#so that makes me. immeasurably sad.

[dhmis-autism]

what happened to grrgrrgrr? whyd they deactivate

I DONT FUCKING KNOOOW!!! I WISH I DID BC I LOVED THEM AND THEIR WORK SO MUCH!! I MISS THEM EVERY FUCKING DAYYY

They were one of my fav dhmis artists and they were such a sweetheart!! They drew me smth for my bday even tho we had never talked before,really!

I can tell you WHEN it happened, it happened around April/May of this year, because that was when I hurt my wrist so badly I took like a two-ish week long break from internet stuff. And when I came back! They were gone!!!

But ah, we weren't very close and I never really talked to them outside of Tumblr, so I am NOT the girl with the answers,I am just the girl dressed in a dramatic black veil crying and dropping white roses on their blogs grave.

[zenmai--jikake--no--komoriuta]

just served an elderly couple an icecream and they're sitting outside eating it together and I can't stop tearing up.......... what a horrible day for this kind of news ;;;;

[karmaswhiskee]

As someone who was actually isolated and basically imprisoned, I can tell you that while nothing feels better than freedom, the threat of losing that freedom looms over you. Icarus fell because he did not put in the work and only the suffering. Had he created the wings, he would have not flown too close to the sun as the pride of escaping on his own would have made up for the years of wisdom he lacked due to his age. This is not me pushing like "the grind" culture or victim blaming. He was young, so freedom became a drug to him before he even got the full dose.

If everyone who tastes freedom after being trapped flew too close to the sun, then there would be no survivors.

i can't vibe with anyone who thinks icarus was an ignorant idiot for flying too close to the sun. "oh i'd never do that i would have remembered my father's warning and been fine". do you seriously think that after years of imprisonment, feeling the sun on your face and the open air beneath your wings, you would be able to focus on anything but the joy of being alive and free? do you actually think that if you were given the opportunity to go where nobody has never been before, you wouldn't want to push it to the limit? to dare to be the first to try what no one else has ever even thought possible? do you honestly think you're too good for your own human nature? look me in the eyes and tell me if i strapped a pair of wings to your back that could take you wherever you wanted to go whenever you pleased that you'd be careful and sensible about it. you are not better than icarus just because you have the benefit of his example.

[drop--pop--candy]

there is not a song with enough sad per sad in it

[fumiliar]

self-restraint is one thing kento prides on. he is a good man, or at least he tries to be. his eyes landed on your flailing figure, pinching his nose bridge to prepare himself. you, gojo, kento and shoko went out for drinks to celebrate the fact you 4 were still alive.

your mind was blank, you had no self-control, it was like the shame centre in your brain got turned off.

"oh my god!" you squealed in excitement. "my favourite song!" you stumbled off your bar stool, going to stand up on the table, gojo supporting your brave act.

kento acted quick. right when your foot landed on the table, you were pulled back by an immeasurable amount of strength, your back landing on someone's muscular chest.

"how drunk are you?" a gruff voice spoke right beside your ear, sending shivers through your whole body. your senses were already heightened, but at this moment, you could feel everything. you could hear the fastening rhythm of your heart, along with the steady rhythm of another's.

"earth to y/n~," satoru's singsong voice echoed through your empty head.

"yea, sorry," you shook your head, turning around to see kento's disapproving look. his hand keeping a deathly grip on your wrist, ensuring you were always close to him, in case you'd do something embarrassing, or at least that's what he tells himself.

"y/n, i'll bring you ho-"

"don'tt, you're such a party pooper nanamin! we were just getting started," the blue eyed man whined, he looked like he was about to start a tantrum.

"yeah, let's just wrap it up, i wanna go home," shoko agreed with kento, getting ready to leave. "i'll leave y/n to you, gojo, come." satoru following shoko like a sad puppy.

"let's go home," kento used his free hand to pack up your stuff, double checking if you took anything out of your purse.

"you're so hot when you take care of me," you freely complimented kento, his ears slowly turning beet red.

"i like you kento, you know that right?" you kept talking, kento's face slowly turning a darker shade of red. "why are you so red? are you having a fever?" you used your free hand to feel his forehead, even in your drunken state, you still worried about his health.

"no...y/n. i'm fine," he put your bag on your shoulder as he led you out of the establishment.

"ow....my feet hurt ken," you pouted looking down at your heels.

restrain yourself kento. restrain. was the only thing he could think off as he looked back at you. he didn't want to take advantage of your drunken self. he knelt down as he took of your heels, you bracing yourself on his back. he slowly took your hand of his back, putting down your heels on the ground to take off his blazer.

"up," his back facing you as he knelt down. you weren't going to waste a chance getting piggy backed. instantly, your arms slid around his neck as your legs trapped his torso. kento stood up, picking up your heels and adjusting his hold on you.

"comfy?" you nodded against his neck. "take this, and wrap it around your waist," he handed you his blazer. you instantly listened, wrapping the blazer around your waist, making sure you don't flash anyone along your way home.

"ken, you're so good to me," you mumbled, nibbling on his neck, eliciting a groan out of the man.

"you're such a tease," kento chuckled, smiling to himself at his current predicament.

"we're not even dating....hft," you sighed. kento let out a hearty laugh at your dissatisfaction.

"why do you want us to date?" kento asked making you even more disappointed.

"what woman doesn't want stability!" this time you were annoyed. you straightening your back, not leaning on kento's anymore. kento was still joyful, instead of responding to your annoyance, he loosened his grip on your legs, your instincts kicked in, quickly wrapping your hands around his neck once more to ensure your safety.

"were you about to drop me??" panic was evident in your tone, but kento was still amused. "answer me!" your hand hitting on his chest.

"y/n," kento sternly called out your name, abruptly stopping your abuse on his chest. "we're married love, isn't that the epitome of stability? why would i regress our relationship to just boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"huh?..." you were confused for a second, quickly looking at your hand. and there it was, glistening in the moonlight, your wedding ring. "oh.."

kento couldn't help but tease your drunken self, his self-restraint always wavering when it came to you. the prim and proper man turning playful in your presence, he just couldn't help it. he continued his walk home, occasionally giggling at your forgetful nature.

"i hope you don't forget this moment," kento muttered under his breath, knowing full well you would have no memory of this event, only a pounding headache to remind you of yesterday's events.

[oceantornadoo]

betrayal (simon riley x f!reader)

in the same universe as two lieutenants

--

"what the fuck, simon."

you slammed down a stack of papers on his desk. he tilted his head up, eyes moving fast as they read what was in front of him. leaning back, he crossed his arms and spread his legs in his desk chair, the picture of composure. "use your words, lieutenant."

you scoffed, unbelieving. "i put in a transfer and you deny it? we're the same rank, you shouldn't even be able to do that." he shrugged, eyes darting away. guilty. "don't know what yer talkin' about. same rank, remember?" you rolled your eyes, feet starting to pace his office floor out of anger. "i thought we were friends, simon." you stopped, the hurt swelling into your words. all your emotions hit at once. betrayal. sadness. you thought he'd be different. "and- and then i see this?" you swiped a hand angrily at your eyes, wiping away the tears before they formed. "what, you just want to hold me back? i want to be a captain and i can't be one on this team. you know that."

he knew that because of late nights in his room over tea, sharing deep secrets. you on his bed, him in his extra chair, whispers exchanged in the dark of the night. the trust you put into your fellow lieutenant was unimaginable, the weight of it immeasurable. your foolish mistake had come to bite you in the ass.

"dove, 's not what you-"

"don't you dare call me that." your finger up against his chest, accusing. his nickname for you too hurtful for you to hear right now. "lovie, let me explain i-" you turned around, heading for the door. done with this bullshit.

and then suddenly you were up against the door, simon's masked hand covering your mouth. he wasn't even breathing hard, the exertion barely making a dent in his stamina. he towered over you, eyes shining through his eyeblack and his simple black balaclava. the thumb of his hand covering your mouth brushed your jaw, a soothing motion to calm you down. "gonna be a good girl and listen?" his thigh was wedged in between your legs, mostly to keep you from bolting, but he used it to emphasize his words. you felt wetness pool in your underwear, your body betraying your mind. you rolled your eyes, but after seeing his facial expression not change, you finally nodded. he took his hand off your mouth, brushing your cheek before leaving it, his thigh forgotten between your legs.

"i denied it 'cause i'm a selfish bastard." your eyes widened in shock. confusion. were you right? "i just-" he took a breath, hand reaching to run through his hair before realizing he had his mask on. he yanked it off, throwing it to the side.

"i just wanted you to myself, ok? heard the team you applied for was gonna go dark for years in russia in an undercover op. and i can't-" his eyes seared into yours, both sets of pupils dilating in the moment. you understood.

"you won't lose me, simon." you reached your hand to run it through his hair, dirty blond strands easily passing through. you both stood there for a moment, taking comfort in the fact that this thing you two had was finally being addressed.

"i can't. after everythin', it's jus- not you too. can't lose you, dove." his masked hands cradled your face, glad your physical friendship boundaries were finally being crossed. you gave him a sad smile.

"i know you want captain. i asked 'round and there's other teams open. closer. was gonna tell you this afternoon but got interrupted." by you, choosing to believe he was like all the men before, who wanted to make you small so they felt big. by you, choosing to protect yourself first, not in the wrong but not optimistic either.

"ugh, you're the worst." fuck, had he gotten in wrong? this whole thing wasn't what he'd planned. the whole confession wasn't in the cards, and now he was paying for it. except-

except you were pulling him in for a hug, standing on your tippy toes so you could wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. his hands immediately rested on your waist, the feel of it so foreign and yet so right. this was the first time you'd ever embraced him like this, so open and emotional. he memorized the feel of you in his arms, just in case, always just in case, then let himself live in the moment. he dug his face into the crook of your neck, sniffing the scent of your contraband shampoo, the scent that chased him in his dreams and nightmares. his thumbs caressed your skin, drawing circles into your waist.

"yer it for me, you know? you see it now? but if you need to choose between me and captain, i get it." he waited for your answer with bated breath, squeezing you tighter in case you turned him down. in case it was his last chance.

you answered with a peck to the side of his head, making simon all warm and fuzzy inside. "you're mine too, idiot. i can still make captain without going to russia." finally, he relaxed. the hug had gone on for longer than necessary at this point, but he didn't want to let you go. slowly, you pulled back, making eye contact. "so when are you taking me out on a real date?"

--

this is for the girlies guys and pals who have always had to feel like they had to choose between a man and a career. with the right man, you deserve both! (i wouldn't know i'm just a hopeless romantic trapped in a college town but i'm trusting what the books say.)

[meyhew]

as nauseatingly sad as it’s making me, i also think it’s so so beautiful that people from all different walks of life are holding memorials and tributes for liam. it’s always been one of my favorite things about the band—the way they touched people in every corner of the world. liam was always so curious and so respectful of different cultures, different places. and now fans are mourning him in different ways, making space for him in their culture and tradition. i do think he would have loved that and i’m sure it’s a comfort to his family. it’s not going to change anything but it must make them immeasurably proud to see how good their liam was, how many lives he touched and how many people he made happy. it’s very bittersweet

[flowered-mp3]

legit gonna tear up at work because ...

[randomshyperson]

I'll Crawl Home To Her - Wanda Maximoff Oneshots

Summary: A rewrite of the fight scene in WandaVision, with a less aggressive but equally painful discussion. 

Warnings: canon-typical Westview angst, talking about magical submission and free will, established relationship, some grief mentions, rough kissing just because I can, love confessions/reaffirmations | Words: 1.644k

A/N-> I'm just rewriting loose scenes from WandaVison, none of which are really going to end up in anything bigger. But I hope it's a decent read. 

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

“It’s not often that you get a dog and bury them the same day.”

To your line, Wanda could have chosen to mumble in agreement. She could have said she was sorry, or she could have chosen to remain silent.

Instead, she chooses sarcasm, as if she had a good idea of how ridiculous everything was starting to get around that town.

“Well, life moves pretty fast out in the suburbs.”

You end up sighing, able to feel the anger slowly building up in you. Wanda continues to put toys away, and you decide to wipe your hands on the nearest dishcloth before turning to your wife.

"I spoke to Norm this morning." You start with a serious look on your face, and Wanda, oh your beautiful, stubborn wife, makes a mocking expression. You don't understand why she's acting this way. "He told me things that really frightened me, Wanda."

It was her turn to take a deep breath, the confidence in her expression wavering for a second. There was only one balcony between the two of you, but somehow the emotional distance was immeasurably greater.

Wanda looks you in the eye. "What's that supposed to mean, darling?"

“You tell me.”  You hit back without hesitation. But what you get from Wanda is a tired sigh, falsely innocent.

"I didn't know it was charades night again." She continues to mock. 

You can't remember if Wanda was ever cruel, but it's a fact that you can't remember anything that happened before Westview.

"I got scared because he was scared, Wanda!" You insist, approaching the counter to lean on one hand, while the other gestures your despair. "It was like a different person, a real, suppressed personality crying out to be released. It was accidental, of course, to discover this. But I'm not an idiot, Wanda. I can see what you're doing. The things that are changing around us every time something gets out of your control. And I don't understand why, and you won't talk to me, and I'm so scared!"

The tears in your eyes match hers. "Stop." She pleads earnestly, but you shake your head.

"You don't want this." You say.

Despite the emotion in her eyes, and the thick tears, Wanda gives a short, ironic laugh, her head tilting slightly. "Don't I?"

"If you did, I wouldn't know. I wouldn't be able to see, to question.” You sigh.”You’ve always been so... extraordinary." Her expression suddenly flinches at the compliment. "Your abilities, your power, I can't tell what happened before this place, but I know about now. There's not a trace of doubt in my mind about you, about how magnificently powerful I've always perceived you to be. Not even about how much I love and trust you." Wanda swallows dryly at your words, but you give a sad sigh. "Then I don't understand why you keep letting me see the flaws. If you're going to lie to me, leave me in the dark. Because I think I'm losing my mind little by little. I can't ignore the suffering of those people, and I can't ignore the uncertainty that grows in my chest every second. I can't remember anything, Wanda. I see those pictures on our walls, those fabricated memories, and nothing reaches me. I can't even recall if I had any kind of family before this place."

Wanda comes around the counter with a certain desperation, her hands reaching for your face. "You have a family. Me and the boys, why can't that be enough?"

Your hands reach for hers. "It's not that, sweetheart. Our family is perfect. This life is the closest to heaven I could get. But I can't be at peace with it at the cost of other people's suffering. I can't ignore their pain."

"I'll help you think of something else." She responds with a nod, pulling your face in to kiss you firmly.

Kissing Wanda has always been intoxicating, a sensation that's easy to get lost in. But fresh in your mind is your coworker, terrified and begging you to get away from this place. Get away from your wife.

You pull away, breaking the kiss and ignoring the way your whole body protests. Wanda is equally out of breath, but the gleam in her eyes hides a deep irritation.

"Wanda, I-

"Save it." She interrupts, turning her back on you. You catch a glimpse of a new form of anger and hurt in her eyes at being rejected. You sigh impatiently, following her instantly. 

"You're not going to run away from this conversation, Wanda, I need to know what's going on in this place!" You practically beg, yelling at her back because Wanda just keeps walking towards the stairs. You huff angrily and teleport immediately into her path. She jumps slightly in fright, grimacing with impatience and taking two steps backward, away from the steps as you insist; "Please. Talk to me."

"There's nothing to say if you don't believe me when I tell you there's nothing wrong." But you shake your head at the words, one hand pulling your hair back. Wanda chuckles humorlessly.  "See, you already have an opinion on the subject. On me. I'm already the villain in your story, darling, so why don't you keep digging behind my back and end this whole thing?"

She mentions going upstairs again, but you stand in her way, one hand pulling her face towards yours. The kiss is more intense than the one in the kitchen, heated enough for Wanda to gasp into your mouth.

She's ready to reciprocate with the same eagerness when you break it, the hand on her cheek caressing her skin.

"Because I love you, Wanda Maximoff." You whisper against her lips, and it's not just the words, but the devotion in your gaze that makes Wanda's legs wobble. You offer her a small smile, an air of lost battle in your expression. "There is no part of me that would plan and act against you. Even here, with the truth scratching at the walls, where I could if I wanted to access the suffering of these people, I wouldn't turn against you. I can only beg for a little mercy, my love. Take the pain away from me, the doubt. I will be loyal and complicit in any of your desires and decisions."

Wanda sobs, hugging you before you can say anything. You can't remember anything that came before, but she can, as clearly as if she were there. And Wanda loved every trace of your old self as much as she loves this Westview version, willing to do anything she asks. It's not so different from the person she lost, with the most striking exception that makes it clear in that moment, that nothing could ever replace the real you. 

You would have taken Wanda out of that fantasy. For better or worse, even if she hated you afterward, even if she never forgave you, you wouldn't let her cross lines through grief, you wouldn't let her lose herself again. After all, that's what you swore to do after witnessing first-hand all the guilt she carried for Ultron's madness and the accident in Lagos. Your true version would never let her drown in sorrow and hurt people again.

But the Westview version, so sweet and devoted, would stroke her back and say the same thing you always used to say, even if now you can't remember it.

"I'm sorry if I made you cry, princess, I never meant to. Look at me so I can bring your smile back."

Wanda holds on a little tighter, tears staining your blouse. The vast majority of the times she had heard this phrase, it had been at much less dramatic moments. While she had a passion for sitcoms and things that made her laugh, you liked more emotional movies that could make you cry. And every time you had a movie session, you would tell her that, easily achieving your goal of putting a smile on your girlfriend's face. But there were also times when the situations were dramatic - a poorly planned workout where Wanda ended up hurting you and tears of guilt escaped her and you tried to make her feel better by saying that same phrase. Or when you had a fight and it got a bit out of hand, and you started your apologies that way.

Or when Thanos took you from her, and Wanda had to hear it twice because of a time stone.

She doesn't want to hear it for a third occasion. 

You're ready to say something, maybe apologize, when Wanda breaks the hug. But she holds your cheeks and presses her mouth to yours. Slowly, allowing you to taste even the saltiness of her tears. There's a shaky sigh escaping from between your lips as she breaks away again, but your affected gaze changes to a curious one as red irises stare back at you.

"I'll make it better." She whispers, nodding slightly. You swallow dry, closing your eyes and resting your forehead against hers.

The only thing you whisper is exactly what makes her hesitate. "I trust you, Wanda."

She ignores the internal conflict and lifts one of her hands to stroke the back of your neck. It must be easy, especially within Hex, to change your mind. To make you no longer question.

You repeat that you love her, and Wanda brings trembling fingers to your forehead. 

She suddenly becomes very aware that consciously, she could never do that to you. She would rather you found out everything and hated her than take away your free will. To turn you into another puppet.

She sighs shakily, ready to say she'll put an end to this whole place when the doorbell rings.

Nothing could prepare her for seeing her twin brother again, but that's another story. Besides, not that Wanda has any idea, far away from there, a fallen Avenger is being stitched back together while calling her name in their sleep.

[wastemanjohn]

i'm not at all bothered about people disliking john because entirely valid tbh and someone else's opinion changes nothing for me. i just think the militant anti john brigade - that is, those that make up textually unsupported and entirely leftfield reasons to dislike him - are really missing out.

the thing is, we've got an absolute buffet of an interesting and irreparably fucked up character here. we could debate the absolute Horrors of john winchester and his a+ parenting for days on end literally from the two seconds of screentime he had. because he does suck! it's totally fair to say that canon john is selfish, neglectful and at best emotionally abusive. now i'm defo no apologist (see username) - but he's also the furthest thing from a cardboard shitty abusive dad. there is serious context for the things he does and the way he thinks.

john's life was hell man. his own dad, for all he knew, abandoned him. he went to war young and almost certainly came back with ptsd. these things alone don't exactly make life easy but then your wife burns to death on a ceiling and you're left a widower and a single dad to a baby and a pre schooler before you're even thirty? then discover that it couldn't even be a plain old housefire but no - there is actual Evil out there and you and your children are not safe and never will be?

the desire for revenge is understandable. the desire to do stupid and paradoxically dangerous things to protect your children are understandable. right, good or healthy? no. but understandable. and that's what makes a good sympathetic character.

basically i think a lot of negative readings of john exaggerate the badness of his intentions and ignore his humanity. it's also understandable that john is not a beacon of emotional regulation. it's also understandable that he cant always balance being emotionally and physically there for his kids with Fighting The Horrors. pour alcohol misuse onto this dumpster fire and you're not getting a perfect person, or a perfect parent. you're getting a broken human who was focused only on keeping his kids safe, alive, protected, and able to protect themselves. sure, he had tunnel vision about it. he did it very badly. he controlled sam as the youngest and parentified dean as the oldest. he made sam feel misunderstood and smothered. he made dean feel completely responsible for the welfare of his brother and dependent on john's praise and approval as his second in command.

john fucked his kids up IMMEASURABLY. he thought he was doing the right thing.

also - remember young john? remember how he's softly spoken and loves his cars and adores his girlfriend and respects his fucking elders and, to quote mary, "believes in happy endings"? remember the doting dad we see for like a minute in the pilot? is that not meant to show us that, had his life not taken the turn it did - he would likely have been an entirely different person? how is the tragedy of that not also completely DELICIOUS??

so why homophobic john? why john who beat dean senseless regularly? why john who gave no shits and wanted his boys to be miserable? why these embellishments that make him someone else, someone with nothing good inside of him, when what canon gives us is so much better?

come on guys. the tragic messy sad angry selfish HUMAN john we got in the show is an absolute treat. why are we making him an irredeemable, unfeeling and uncomplicated asshole who doesn't give a shit about his boys. ya'll saw him spending a good 50% of his screen time crying about how much he loved them right? and sam and dean KNEW he loved them. they also knew, or in dean's case came to realise, that he was a terrible father in many ways. real life is messy and nuanced. families are messy and nuanced. and imo spn got this so right.

[tojisun]

Reader who loves Simon but….he’s Simon😖

my fucking god!!

how do you even go about that? when your love is not asked for, what else could you do? would they see your acts of devotion and care as a burden? would your affection only cripple them? when all that you are is a person who loves, how can you exist with them?

and the thing is, simon would not let you love him because he thinks he is undeserving of it. he thinks that what is good for you is to leave and forget about him so he pushes you to do just that. he is so, so stubborn. he sees his faults and thinks you should see him the way he sees himself; thinks that your love is naive and innocent and unfounded.

you tell him he’s wrong, of course.

oh how wrong he is.

he’s simon. he is the one your soul yearns for; the one it seeks for. but most of all, he is just who he is.

you would spend a lifetime alone and in agony if it meant the next one would be spent with him. it is not so much as proving to him your love, but it is paying your dues. it is doing everything it would take just so simon be kind to himself.

because you know, god, you know, that simon is doing this because he loves you.

so, “please. please, let me love you too.”

your sadness has turned to fury; to a sputtering anguish that makes your chest cave into itself. you feel hollowed out, exposed, your heart bleeding at its seams.

still, simon stands there, his lips pinched and his eyes furrowed. the distance between you two is less than a foot and yet it feels immeasurably vast. like the world spins and time runs only to force you two further apart.

simon balls his hands into a tight fist.

“go,” he says. “pack y’r things and, just, go.”

no, you want to say but you see the storm of simon’s emotions in his eyes. they rage on, crashing against each other, and you stop, breath stuttering to a halt.

you can’t burden him any more.

he turns, shutting himself in the guest room again.

none of your words could ever make him change his mind. none of your actions could make him understand. so you burn, bright in your sorrow. you sob and cry, collapsing into yourself—a weeping star, decaying.

tomorrow, you will wake up alone in your apartment. the guest room will be scrubbed clean, leaving not even a remnant that simon’s been here.

simon’s gone.

—

(this is so immovable object meets unstoppable force coded)

[sexiestpodcastcharacter]

Sexiest Podcast Character — Unscripted Bracket — Round 5

Propaganda

Glenn Close (Dungeons & Daddies):

#Propaganda for Glenn Close: one of the other PCs mentions multiple times how hot he is #Actually several characters point it out but especially Henry #Also the only person in a podcast that has to put a disclaimer about not being a BDSM podcast to have had sex during the course of the show

Young hot rocker dilf

Loyal to his dead wife <3

Does in fact smoke weed

BARD!! HES A BARD. HE WAS LEAD GUITAR IN HIS BAND (that he was kicked out of)

His band was a Christmas cover band btw.

Literally the fandom had hot Glenn summer which consisted of drawing him being incredibly hot and sexy

Anti government (ofc)

Kind of cringefail (Disney adult) (was on dilfs of disneyland)

Young and sexy not your style? Then how about HIM AFTER YEARS LOCKED IN A TIME PRISON WITH A DAMN HANNIBAL MASK ??

Lost an eye and wears a fucking eyepatch

One incredibly buff arm

Has a pet rat named after his son <3

Immeasurable amounts of trauma in this man- becomes progressively more unhinged

OH OLD HUMAN BARD ISNT CUTTING IT? FINE

HE BECOMES A FUCKING DEMON

A COOL HOT ONE-EYED DEMON WHO WANTS TO KILL HIS DAD (also sexy)

HE CANONICALLY ENDS CHRISTIAN HELL VIA CHRISTMAS

IS ALSO WAY OVERLEVELED

Becomes a demon hunter for the rest of his existence

Also nonwhite !!! We are done with cringefail whiteboys !!!!!!!!!

I can’t put into words ok just know he is the best plz love him.

Okay but Glenn made a minivan cum by talking to her so

HE HAS A BOOK THAT HE MARKS X’S AND CHECKS FOR EVERY DAY TO SEE IF THAT DAY WAS A SUCCESS OR NOT. TO SEE IF HE DID GOOD THAT DAY. ITS ALMOST ENTIRELY X’S. HE WAS CUCKED OUT OF A SON. AND A DEAD WIFE. HE DIDN’T EVEN GET TO KILL HIS DAD IN REVENGE. There’s absolutely nothing going for him except his sex appeal in his life. Nobody he loved remembers him. He lost his eye. All he has is a pet rat and friends who admit they don’t really like him that much. He was kicked out of his own band. The band was named after him. He was kicked out of the Glenn Close trio. All he could do was deez nuts the big bad and be sexy. If nothing else, then pity him. Look in his eyes. Look at his heart and soul. He did not do the BDSM episode for this I’ll tell you what. Do this for my his sake. Do it for Nick Jr, who needs the prize money to pay for his rat snacks. Do it for his son. For Morgan. Ganbatte.

Glenn is the goofiest sexiest character there is and I will die on this hill! I will ride into battle for him! what Dndads created is truly unique and Glenn is a key part of that and for that he deserves to win. I said it before and I'll say it again - GLENN SWEEEEEP

Can we talk about how he says ‘baby’ casually? Like he just calls people that?? That’s HOT. THAT IS HOT!! He’s also bilingual and knows Japanese!!!! He’s a big dumb idiot with a lot of charisma!!!!!! HE WORKED AT A BDSM PLACE FOR TWO SEPARATE ONE SHOTS. HES SO SAD BUT PLAYS IT OFF LIKE HE’S CHILL ALL THE TIME!! HE DOESN’T THINK OF HIMSELF AS SINGLE BECAUSE HE DIDN’T DIVORCE HIS DEAD WIFE!!! He’s like.. the perfect guy. We need this win.

I’d also like to add the fact I made this. Which is the first 11 episodes edited to (almost) only have Glenn in them <3 which is a level of insanity I hope to reiterate. These took hours to make. I wouldn’t do that for anyone else.

Mod Note: While I will still take "bad dads are sexy" propaganda and "bad dads aren't sexy" anti-propaganda, I kindly request no more discussion on whether or not he was a bad father. This is a sexypoll, not a parentingpoll. If you see a post you strongly disagree with, you can just not reblog it.

Mod Note 2: This tournament is about fictional podcast characters. Please do not vote for the real actress Glenn Close.

Amber Gris (The Adventure Zone: Ethersea):

Middle aged woman who punches sharks to death. My hero

If you love me you'll vote for amber gris I swear to everything holy on earth amen

Amber is butch, instant win

Amber Gris has a negative charisma modifier and she pissed her pants on purpose in order to trick a guard and knock him out. She tied up a dude. She once killed an evil magic shark (they're out for murder. not like real sharks) by punching it and then picked it up and smashed it into another shark, also killing it. She talks in a southern accent. She calls people guppy because it indicates a lack of respect. She has a big pair of magical green arms that come from her stomach. She got a fancy jacket and immediately ripped its sleeves off. She has a gay thing going on with one of the political leaders in the city. She gets in fights with people and doesnt do vulnerability and tries to lay low and not get in any social trouble she doesn't have to. She jumped through a portal into a new world because she could. She's now the god of said world, alone with only afformentioned political leader, who was previously possessed and she had to fight. She spends her time in a bar called the Cloaca. She calls people she doesn't like claspers, because it means shark penis. She and her friend, an old man named Uncle Joshy, sneak attack each other and yell VIBE CHECK! She tries to talk fancy to impress people and she's really bad at it (verily).

She’s everything and more. She’s irreverent. She punches sharks for a living. She becomes God. What more do you need in a butch.

amber gris propaganda: she is straightup the physical embodiment of "women want me, fish fear me." also she's an appalachian post apocalyptic sea captain. that's just objectively cool.

AMBER GRIS IS PUNCHES SHARKS AND IS (one of) THE MOST BADASS BLACK WOMEN PCS IN DND SHOWS IVE EVER SEEN. SHES INCREDIBLE AND A WIN FOR DYKES EVERYWHERE

amber's creator said she was based off of the type of working-class woman you commonly see in appalachia where "this is the sort of woman that you see walking past CVS, and you know that a truck could hit her and it would just split around her as she continued to go pick up whatever she had to do that day." and that's pretty hot

guys Amber becomes lesbian god of the new world with her childhood “”friend””

#amber gris is LITERALLY a middle-aged butch #she would win this entire tournament in a just world

Last time Amber got horny was when she killed that shark

"it was a savage bummer though, don't-- trust me, there's nothing that great about a history. You know? I got one. What did I do, killed a bunch of sharks? Last time I got horny, god and christ I can't even tell you-- well, it was when I killed that shark. But! Hey. We're all just kinda figuring it out."

Moonshine Cybin (Not Another D&D Podcast: Bahumia):

She's a hot elf with mushrooms growing on her. She has 1 level of barbarian. She's bisexual. She shapeshifted into a dragon and ate a god.

how tf does the post not mention Moonshine’s giant boobs her greatest asset

Moonshine has canonically gone down on a woman for a solid hour without asking for anything in return. Moonshine edged a dryad just by kissing them. Moonshine faced down someone being controlled to kill everyone in his path and told him if he still wanted to hurt her, she would take his blows as a friend. Moonshine makes jambalaya for her family and friends. Moonshine mispronounced someone’s name for a month and that woman still wanted to hook up with Moonshine. These are just a few of the reasons why Moonshine is sexy.

shes illiterate

canonically huffs dirty water from a bong

has big tatas

wears a belly chain with a demon trapped in it

almost became the queen of hell

ate a god

turned into a pregnant moose & gave birth

The woman she went down on for an hour asking nothing in return is still hung up on her, 200 years later. Moonshine is unmatched

To be clear the woman whose name Moonshine mispronounced for a month and then hooked up with is the same woman she went down on for an hour, and the same woman who is still flustered over her 200 years later. The rizz is unparalleled. She’s also incredibly kind and accepting of others, and goes out of her way to bolster her friends. The party always requests one big bed.

moonshine cybin is a druid who learned counterspell through sheer force of will. moonshine cybin turned one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse into a dolphin, flew him 60 feet up into the air, dropped him on the ground, and then spit spores into his face to kill him. moonshine cybin turned into a dragon and bit the head off of a double god. moonshine cybin was willing to confine herself to an eternal hell to save the world. moonshine cybin is a dragon rider. you know what you must do.

Amber and Moonshine Together

Look at them. They should not have to fight when they could be gay instead. Imagine the power they would have combined... Every lesbian in a hundred mile radius of the post would swoon. It may be an odd alliance, but from an Ethersea fan to Bahumia fans, i believe this will strengthen both our odds. I have always been insane about Amber Gris but through this poll I have also learned about Moonshine and come to love her too. Take my hand... We can do this together...

OKAY HEAR ME OUT MOONSHINE AND AMBER WOULD GET ALONG SO WELL

appalachian sapphic solidarity!

Art of Amber and Moonshine from @pirateknight.

[sicklyseraphnsuch]

Simon is sad.

Ice King is a joke.

Winter King is a threat.

So, I kinda love how much further we explore into the differences between Simon and Ice King and all the parts in between.

With the Crown, Simon's personality gets injected with boundless, reckless, thoughtless confidence - which appears to have its roots in Evergreen or specifically, Gunter's perception of Evergreen.

However, Simon also infused the Crown's influence with his weird quirks, his desperation for love, and his immeasurable grief.

In a different post, I wrote that the root of the Crown's curse latched onto Simon's love, which in its own way is his grief as well. These powerful emotions were decentralized so that even if Ice King couldn't quite understand the source of them, he felt them hard. And moreover, these emotions clouded his capacity to function.

So aaaaaall that infinite confidence tempered and sabotaged by Simon's sorrow, making Ice King into a joke. Oh, sure he's manipulative liar like the way he lied to Finn when he was trapped in the spirit world. But he's quite incompetent.

His intentions aren't any less selfish or destructive but he's just So Bad at the follow through. Absolutely dysfunctional. That makes him easier to laugh at even when he's doing stuff like slapping tape on PB's mouth as she's sleeping because he "breaks up with her" in the next minute.

Winter King wouldn't need tape. That's the difference. Winter King is frightening because he can in fact follow through on all of his selfish and destructive impulses. When he lies, he can get away with it because he's a *good liar*. He's charming without being sad. He's confident without being annoying.

Winter King has Evergreen's strengths and Simon's charisma and wields it with deadly intent because he also lacks Simon's conscience and Simon's fixation on love and connection - true love and connection that isn't something he made in a lab. The fact that Winter King can be satisfied with hollow dolls that resemble his loved ones is TELLING.

Winter King and Ice King are fundamentally separated by their levels of lucidity and competence. And that's pretty much it. Even Winter King's memories remain frosted over and nothing like the original Simon Petrikov's

Which leads me to the original Simon Petrikov. I truly enjoyed the way Simon is differentiated from Ice King and Winter King simply by showing his compassion - which both lacked. Simon immediately plead for Bubblegum's life whereas Winter King was like Nope.

That was so good. Just emphasizing how the Simon and Ice King aren't a 1 to 1 reflection or transformation. Or in other words, that Ice King is not entirely Simon and Simon isn't entirely Ice King.

Also the subtext of Simon secretly resenting Winter King, being unsure if he wanted to be just like this weirdo who just goes around calling himself radical. This chuunibyou motherfucker. He really wants to be that? Really?

But again! Simon's vindication at learning that the Crown can't be fought! Because also fighting is such hardwork and he spent a thousand or so years trying to do it, failing to do it. The way he almost whined at the Winter King, "but it's just so hard to fight the Crown", and he's just so tired. He's just too sad.

In the same way that Fionna wanted an easy, fun, no consequences adventure - Simon wants an easy, quiet, no consequences solution to all his depression. Simon doesn't want to be happy because happiness takes hardwork. All the shit that the Winter (Willpower) King was shilling? That's a lot of elbow grease.

Simon just wants to opt out of existence. Let the Crown take the wheel. He's done driving.

But therein lies... his curse. Winter King is euphoric because it came at the cost of the compassion that defines Simon Petrikov. Love and compassion is at the root of Simon's sorrow, but it's also the thing that keeps him here. Because Simon simply can't *not* help someone - even Fionna who has been a straight up dick to him this whole time.

Simon thinks that there's a "right way" to be cursed because he's holding onto the belief that he could stop existing and not hurt or harm anyone by choosing to do so. And this will keep him on the search. This will keep him as himself for another sad and hurting day, until he can find a way to run - flee without hurting anyone.

Spoiler: It's impossible.

[syn4k]

hello pixlriffs fandom i made a cool thing

(alternative title: well that's maybe three months of on and off embroidering that i'm never getting back!)

-------

seriously though hi. So a few months back I decided to go looking to see if Pixlriffs' iconic jacket was on sale anywhere and the answer was no, they stopped selling it years ago. there were no lookalikes anywhere either so i did the very reasonable thing of sulk about this for about a day, go out and buy a shit ton of thread, and make the damn thing myself.

"wait," you say. "hold on. Those stripes aren't made out of fabric, are they?"

No, Dear Reader, They Are Not.

Those are

embroidered

by hand to boot because i don't own a sewing machine.

"What the fuck," you may ask. "Why."

autism

im really stupidly determined to pull through on projects especially when it comes to stupid shit like this

i needed a big time consuming creative project to get me through the Seasonal Big Sads

THE SHEER POWER AND SWAG THAT I HAVE NOW THAT THIS JACKET IS COMPLETE IS IMMEASURABLE. Nobody else I know is going to be rocking up to school wearing something that they embroidered themself over the span of three months. Textile work is cool. This looks fucking awesome. I am unstoppable.

did i mention the autism yet?

anyways i may be currently focusing on other fandoms but pixl's videos (especially his empires smp series) have been getting me through some really tough times consistently for over a year now and i figured i may as well show that in some way. i'm pretty sure this is the coolest thing i've ever made to date.

AND i completed my goal of finishing it before 2024 (in my timezone)! at the time of writing this it is 10:16 P.M on December 31st, 2023 :] i did it i did the thing

and an extra lil bonus thing on the back that i added because i had the time (yes that is latin also please ignore the pet hair i have two dogs and a cat):

vigilate, amici mei.

(stay vigilant, my friends!)

[essenceofelegance]

Ratatouille (Azriel x f!reader)

pt. 2

m.list

ʚɞ = angst

Summary: You want to go out to dinner with Az, but Elaine gets in the way.

Warnings: Established relationship, not proof read

“Hey, Az?”

He did not respond.

Azriel was focused on his mission reports. Too busy to give his mate his attention.

His mate turned away, headed toward to door. Not even bothering to be disappointed in Azriel.

⋆ ★

It had been a tradition for the pair to go out for dinner together on Thursday nights for 200 years, even before they were mated. Never once had either of them missed their weekly dinner.

"I found a nice place in Day since you've never had ratatouille before. I figured you would like to try it, though ratatouille would be better homemade. Would you rather eat at the House instead? I could-"

Azriel let out a frustrated sigh and turned his gaze to his mate.

"Gods, Y/N, can you stop rambling? I'm trying to finish my mission reports."

As if realizing the damage he had done, he stalked over to his mate, putting his scarred hands on her shoulder. "Look, I can't make it to dinner this week. I promised Elaine to take her to the city. She wanted to spend time with me, and I already promised her I would take her to dinner. Being outside will be good for her."

She tried to force a smile. "But can't Nesta or Feyre take her? I'm glad Elaine's recovery is going well and that she is finding comfort in you, but I need to spend time with you too. This has been our tradition for centuries."

Azriel ran his hand through his hair. "Elaine needs me. She has gone through immeasurable trauma. This little tradition is in no way more important than her."

She tried to stay calm. "Little tradition? Az, I need you. You've barely been spending time with me, you come home late and leave early, I barely see you anymore. I need you too. I'm your mate, for God's sake!"

He let out a sigh of disbelief. "Maybe the Cauldron made a mistake," the words slipped out of his mouth. "Love, I didn't mean to-" She let out a weak laugh. Azriel tried to calm her by putting his hands on her forearms; she slipped away. "Oh, but you did." Tears welled up in her eyes. "You come back smelling like her every night. Her scent lingers on your leathers and your clothes. I tried to ignore it, I tried reassuring myself that - that you were a faithful male, but I guess I was wrong." She tried to salvage this relationship, she really did.

pt. 2

A/N: this is such a disaster lmfao, haven’t posted in a month or two, if you’re using light mode you won’t be able to see the dividers 💀 i could make a part two if anyone actually reads this. lmk if you want one. also this name is so unfitting for this fic 💀 it sounds so fun but it’s so sad

Copyright © 2023 Emory Belrose. All rights reserved. 

⋆

Translation of my work of any kind is not allowed and will not be appreciated unless consented to.

Please do not re-upload my work on any platforms without permission.

Any reblogs, comments, likes, shares, and follows are appreciated.

[slowd1ving]

ACT IV: DECAY ✦ . 　⁺ VIL SCHOENHEIT NSFW

Vil Schoenheit and second place aren't supposed to be a thing. He's supposed to be the very embodiment of perfection, so why the hell is someone else's name usurping his crown on the Potions leader board? In which our starring actor cannot quench the flames of academic rivalry and resentment that consume him, nor can he fathom the enigma that you are. gn! scientist! reader warnings: contains nsfw but only later, angst with a happy ending, spoilers for book five, canon-compliant violence

TWISTED WONDERLAND MASTERLIST

BREACH THE IMMEASURABLE CHASM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ✧ ･

Scene I: Ink . 　⁺

It all starts again on a very dull morning. Staccato beats of the rain on the rickety windows of Ramshackle provide background music for Vil to drink his smoothie to. Except that’s not the only miserable music. His ears are assaulted by the conversation you’re currently having with Jamil, Rook and Ace. Does Grim count when he’s technically the other pea in your miserable pod?

“All I’m saying is that there’s no reason to make a movie series that long,” you argue. Whose movies are you referring to? Vil wishes he was paying attention earlier. “Like what have you got to say for that many movies?”

“Trickster, some people are just dedicated to the pursuit of their passion,” Rook intercedes, leaning his head on his hands to gaze at you more efficiently.

“The Fast and Furious franchise has no reason to be that long,” you lament, frustration creeping into your tone. Vil’s never heard of that movie series. He doesn’t think he wants to know what it is.

“Rook, there’s like nine sequels, and the last one especially does not make any sense,” Vil takes back his earlier thoughts. This seems to be a conversation between you and Rook, in which Ace and Jamil are unenthusiastic spectators. “There’s nothing less beautiful than plot holes.”

“Anyways,” you continue in the same breath, all hints of sadness gone. Vil’s not sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. “Do you guys feel ready for the SDC tomorrow? Your routine is really impressive.”

“My bones hurt so much,” Ace groans from behind his food. “I’ve never felt so pulverised.”

“We will win,” Jamil promises you, fiddling with his spoon on the table. You give them both a cheerful thumbs up while eating - for once, you’ve got scraps of decorum.

“I will put on my most beautiful performance knowing you’re watching, mon cher,” Rook clasps your hand between his gloved ones. Sure, Rook’s probably just being himself, but Vil can’t help the trickle of unease that he feels.

“I don’t doubt it,” you respond with a grin. “Those RSA twerps won’t know what hit them. Although, I’ve had a really weird set of dream-”

“Spudling,” Vil clears his throat to get your attention. You turn to face him, still wearing your jubilant grin. His heart almost stops. It takes all he can to not fumble while taking the lanyard out of his blazer pocket. “Keep this lanyard safe so you can come backstage as the NRC Tribe Manager.”

“Cool,” you take it one handed, still allowing Rook to clasp your other hand. Why does Vil care so much? He tries desperately to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Thanks!”

“We’ll go over the routine and iron out any wrinkles in around twenty minutes,” Vil continues, meeting the eyes of each cast member. He’ll just have to ignore whatever he’s feeling until after the SDC. “Make sure the rest of the potatoes are up and ready to go.”

The tell-tale signs of nervousness creep into Vil’s being after he exits the room. He has to beat Neige. No longer will he be cast aside to play the villain. The world will see what he’s got to offer.

“Mira mira, tell me who, at this moment, is the fairest of them all?” Vil speaks slowly and quietly to his phone as he makes his way to his room to get some items for practice.

“Neige LeBlanche.”

He should’ve expected it, really, but he cannot help but let his teeth grind slightly in anger. Just you wait, Neige. He’ll beat Neige fair and square. Finally, he’ll be able to step out of the villain’s shoes.

His muscles ache after his gruelling training. Nothing he won’t be able to recover from; he can’t help but push himself to his limits at the prospect of beating Neige. The rest of the crew somehow manages to execute a near-flawless performance, with only a few minor hand-placement errors.

“Wow,” you cheer them on by your designated spot next to the speakers, cradling Grim in your lap. “You guys are absolutely gonna shred the competition.”

“That’s right!” Ace grins at you, catching the water bottle you toss at him and taking a few enthusiastic swigs.

“Pass me one too,” Deuce reaches out as you toss another water bottle. It’s a natural cue for a break, and the crew decides to take a breather. Vil feels an absurd surge of pride at the sight; somehow, these ungainly tubers have managed to grow into shapely potatoes who can no doubt beat Neige.

“We’ll regroup in ten,” Vil instructs. He’s not satisfied completely, but the passion that’s been poured into this routine is undeniable. Before he can question his body, his legs are already taking him to you. You’re scratching behind Grim’s ears and look up in abject surprise at his approach.

“I need your opinion,” Vil murmurs, leaning down to you so your faces are in close proximity. You furrow your brows; he knows how unlikely it is that he’s approached you. Still, your analysis skills are seriously impressive. “Can you give me a detailed observation of our performance? Spare no detail.”

“Right,” you pull out your phone nonchalantly, scrolling through your gallery until you find the recording of the practice. Of course you’ve come prepared.

“Right at the beginning it’s a really strong start, but as soon as those first few seconds are up, Deuce always misplaces his hand-” Vil’s not sure when he joins you on the floor, leaning ever so slightly into you as you zoom into the areas of imperfection.

“You’ve noticed that too?” Vil comments. You murmur your assent, pressing play again.

“It’s only a slight error, but yeah,” you continue, pausing the video again where it’s Kalim’s misstep. “I think it’s just overeagerness and the adrenaline of performing. The rest of the errors are really just minor hiccups with the singing - but I won’t be able to point them out as well.”

“I’ll give them some extra individual instruction,” Vil promises, more to remind himself than reassure you. You turn to scrutinise him; it’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the weight of people’s gazes, but it’s just you.

“I’ve made notes on the small, consistent screw-ups that’ve surfaced recently when it comes to dance steps. Rook and Jamil are both fine, and Epel only has one,” your shoulder brushes against him as you turn extra carefully to not disturb the snoozing Grim on your lap. You hand him your class notebook, which has been filled with quick sketches of the mistakes. Vil’s eyes widen considerably at the level of diligence you’ve afforded your role. Sure, he knows your eye for detail in science, but he never thought-

“You can borrow it for a bit,” you turn the page to show him the notes you’ve made. Then suddenly you flip back to the previous page.

“I forgot you won’t be able to read them,” you sigh in exasperation. “All that work for nothing.”

Vil is oddly touched. You’ve made extensive notes just for him? He can feel the gesture warm his cheeks as he stares down at the outreached notebook, waiting for him to take it.

“The thought is appreciated,” he thanks you, carefully placing your notebook within his lap. He’s lucky the diagrams are circled with different colours marking out areas of weakness, or he’s sure he’d get lost trying to read through the scribbled notes right next to them.

“I can always just read them out if you need me too,” you lean back on one palm, balancing your body weight as you scritch under Grim’s chin. As much as the little furball wants to deny it, he’s very clearly got the mannerisms of a cat as a large purr rumbles from him. You stifle a little giggle into your shoulder.

“That- that would be great,” it’s so unlike Vil to get flustered, but he can’t help the smile that stays on his face well into the remainder of the practice.

He can’t seem to hold onto whatever hatred he had for you.

Scene II: Rot . 　⁺

The next time he sees your face is around ten minutes before the dress rehearsal on the SDC stage. Vil can feel his already straight posture adjust itself so it’s completely perfect, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Rook, given the look the hunter shoots him. He’s ignoring that.

“They almost didn’t let me in,” you complain, striding over to Rook and waving the lanyard that’s around your neck. Vil’s not sure how they could’ve missed it, with it being what can only be described as a neon red.

“It’s good to see you regardless, mon chou,” Rook is once again clasping your hands, and once again you’re not pulling away.

“I’m going to ignore that you’ve just called me a cabbage,” you comment, looking around at the stage. The little furball that’s normally with you is nowhere to be found; Vil isn’t sure whether to be relieved that he isn’t wreaking havoc here, or whether to be worried that he’s wreaking havoc elsewhere. “Where do I sit while watching?”

“There’s actually the front seats directly next to the stage,” Vil points to the special row reserved for managers and important personnel. You unhook your hands from Rook’s to turn to where Vil’s pointing, your eyes lighting up as you see the comfortable looking chairs set up.

“Right, thanks,” you flash an extremely brief smile at both of them. It seems that whatever rivalry you had with him has been dissolved on your end. He doesn’t know if he should be insulted or happy about it. “Break both legs for both performances.”

“What?” Vil mutters to himself as you stride away enthusiastically. Maybe it’s just a saying from wherever you’re from. It’s ‘break an arm’ for performances, what are you on about? “What could that possibly mean?”

“Mr. Shoenheit, we’re about to go on air to tape your practice performance,” a cameraman apologetically interrupts Vil’s musings. He snaps to attention, letting his face fall back into the most professional poker face he can manage.

“Of course, I’ll get the NRC Tribe into formation,” Vil responds smoothly, waving the rest of the crew to the front of the stage. It only takes a minute; they’re clearly enthusiastic (if not a bit nervous) to perform in front of people who aren’t you and Grim. Deep breaths. A wave of resounding calm flows through him; it’s a lucid state he’s perfected before each and every performance.

The first notes of the rhythmic song start. His eyes unfocus slightly, allowing his muscle memory to take control for the most part. It’s now just a matter of pouring his emotions into the song and dance to truly capture the hearts of those watching. The flow. The haze. It all becomes a part of him, and he knows the rest of those dancing up on stage with him can feel it. Surely they feel the connection of their passion?

He meets your eyes, your wide, enraptured eyes as you gaze at him. He doesn’t fully realise, but the words he sings are for your ears for now. Let this be dedicated to you, and he can worry later about sharing the passion he feels with the rest of the spectators. Vil’s not emotionally stupid; he can tell his feelings have veered into territory that he simply doesn’t want to acknowledge yet. He just has to let them flow into his performance and worry about the rest later.

His mind is deliciously clear, enjoying the endorphins pumping through his blood at the pleasant stretch of movement. It’s already halfway done? The altered passage of time when he’s in the zone is always a surprise. From your excited grin, he can safely assume this performance is one, if not the, best they’ve given. And it’s all for you to watch, before it’s posted for the world to see.

Raucous applause disrupts his flow as the cameras are cut with a signal from the camera crew. You’re standing and clapping your hands with some serious force as you join them up on stage.

“Almost moved me to tears,” you joke, congratulating them on a flawless performance. “Seriously though, you guys are ready.”

You don’t need to say anymore. You stand back to give them space, but Vil watches in dawning horror as you bump into the one and only Neige LeBlanche. It’s only a mild shoulder bump, but it’s happened. The two of you have made contact.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologise profusely, taking a big step back. “I should’ve been looking where I was going.”

“It’s fine, really,” Neige smiles at you, sickeningly sweet. Beside Vil, the NRC dance crew members look at you with incredulity. Why are you so goddamn oblivious? “I shouldn’t have approached this way.”

“If you’re sure,” you trail off, noting the weird looks directed your way by Ace and Deuce. “What the hell are you guys gawking at?

Before Vil can say anything, you’re already being yanked away by Ace’s insistent tugging. Your brows are still furrowed. Goddamn. Have you really never heard of Neige LeBlanche?

It seems Ace is interrogating you with that very question, judging by the furrowed glances he sends both your way and Neige’s. It seems Neige is quick to mask his surprise, walking towards Vil (which was probably the whole reason he approached the group in the first place).

“Your group was amazing,” Neige gushes - his eyes are lit up with awe. Vil feels… nothing, eerily enough. All that’s coursing through him is malicious calm.

“Thank you,” he maintains the professional image easily and smoothly, not missing the way Kalim and Deuce’s eyes swivel between him and Neige.

“It was truly a sight to behold; I had chills just watching,” Neige continues with starry eyes. “I can’t wait to work with you again!”

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Vil muses calmly, letting the air of conversation fizzle out. Out of his peripherals, he spots you and Ace rejoin the group. Unfortunately, it seems Neige has also spotted you again; he shoots you a smile and turns to you.

“Hi, I didn’t catch your name earlier,” Neige’s innocent question leads you to a quick pause before introducing yourself. You’re not overly friendly, more like care-free as usual.

“I didn’t catch your name either, sorry,” you continue politely. Did Trappola wander off-topic while lecturing you? It clearly seemed like it from your slightly bewildered expression.

“Neige LeBlanche, at your service,” Neige’s eyes carry that stupefied look for only a second before it’s swiftly replaced by a cheery smile. Nothing. Vil suppresses a snort of laughter at your politely unknowing expression. Of course you’d be like this, meeting the arguably most famous person in the land with no respect for their importance.

“Cool, I’ll leave you guys to it,” you respond amiably, sending a thumbs up his way. You’ve just upped and left? Vil turns to the side slightly to stifle his laughter as you wander back to the seats where you’ve left your notebook. Utterly lacking proper conversation etiquette as usual. He supposes it’s a positive seeing the Neige LeBlanche seemingly at a loss for words.

“Was that NRC’s manager?” Neige asks Vil. With dawning horror, Vil realises that most of his crew is also standing at the first row with you, due to their practice slot being finished.

“Yes,” Vil responds succinctly, watching Neige watch your movements as you talk with Rook. You’re currently being rattled like a rag-doll with the way he’s clasping your shoulders and shaking you slightly, no doubt grilling you over how you didn’t know who Neige was. He can hear your raucous laughter from all the way on stage.

“Your manager this year is awesome,” Neige compliments, leaning forward slightly to see the action further. Vil suppresses the shudder of disgust. No way this is happening right now.

“Ah, I’ve got to go round up my own crew,” Neige comments distractedly, looking around him. Vil gladly takes this opportunity to take his leave to join the rest of his group, leaving nothing behind but a goodbye.

That bastard. Vil watches the concluding moves of the RSA crew’s performance with barely concealed disgust from his seat in the stands.

“We’ve been had,” he utters in shock. No way. That bumbling performance they’ve put on-

“What do you mean?” Kalim asks in dismay at Vil’s change in attitude.

“He’s right,” Jamil agrees with a heavy sigh. “Look at how much they’re appealing to all demographics with their sugary sweet performance.”

Deep resentment begins to fester within Vil. A familiar ringing noise fills his ears as he tunes out the chatter of everyone surrounding him. He almost doesn’t feel the way he slips out of his seat and down the stairs leading to the rooms within the colossal arena. He feels the pressure of a heavy glass bottle within the palm of his hand, not even having to look at it to know it’s one of Epel’s apple juice bottles. He’s only dimly aware of subconsciously infusing the drink with the same curse he used during the poison assessment.

May those who drink this fall into an endless slumber, Fairest One.

The comforting bubbling slosh of the drink lets him know it’s been tampered with. A small, rational part of his brain urges him not to do this; the rest of his body is consumed by an abyss of disgust and hatred. Gunpowder and other acrid chemical smells appear in wisps, only registering faintly as familiar with his nose. He ignores it all.

“Hi, Neige,” Vil smiles brightly at the youth in front of one of the backstage doors. “I just wanted to congratulate you on your wonderful performance.”

One heartbeat.

Neige turns at the sound of Vil’s uncharacteristically cheerful voice. He doesn’t suspect anything amiss, but Vil supposes he’s always been that way.

“It makes me really happy hearing that from someone I admire a lot,” Neige beams back. Perfect.

Two heartbeats.

“How about a drink? I’ve become rather partial to this brand of apple juice,” Vil’s smile is rehearsed; it’s absolutely oozing with venom.

“Sure!” Neige agrees enthusiastically. “I saw the brand on your Magicam a few weeks back - I was even going to order before I realised it had all sold out.”

Three heartbeats is all it takes to deceive him.

It’s quite ironic, isn’t it? Vil’s downfall has been secured by Neige over the course of his life, whereas Neige’s downfall will be brought about in only a few seconds. The smooth glass of the apple juice bottle does not reveal the curse roiling within. It’s perfect - scentless, colourless and lethal. He wants to laugh when Neige accepts the cool glass bottle so easily. Has he no sense of danger?

“Roi des Neiges!” Who does that voice belong to? With a start, Vil turns to see Rook’s slightly dishevelled form as he runs up to Neige. “My apologies for interrupting the two of you, but the staff were looking for you, Neige.”

“Roi des Neiges..” Neige’s voice trails away as he stares contemplatively at Rook. “Wait-”

“My, I’m absolutely parched after running around looking for you,” Rook swiftly takes charge of the conversation. Why now? Vil can feel sharp cracking within his very soul. “Might I trouble you to let me have some of that refreshing juice you hold?”

No.

“Of course,” Neige agrees enthusiastically, if not a little perplexed.

“You should hurry back, Neige,” Rook continues, taking the bottle offered kindly. “And do not come back here.”

“Huh? What do you-”

“Go on, off with you! Away!” Neige’s question is sharply cut off by Rook’s insistence. Vil can hear him scurry off, like a little rodent.

“That sweet, tart aroma,” Rook breathes. With a start of horror, Vil notices that the cork of the flask has been removed. “Truly.. Epel’s hometown beverage is magnifique, to say the least.”

“I shall drink it to the very last drop, Roi des Poisons,” his knowing gaze meets Vil’s stricken one as he slowly raises the bottle to his lips.

No.

“Don’t do it, Rook!”

Glass shattering. It’s all Vil can do to keep track of what’s happening. His head feels like it’s underwater.

“He used his signature spell to curse the apple juice!” It’s the same speaker from earlier. Kalim?

“-look on his face was the same as Jamil’s-”

“-lost control-”

“Rook,” Vil’s voice rasps. He’s not sure he made the conscious decision to speak. The hunter turns to him with eyes not holding anger or disappointment, but concern. “Why did you..?”

“I wanted to believe in you,” Rook holds his gaze with no traces of accusation. “If it was cursed, I still wanted to taste it. I wanted to taste the fruit of a poison derived from an obsession with beauty bordering on madness.”

Madness?

Vil tunes them all out. He’s dimly aware of you speaking in concerned, hushed tones to the rest of them. Why are you here as well?

“Vil, do you have any idea how foolish that was?” Kalim’s voice is rimmed with desperate emotions. “After all that work, after saying the other teams would look like spuds compared to us, why stoop to this?”

Why stoop to this? Can’t he see that there is no other way? Rage pummels his veins, ripping through his body, his mind, his soul. Something gathers within him, dark and inky and fatal.

“That’s what I want to know,” Vil’s voice is laced with ice, and pure venom. “I’ve come to a realisation. That I… can never win! I’m going to handle Neige myself.”

“Trickster, Kalim! Do not inhale that mist rising from the floor! It’s the evaporated form of that cursed liquid!” Rook’s urging has hints of desperation within it. He turns to Vil. “I don’t see why one glass would have such a drastic… Oh, Vil, you didn’t-”

“Stop looking at me with those eyes,” Vil pleads. It’s not just Rook, he can see you as well, looking at him with that gaze that makes him want to bury himself away. “I just wanted to be the fairest, so why? Why? Why am I so ugly?”

“Roi des Poisons, you are far from ugly,” Rook calls out to him, reaching out a hand. Vil longs to take it, but he can’t. He’s too far gone.

“You haven’t actually hurt anyone!” Kalim’s pleas fall on uncaring ears.

“Silence!” Vil’s voice snaps. He can almost see himself from a separate plane, mist rising up around him in acrid, poisonous billows. He can see you, swaying on your feet slightly, looking more shaky than your companions. “What do any of you know? What does it matter if any of you forgive me? I can’t forgive myself!”

Let go.

Dark streaks overcome his vision, ebbing and flowing along the edges. It would be nice, to hand over the reins for a while, wouldn’t it? To let go of his fury, his resentment, his jealousy. What a dream.

“If I just melt everyone into hideous messes,” Vil’s barely aware of speaking. It’s a rather distorted voice, isn’t it? He can’t help but laugh. “Then I’ll be the fairest one of all, won’t I?”

The last thing he sees before it all overcomes him is your stricken face. He’s not sure you’ve ever worn such an expression before. He’s unlikely to forget those eyes, your facial muscles contorting into a painting of intermingling horror and worry. Why does he feel that shame rising again?

Didn’t he let go already?

Scene III: Wake . 　⁺

“I was the villain bullying the hero in the last play, too. Why do I keep getting picked to play the bad guy? Do I really look that mean?”

Villains never stay on stage for the whole play. Once their role is finished, all they can do is watch from the shadows as the happy ending plays out. What I want is to stay on stage longer than anyone else.

“Those kids were trying to hold me accountable for a work of fiction. Silly boys, the lot of them.”

I always aim for one role - the hero. But… all I ever get to be is the villain.

“Vil is too special to play the part of a regular teen that viewers can relate to. Without that reliability, I don’t think he’ll ever pull off playing a hero.”

I would do anything to be beautiful. The most rigorous training. The most tedious hair and skin care regimens. I would shy away from none of it. And yet.. Why? Why is it never me? All I want is to stay on stage until the end of a show.

In the end, it’s not the gentle splattering of rain on his face that wakes him up. It’s some foreign warmth on his face that causes his eyes to slowly open. Framed by his eyelashes and the haze of a deep slumber is your face. It’s as if you know, the way you look at him with such tenderness and concern. It’s as if you’ve pulled him from the deep recesses of his memories yourself, with the way your rough hands prop his head up so gently.

“How am I..” Vil rasps out, looking at you with nothing but queries in his eyes. His eyes search over your tired expression, the way the sclera of your eyes is still tinged a slight purple, and the various small cuts across your face. Did he do this? Waves of shame hit him and he can’t bear to meet your gaze.

“Thank goodness you’re awake, Vil,” you murmur down at him. Is this the first time you’ve said his name? It sounds foreign on your lips, and unbearably sweet. Why aren’t you mad at him? Why do you keep looking at him with those unaccusing eyes?

“Oh, Vil.. fair Vil,” Rook sighs in relief, crouching beside you on the rain soaked ruins. Ruins? Vil takes the opportunity to look round the battle site, the upheaved flagstones, the despoiled decorations. Another wave of shame meets him when he notices the haggard faces of his crew (is that Kalim bawling his eyes out? And is that Jamil scolding him?).

“I’m.. sorry you had to see that undignified display,” Vil apologises, making sure each and every one of his words is sincere. He cannot begin to comprehend how much shame he’s feeling at the moment. “Only third-rate people throw temper tantrums and take their problems out on others. My conduct was most unbecoming of all…”

“Y’right about that,” Epel grumbles, but without a trace of actual malicious intent. “Thought ya said people grow out of temper tantrums by the time they’re three?”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right, Epel,” Vil uses your shoulder to haul himself up so he can sit up. You don’t seem to mind, even grabbing on to his wrist to steady him. With another crash of guilt, he realises how your grasp is shaky, no doubt due to your exposure to the curse when you don’t have any sort of natural magic resistance. “I’m no longer fit to be your leader.”

“You haven’t actually hurt anyone, Vil,” Kalim argues. Vil can see him approaching and standing next to where Rook crouches. “You haven’t stepped over that brink.”

“He’s right,” Jamil says, jabbing his thumb in the general direction of outside the coliseum. “Neige is dancing out there happily with the seven dwarfs. It’s a stretch, but we can say we got worked up and had a team brawl in here.”

“Yeah,” Ace interjects. “No way we’re letting you pull out because of a few bruises, after the wringer we’ve been put through.”

“All of you,” Vil feels a horrendous mushy feeling swell up within him. You’re still supporting him with the way you’re steadying his wrist. “You just want to pretend nothing’s happened?”

“I never said that,” Jamil retorts, but his face blooms into his signature smile. “We can just hold off explanations until after the competition.”

“You truly are wicked, Jamil,” Vil replies with a small laugh. It hurts, and he feels his chest contort with pain. Your grip on his wrist tightens and you steady his shoulder with your other hand, clearly not missing the way his face twists into a grimace.

“Here, I’ll help you stand, alright?” you’re surprisingly strong, with the way you unceremoniously (but carefully) haul him up so he stands leaning into your firm touch. Even with your clearly weakened state, you still grip onto him as if he’s the fragile one that isn’t allowed to fall. Vil can’t even bring himself to protest.

“I wasn’t the one who made the shot so strong, Vil was,” Deuce seemingly replies to a conversation Vil’s unconsciously tuned out. “The spell stores all the damage I take, then hits it back all at once. So it was only potent because of Vil’s potent magic.”

Ah. Deuce seems to be describing the final hit Vil can barely remember taking, the one that likely brought him back to the brink of consciousness.

“Don’t make it sound so violent!” Deuce splutters in indignation, and Vil once again realises he’s tuned out. He doesn’t particularly mind, focusing instead on the way you unconsciously seem to tense your muscles against him when shifting, the way you still have that signature chemical smell to you, the way you’re looking directly at him with that expression-

“Signature… You mean that’s my signature spell?” Deuce seems to be coming to a realisation with sparkling eyes. Good on him. Beside him, Ace seems to be coming to an unpleasant realisation with the way he’s incredulously muttering to himself about how he can’t believe Deuce has mastered his signature spell before him.

“Behold, Vil is awestruck and weak-kneed from the splendour of your blow,” Rook proclaims, gesturing to the not-awestruck Vil.

“I’d wager he’s also weak-kneed from something else,” Jamil comments sardonically, looking pointedly at the way you’ve got him in your grasp. Vil only hopes you’ve become suddenly preoccupied with something else.

“No, I’m just beaten head-to-toe,” Vil swiftly retorts. “That last blow did strike soundly, though. Nicely done, Deuce.”

“Thank you, sir!” Deuce smiles at him eagerly. “Although, I don’t know what to do about the wrecked stage.”

“It’s not feasible to fix it all with magic,” Jamil replies pragmatically, looking around him with a calculating expression. “With what power we have left.. Every scenario running through my mind all ends with the same brick wall.”

“Does that mean.. SDC is…” Epel trails off, looking at Jamil with a dawning sense of horror.

“What do we have here?” The new, booming voice is accompanied by green fireflies that send a small shiver down Vil’s spine. What’s he doing here?

“I thought I’d arrive earlier,” Malleus hums with a touch of surprise, surveying the surroundings briefly. “What do I find but a stage laid to waste?”

“Hornton!” you exclaim, and Vil can feel your sternum vibrate through his shoulder. You’re.. acquainted with Malleus Draconia enough to call him nicknames? He can’t even be surprised anymore. “There’s still two hours until the SDC opens!”

“Hornton?” It’s a collective response from the rest of the crew, voicing Vil’s thoughts.

“Do you have a death wish, calling your upperclassman that?” Ace shudders at your audacity.

“Do you even know who that is?” Epel’s shocked voice causes you to blink in surprise at his tone.

“He told me to call him whatever, so I did,” Vil has to stifle a laugh as you shrug. Of course you did.

“However did you get into the coliseum, Roi des Dragons?” Rook sounds positively astonished.

“I was invited by the Child of Man from Ramshackle,” Malleus replies, gesturing to you.

“Yep,” you affirm. Vil feels as though you’re ignoring the other, more pressing question Rook’s asked.

“The entire venue is still enveloped by the poison mist generated by Vil,” Rook’s explanation trails off as Malleus holds up a clawed hand.

“I am impervious to any curse, no matter how powerful,” Malleus takes another look around the wrecked coliseum. “Whatever could’ve happened here?”

Vil watches as you briefly and efficiently describe the events, listening extra hard for the parts where he would’ve been unconscious. It’s curious, the way you don’t let any trace of exhaustion or pain enter your voice. It only takes around two minutes for you to give the gist of the situation to Malleus.

“Children of men, I shall bestow upon you a gift,” Malleus’ words come with an incredible magic pressure that leaves Vil’s eyes wide. He steals a glance at you, and watches your own expression become slack with awe and curiosity.

“That’s Malleus Draconia for you,” Vil murmurs to you. Your brow furrows as you look down at Vil.

“That’s Malleus? Hornton over there was the one everyone was so excited about at the Spelldrive tournament?” you ask incredulously. After all this, you’re still holding on to that nickname? Your eyes dart back to those green fireflies that are somehow lifting all the ruined flagstones and pillars, and rearranging them into pristine condition. Within the space of a few heartbeats, Malleus has managed to restore the conditions of the arena into an exact replica of how they were before.

“He’s ludicrously out of our league,” Ace mumbles in awe. Vil can’t help but agree.

“Thanks a bunch, Hornton!” you beam at Malleus, who stares at you for a brief second before breaking out into chuckles. It’s the first time Vil’s ever heard the fae laugh, but you’re full of surprises as usual.

“Though you know who I am, you still stick to that pet name?” Malleus sounds terribly amused, looking at you as you fumble with an explanation. He interrupts whatever apology is about to leave your lips with another chuckle. “Truly, I do not mind.”

He turns to look at Vil with a resolute expression in his eyes that’s made all the more disconcerting by his piercing green eyes. “I’ve set the stage for you, Schoenheit. I trust you will keep me entertained.”

“I hardly need your urgings to put on my finest performance,” Vil suppresses the wince of pain as he straightens his posture, ignoring the very tangible reality of you still grasping onto him. “Be prepared for a standing ovation.”

“I’ll expect nothing less. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Malleus’ last words fade out with his disappearance. The only traces left behind by him are those green fireflies.

“Lady Luck is truly on our side,” Rook comments after the flashes fade out. “I was hardly expecting Roi des Dragons to appear here.”

Me neither. Though it seems today is a day full of surprises.

Vil leans into your warmth a bit more, and you indulge him. The arm carefully wrapped around him is sure and steady - he wants nothing more than to stay here until the end of time. You don’t ask questions, looking past his shoulder so you can direct the crew to their water. He knows he must let go to perform - it’s highly unusual to see the Vil Schoenheit rely on anyone, even if it’s a little bit. To see him clinging to someone, his rival of all people…

Gingerly, he lets go of you. Your grasp on him is firm to the very end as you let go and make sure he’s not at risk of fainting. The concern you display is almost comedic, but you don’t say anything.

He can feel your eyes burning into his back as he walks away, but he doesn’t look back.

Scene IV: Unopened Missive . 　⁺

Vil supposes it’s comedic as he pours everything he’s got left into the final performance, only to score exactly one point below RSA. It’s always like this; him, exactly one step behind Neige. He can’t fault Neige, anymore, not after he’s come to terms with it. As the thrum of music faded and the flow of performance left him, he was acutely aware of the raucous applause he drew. He did not care. All he was searching for were your eyes.

He’s sure Lady Luck is laughing straight at him as Rook proclaims himself as one of Neige’s biggest fans. What betrayal! Of course this has been added onto the list of surprises. It’s strange; he doesn’t feel the annoyance he’d expect to be simmering through his veins at that moment. It seems he’s let that go.

It’s practically hilarious as he joins Neige on stage to sing an encore. Only scraps of bitterness remain - had Vil not exhausted the whole team earlier, they might have won and took back that one measly vote. He’s accepted that. Still, his frustration is palpable as he leaves his crew to sing with Neige, though not to the audience. His professionalism is the one thing he’s managed to keep up.

“Hey,” your voice breaks him out of the reverie. It’s bizarre, the way you’ve escorted him back to Pomefiore, even though he’s got Rook and Epel to do that. It’s even more bizarre, the way he’s let you gently drag him to his room, where Rook and Epel have already gone back to their own chambers. They already know it’s best to leave him alone when he’s in a bad mood. So why.. why are you still-

The sharp tang of medicinal ointment brings him back to the current situation. You’re poised between his legs as he sits at his vanity, with an assortment of bottles behind you. It’s strangely intimate with the way the soft dusk lighting envelopes you with its mysterious aura. He’s not wearing any makeup, but you don’t seem to care; your gaze caresses his features, laced with only concern.

Please, don’t look at me with those eyes.

“I’m going to begin, alright?” you murmur, searching his eyes for any traces of discomfort. Vil nods wordlessly. The pressure on his chin from one hand of yours is feather light; he finds himself leaning into it slightly. Your other hand lightly brushes over the cuts on his face with the ointment swabbed onto a cotton pad - strangely, it lacks the usual sting which normally elicits a sharp hiss of surprise.

“I made this ointment myself,” you explain after seeing the surprise conveyed in his eyes. Of course you did. In any case, it seems to be working fine, judging by the rapid cooling sensation he’s feeling across his face.

“Why-” Vil begins to ask as you cap the ointment bottle and twist it closed with practised ease. Your hand is still on his face, but he can’t bear to pull away. Not here, in the privacy of his room, where the only eyes upon him are yours. “-why are you still here? Don’t you dislike me?”

You pause in the rummaging you’re doing in your pocket. Vil holds his breath as you turn to him with that contemplative look you wear while figuring out potions.

“I don’t actually dislike you,” you comment matter-of-factly, tilting his face to each side to observe your handiwork. “I’ve got better things to do than spend my energy stewing over you.”

Ouch.

“You still haven’t answered my first question,” Vil’s composure is rapidly slipping down the drain as he remains (quite literally) in the palm of your hand. Your gaze doesn’t falter. “Do you just feel bad for me?”

“No,” you respond idly, still tilting his head this way and that. It’s like watching a cat bat at a toy. “I thought it might be good to have company and rely on someone else for once.”

There’s something else you aren’t saying. It’s unspoken in your eyes and the way your brow makes imperceptible furrows every few minutes. Vil’s breath hitches in his throat slightly.

“Did you-” he’s interrupted by that look, not one of pity, but one of resolute determination.

“Yes, I saw those memories,” you admit. You don’t look at him with an apologetic expression, one that screams pity. It’s a relief. “I didn’t mean to, like at all.”

“It’s fine,” Vil supposes it is fine. You wouldn’t tell anyone, he feels. He watches as your expression shrivels up into one of abject surprise as you feel around in your pocket, drawing out what seems to be a cream-coloured, expensive looking envelope. Vil knows exactly what it is, even as you scan the front quizzically then shrug. Of course. You can’t read the runes.

“It’s the results for the poison assessment,” Vil supplies. Strange. He doesn’t feel any excitement, or fear - it’s bordering on the neutrality of acceptance. It seems you feel the same way, as you just toss the envelope down with disregard onto the vanity and continue your search in your pockets.

“Aha!” your triumphant exclamation leaves him blinking in surprise. Why haven’t you acknowledged the results at all? You brandish another bottle of ointment in front of him excitedly, almost hitting him on the nose due to your very close proximity. “I’ve found the muscle and bone ointment!”

“Aren’t you going to look at the results?” Vil asks incredulously - it slips out before he can even comprehend he’s said it.

“I can’t even read them,” you untwist the ointment with your teeth, leaving tiny dents in the metal cap. “I’ll look at them later.”

The potent tang of nettles permeates the air as you set the open bottle onto the table behind you, letting go of Vil’s face.

“I’m going to need you to undress so I can access your back,” your nonchalant tone makes Vil’s reaction delayed. He can feel the back of his neck heat up at your words. “I heard the nastiest little crunch when Deuce’s spell hit you, so I’m gonna have to check those ribs.”

“Right,” Vil swallows thickly, standing up. Wrong move. You’re much too close now, pressed up against the vanity with him standing right in front of you. His body is brushing up against yours, and he can feel your body heat. Shit. He moves out of the vicinity to the bathroom, with all the composure of a professional actor.

“This ointment’s designed for deeper use than surface level injuries,” you call out behind him. “It’s gonna sting!”

“That’s fine,” Vil responds before shutting his bathroom door. He quickly loosens his shirt, wishing it were your hands doing- His heart pounds in his ribcage as he shuts down the thought. It only takes a minute before his shirt and blazer are both tossed into the laundry basket, all too soon considering the flushed sheen emerging on his face.

One final cursory inspection of his face in the mirror is necessary before he goes out to face you. He’s almost taken aback - not by the lack of makeup which he’s already accustomed to, but the sheer vulnerability within his expression. He looks like such a mess, and you’ve not even commented on it? You’ve just accepted that it doesn’t matter what he looks like; you’re going to treat him the same regardless. It’s a far cry to what he values as his principles.

He pushes open the door hesitantly. His torso is exposed, and he suddenly feels the jarring pangs of shyness. Why now? He’s gone topless for movie scenes before, for Sevens’ sake! Steeling himself, he opens the door completely. You’ve placed the vanity chair by the bed- surely you’re not-

“You can either lie on your stomach here, or sit up on the chair, which might be more uncomfortable,” you explain briefly, rolling up your uniform sleeves as if you’re about to conduct a lab practical. Am I the lab rat? “I’ve picked up a few massage tips here and there, so overall it should be a quite pleasant experience. Of course, if you want to omit the massage-”

“No, it’s fine,” Vil lets out a shaky breath at your nonchalance, gingerly lying on his front on his covers. Jack of all trades, aren’t you? He doesn’t realise just how tense his muscles have been until you press your thumbs into the muscles situated around his scapula. Your hands are coated in some sort of resinous, volatile substance, judging from the brief alcohol fumes flaring up whenever you place your hands down. You were right, there is a sting, but it’s not as sharp as he expected.

Why are you doing this? It’s a question that keeps replaying in his mind’s movie theatre, with the cruel laughing soundtrack interspersed in a tragic loop every few seconds. The two of you aren’t friends, and what you’ve done goes beyond the level of care Vil normally receives from friendship. He can’t complain, not when your warm, rough hands are finally on him, even if it’s to just rub the ointment in.

“Now, I’m no medic,” there’s a faint apology in your tone as you concentrate the ointment into a specific, aching spot. Vil barely registers the sting of pain due to your burning touch. “But I think that your rib’s been bruised at the very least in that spot, and that ointment should’ve healed the worst of it.”

His rapid heart rate distracts him from the loss of body heat from you as you move your hands away from his body. Please don’t stop. He feels a heavy pressure on his right shoulder, and to his surprise it’s the palm of your hand waking him from his reverie.

“I’ll bandage you up just to be sure,” you murmur, shifting your weight from foot to foot and looking around. It’s clear you’re hesitant, maybe due to your lack of experience playing a so-called “doctor”. Still, judging by the way the deep ache within has eased, you’ve done a pretty darn good job, as Epel would no doubt say. “Sit up.”

Vil obeys, gingerly swinging his legs round the bed until he’s sitting, and you’re once again hovering over him as you slip a clean bandage out of its plastic wrapping. He breathes in the comforting warmth of your body heat and repertoire of chemical smells that mask the floral traces on your skin. Don’t you feel the rushed thrum of blood that’s pumping through each vein and each capillary, as you wrap your arms around him to begin winding the bandage?

Is he nothing more than a mere patient to that clinical precision you currently sport?

“What would you have chosen, if you won the poison assessment?” Vil suddenly asks as you clip the bandage into place with a satisfied hum around the middle of his torso.

“Why are you asking as if I lost?” you let out a bemused chuckle, gesturing to the still-very-closed envelope sitting on his vanity. “We don’t know yet.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Vil could melt with the way you’re gazing down at him as he sits with you standing in between his legs. Your sharp eyes contain a warning, one he has no intention of heeding as he presses the subject. “Won’t you tell me?”

“Fine,” your voice rasps slightly as you stoop down to his level. He can’t help but shiver at the sensation of your warm breath rustling past his ear. “Are you really that eager to know?”

“Go on,” Vil almost pleads, and he’s sure you hear the quiet hints of desperation in his voice. Your eyes lock back onto his; he’s slightly regretting asking you as he sees the dangerous glints in your eye. His breath hitches as he realises it’s the same, all-consuming look of seriousness you reserve for your experiments and potions. It’s as if he already knows what your answer will be, with the way his blood excitedly thrums to the surface to respond with an echoing yes.

Please.

The rough pads of your fingers meet his chin again in that gentle grasp as you tilt his head upwards. This is really happening, right? It’s as if he’s in a haze; anticipation of your movements is the only thing breaking him out of it.

“Can I..” you murmur, brushing a thumb over his bottom lip. He holds his breath. Yes. Your mere touch calls forth fireworks to explode in a vibrant cacophony.

“Please,” Vil’s quiet gasp is all the encouragement you clearly need, because the next thing he knows you’ve stepped forward and met his open mouth with yours. The heady taste of woodsmoke and cherry syrup lingering on your tongue is positively intoxicating. He’s not sure, but he can also taste the coppery tang of blood as well. Perhaps it’s from the heat of battle earlier? Regardless, his blood rises in response; he’s sure his face is flushed a deep pink.

You don’t hesitate, leaning his head to the side with your fingers to kiss him deeper and deeper. He groans into your mouth, feeling you smile as you taste his desperation. He positively convulses as he feels your hand trace the bare skin of his side; he’s so vulnerable like this, and he knows you feel it as you press into his body.

Vil gasps for air when you pull back. A string of saliva connects your lips to his; with a start, he realises that your lips are shiny and traced with the purple lipgloss he’s wearing. Your eyes are half-lidded with intensity and some other roiling emotion he can’t place. It makes his breathing even more uneven when he realises he’s made you look like that.

“Like what you see?” even now, traces of rivalry still lace Vil’s tone; he cannot help but provoke you to elicit another reaction. Your gaze slowly travels up and down Vil’s dishevelled appearance, making sure to scour every inch of it. He holds his breath when your lip curls in disdain.

“Please,” your voice rolls deep from your throat with sarcasm. It makes Vil’s blood cells burn with want. The sharp, intense look in your eyes only becomes more turbulent; it’s insanely attractive to be at your mercy.

“Don’t make me laugh-” your fingers curl into his chin more, and Vil can feel the suppressed strength within the grip. Blood is rushing straight down, and he can barely keep track of all the thoughts racing through his head. “-not with the way I’ve seen you almost do flips for my attention, with your one-sided rivalry.”

“Ah-” Vil’s gasp sounds suspiciously like a moan as you move closer, pressing a knee in between his legs inadvertently. You’ve clearly heard it, with the way you furrow your brow and pause your motions.

“Did you-” your eyes fully take in his heavy breathing and the way he’s coming undone from just kissing you. Your question is answered immediately.

“Please, keep going,” Vil pleads, removing one hand from where it’s gripping the sheets to your hip. You swallow thickly, eyes darting between his hand and face.

“You sure you want to continue?” you prompt, eyes settling into that same dangerous glint once again. “I don’t want to aggravate your injuries..”

“Please,” Vil all but begs, seeing the way your eyes glaze over with desire. The hazy, smoky smell of your skin almost acts like an aphrodisiac; he cannot help but be ensnared.

“Alright,” your voice is hushed when you tilt his head upwards to access his jugular, biting into the area slightly with sharp canines. He knows you feel it: the way his pulse jumps erratically beneath your touch. You draw out quiet, hushed gasps with every mark you make on his throat, with every movement of your waist against his bare torso, with every nudge of your knee in between his legs.

More.

He doesn’t even realise he’s slowly rolling his hips against your leg to feel any sort of friction until you press down on his hips with the hand that’s been supporting his shoulder.

“Not so fast,” you breathe against his skin - his back can’t help but arch slightly at the feeling of your breath against his neck. “Allow me to take care of you.”

It’s your words that make him pause in shock; they’re an eerie echo of what you said in his dream. Judging by the lack of change in your expression, you don’t know about it; thank Sevens.

You’re pressing into him, forcing him into the bed on his forearms while you lean in, kissing his mouth feverishly to bring out his gasps and moans. He’s unbearably hard, all the more so because of your knee moving out of reach each time he chases that delicious high. This is better than any dream.

Burning kisses trail their way from below his ear down to his collarbone. He’s suddenly glad for the wonders of concealer as he thinks about the marks you’re leaving. On the other hand, he’s strangely into the idea of people seeing he’s taken by you, so much so that you’re marking him up like this.

“Ah- right there,” Vil can’t suppress the noises he’s making as your lips travel down to his chest. He doesn’t care who hears him; he’s seeing goddamn stars with the way your tongue circles his nipple and your thumb mirrors the action with the other one. The pressure you’re applying deftly is making him intoxicated.

“You look so beautiful like this,” your fingers glide over the neatly wrapped bandages on his chest, trailing down to his waist. He doesn’t think it’s possible for his heart to beat any more erratically without thumping straight out of his chest. Is he really sure that you haven’t magically seen his dreams? After all, you’ve seen his memories. He waits with bated breath for your next move, not realising that you’ve already positioned yourself to hover between his thighs with a small grin on your face.

“Mind if I take these off?” you hook your thumbs around the tailored trousers he’s wearing. It takes considerable self-restraint to not tell you to just rip them off.

“Go ahead,” it’s a wonder that his voice doesn’t crack from the sheer pressure of what he’s feeling at the moment. Your grin is all edges as you efficiently unzip the front and slip the pants off. It seems that he’s surprised you when you look down at his smooth legs with your eyebrows slightly raised, taking in the fact that he’s wearing sheer black stockings to his mid thigh underneath his pants.

“All for me?” you run your fingers down his legs appreciatively, feeling the soft material underneath your fingers with an even sharper grin than before. Vil can’t help but shiver at the feather-light touches you give, contrasted sharply with the jagged vertices of your smile.

All for you.

It’s as if you can read his thoughts. You’re once again hovering between his legs, spreading them with nothing more than a gentle push. The touches you leave on his legs feel almost possessive; he cannot help but adore it. Will he be the only one seeing that expression on your face? He wants to be the only one, the only one to see the tumultuous desire warp and thrash within the glints in your eyes. It’s a far cry from your usual composure.

Sticky residue from his lipgloss is left on his soft inner thighs as you press kiss after kiss to the skin. He can feel desire pulse through you with every bruising mark you leave. It entrances him. The unspoken words you leave him are more than enough to assure him that even like this, with all his bruises and scrapes and tears, he’s beautiful.

Your hands slowly ease his underwear off; the cold air on the sensitive skin makes him hiss slightly, but it quickly turns into a gasp as you leave kisses in the crook of the skin connecting his thigh to his pelvis.

“I’m going to absolutely ruin you,” you promise quietly. The ravenous look in your eyes doesn’t subside as you gaze at him from between his legs. He can’t help but let out a small groan at your words. What would his fans say if they saw him, lying so pliant for his supposed academic rival?

One of Vil’s hands fly up to his face to muffle the moans escaping his lips when your thumb circles his slit, made all too easy by the flow of pre-cum from his dick. The other hand is left desperately clutching at the sheets of his bed as his hips involuntarily buck upwards into your hand.

“Uncover your pretty mouth,” you slowly twist your hand down, all while gazing at his flushed face. He’s already seeing stars at the friction and can barely register his hand leaving his mouth to grip the sheets. “I want to hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He can only hope that his door is soundproofed from the obscene noises leaving him as you pick up the pace. It’s not enough. Your hand moves away each time the haze of pleasure builds up, leaving him chasing after your touch. He’s sure he looks an absolute mess right now with the way tears are leaving his eyes and his brow has the sheen of sweat; you clearly don’t care as you lithely move upwards to kiss him. The cool fabric of your clothes presses into his bare skin, making him feel incredibly exposed to you.

You’re still moving with that teasing pace as you swallow down his moans. It’s unbearable, all the more so because you’re still covered in your uniform. He almost sobs in relief when your hand picks up speed and the pleasure starts steadily building in his stomach. His hips desperately grind into your hand and you let him, let him come undone with your touch and quiet praises. He’s close; the dopamine is flooding through his veins and all he can focus on is the way you touch him, the way you’re currently kissing his jaw and leaving more marks on his neck, the way you’re coaxing such obscene sounds from both his throat and from the skin on skin friction.

It builds and builds and builds, until all he can fathom is saying your name over and over, as if he’s some devout worshipper invoking some otherworldly being. He lets go, feeling the way you slow down to allow him to ride out the climax. Only white-hot pleasure courses through his mind, fading out more slowly than usual. He kisses you feverishly, feeling the warm skin on the nape of your neck as he pulls you in closer and closer. You’re now lying side by side on his bed, with you pressed up against him wearing your despoiled clothes, ones that have been despoiled by him.

“You’re removing your clothes as well, I hope?” his gaze trails down your body, looking at the offending uniform that you’re wearing. It’s a wonder he’s managed to form a coherent statement. Still, it’s only fair that you also remove the fabric with those deft hands like you did to those tailored trousers he was wearing.

“Right,” your gaze softens, moving your hands away from his body. His brows furrow with a question as he watches the hand sticky with cum approach your face- oh my. A scarlet flush blooms on his cheeks as you use your tongue to clean your hand up, before using it to lazily remove your blazer and vest. You don’t give them a second glance as you toss the clothes on the floor. The warmth you’re emitting is all the more palpable as only a thin buttoned shirt separates your skin from his. It’s incredibly attractive, watching your languid movements as you discard the shirt off to the side as well as your trousers.

The feeling of your bare skin on his shouldn’t elicit such a burning reaction from him, but it does; he groans as you lean back to slowly kiss him, feeling the way your body heat envelopes him without any barriers. He’s acutely aware of all the points your skin brushes against him - it’s insanely addicting. You’re kissing him without a care in the world, judging by the way you lazily cradle his face with your hands. He’s so malleable under your touch, so starved of affection that he’s wrapped around your pinky finger. He’s sure you can feel the way his skin flushes with a simmering heat.

The blue hour soaks you both in the gloom as your hands press him closer and closer, until he can barely distinguish where he ends and you begin. Is this what it means to become one, united in flesh?

Does he look beautiful to you like this?

He knows he does. He knows he does when you reverently trail down with your kisses, settling between his thighs again to fill him up with your fingers. He knows he does as you feverishly coax those angelic moans out of him; your eyes are blazing with desire for him. He knows he does as you draw out his climax for as long as you can so wave after wave of pleasure can keep hitting him.

It’s late evening when the two of you fall asleep, tangled together and worn out.

The letter on the vanity lies forgotten; Vil doesn’t particularly care about the results when he already feels your equal.

Scene V: Closing . 　⁺

“Goodness, trickster,” Rook’s exclamation when you emerge in the Pomefiore lounge room in the morning thankfully goes unnoticed by the few students milling about. “Our dorm uniform looks simply ravishing on you.”

“Yeah, mine got quite ruined from yesterday’s events,” your voice sounds raspy as you try to sell your act to Rook, who’s positively cooing over you. What a little prankster. Vil can’t help but glance at you from his favourite armchair. As the culprit responsible for ruining your uniform, he of course had to lend you a uniform. Still, you do look rather good in it.

“Don’t tell me you slept over and didn’t tell me?” Rook plasters a look of mock-hurt on his face, and Vil implores you to shut your mouth for once and put on the best act of your life.

“Something like that,” your expression is innocent, with the exception of your raised eyebrows. You don’t look at Vil at all as you smile at Rook, who’s unfortunately glanced over at Vil, scrutinising him with that disgustingly perceptive look.

“Does that explain the bruises on his neck?” Vil chokes on his smoothie hearing the hunter’s whisper. Of course he forgot something this morning. Of all days.

“Whatever could you mean?” you inquire nonchalantly, straightening the ironed collar of the uniform.

“Oh my,” Rook’s eyes are as wide as saucers as his gaze swivels between you and Vil. It’s rare to see him this gleeful. “You two totally slept-”

“I’m going to need you to shut it, Rook,” you cover the offender’s mouth abruptly before he can say anything more. You’re not denying it though, looking back at Vil with a wicked grin on your face.

Shit.