vibration tingling your skin. You watched the interaction with relief. 

A good distance away from the common building, everything measured up to a perfect amount of tranquility. There were no cheery nursery rhymes on repeat, no cagey and overly dramatic action movies playing from one classroom to another. You smiled and scratched the rabbit’s head with your forefinger, earning a soft snore from the little guy. 

“You left the cage open.”

It took three blinks to realize that Alipede was talking to you. 

He hadn’t tilted his head up yet, still caressing his beloved pet. Beneath the shades of linden, Alipede seemed so soft and kind—looking every bit the pretty boy he was told to be. Maybe it hadn’t been a compliment at all, and you knew how much the albino detested being labeled as just another darling face. But even then, without spring in his steps and a guide cane in his hand, Alipede had always had this air of helplessness floating in and around him, teetering between the fading line of despair and a sense of willpower just vague enough to keep him going.

Your heart was already in your throat when he continued to say something. 

Was it your name? 

The beginning and the ending seemed to match, but there was no guarantee what had slipped out in between. The sun hid behind a heap of cotton candy clouds, yet your palm remained clammy, uncomfortably hot. Maybe it was the guilt. Maybe it was the knowledge that you had too wronged the poor boy. That you had fed and played and cared for what was his when he wasn’t around. 

A tap on your shoulder. This time, you gathered the courage to finally meet his eyes as the albino leaned in and muttered again.

So it really was your name.

And your forehead was touching his. So was your nose. Alipede was so close you two were basically breathing the same air, the apples of your cheeks up against one another. And you hadn’t minded the unusually intimate distance, too busy taking in the red in his irises and the flutter of his pale lashes. Only when the rabbit squirmed on your lap again, trying to make some room did you realize that you still owed him an apology. You pulled back and ducked your head sheepishly.

“I’m sorry…”

For touching the rabbit without his permission. For the wounds on his knees. For complaining too much when he hadn’t. 

Your gaze was trained on your lap, waiting. Thomas once whined to you about the scratches on his hand, calling the albino a freak because he had overreacted. You wondered if Alipede would bite you too. His pet did the first time you approached it, leaving a red welt on your arm and a scar on your pinkie. The thought of an angry boy sinking his teeth deep into your skin sounded so silly that it almost made you laugh. Maybe you wouldn’t even blame him then.

He hadn’t said anything either, but when the albino unexpectedly took your hands in his and laced your fingers together, you hadn’t flinched. Alipede was smiling at you. 

“It’s fine,” then came a gentle squeeze. There in those cemeteries of red, you spotted a glint of delight, “I’m not mad.”

“Oh.” You opened your mouth, then closed it. “Thanks...”

Alipede raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just…” You mumbled. “I thought you would be mad at me for…”

A lock of white hair fell over his shoulder as Alipede tilted his head. He looked so cute; you wanted to squish his cheeks together.

“If it’s you, I won’t.” 

The comment might have made you feel better if it wasn’t for the dry delivery. Even then, you trusted the boy enough to mellow out with a squeeze back. Did you forget something? Your gaze darted back to his scraped knees and felt your heart jump; you still had to take him inside for a checkup.

“You’re still hurting! W-We should head back in—“ The second you had tried to move away, he gripped and pulled you back in with a strength you didn’t know was possible. Shouldn’t be possible. Eyes wide as full moons, you could only stare as Alipede cupped your cheeks. 

“I’m fine.” 

“But-“

“I’m not hurting.” 

The albino lowered his voice, pleading.

“Can we stay here a little longer, please?”

You nod wordlessly. 

It was only Alipede, after all.

You trusted him just as much as he did you. He didn’t need to talk and beg and cry his way into your free time; you gave it to him willingly anyway.

The albino’s thumbs ghosted over your cheekbones. You wondered if he had felt your silent agreement at all, if he could hear the heart beating inside your chest, the blood flowing in your veins, and the air pumping into your lungs. He might have heard a lot of things you couldn’t.

The rabbit squirmed once more, nuzzling its fluffy head against your thigh. Alipede’s hands finally left your face to continue petting his comfort animal, but his eyes didn’t.

“He likes you,” Alipede said with conviction, and a smile smudged around the corners of his lips like a gallery of oil paintings forgotten in the rain. 

“Oh.” You gaped at him; it always got so unbearably awkward the first time. “Um… what’s his name by the way?”

The boy must have had one ready before you even asked, sonnets of adoration bubbling in his throat and vibrant stars dancing behind his eyelids. And you had waited too—all bated breath, all whispering humbleness. Uncertainty swirled your guts like a desert oasis.

But when Alipede opened his mouth to speak, it was your name that had slipped out. 

And again. And again. And again. 

He said yours the same way people would when they cheered for sport: loud, excited, hopeful. You blinked. You heard him the first time, you just didn’t know what he meant by any of it. A “Huh?”, small and confused, left your lips. Then the cords clicked and the dots connected themselves. 

“Oh, oh.” You dropped your face into your hands with a choked groan; the heat on your cheeks rivaling the scorching sun. Through the crack of your fingertips, Alipede’s smile remained constant.

He had named his rabbit after you.

—

The hallway got dustier and narrower the further you went down. 

Once lunchtime rolled around, it was a maze of spilled drinks and childish destruction—foods and toys and everything imaginable going back and forth in the air until all of them hit the floor in a mass of ruination. One noon, you sighed and tugged on Alipede’s arm, leading him into the teacher’s lounge.

The place was empty. Well, no teacher here had ever bothered to stick with the kids until their second meal of the day, anyway. Once an incoherent excuse was out, they slipped into their cars and drove off into the distance. You never saw them again. 

Your mom was around for breakfast sometimes, downing her portion wearily. She reeked of cheap booze. Of nightclubs and bad decisions. Once in third grade, you flushed her Seropin down the toilet by accident, thinking they were expired candy. Even then, your mom had come home wordlessly the next day with bloodshot eyes and bruised lips, and you hadn’t gone near her medical cabinet since.

Alipede leaned against the wall, a hand clasped over his nose obediently as you cleared out cigar stubs and crushed beer cans on the floor. Turning on the AC and opening a few windows seemed to help with the stuffy air inside. You guided the albino to sit at the table in the middle of the room, on chairs that creaked and felt too adult-like with foam for cushions. There was no one else around, but Alipede clung to your waist with a pout and pulled your seats closer than they already were. You giggled; you loved his clinginess, just as much as he loved you.

“We have—” Still joyful, you paused for effect and peered down the two trays on the table. “—Japanese food today! Curry over rice and miso soup. Have you heard of them before, Ali?” 

Alipede, nose buried in your hair and mind probably somewhere up in the cloud, only blinked. His grip tightened around your waist when he asked, “No. What are they like?” 

“Hmm…” You pursed your lips, “the curry has a thick and smooth texture that feels like velvet against your tongue. It also contains a blend of spices like cumin and coriander. Remember that, Ali? You said you couldn’t stand the pungent smell!” Your shoulders shook slightly as you laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s sweet and pretty mildly spiced. We have carrots and potatoes too! You said you loved them—“

On and on, you went about the dishes with gusto. He kept his eyes on you the whole time.

You used to wonder what Alipede’s world was like. A pitch black. A collision of sound waves and echoes. An overdose of nothingness. Long ago, you read a story about a father who sacrificed his son for the prosperity of their land. The boy grew up beautifully still, slaying demons and taking back the body parts that had been rightfully his since birth. A touching tale about defying fate and pushing forward in the face of adversity. 

Still, Hyakkimaru was a fictional character, and Alipede was not. 

You couldn’t begin to fathom the battle he had to go through every day, struggling to just be seen as a normal person, one with a life just as valuable as others. 

But he hadn’t complained.

He hadn’t cried to you about the bullying either. Months ago before you came, the albino huddled inside a coop behind the school, holding onto his pet bolt-tight. He didn’t need to cry; his fading bruises and healing wounds already did the job for him.

Alipede’s lips curled up against the shell of your ear, dragging you further into the wool of a couch nearby. “You’re right, it’s just mildly spiced,” he whispered, low and content like a purring cat, between the messy tangles of your limbs, “could use a bit more sweetness, though.”

—

“I wanna get out of here,” you sighed almost dreamily by a pond in the garden, legs tucked under your knees in your favorite sundress, “maybe visit Japan one day. Or Korean. Anywhere is nice.”

You raised a hand to point at something. Maybe a bird passing by. Maybe a red hot orb flowing on the horizon, half-submerged by the Earth. What it was, it was promptly abandoned the moment Alipede grabbed onto your wrist and twined your fingers together.

“You’re not thinking of leaving me, are you?” Alipede’s pupils dilated in the setting sun, the white of his hair and your dress bleeding into one oversaturated canvas. “You told me you wouldn’t.” 

“Of course not!” The answer came just as quickly, hurt and amusement wrapped up in the form of a pout written across your face. Even then, he hadn’t returned an apology. You had felt silly for even bothering to wait for one, but that was okay.

It was only Alipede, after all.

Instead, you squeezed his hand back, lacing your pinkie together in the naive gesture of a promise. 

“I’ll be your eyes, Ali. For as long as I live.”

You swore through mirthful smiles and hushed voices. Here, tucked away from the common building and terrible adults, the world narrowed down to just you and him. And Alipede—your sweet, adorable, and lovely Alipede—whose head was on your lap and whose heart was forever yours, only stared back unblinkingly. 

Then he giggled, pulling you forward. Against all senses, you held on, and the two of you toppled into the grass. Nighttime prickled at your skin like a bug as you laughed along with him, and the summer dragged on, neverending.

[yuellii]

when imitating life from art

𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒 of what kinds of gifts they would give you while we wait for maintenance to end !

feat. various fontaine characters, separately

note. reader’s gender not specified, not necessarily romantic but definitely can be, this is written pre-release, just something to kill the time during maintenance before fontaine drops !!

FURINA.

random trinkets ; She’s quite sporadic, actually. Quite similar to the flamboyance of her demeanor, she does not stick to a theme when she’s gift-giving to you especially. They must be random, they must be completely new and fun every time—and that’s not a rule, it’s only like the laws of nature.

In retrospect, they’re all endearing in the end. If there’s one theme she missed, it’s that all these random trinkets pertained to you in some way, even in the oddest of aspects. Truth be told, she picked items up once they reminded her of you, and that itself was enough to excuse the weirdness of some of her presents.

LYNEY.

magic tricks ;; The gifts he gives themselves are… rather normal. But he is a person of presentation, or so he’d say. Therefore, the true uniqueness that set him aside from any other gift givers was the performance he gave alongside them.

For even the smallest of gifts—books, drinks, Mora—he insists he hides them from you first. With a wink and a grin that can be frustrating sometimes, the true present is really how hard he tries to impress you. And so, he goes out of his way to try something new every time. If you’re not impressed, absolutely astounded and amazed, then is it really a gift from him at all?

LYNETTE.

flowers ;; The irony is that Lynette hates flowers… When they’re given to her, at least. But they were always offered to her early into her career that she just associates them with goodness, and goodness, only. So in her mind, who is more deserving of flowers than you?

She doesn’t quite know flower meanings; she likely has no idea each one even had a separate connotation. But she knew that they looked pretty, and if you paid attention hard enough, you’d notice they were displayed in such a beautiful way every time she gave them to you, like she felt the need to carefully arrange them to your liking.

FREMINET.

seashells ;; ‘He sells seashells by the seashore’—not really, but he liked mumbling it to himself whenever he came by. He liked diving; pretty much everyone knew that. He liked the water; everyone knew that, too. But, he also liked to silently hand you shells he collected from his little water sessions.

If you took the time to notice all the details, you’d see that he only brings you complete shells, ones that stents cracked or broken. It’s as if he sorted them out one by one, making sure they look pristine before selecting them as the final one—and maybe, that’s truly what he does.

NEUVILLETTE.

dinner dates ;; He actually doesn’t… give you gifts. Physical ones, anyways. He’s a very serious yet interesting man, one that leaves you guessing what his next move will be.

What he does as a treat in place of a physical present is treat you out to a nice dinner, but you won’t know what days he will ask until he is already in front of you. They’re quite nice, though, as he always picks places he knows you enjoy at least a few things off the menu. And they’re quite expensive and classy, too. You’re also not quite sure if he picks these random nights based on your mood throughout the day, or based on his own selfish discretion… But honestly, you’ll never know.

WRIOTHESLEY.

tea boxes ;; The man in charge of a fleet of exiled convicts is one you’d consider to be more scruff and too barbaric of a person, but he is gentle in the way he likes his tea. It’s a form of art that calms him down from the bottom of the ocean, one that he thinks you would enjoy, too.

And so he loves giving sets of new blends he’s tried, or sometimes specific herbs to add to really make a different aroma pop more than usual. He always prefers tea over anything, and his gifts and recommendations are his way of saying he wants you to enjoy them, too.

NAVIA.

skincare ;; The lady is quite particular with the sun and the shade, the hydrating and hydro-boosting—she takes care in the art of aesthetics and believes it’s only fair that you pamper yourself, same way as she does on her own. There’s an interest she takes, one that is so particular in which she studies your type of skin just to find out what lotion would be best, or what would keep your face hydrated.

And at first, you’d think to yourself maybe it’s a bit insulting, like she needs to look better than you already do. But wish her dashing smile always so positive when she gifts them, it’s clear she has the best of intentions.

CLORINDE.

gold trinkets ;; Being a champion duelist meant many things, but one of those features implicated an eye for the golden prize. Gold was always classy, so she liked it. Love was also classy, and she liked feeling it whenever she thought of something to give to you. It was always something gold, ranging from expensive jewelry to even cheap, gold-lined trinkets.

But she thought of you when she chose it, and she thought it was pretty enough to give to you. And it felt lovely, at the very least, as if she was sharing her winning trophies.

[whalesforhands]

what’s yours is mine (8/?)

previous masterlist next

pairing: geto suguru x reader x gojo satoru

You don’t know a lot of things, and you readily admit that. What you do know, is that the friends you’ve made aren’t something you will ever regret. Until your physical body weakens and becomes nothing, you’re more than happy to give your all until you wither away.

What’s yours can be theirs, too. They’re your friends, after-all. (Omegaverse AU)

“You should stop hanging around people like me.” It’s said with a grunt of conviction, low and throaty and trying to sound too much like he didn’t care. Like it didn’t mean anything if you left him.

(The only reason you can tell is because Satoru does the exact same thing.)

And you only ever have a single reply to statements like that, despite all your confusion about the origins of such things.

“Nope.” You pop the ending sound, kicking your feet up as you finish off the rest of your crumbled snack, dusting your fingers of biscuit dust as you dab your hanky against your lips. “You’re stuck with me now.”

Just like how he’s stuck with you.

“What?” He lets out a dry laugh, disbelieved green eyes narrowed down at you as the scar on his lip stretches out into a lazy grin. “Don’t tell me ya think of me as a friend or somethin’?”

“No.” He’s partially wrong, you’re pretty sure. “Adults and kids can’t be friends.”

They’re not allowed to. Something about ethics, about danger, about candy and chocolate and not even your favourite pudding. You don’t remember the whole thing, but you know kids and adults are not allowed to mix together like that.

Not allowed to be like you, Suguru and Satoru.

That’s what your Mama always taught you. That it was for the best, that you should always be careful. So you definitely think you know better as your head is tilted to the side and you point a finger at him; before directing it at yourself with that familiar grin on your face.

“So you’re my teacher and I’m your disciple.”

“The fuck?”

Mhm. Sounds about right. You nod to yourself, a proud hand on your chin as you give a pat on your own back for not only sticking to Mama’s words, but also finally claiming the scariest, biggest kid-adult around as your mentor.

Things are going perfectly as planned.

“I’m gonna get as strong and as scary as you are so that nobody can ever mess with me again.”

That’s right. You’ll grow so strong that everybody would fear you just as much or even more than Satoru— Then they’ll finally like him more. Finally be able to talk to him because they’re more scared of you than they are him. Nobody can ever make fun of Suguru, talk badly about your Mama or better yet— You can be the one that beats up all the ‘piss ugly freaks who beg to have their faces pummelled in’ like Mister Teacher here always says.

(It’s totally fine because your teacher does it too, right?)

“And what makes ya think I’m gonna teach you anything, brat?”

Well, you haven’t really thought that one through. That’s a very good question. As expected of your teacher.

“Cause I’m helpful and cute.”

‘Helpful’. Also known as using the very last of your well-loved, wacky band-aid collection on him. Your absolute favourites that you just couldn’t bring yourself to use that had been offered up to him the times you see him collapsed against the bench and snoring away.

So you took the liberty of pouring water on his cuts and heartbreakingly parting with your precious, precious band-aids.

All is part and parcel of being a hero, anyway.

(And the cute part… Mama always tells you that you are, anyway.)

“I’ll even buy you those big protective gloves so you can stop hurting your hands when I’m older and have a job like my Mama.”

“Pfft— Yea? What are ya even gonna work as to afford those?”

You barely hesitate in your reply, the turn of your head far too quick as the apples of your cheeks show through your excited smile.

“A hero.”

“And if they don’t pay enough?”

Well. You never really thought about that. Does being a hero really not pay as well as you think? Come to think of it… You’ve never seen Sailor Moon get paid. It seems like being a magical girl doesn’t come with a celery.

(Can you really pay for things in vegetables? You’ll ask Mama to help you grow some. Even if you don’t want to eat them…)

“Justice will always be rewarded.”

And this Mister that you talk to too much finally starts laughing, slapping his knee as he starts howling with laughter and snorting through his nose. It was loud, it was free.

Without a care in the world.

“You’re one dumb fuckin’ kid, ain’t cha?”

At least he’s smiling again. Even if you’re pretty sure he was making fun of you as you pout at his head that was positioned too high up upon his shoulders.

(Or maybe his neck was too long?)

“You can’t say that if you’re my teacher!”

“Then ya can’t yell at me if y’er my disciple.”

——

Even if one good thing comes to fruition, you should never be too comfortable with what the future may have in store for you. Small, minuscule little things always add up to big ones, snowballing into a problem that you just didn’t foresee before it comes hurling down towards you.

That’s what the astrology charts said, anyway. You didn’t understand then, but you think you do now that it has really ‘come to fruition’. Surely, it couldn’t be any truer now as your hand is slapped away, the smack echoing throughout the playground as your eyes widen and your skin stings with a feeling too unpleasant.

“I don’t wanna hear it! Don’t talk! Be quiet!”

Usually, Satoru telling you to shut up in 3 different ways would be less hostile, would have less weight to them. Usually, those sky coloured eyes wouldn’t glare at you with so much hatred, wouldn’t have so much pressure that threatened to pummel you to your knees.

(Because this is still your Satoru, isn’t it?)

“B-But Ieiri-chan and I are—“

“How many times are you gonna break our promise?!” His face is dusted with red— Not the sweet cherry shade that you were used to seeing when he got embarrassed or shy. The air felt like it was pricking you, prodding at you uncomfortably as you shrink in on yourself whilst nursing the area that hurt way more than you thought.

That’s why it irritated your eyes so much, right? Did the air always smell so hostile? So uncomfortably angry and horrible and heartbreaking?

“I told ya so many times that you can’t be friends with anyone other than me! That you’re not allowed to betray me! That you promised me!” It came out as an angry squeak, something adults would probably laugh at— Yet it felt like he was hammering nails into your heart as a lump builds up in your throat and the thrumming of your heartbeat against your chest becomes too much.

“Are you even trying anymore?!”

He’s right. You’re fine with your classmates whispering things whenever you walked past, fine with their trailing eyes and quiet gossips about how you’re just kissing up, fine that they’ll never truly like you for you just because you chose to associate with the Gojo family.

But you never once thought that being called a horrible friend would hurt this much. It tore through you, guilt riddling your very being as you whimper and bite down on your lip, trying to steady your breaths as you tried not to cry.

Because do you even deserve to? You’re not the one who was hurt in this situation. You’re not the one who kept true to the promise you made all those years ago.

“I-I really—“ Really didn’t mean it. Truly. It’s not a secret that you want to be on friendly terms with anyone willing to talk to you, not a surprise that you’ve been waving to and greeting the easy-going girl whenever you see her in class.

But it seems everything has a breaking point.

“I’m s-sorry…” Your hands bundle up the hem of your shirt, sweat getting absorbed by the cotton fabric, your head that tilted downwards as tears began to drip from your eyes and phlegm built up in your throat as you hiccuped your words.

“I didn’t mean to h-hurt you, Satoru…”

Because you never meant for him to feel this way. You’ve always taken him into consideration, always wanted him to be happy when he was with you; beside you.

It was your fault for trying too hard to find workarounds, to mistakenly believe that it was still fine to interact with someone who you thought was an outlier to the promise.

(Or was it simply your fault for wanting to make a decision that was far too selfish?)

And he doesn’t even say anything else to you, only the feel of his eyes stabbing into your conscience before you hear him stomp away, his familiar sneakers kicking up sand that left you in the dust as you’re left behind in this setting sun that casted your shadow behind you, growing longer and longer the more the light dimmed.

“Kimi-chan! I wanna go home!”

“G-Gojo-sama, are you not going to play a little longer? There’s still quite a bit of time left before you—“

A beat of silence.

“Understood, Young Master. I will prepare the car to send the both of you back home.”

Maybe you deserve this, you think. Maybe this was the punishment you had to bear as you’re sat in the back of the car all on your lonesome as your now silent friend makes nay a sound in the front seat.

Separated from you. Not even saying goodbye to you as Kimiko-san opens the door for you, her apologetic eyes and a polite bow as you’re left behind in the cloud of dust formed behind the car.

Silently waving it goodbye.

So you think you definitely deserve it as you drag yourself to your front door, past the genkan and kicking off your shoes as you kept your gaze stuck to the floor and your hands frantically wiping the wetness from your eyes when you hear the shuffling in the kitchen and the clatter of the lid against a boiling pot.

Your first ever fight. Or would it be more accurate to say— Your first ever fallout with anybody at all? You don’t know how to process it, what you’re gonna do now that you were left without an answer to your teary apology and small voice.

“What’s wrong?” Her hand is in your hair as she pats you, your chopsticks suddenly feeling too heavy as you blink back into reality, your blurry gaze finally focusing back as you shake your head lightly—

“But you haven’t touched any of your food.” And you realize that you’ve only been blankly staring down at the steaming bowl of rice, had barely touched any of the meatballs that your Mama made.

“Is the soup not good? I forgot to pick up the miso today so I had to make do with salt.” Her chopsticks clack down as she picks up her own bowl, bringing it up to her lips as she takes another taste for good measure.

“No.” Because you aren’t the type to want to worry your Mama, not the type to want her to think too much about you whilst she’s hard at her job.

“It tastes really good, Mama.”

Not the type to want to bother her with problems that were solely your own. Especially when she’s been coming home with dark bags under her eyes and a tired smile on her face when she kisses your forehead in greeting each and every time.

She’s strong, so you want to be strong too.

It’s your own secret for now, because you want to hide this. It’s your choice, something you made for yourself as you hurriedly scoop more rice into these lips that told too many lies and kept a secret from your own Mama that you always claimed to love so much.

“Yua-sensei just gave too much homework today.” You add a smile at the end just for good measure, forcing the bright grin you usually show her as you stuff another meatball into your mouth.

Maybe you really are not as good of a kid as you thought. But you sincerely hope she believes you, hope she can fall for it— Even if it was just this once.

“I’m here if you need any help, okay?”

“Mhm. Thanks, Mama.”

You’ll solve this. You think you can’t… But you’ll still do your best to, anyway.

It’s a problem you caused.

“Are you okay?” The towel in his hair is haphazardly thrown over his head, his voice a prodding question to your conscience as you limply hold the other paper cup telephone in your hand.

“Did something happen while I was at training today?”

Your nightly talks with your Suguru.

“No,” Your voice is barely audible even through the makeshift telephone, throat scratchy as your shoulders slump even further and you think you might want to hide away forever. “But you need to dry your hair before you catch a cold…”

Because for some reason, you feel too ashamed to even face him right now.

“Speak for yourself first, (name).” His head is propped up against his arm as he raises a brow, looking at you and your still slightly damp hair from your bath as you continued to wipe off the tears that just refused to stop falling, that refused to pretend that everything was truly as alright as you wanted to make it seem.

The moon was out, and the sky was clear. So it made that the only other witness to your quiet, wordless sadness as you stare down at your hand, the sting of the hit long gone— For it just wasn’t hard enough to cause enough harm to you.

“You fought with Satoru, right?” It’s suddenly voiced out and almost scares you— Almost makes you start sobbing outright there and then.

How… Do the people around you always read you so well? How do they always tell that something’s wrong with you despite all the effort you put into hiding it? Were you bad at lying despite doing it so much? Were you doomed to simply be called a liar that wasn’t even good at the one thing they were labelled as?

(So much for lying for the ‘greater good’.)

“…cause you keep looking like you’re gonna cry.” That’s a lie. You know he’s telling a lie so that he won’t make you feel any worse, so that you won’t feel so embarrassed. You know he’s telling a lie because you were already crying, your stupid tears that just kept falling no matter how hard you’ve tried to keep yourself in check, no matter how hard you bit down on your lip or how hard you’ve tried to muffle your sniffles.

You’re the most hopeless, worst liar ever.

“Do you like her?” His voice is soft and whispered and low so that it wouldn’t startle you, trying to blanket you in his caress despite the distance between your windows. “Ieiri-san, I mean.”

Ah. You should’ve expected him to already know.

But to answer his question… You do. You really do. She wasn’t like the rest of the kids who questioned you on your relationship with the Gojo child, wasn’t like the other kids who judged you simply because you didn’t exactly fit in with the rest of them or because you didn’t really like playing outside during break.

So, you pathetically nod in reply, wiping snot off from your philtrum and trying really hard to find your voice, trying really hard to be honest so that you wouldn’t lie anymore.

So that you didn’t have to pretend like nothing was wrong.

“I like her.” You really, genuinely do. Even if she was hard to read, even if she takes things too lightly or seemed like she didn’t care… She always proved that she did in the end. Maybe it was giving you an extra of the magical eraser you’ve been secretly eyeing in her pencil case, maybe it was letting you lean on her shoulder as you read her shoujo manga beside her.

And maybe it was simply the feeling of having a girl friend that made your heart soar with a feeling unlike the times you hang around your best friends. It was like an unsaid bond, something akin to finding someone with likes too alike yours that it just didn’t make sense to not continue to hang around her.

“Hmm.” His voice is just as tender as ever even if he was simply thinking about your answer, his gaze on you turning unreadable as you wipe away another tear, stifle another sniffle.

Try to act like you really, really weren’t crying.

“And if Satoru and I told you that we didn’t,” You can see how those purple eyes of his glinted with an emotion you didn’t understand, shone with the shimmers of the moonlight that reflected from them as you try your hardest to steel yourself for whatever was coming next.

“Would you still be friends with her?”

Oh. How… Do you reply to this?

“I’m sorry for making you choose. Please don’t cry.” If only he were there beside you, if only he could be there to hold you and tell you that he would tolerate anybody that you liked. If only he could confidently tell you that he wasn’t jealous, wasn’t trying to convince you out of something that you wanted— Only then would he finally be able to fearlessly go over.

Alas, he’ll keep it to himself. He’ll tell himself that it really is all right, tell himself that he can make compromises if it could prevent you from ever crying ever again.

It would be worth it then.

“Then… I won’t try to be friends with her anymore…” Not if you’ll lose the 2 who you think are worth more than whatever you’ll ever be able to count in this life, a bubble of phlegm in your throat clearing when you cough out your reply through your tears.

“I-I don’t like making either of you sad…”

And it locks into silence afterwards, a reply unheard from your poor paper cup that you were just too afraid to soil with your tears as your handkerchief soaks yet another round of your childish dejection.

“Please don’t cry.” It now sounds panicked and not at all alike the

And maybe, just maybe— His words make you think just that little bit more as your own mind swirls in on itself. Maybe you want something for yourself for the first time ever, want to make a decision that was solely you. A decision that would usually be far too dangerous, but for once, it would be your own nonetheless.

That’s how you won’t leave any regrets, right?

“But…” You swallow the lump in your throat again as your reddened, swollen gaze met his. “Would you both please meet her first…?”

Before they decided to hate her forever, that is.

It’s not the best plan, but it was your favourite. That was enough reason to pick it, enough for you to forego any of your other intentions in favour of this.

Because it gave you too much meaning for you to regret anything else.

Though, there was a very big hole in your plan. That being the fact that Satoru… Still won’t talk to you. Even on the way to school when you nervously squeezed Suguru’s hand as you both awaited for the familiar car to arrive, even when you both silently trailed after the… Suddenly sullen boy that refused to speak a singular word towards the both of you.

It’s a boon that you’re all only 8, otherwise your blushing, stubborn friend wouldn’t be showing up at school with his head held high, stubbornly sat next to you as he did his absolute hardest not to look you in the eye all throughout the different periods.

Even if he was— Quite literally, sat next to you. Mangas where best friends avoid each other are a staple you’ve read before— But it seems that the cliches of them being able to avoid each other entirely just didn’t apply in real life.

It doesn’t feel awkward, though. Just… Sad.

“Satoru…?” You visibly deflate when he doesn’t reply, your view of the back of his head being a constant throughout today that didn’t quite settle well with you. So you make do with a frown and dejected stare down at the math worksheet that he would’ve usually been pointing at and trying to make you understand by now.

But it looks like he still didn’t want to talk. Not even when all your trays of food have been cleared and lunch would be just about over in a little while.

“Satoru, seriously?” It’s Geto’s voice that has the snow-haired boy jumping slightly, a twitch of his shoulders and his crystal blue eyes narrowed when he pouts and glares at him with only the slightest, careful turn of his head.

“How long are ya gonna stay mad?”

He could’ve chosen to not come to school, could’ve chosen to go back to his private lessons within his too big home…

But he chose to come here, still. So it means something, right? It definitely does when he finally gets called out by the most sensible out of the 3 of you, finally losing his deity-like patience the moment you’ve given up, his small hands tightly holding yours to comfort you from the all too stubborn, hard-headed friend you both had.

Gojo Satoru was not good at talking. Sure, he can talk anyone’s ear off about Digimon, can go on and on about cakes and how they could be interlinked with the wide world of physics, why his favourite soda brand should be the only one allowed to exist and so many other arbitrary things.

But he was still no good at talking. He can’t speak wholeheartedly like you do, can’t express his emotions so softly like Suguru does— He can’t do it well lest it shows the vulnerability a Gojo does not reveal.

A Gojo does not show weakness. They were raised to never do so, that’s why he’s roughly pushing a neatly wrapped box of cookies that had been crumpled when stuffed into his Digimon backpack, hurriedly snatching up the note very obviously left behind by a certain maidservant for encouragement as he blushes and glares down at his hands.

‘You can do it, Young Master Gojo!’ ٩(^‿^)۶

“K-Kimi-chan said t-this is good apology food so!” The burning tips of his ears grow ever hotter as it’s accidentally shoved off the table and falling onto your lap, curious purple and your own eyes meeting; going down to the box of cookies— And up to the extremely red Satoru that looked like a massively adorable contrast to the waves of ocean blue of his starry eyes.

“S-So just eat it and— And… S-sorry, okay?!”

You should’ve known that your Satoru has always been this way, your hands going up to your cheeks as you perk up and smooth out the crinkled wrapping paper,

“Thank you…”

(“There! I said it!” His blushing face was growing increasingly ashamed as his amethyst-eyed best friend pats his back from behind, your arms wrapped around his neck from the front as you simply can’t help the smile stretched onto your face.

“I’m sorry too, Satoru.”)

(But you still have to break the promise. Just one last time as you pull away from his hug, taking a deep breath and squeezing Suguru’s hand as you prepare to ask for quite possibly— The impossible.)

——

“Ah.” Ieiri Shoko finally sees why you were so nervous when you asked her to come over to play, why the look on your face was so deathly serious and almost constipated looking that she thought you were inviting her over so as to declare a fight to death— Or something like that.

You weren’t exactly the most normal kid around.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” She nods towards him, clearly unimpressed with this situation as all 4 of you sat within Suguru’s room, warm, untouched milk in your cup as you all sat around the low table.

“Gojo.”

Wait. What? Did she just call him by his last name with no honorifics? This— Was the first time they’ve ever looked at each other face to face— To your knowledge, anyway.

Then there could only be one explanation as you watch your cute friend practically chug down another glass of strawberry juice out of pure irritation.

(“At least have some manners when people are talking, Satoru.” Your poor host can only sigh as he watches the boy pout and glare at him, his red cheeks puffed up.)

“You… Guys know each other?”

“Mhm.” Said like it was the obvious thing ever.

“Hmph.” Huffed out in disgruntled acceptance.

“Our parents do.” She twirls a strand of her hair, neatly done up into a cute half-up braid around as she takes another sip of juice. “Our families tried to set up an arranged marriage with us once.”

What?

“I told ya she was trouble.” Your Satoru’s the one leaning his head on your shoulder, hugging you tightly to him as he glares at the intruder that dared to try to steal his precious friend. “Are we done? I wanna go play!”

“Wait— Is that why you hated her so much, Satoru?” Now Suguru’s the one looking almost disgusted, shocked and everything in between as he grimaces at the spoiled kid. “She didn’t even do anything. It was her parents.”

“She’s guilty by default!”

“The arrangement didn’t go through though,” Her cup clanks against the coaster upon the low table as her posture grows increasingly lax and unlike the ‘proper, elegant’ first impression people would see her as.

“Cause he kept rejecting it and I kept skipping out on our play dates.” She even couples it with a wide, dismissive open-mouthed yawn as her head meets your other free shoulder.

(You’re out of shoulders to lend to Suguru.)

“Hell would freeze over before I even considered marrying someone like him, though.” Because if she was considering marriage candidates, she would want someone more docile, gentle. Someone who actually listens to what she has to say. Someone like y—

“Yea, yea!” He’s huffing angrily as he lightly shoves her head off of you. “I don’t wanna marry someone like you either, Shoko! Blehhh!”

And you feel a tug of your arm towards her in retaliation, your body simply going limp as you just allow it to happen. “(name) and I would be a good fit, though. Maybe I’ll ask my mama to set up a marriage with her.”

Oh. You recognise that lilt in her voice, that sneaky grin on her face—

She’s teasing him. And doing very well at it.

“Haah?! Have ya gone insane, ya ugly hag?!” And it’s almost painful— With how hard he tugged you towards him.

“Maybe you’ve failed to consider how unmarry-able you are.”

“Well, (name) thinks I’m cute, you hag!”

“Cute doesn’t mean handsome.”

Left. Right. Left. Right. You’re basically being pulled and thrown about like a ragdoll by two opposing forces as your eyes spin and your head goes even more confused. The only saviour and your saving grace now is—

“Suguruuuu!!!” Your hand reaches out towards him for help— Barely heard above the yelling between your two friends as your confusion whirls even harder. Yet all you feel is Suguru’s familiar hand holding yours— Before he joins the pile of limbs on the floor, tightly hugging your free front and stealing any free hugging space from both of your suitors.

“No. Satoru got to spend all his time beside you and you haven’t played with just me in a while.” And you know him. Know your pretty friend so well that you can almost exactly decipher what he meant.

‘I’m jealous. So this is your punishment.’

At least you all get along now, right?

——

“Another bowl please.” Your Pokemon themed bowl that your Mama found at the department store was absolutely cleared of rice, a stray grain sticking to your cheek as you grin and plead oh so cutely for seconds.

“You seem to be in a good mood today.” She chuckles as her thumb swiped at your face, her hand warm against your skin as you giggle.

“Mhm. I’m really happy today.”

“Oh? And why is that?” Her movements are slow and careful, pressing a button that made the rice cooker pop open carefully as she scoops up another paddle of rice.

“Cause I keep thinking about the movie I’m gonna watch this weekend.” The one that Satoru had been talking your ears off of as he speaks through his snacks, making Suguru click his tongue and Shoko grimace in disgust as you simply listen intently with a sparkle in your eye.

The one that you had so nervously asked for permission so that you could follow them to the theatre for as you stood before your contemplative Mama, skittishly looking up at her with a timid smile and the tooth that had finally fully grown in— An ‘adult’ tooth as everyone calls it.

“You’re growing up too fast, you know?” Her hand gently ruffles your hair as you giggle slightly, picking up your no-longer training chopsticks. You’re even using the ‘adult’ utensils too. “Soon you won’t even need me to take care of you anymore.”

“Nope!” You swallow the mouthful of rice and egg as you chew too hurriedly. “I’ll make sure to need you forever and ever, Mama.”

“Is that so?” A playful pinch to your cheek.

“Mhm.”

“And what if I grow old and wrinkly and can’t move anymore, hmm?” Her hands thread through your hair, lightly smoothing it out first before the feel of your hairbrush glides through.

(You’ve been a bit into doing your hair a lot recently. Shoko must have rubbed off on you.)

“Then I’ll buy you super cool robot legs so you won’t feel sad that you can’t walk!”

You’re already 10, after all.

(2 years until you present.)

previous masterlist next

[yanderes-galore]

IDK if this really makes sense for the character but I had a thought. What about Stain from MHA as a platonic yandere with a Darling who he wants to train to be his successor/help kill heroes with him? Since the series is so big on successor stuff, I thought it would be interesting to see xD He just spares Darling's life and sort of adopts them(Darling is an adult btw). Darling isn't so wild about this but also they don't want to die, so?? I guess this could be a one-shot but if you prefer to do a concept/summary that's ok too!

The idea seems very interesting but I'll probably stick with a concept just to make sure I get my thoughts down and have to focus a bit less on plot ^^; But in the future I could do a follow up short for this!

Yandere! Platonic! Stain with Successor! Darling

Pairing: Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Threats, Violence, Blood, Murder, Stalking, Brainwashing/Implied mind break, Overprotective/Possessive behavior, Dark themes, Delusional behavior, Forced companionship.

The idea of Stain/Chizome taking in a successor is an odd concept that doesn't seem like it would be a thought in his mind.

However... I feel like it's possible.

I especially like the idea if his obsession is a lesser known vigilante who genuinely likes to help people and has conviction.

You don't want fame or money, you just want to help people.

Essentially, if you appeal to Stain's beliefs, he'd consider deeming his obsession worthy.

Stain's one of the more intimidating yanderes, both aura and Quirk-wise.

So him sparing you is a surprise to you.

Granted, he's spared others he deems are worthy before.

But you're different... as he finds you worthy enough to spread his message.

I imagine he'd think this if he observed you enough to see you had similar ideals.

Even something as simple as acknowledging modern heroes as corrupt could set Stain's sights on you.

You have potential and he wants to sharpen it.

Your first proper meeting could be brutal if you think about it.

Perhaps you have a friend who's a hero that Stain doesn't see as pure, just to make things dark.

His intention is to kill your friend, but notices you.

Stain probably will kill your "false hero" friend, but finds your attitude and drive intriguing.

He doesn't feel bad about killing your friend, paralyzing you both with his Quirk before casting his judgment on them.

Yet his eyes lock on you when he sees you.

That passion in your eyes... you feel similar to him, don't you?

You may hate being compared to him, but don't you hate it when heroes are corrupt?

You may not believe it, yet your friend didn't have the best intentions as a "hero".

Stain intimidates you in your first encounter.

Your first encounter starts as a battle and ends with you covered in blood.

You're staring at the corpse of your friend, terrified as Stain stares you down.

However, instead of killing you, he offers you an alternative...

You become his successor.

Like you said in the request, you don't want to die.

So you take the offer and allow Stain to guide you through his beliefs.

That's a way I feel you two could meet that follows how the request is asked.

You start only going along with it because you're terrified.

But over time I can see Stain brainwashing his new successor into believing him.

Think about it...

Stain convinces you that your friend really was corrupt.

He tells you he doesn't like pointless bloodshed, that the only ones who deserve to die are the ones against his creed.

So... obviously your friend was corrupt, right?

Stain shows his successor the corruption of the world, feeding you new beliefs since you're so scared of him.

He does wish you'd stop being so scared, though... not like he's going to hurt you.

I can see his obsession being very hesitant at first.

You hate the idea of murder, Stain finds this purity of yours... oblivious.

That's okay, he'll fix things as your mentor.

Stain would tell you all about a target he's been keeping an eye on.

He'll manipulate you, telling you all the terrible things they've supposedly done.

They're corrupt... just like your friend... a stain on this world.

Stain would mess with his successor's beliefs and mind to mold them into who he wants.

Sooner or later you'll see you're just cleaning up scum.

Despite the brutal lifestyle Stain thrusts upon you, he cares about you.

It's really weird to say that... considering Stain is usually cruel and merciless as the Hero Killer.

Yet he does have respect for fellow vigilantes, he's even attached to his successor.

Granted... the way he obtained you was brutal... but he'd do just about anything to keep you in his care.

Spilling blood for you becomes the norm since he's so fixated on keeping you safe.

You seem to be the only thing he cares about other than his creed.

Your new job naturally comes with enemies and no one gets near you without Stain nearby.

Hero, villain, doesn't matter to him.

Nothing touches his successor.

When he cuts someone down, he immediately checks on you.

Perhaps he even pulls you into a possessive yet oddly protective embrace.

He teaches you an "Us vs Them" mentality.

You shouldn't rely on anyone else, you can't.

It's just you and him cleaning up a corrupt society.

You'd probably go through a mental mind break under him as he forces you into a role against your will.

You're scared to speak against him, especially when he manages to convince you to kill your fair share of "heroes".

However, at some point you'll accept the role Stain gave you.

You have no other choice... yet he's also brought up some valid points.

He's right... The world is corrupt.

Stain makes it seem like you both are the only ones who can correct it.

You start to believe him... it scares you at first but you feel what he says is true.

Repeating the beliefs he's indoctrinated you with in your head makes things easier.

It makes it easier to ignore the fact you're taking lives...

It's easier to think of it as just culling impurities.

Stain praises you every time.

You do well, the blood on your clothes a reminder of your work.

After your encounter with Stain, you never came out the same.

He took you under his wing and taught you everything you need to know.

While you know this feels wrong... it also feels right...

There's no turning back now, you should finish the job as your mentor says... all to make the world a better place... it's just you and him against the world, right?

[pippin-katz]

Random Satisfying & Clever Moments Of Audio From Dead Boy Detectives - Part 4

There's a few moments in DBD that utilize audio really well, or use sounds that always stick out to me while watching, and these are some of those moments!

This one is a bit of longer one, and might not make sense to everyone, but I'll do my best to explain it below!

Ep. 4 - The Case of the Lighthouse Leapers: The lack of music when Charles gets up after the trauma nightmare, then the addition of just The Wellerman song as he advances on the Night Nurse.

Using sound is very important, but so is the lack of sound. The lack of music or sound effects as Charles starts winding up the music sphere creates tension. After the overwhelming amount of stimuli in his trauma nightmare, the quiet is unsettling. It is the calm before the storm; that moment when everything is too still, too quiet, and you have a gut feeling that something is wrong.

Watching Charles wind the music sphere, speaking with such conviction, yet also composure, after everything she just put him through, it's unnerving. An explosion of blind rage would be expected, not the calculated way he twists the handle, walking and talking with full clarity and awareness of the situation.

The music sphere being wound up also coincides with Charles' emotions. The Night Nurse practically did exactly that to him by forcing him through all of that pain. Charles even acknowledges that she accomplished her goal: to make him crushed and devastated. But she didn't take into account his resilience, his strength; someone else would be helpless and sobbing on the ground after what she showed him, but Charles?

He knows how it felt. He was fucking there. He knows how much it hurt. He knows how unjust and unfair his life and death were. For the Night Nurse to play it for him like a slideshow presentation, as if he needs to be taught, pisses him the fuck off. Charles is furious that this woman has the audacity to walk into his nightmares and lecture him, as if she has any comprehension or understanding of what it was like to experience it.

I think it's part of why he mentions the memories specifically when he's about to kick her: "Those memories are not why I choose to stay here!"

Charles is fully aware of what he went through, and he's moved on, or is trying to at the very least. He does not want all the horrible things that happened to him while he was alive control and influence every decision he makes. He's not that sixteen-year-old boy trembling in a corner anymore; he does not have to bend in the face of danger and injustice. He can stand up for himself, for others, and he will because he wants to. It's not to make up for some "failure" from his life. It's who Charles wants to be.

SO! Back to the audio specifically, the use of The Wellerman song is obviously fitting since the sphere was used by sailors to "calm the seas", but also because there is something inherently haunting about that tune. It's right after he says that he's angry that he pulls the pin out; after trying so hard to hold back all his anger and pain, Charles is ready to let it loose.

The beats of the scene then follow the music. From the moment the song starts to the end of the first verse, the first "segment" of the fight happens. Charles speaks, she tries to reply, he hits her, and she reacts in that timespan. There are very faint bass notes underneath the song after he's hit her. They get louder as the song progresses, reintroducing the score of the show.

When Charles takes a second swing, it's at the start of the chorus of the song.

(The difference between verse and chorus is the starting note. Verses start low and get higher; choruses start high and stay high until the very end.)

During that chorus, Charles swings and hits her; he very nearly lines up his swings with the notes, but not quite. Then he speaks once she's backed against the wall. He lets go of the music sphere in the middle of the chorus, and completes his lines up to: "I still have a purpose!" as it ends. That's the second "segment" of the fight.

The second verse starts with him making his declaration and kicking her, and it plays out as the Night Nurse falls. The second half of the verse swells into a full score version of the song instead of just the sound of it coming from the sphere. It's the third and final "segment". Charles ends the confrontation, and once Angie disappears, the song fades out.

This sequence is such a good example of knowing when to cut the music, and how to gradually reintroduce it. It enhances the uneasiness you're meant to feel while watching Charles' anger slowly escalate. It's part of what makes the whole scene so effective.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

(ko-fi)

[angelofsmalldeaath]

movement — a.h.b.

cw: nothing i can think of for this one (apart from the usual fluff)

“you’re really bad at sneaking, you know?” his voice makes me jump. i push away from the doorframe, stand up straighter, and curse under my breath. 

he’s on the floor, starfished, face up at the ceiling with his eyes closed. his face looks so soft and tranquil, so relaxed that for a moment there i was sure he’d fallen asleep, nodded off while thinking like he so often does. 

“how d’you know i was sneaking?” i challenge. “maybe i just got here.”

it only takes him a second to click his tongue. “have been smelling your perfume for five minutes now.”

i smile to myself, walk in and stand over him. “and you couldn’t say that five minutes ago? you kept me waiting?” 

without opening his eyes, he shrugs. “kinda like it when you stare at me. especially when you think i can’t tell.”

his face turns from relaxed to smug, the corners of his mouth lifting up. quietly i roll my eyes and stick my tongue out even though he can’t see, and get on the floor next to him. 

the wood digs into my back until i find a comfortable spot, our arms touching, my head tilted towards his. the ceiling is the same plain beige it has always been. i wonder if he sees it differently—the colour and the shadows and the contrast. i wonder if his version is prettier than mine. 

“you’ve been in here for hours. i missed you.”

“it’s been hours?” he raises his brow and finally opens his eyes. “i didn’t realise…”

“did you fall asleep?”

he frowns, tries to look insulted even though we both know it’s likely. “no,” he sighs, “don’t think so at least. i was just…lost in thought. well no that’s not right—if i were lost in thoughts, i would have thought about something. heh, redundant, isn’t it?”

“baby, you’re rambling.” i turn to him, caress his cheek and smooth away the crease between his brow. “something bothering you?” 

the crease i’d worked hard on, reappears. “i don’t know. i feel…i don’t know. i feel…empty?”

“writ—”

“don’t say that word. i don’t have it, that’s not what’s happening!”

his insistence on not using that word—on never using that word—is endearing, and yet i keep it to myself. teasing is not what he needs right now. 

“right, get up!”

“what…?”

“come on,” i insist, tug on his hand, “get up. you need something better. there’s no point in lying there like a dead fish, is there?”

he glares at me and even that lacks conviction. ultimately he gives up, but he makes sure to groan and sigh as loud as possible before standing up. towering over me. 

“hi,” i smile, “there you are.”

“there i am,” he tries to smile. it comes out more as a grimace. 

“play something for us. what were you listening to before?”

he averts his eyes and hedges, a pink tinge taking over his entire face like he’s just come inside from being out in the sun. 

“my own music,” he mumbles. “i wanted to see what people liked about it so much, if i could recreate it.”

“you could bang pots and pans together and still create a masterpiece.”

“you’re biased!”

“and also right,” i retort and try not to melt when he places his arms around me. “those two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know? now,” i step to one side, wait for him to follow my lead. then step to the other. then i throw him a cheesy wink. “make me sway.”

he rolls his eyes but i don’t miss the tenderness that creeps in them, don’t miss the way his grip on me tightens. don’t miss the way he’s suddenly the one leading us, swaying to his own song. his voice is all around us, i rather like it like that. 

“what’s the point of this, can i ask?”

“does there have to be a point?”

for a moment, he’s silent. then he shrugs, twirls me around. “i guess not.” 

“and are you not having fun?”

“dancing to my own song?” he scoffs. “‘s arrogant.”

“and dancing with me?”

that gets at least a tiny smile out of him. it’s enough to make his eyes crinkle, to make his smile lines appear. and for a moment in the sunlit room, i fall for his smile again. 

“that’s lovely,” he picks me up, twirling us together and gently sets me down again. “maybe i should write about that. about you. about how when you move, i’m moved.”

“catchy,” i laugh. “maybe you should. i’d love to be a muse.”

“darling, you are a muse,” he smiles wider, then bends down to kiss me. “my perfect muse.”

buttery warmth spreads through my body, right down to the tip of my toes. “you give me too much credit. all i did was walk in here. and dance. if you want to call swaying at a glacial pace ‘dancing’.”

“and you give yourself too little credit,” he speaks, breathes more like it. if we weren’t standing so close, i wouldn’t have heard him at all. “you’re perfect for simply existing.”

[joydoesathing]

i never get to see you talk about Arlene and Glenn much, do you have any facts about them you want to share? (also love your art)

hiii i'm glad you asked. hoo boy, i'm not sure where to start but i'll do my best💚💜

so glenn is quite stoic and a conformist. he had to work his way up to get to where he is now, a rather successful banker, but of course it was never smooth sailing, so he had to steel himself. he also is aware that people like him don't usually get opportunities to get to work white-collar jobs and get good pay, so he does his best to keep in-line and appeal to his peers, lest he gets kicked out of work (at the time when he first got his job, i would estimate it would be around the the early 1930s and inequality was still very rampant, so he may get kicked out for even the slightest slip up)

arlene on the other hand, is an open-minded and friendly woman. she is also quite spirited and sticks to her own convictions, which can make her come off as a bit eccentric. she originally worked as a factory worker but decided to quit and pursue her passion as a writer.

when glenn first met arlene, of course, he did ridicule her a lot. he would ask why she left her job that at the very least has more stable pay just to become a writer, whose pay is less stable. there are way more factors that glenn could point out on why writing isn't a wise career but still arlene still remained unbothered, which confused glenn a lot.

"that didn't sound right. isn't it supposed to be "minor inconveniences"?"

as weird and absurd he thinks arlene's persistence is, it's one of the things that captivated him about her.

"if i just continue working in that factory, i would get more stable pay, yes, but surely i wouldn't be truly happy and living would just seem bleak and tedious, don't you think? personally, writing gives more color to my life for that's where my passion lies."

it's an outlandish and illogical way of thinking. giving up financial stability, just for your passion? glenn doesn't understand why or how, but there's just something endearing and enviable about that persistence and ambition.

compared to his own financially stable but stifling and not very eventful life, arlene seems more happy and satisfied.

maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be at least have someone that could give his own life color through their genuine happiness.

tldr: stoic and conformist guy finds happiness with eccentric gal

[birbleafs]

I'm an unabashed Kavetham girlie at heart, so my other favourite part of this WQ is, of course, the ending cutscene. I especially love the little details and subtle body language in this scene—I feel that it amplifies, yet again, Kaveh and Alhaitham's reconciliation with each other, how they've both rekindled and accepted each other's companionship in their lives now. The first thing Kaveh does after he purchased the marked book from the House of Daena is to search for Alhaitham, so that he can happily (!!) tell Alhaitham he'd finally resolved the issue with the book and the accidental spoiler. Kaveh may have called and reached out to Alhaitham first, but Alhaitham doesn't just turn around to acknowledge it; he even decides to move closer to Kaveh to listen to him and to show that Kaveh has his full attention now. Alhaitham was probably in the midst of browsing the street vendor's book selection too (we see several stacks of books laid out on the rug) before Kaveh found him. So the fact that he's willing to shift his focus and attention from books to what Kaveh wanted to share, however mundane it might be..... This gesture might not seem like much at first glance, but this is Alhaitham. And Alhaitham doesn't always go out of his way to socialise; most times, he'd much rather be in the company of his books, hiding away in the cosiness of home or in the quiet solitude of the Razan Gardens. He seldom takes the initiative to close the physical (and metaphorical) distance between himself and strangers/acquintances. He tends to just hold his ground and/or waits for others to approach him first—except for the times where he's asserting himself or making a point; or when he decides to do something because he has a personal interest in it/wants to be involved (e.g. his unsaid concern for Cyno and Cyrus when he recognised the significance of the emblem Kaveh had drawn and decided it was essential for their friends to know the details); or when he feels very strongly about his own convictions (e.g. when he'd approached Azar and accused him for abandonning both Sumeru and Lesser Lord Kusanali for his own goals). So, contrast the scene above with Kaveh to earlier in the day where Alhaitham didn't even bother to stick around once he'd believed Paimon and the Traveller didn't need anything from him anymore, and just went about his own business instead... This is how you know Alhaitham really likes Kaveh and just simply enjoys having his presence around :')

And how else would Alhaitham reciprocate Kaveh's enthusiasm than to tease his senpai with his usual brand of sass as affection? LOL

[kqutie]

GROUP EFFORT x SLEEPY MAMA

relations. : platonic avengers/single mother reader ; romantic pairing still undecided

sum. : you're exhausted and happily fall asleep with vinny but your son has other plans now that his favourite heroes were close by

tags. : single mother reader ; baby is inspired by Jack-Jack from ‘the incredibles’ ; fluff ; slight crack fic ; comfort fic ; baby!oc ; widowed reader ; baby has multiple powers ; domestic fluff ; avengers babysitting a super baby

length : 3.4k

← part one | series masterlist

You explained your situation with Vinny as thoroughly as you could in your sleep-deprived state while he slept in your arms. Your STEM background habitually prompted you to provide your hypothesis on the matter, which Bruce and Tony perked up and shared a look at. Both appeared to immediately take a mental note of researching the incident with your husband later. The team vaguely remembered the event when it first happened and dominated the headlines. It was dubbed as a freak accident that happened too quickly to be stopped; they were gutted that even they couldn’t do something about it. Naturally, they had questions but were hesitant to inquire when you were noticeably slipping in and out of consciousness. 

Natasha furrows her brows in sympathy as she observes you and gradually moves her gaze down to Vinny. Despite your exhausted state, you force yourself to maintain your posture and continue safely cradling your son, prioritising his comfort over your own. She can only imagine the amount of stress you had undergone the last few days of having to take care of a son with rapidly expanding powers. ‘Just a normal person’ was what you called yourself, someone who was ‘incapable of properly caring’ for your son and his powers no matter how much you were willing to stick it out. In the end, you had to call it quits. She admired your resilience and maternal drive, all of them did and they were more than willing to help you. It was definitely a bizarre case but, rather than figure things out now, it was more important to ensure your and Vinny’s wellbeing.  

“How about we call it a night for now?” Steve suggests as you hand over the list you had written up, detailing the extent of Vinny’s acquired powers. It was an extensive list composed of several scraps of paper and sticky notes. The team's eyes collectively bulge at the sizable amount of notations. 

“Does he have super speed like me?” Pietro blurts out in excitement, eager to potentially have someone who can finally keep up with his speed. 

“I don’t know… maybe it’ll manifest one day. The list only seems to keep growing,” you try to smile but you’re so tired it comes out as more of a grimance. 

“Stay the night,” Tony says with fixed conviction, “it’s gotten late and you came to us for help with the baby, right?” Pepper smiles beside him and nods in agreement. The couple stand side by side, already settled on the decision and it appears as though nobody else was going to contest it.  

“We have plenty of rooms available. I’ll be happy to take you and Vinny to one,” Pepper offers as Tony nods with his usual charming grin. Neither gives you the chance to object nor does the rest of the team—all are determined to lend you a helping hand. Looking at their kind expressions made you tear up. It was such a relief. You haven’t felt this supported since your late husband was alive.  

“Y-yes please,”

“It’s settled then, over to you Ms Potts,” Tony gives the curve of Pepper’s butt a small pat as he moves away, “I’ll get the staff to bring up a cot as soon as possible,” The team follow the couple’s lead and wish you a goodnight as Pepper begins leading you to the available bedrooms with Vinny still asleep in your arms. 

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

The team remain in the living room discussing the current events. Pepper had informed them of which room you were sleeping in for the night when she came back, it was one of the bigger rooms considering they were organising a cot to be put in for Vinny, it also had an ensuite and small kitchenette for your convenience. 

The cot was taking a while to acquire and build due to the suddenness of the request but you assured her that having no cot wasn’t an ‘end of the world’ thing, you were more than happy to sleep with Vinny in the same bed. In fact, you had recently gotten into the habit so that you were easily alerted whenever Vinny spontaneously did something with his powers. However, Pepper doubts you would wake so easily in your sleep-deprived state; you fell asleep the instant your head hit the pillow. Thankfully, Vinny remains fast asleep beside you. 

“You think it was the gamma rays, Bruce?” Tony asks nonchalantly as he settles himself atop the sofa arm, snacking on chocolate-covered almonds. 

“It’s highly likely,” Bruce has been absorbed in research ever since you had left the room, typing away on his laptop. “Reports of the incident don’t flag up anything suspicious happening,” Tony raises a brow and there’s a knowing silence that fills the room momentarily, “...but we may just need to do some more digging,” Bruce was willing to continue his research but Tony insisted on the work day being over and the need for a good work-life balance. All Pepper’s influence. 

“We can continue the research tomorrow, Banner. Meeting a teleporting, multi-superpowered baby warrants some rest for the night, at least,” With a shake of his head, Bruce relents to Tony’s insistence and finally closes his laptop. Pepper looks at her fianceé proudly, Tony has come so far and has truly grown into the hero many admire him to be. His under-eyes are looking much healthier too. After his initial hesitation, Bruce and Tony join everyone else in the central living room again. 

“Will the baby and his mother be staying here for a long time?” Thor asks thoughtfully, leaning back into the sofa as Loki contemplates the question beside him. It makes sense for the mother and son duo to stay considering how unpredictable the child’s powers are. 

“It would be for the best,” Steve announces, receiving a nod of agreement from the majority. “The baby needs to be analysed so we can better help the mother and separating the two is entirely out of the question.”

“We’re not subjecting the child to any experiments though, right?” Bucky asks, a hardness coming over his expression and darkening his features. Everyone holds their breath and looks to Tony for answers. It was a collective look that pleaded opposition to the idea. In their line of work, experimentation on children was, unfortunately, a common occurrence and was something they actively pursued in putting an end to.   

“Surely not,” Natasha says lowly through gritted teeth. Everyone understood how important the topic was to her.

“‘Course, not.” Tony states matter-of-factly and shrugs, “There are ways of collecting data without having to partake in those old-school, traumatising experiments,” 

The Maximoff twins look at one another before Pietro suggests the obvious, “So… babysitting?” Tony shoots him with a pair of finger guns and cheerfully announces his victory. 

“I’m afraid no prize for you though—”

A giggle cuts through the room and everyone turns to the source immediately. Not again. 

Sat on the coffee table was Vinny, no longer asleep and having teleported into the living room once more. For a moment, nobody knows what to say or do until Vinny reaches his arms up, claps and giggles happily while staring up at Bucky, his little arms still raised. The supersoldier’s expression softens considerably at the child, his heart warmed by the infant’s glittering eyes and gummy smile. Giving a small wave and wiggling his fingers, Bucky is rewarded by another giggle before Vinny makes grabbing motions at him with his small, pudgy, baby hands. The gesture, however, makes him pause entirely. 

“That means he wants you to pick him up, Cyborg,” Sam laughs at his friend’s frozen state, it was hilarious to see someone who was usually so stoic and threatening become a headless chicken in front of a baby.

Slow and steady, Bucky reaches out and takes Vinny in his arms. The infant squeals in delight and kicks his legs when the soldier lifts him into the air before settling him on his lap to face the rest of the team. Vinny leans back against Bucky with a smug-looking grin as the brooding assassin sits rigidly behind him and whose large hands keep him in place by grasping his small torso on either side. It almost scares him how his fingertips touch when holding Vinny – the child is so tiny, so pudgy, soft, and fragile. Bucky’s face goes stock-still as does his limbs — he becomes indistinguishable from a stone statue. 

Pietro, Clint and Tony burst out laughing at the sight, pointing fingers at Bucky and making little Vinny grin in delight, their tangible joy is infectious to him. Even Sam is snickering from Bucky’s peripheral, no longer worried about getting hit upside the head since the supersoldier was otherwise preoccupied. Finding their laughter contagious too, Vinny joins in, oblivious to the glaring super soldier whose lap he was happily seated on. 

“He looks like a little prince in an oil painting sitting on a throne!” Pietro comments in between gasps of laughter. Tony snaps a picture and everyone slowly sees the vision Pietro had been calling out. It was comical. Clint was desperately gasping for breath as Loki snickered under his breath and Thor agreed to the ‘little prince’ observation.

“That child makes for an excellent prince!”

“But a throne? More like a stone statue,” Sam snorts as Steve struggles to keep a straight face. 

“Not. Funny.” Bucky growls lowly, paying no mind to the way the child in his lap plays with his fingers, unsuccessfully trying to pry his grip off his torso whilst babbling incoherent words. 

“You having fun, little guy?” Steve asks, leaning down to meet eyes with Vinny who responds happily, although in his nonsensical baby language. “I see, I’m glad,” Vinny prattles on again and holds a conversation with the soft-eyed, gently smiling captain for a good two minutes as the rest of the team looks fondly at the scene. 

Moments like this were what life was about. 

Evenings with the entire team were an eagerly anticipated activity, however, to have such a precious child join in on the event was a welcome occurrence. It felt like a family coming together to indulge in each other’s warm company. It was calm and mundane but it was what everyone craves atop the tumultuous life they lead. 

“What did the child say?” Thor’s booming voice cuts through the conversation and Steve turns to find him with a wide smile, eagerly anticipating an answer. 

With a roll of his eyes and a tsk, Loki answers before Steve can utter a word of explanation, “The captain doesn’t actually understand the child, he’s just entertaining it,”

“It’s ‘he’, not ‘it’, Loki,” Wanda corrects but is ignored by the god. 

“But they were conversing rather fluently just then,” Thor insists. Sometimes the group wonders if the Thunder God liked to play dumb just to annoy his younger sibling.  

“It doesn’t matter, the captain was speaking properly whilst the child wasn’t speaking any coherent language,” The two continue to bicker the way siblings do, as usual, while everyone else turns back to Vinny. The child, however, keeps his gaze locked on the two gods, his round, doe eyes transfixed on them with a blank expression before he suddenly smiles and squeals. 

“Ahh-yah!” the room suddenly shakes, as if a minor earthquake had occurred and the gods finally stop bickering. Everyone’s attention was on Vinny again. Wide-eyed, Bruce scours through the list of powers you handed over earlier and tries to find some sort of explanation. 

“What the hell was that?” Tony breathes in disbelief and turns to his lab partner, “Banner?”

“I think it’s the ‘loud sound (crying, cheering, laughing) = earthquake’,” 

“Echokinesis…” the two scientists conclude at the same time.

Tony slowly swipes his hands down his face, “This kid is gonna be a handful,” everyone stares, wide-eyed at the giggling child still sitting on Bucky’s lap. Vinny gurgles happily at the attention before assuming the stares are to commence one of his favourite games. Bringing his small, chubby hands up to his face, Vinny covers his eyes, cooing softly before revealing his eyes with a ‘dah!’. His proud grin is more gums than teeth but he’s just happy to play one of his favourite games ever. 

The adorable display makes the team smile, easily forgetting the earlier incident of uncontrolled power displayed by the innocent babe. Vinny continues playing peek-a-boo with everyone, who gradually joins in, Wanda being the most enthusiastic as she softly sings ‘peek-a-boo’ to the baby opposite her. Vinny had joined the light singing as well but with muddled coos instead. All is well and nerves have just begun to settle as Vinny covers his eyes for about the umpteenth time, elongating the innocent game. However, the team doesn’t mind as long as the baby is entertained and not crying.  

“Peek…a…boo!” Wanda sings once more but, this time, when Vinny reveals his eyes from under his small baby hands, two tunnels of bright green light shoot forward and everyone on the other side of the room ducks for cover. The parallel laser beams reached as far as the opposite wall and almost tore straight through it. As Vinny’s merry giggles fill the air, everyone slowly regains their composure and stares in disbelief at the destroyed couch. 

“The kid has fucking laser eyes too?!” Clint exclaims in disbelief, slack-jawed at the destructive evidence of Vinny’s power. 

“Language,” Steve promptly reprimands despite his own astonishment at the child’s display while Bucky had promptly covered Vinny’s tiny ears with his hands. Loki laughs joyfully, looking at your babbling baby boy with glittering amusement. 

“What an incredibly gifted child,” Loki praises with a smirk, his hair tousled by the scuffle but he pays it no mind.

It was then that Vinny reached his little arms up to Natasha, babbling happily before changing his mind and turning to Tony, only to change his mind again and make grabby hands at Thor. Everyone watches as the infant conflicts with himself, not knowing who he wants to be held by more before he falls forward and tumbles out of Bucky’s arms, or rather a duplicate of him does. In fact, a swarm of baby Vinnys fall off Bucky’s lap and begin shakily waddling over to a different avenger each.   

“Oh my…” Natasha gasps, cuddling a happily cooing Vinny to her chest — a duplicate one, at least. Looking around, every Avenger was made to cradle a duplicate baby as they tried to contain their shock and amazement. “This is crazy…”

“Wh-what do we do?” Pietro asks no one in particular as Wanda tries not to fawn over the baby Vinny in her arms.  

“Just make sure he doesn’t start crying or they’ll all start crying and the tower will end up collapsing on everyone because of their echo-kiss-thing,” Sam advises, panic swimming in his eyes as he remembers the shrieks of his baby nephews and how they had the power to make all nearby adults cry with them too. 

“N-now we don’t necessarily know if the baby can use more than one power at once or if his duplicates can perform powers atop the duplication. But I think it’s safe to say that that’s not the case–” Bruce cuts himself off as the baby in his arms coos, mesmerised by his moving jaw and reaches up a tiny hand to touch the scientist’s face. The duplicate Vinny in his arms begins babbling as if Bruce had been talking to him the entire time and they were pleasantly conversing. Charmed by the display, Bruce smiled softly and cooed at the infant in his arms — there was just something about babies that brought joy and peace to a person, he wanted to savour that feeling as much as possible.   

“Are you sure about that?” Clint asks and raises his Vinny, who had started dribbling and blowing bubbles with his spit. The bubbles should have easily disappeared but they began to float around and soon enough all the duplicate Vinny babies were blowing bubbles with their saliva. 

“I don’t know if that’s disgusting or adorable…” Tony comments, staring in mild awe and disgust at the display whilst bouncing the giggling baby in his arms. Pepper walks up beside him with an equally disturbed but awestruck expression. 

“How can they float like that?”

“You want to pop it, little human?” Thor chuckles as the Vinny in his arms reaches for the floating bubbles. Wanting to keep the child entertained, Thor obliges and pops a bubble for him only to yelp at the sudden electric shock he was subjected to. To a god of thunder, that felt like an insect bite, however, that would not be the case for his teammates. “Be careful my friends! This child was able to encase electricity within these innocent bubbles!” 

“Oh god! What are you?!” Sam asks in disbelief at the baby in his lap. Vinny simply giggles behind his small hands – he looks like the perfect picture of innocence but the team of heroes know better. 

Tony hands Pietro a wooden coaster from the coffee table to quickly pop all the bubbles with so that they don’t injure someone. The speedster nods but hands him his duplicate Vinny before zipping off to do the task. It didn’t take longer than five seconds to complete for Pietro and everyone could finally breathe a sigh of relief. 

“This is gonna be…interesting…” Tony observes with some hesitance as Bruce snorts a laugh and gives him a raised-brow look. 

“I could’ve told you that, Tony,” Sam chuckles. 

“But we can still help Vinny and his mother, correct?” Steve asks, feeling his heart clench as the baby in his arms cuddles into him with a suppressed yawn. The supersoldier watched, mesmerised, as the child slowly blinks and gradually fell asleep while sucking on his little thumb. 

“Of course!” Wanda declares and looks at Tony, “Even if it’s going to be difficult, we can’t just turn them away,” 

“I never said we were going to turn them away,” Tony smiles and relaxes his shoulders when the duplicates disappear in a small puff of smoke, revealing that Steve had the real Vinny. “They’re free to stay as long as they need,” the team smiled in relief at the assurance. They weren’t going to admit it aloud but they had already grown an attachment to the son and mother pair. It would be a good change of pace to have the two around the tower. 

“Splendid! I like the child very much already! And the mother is lovely, herself,” Thor speaks for everyone in the room, lowering his voice for the sake of Vinny who Steve had cradled to his chest and was gently rocking, “She seems very kind and loving, much like our mother, right, Loki?” the blonde god happily slings his arm over his younger brother’s shoulders and brings him close. 

“I suppose so,” Loki agrees with a scowl and stubbornly shrugs off his brother’s arm, who laughs goodnaturedly at the gesture.

“What about Nick?” Natasha asks, making everyone tense up but it was a subject that couldn’t be avoided. 

“I don’t think Nick is heartless enough to separate a mother and child or subject the little one to anything traumatic,” Steve was confident in that, “but if he shows otherwise, we’re putting a stop to it immediately,” Everyone nods and Pepper volunteers to call the S.H.I.E.L.D director about the situation. 

“It’s late,” Tony excuses and chuffs at the look Pepper sends him, “and, even though he’ll be ready at any time of the day. It’s best to start this tomorrow. The baby’s asleep anyway,”

Everyone notes the peace that had befallen the room. Everything was quiet except for the slumbering child’s soft breaths and their hushed voices discussing the topic. Looking at the clock, time had already passed so quickly.  

“This little one was such a handful,” Wanda comments, “no wonder his poor mother looked so…” she chooses her words carefully, “troubled,”

“I would have given up and collapsed already,” Clint confessed with a good-humoured snicker, “she must be a super mom to have taken care of a super baby all by herself for longer than a day,” hums and nods of agreement were shared throughout the room. The feat you accomplished was beyond their comprehension. Even though they were experienced in handling unusual, potentially dangerous events like this, they had struggled quite a bit from only one evening with Vinny. But you were one person without any special abilities or experience, and yet, you had lasted longer than they did. 

“A mother’s love is otherworldly,”  Thor concludes and, again, everyone hums and nods in agreement. 

navi. | series masterlist

a/n : sorry this took so long my loves! this was very vinny and avengers centric also but mother dear deserves the rest, i hope everyone is enjoying the series so far. i will soon be opening up requests for this series to see what you lovelies want to see happen and the chapters will be based on those requests -- eventually anyone can read this series in any order they want!

[giveamadeuschohisownmovie]

If you combine the RDR2 epilogue with RDR1, while the series is still about John Marston’s redemption, the epilogue expands the scope by asking the question, “Can John put away his guns for good?”

Because the RDR2 epilogue was all about how John just couldn’t get away from gunfights. Although you can argue that he was pushed into those fights with the Laramies, you can also see Abigail’s perspective in that the fights were putting their family at risk. So, when Abigail leaves, John is forced to really consider if he can put the guns away for good. If he can actually pull off being a rancher. To his credit, he does try.

He gets the bank loan, he builds the house with Uncle and Charles, and he learns how to properly manage the property. Because of his efforts, Abigail and Jack come back. But even so, John just can’t put the guns away because he’s driven by revenge against Micah Bell. Although he gets his payback, he’s punished for it by Edgar Ross tracking him down. Ironically, karma bit both Micah and John here.

So, RDR1 continues the question of whether John can put the guns away for good. It’s here where he’s almost reached that point. But now, he’s being tested on whether he’ll be tempted back into a life of an outlaw, back into a life involving violence and danger. Despite everything that’s thrown his way, John continues his path of redemption/putting his guns away for good:

1) He’s put into the role of a lawman and is pitted against Bill’s gang, essentially forcing him to be on the other side of the outlaws’ violence against others. It’s through this that John swears off from the outlaw life for good, especially when he sees just how awful Bonnie MacFarlane and her family were treated.

2) Javier tries to use nostalgia of the “good ole days” to win John over. It doesn’t work since John doesn’t want the good ole days, especially since he has a bright future with Abigail and Jack. The Mexico arc was, in general, about torn loyalties. John was playing both sides of the war and Javier tried to sway John based on their past friendship. Despite this, John stays true to his convictions. He doesn’t want the life of an outlaw anymore, nor does he want to keep shooting people anymore (he even says he’s getting tired of pulling the trigger!), so he rejects the nostalgia of the old gang.

3) Dutch challenged John over his desire to change. Dutch believed change was impossible and that John would “always” be a gunslinger. He can’t be a rancher, it’s just not what nature intended. John, once again, sticks to his convictions. In fact, despite all of his anger towards Dutch, he refused to shoot him. John can shoot Bill and Javier, but it’s Dutch who he refuses to shoot. When I first played this, I thought it was his fondness over Dutch as his former leader. Now, I’m wondering if it’s also John trying to prove his point. That he CAN change, that he CAN put the guns away. So he does, even when he had Dutch cornered.

Then came the final challenge. Jack Marston brings up the topic of “the day John Marston stopped shooting”. What will it take? John finally does, but in more than one way. Obviously, he puts the guns away since he dies. But John could’ve easily escaped. We’ve done it as the player multiple times. But if he did, it would be a return to a life on the run, a life where Abigail and Jack would always be in danger. The same life that made Abigail take Jack and leave John in the RDR2 epilogue. Everything he’s worked for, all the progress he made in changing his life would be ruined.

So, John makes the hard choice. He sacrifices himself to ensure his family would be safe. He refuses to return to the outlaw life, to a life where he has to shoot at people, even if it means his death. And what is the last thing John does?

He throws away his gun.

[standfucker]

Finding Out You’re Stronger Than Them - Logia Edition (Smoker + Ace)

Feeling very stuck with my WIPS lately, so I decided to try my hand at a bullet-point style drabble. Ace’s and Smoker’s went fine, but Crocodile’s and Kuzan’s immediately grew into something too big for a bullet point list and will be posted separately, if I can get them to a point I’m happy with. Have these two for now.

CW: Just a little bit of violence

Ao3 Link

Smoker

You’ve been rising quickly through the ranks. Smoker’s heard that you’re strong, but by the time you get assigned to him, he has yet to see it for himself.

You’ve followed all of his orders thus far, and past reports on your behavior are generally positive, so when you block him from chasing a pirate one day, he’s taken by surprise.

“This one’s innocent. I saw it for myself. He’s trying to support the village.” You get into stance, eyes blazing with defiance, fully ready to take on your captain.

“It doesn’t make a difference,” Smoker says. “He’s still a pirate.”

“He only stole from nobles. People who wouldn’t miss the wealth. It makes every difference.”

“Get out of the way.”

“No.”

He turns into smoke to go around you, but you grab at where his ankle would be, your haki forcing his body back into shape, and swing him into the ground with such force that stars dot his vision as the wind is knocked out of him.

No one told him you could use armament haki.

“I’m stronger than you. Don’t get a big head because you’re my superior. I’ll surpass you soon.”

“I could have you court-martialed for this,” he gasps.

“Then do it. See if I care. That person was innocent–I know I did the right thing. I don’t give a shit about your opinion,” you pause, then add, “Captain.”

You crouch next to him as he struggles to sit up, still dizzy from the brutal impact. Picking up his cigars that have fallen, you dust them off before sticking one back in his mouth and putting the other in yours. You take an experimental puff, wrinkle your nose at the taste, and deftly twirl the cigar between your fingers. He finds himself staring as you exhale, smoke curling around your profile.

“I requested to be transferred to your unit because Tashigi told me you were different from the others,” you say, and pop the second cigar into his mouth as well. “So don’t disappoint me, Captain.”

The blush on his face is from indignation, or that’s what he tells himself. It’s the audacity. You have some nerve to talk to him that way. To lay your hands on a superior, to obstruct the law.

And yet. He shouldn’t, but a part of him–a big part of him–can’t help but admire your conviction. Enough so that he doesn’t report your insubordination.

It’s always refreshing to find a soldier who thinks for themselves, but it’s also dangerous if you cross the wrong superiors. (God forbid you talk back to someone like Akainu, which Smoker knows you would do without hesitation.) 

Smoker will have to keep an eye on you, to make sure you don’t get into trouble you can’t get out of…

Ace

One day, Ace realizes that in all the months since he’s officially joined the crew, he’s never seen you fight, not even to spar.

When he asks Marco about it, he says, “Oh, that’s because of the collateral damage, yoi.” Ace thinks Marco is joking and laughs. Marco does not.

But can you blame Ace? You’re one of the gentlest pirates in the fleet. You’re the kind of person who stops crewmates from squishing bugs, and who’s so stricken by the dead dogs at the end of your novels that you cry for days afterward (getting to hold you when you seek him out for comfort rules, but why you keep reading those, he does not know.)

After a battle with an enemy crew, one in which you don’t participate, Ace asks some crewmates why you abstained.

“Same reason Pops doesn’t join the small fights,” Haruta says. “Too messy, you know?”

“Wait, just how strong is Y/n?” Ace says, now realizing Marco was being serious earlier.

“Don’t worry about it, Ace,” you say behind him, making him jump. “Just know I’m stronger than you.”

That stings his pride, enough so that he challenges you to a friendly match while crewmates exchange glances.

“Sure, after you’ve rested from this fight. I’d hate to have a handicap.”

“I’m not tired! I can take you right here, right now.”

“Right now?” At Ace’s nod, you shrug. “Well, okay then. Here I go!”

You vanish.

He can’t sense you anywhere. By the time he figures out you’re behind him, it’s too late. One of your hands wraps around the back of his neck, the other on the hem of his pants. When he can’t escape by turning into flames, he knows you’re using haki.

You proceed to slam him face-first into the deck so hard he breaks straight through it, stuck upside down in the wood. The crewmates on the floor below blink up at him.

“You challenged Y/n, didn’t you,” one of them says.

Once his head stops swimming, Ace pulls himself out. His nose is broken and bleeding and he’s covered in scratches and splinters, but he’s looking at you with a newfound sense of awe.

“Logia types,” you shake your head, lip curling, “always so full of themselves.” Then you look stricken. “Oh, I hurt Moby again... Pops will scold me…”

And, look.

Ace knows what he likes. He’s not ashamed to say he found the whole thing extremely hot, but he has the decency to keep it to himself. (Literally the entire crew could tell, but no one tells Ace that either.)

He can’t stop thinking about the fight (if it could even be called that.) He stays awake at night, picturing the way your mouth moved when you said ‘Logia types,’ the little smirk afterward. He had always liked you, but now there’s a newfound aspect to his attraction, and he’s down bad.

Ace wants to know even more about you after that, asking you about your history and how you learned to fight. Luckily, you don’t mind the attention, and your humoring him feeds into his ego until he’s practically following you around in his free time. The rest of the crew takes notice, teasing him about being your shadow–but you never complain, so why should he care?

You've been spending lots of time together since then. He keeps fantasizing about saying “my partner can kick your ass” to people, but he hasn’t actually asked you out yet. It’s unlike him to be so gun-shy, yet every time he works up the nerve to ask, he only gets as far as “Hey, Y/n?” before your sparkly-eyed, saccharine “Yes, Ace?” crumbles his confidence to dust. But he’s Fire-Fist Ace, damn it! He faced Pops alone to save his crew, so why is this so difficult?

If he asks the other Division Commanders for help, expect a Looney Tunes style sequence of each one suggesting a courting method and it failing spectacularly and going up in literal flames, until he finally gets so frustrated with the whole thing he ends up just shouting his confession.

Bonus:

“There, there,” Ace says, patting your back while you cling to him and sob into his shoulder. “It’s just a stupid book.”

That was the wrong thing to say. With your emotions already running high, your misery shifts to rage in an instant.

“YOU JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND THE BOND BETWEEN A KID AND THEIR DOG BECAUSE YOU ATE EVERY ANIMAL YOU ENCOUNTERED GROWING UP!!” you wail, then hiccup, sob, and bury your face into his chest.

Ace wisely decides not to point out the food scarcity of his home island. There are better times, and at least you’re holding him tight...

[qqueenofhades]

I'm having a bit of a rough mood from seeing that the judge in the Georgia case dismissed some of the orange motherfucker's charges.

Can I get some your ever-insightful perspective on this, and if there's still hope for prison time for something? Anything at all?

I can offer a few pieces of context on this, yes. First, the judge did dismiss a few of the less-substantiated and secondary charges against Trump in the Georgia election interference case. However, these charges were primarily related to "soliciting others to make false statements," i.e. how he enlisted others in the purpose of overturning the GA election results, and do not contest or impact upon the actual fact of election subversion (which is at the core of the prosecution). The judge also openly invited the prosecutorial team to re-submit the dismissed charges with more substantiated evidence and clearer testimony, so this wasn't a from-the-bench hack job like the ones Aileen Cannon keeps running in the Mar-a-Lago classified documents case (seriously, when can we appeal to the 11th Circuit to get her taken off? WHEN???) Which, considering that this is a Republican judge appointed by a Republican governor (Brian Kemp) is a good sign.

In short, this wasn't the judge saying "all these charges are bogus and inadmissible," it was the judge saying "I'll dismiss a few of these for not being as well substantiated as the others, but please resubmit with revisions/improvements and I will be happy to consider them again." And while I am not a lawyer, it is my understanding that prosecutors typically bring a multiplicity of charges, including some that might not ultimately stick, in case of this exact circumstance where some of them get dismissed/required to undergo judicial review/are otherwise ancillary to the central indictment. Which, in this case, is still intact. So no, Trump is 100% not "getting entirely off the hook" or "no longer under investigation in Georgia" or whatever else. I'm sure the GOP will try to spin it as such, but ignore them. The Trump "find me 11,780 votes" phone call to Raffensperger and the rest of his Georgia election interference has not been dismissed, and the RICO case still largely exists as first filed.

This is also a good sign that the judge won't order Fani Willis dismissed and the case completely shut down, as the Georgia Republicans have been trying to do with their hit-job inquiry into her personal life. If the judge was leaning toward dismissing Willis/the case entirely, this could have been a lot more sweeping intervention, but it doesn't look like he's going to do that, and in fact offered them an invitation to re-submit and make the case stronger. So that actually bodes better for the chances of eventually securing a conviction in the Georgia case, if the prosecutors have to go back to the drawing board and make sure everything is airtight. It's probably helpful to see all this in the above light and to understand that all legal cases drag on for years, with forward progress and setbacks. Especially this one, which is unprecedented in all ways.

However, I need to warn people again about thinking that Trump will be tried, convicted, and imprisoned before the election, and that this will spare us from having to vote against him or otherwise electorally dispose of him. SCOTUS, to nobody's surprise but still our disappointment, agreed to hear the Trump immunity case in late April (instead of just accepting the DC Circuit's opinion), and while they're likely to rule against him, that still creates another months-long delay. Importantly, though, the Department of Justice has announced that the "no legal proceedings 60 days before the election" rule does NOT apply to Trump, as he has already been indicted and the cases are currently being litigated. If they had decided that the 60-day rule applied, all trial proceedings would have to be frozen in the first week of September, but since not, they can continue into October and November. If the 60-day rule had been upheld, it would have drastically increased the odds of Trump avoiding trial entirely before the election, as few prosecutors would have wanted to proceed when they knew that there was an automatic kill switch built in. But if the DOJ holds to this, Trump could literally be on trial on Election Day itself. Which is good, obviously, but still: it will not be the magic solution. We still have to vote for Biden.

As I have said before, the stakes in 2024 are simple. The criminal trials will not get rid of Trump before the election. There will be another election that is Trump vs. Biden and therefore one of them will win the presidency. If Biden wins and Trump loses, Trump will be out of delay options and will go to prison almost 100% as all his criminal chickens come home to roost. If he wins, we will be fucked for generations to come. Vote accordingly.