#terminally funny i fear

[hollow-lime-green]

[vinnigami]

August 17 2023

You’re telling me the bethel terminal never tried to eat anyone? not even once?

[meiieiri]

𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 [toji fushiguro]

synopsis: so she tells him not to cry over the injustice of a life cut too short for at the end of all this, she’ll only be a dream.

pairing: ex-husband!toji fushiguro x terminally ill wife!reader | song inspo: soon you’ll get better, cancer

warnings: heavy angst, terminal illness (primary bone cancer, stroke and MS), mentions of divorce/past infidelity, allegories to cheating, major character death. please read at your own risk. | a/n: this was so heavy for me to write, i started writing at 2 in the morning, and it’s 6:34 now.

word count. 3k~

“Why can’t you do anything right?”

Toji should have noticed, he laments as he takes a sip of his cognac. He should have sensed that something was wrong sooner, maybe that way, he wouldn’t be begging to borrow some more time to make things right. Your fingers were trembling that day — the first time you ever ruined his morning coffee — your hands shaking uncontrollably as you washed the mug with a sorrowful look on your face, your eyes glossy with the tears you were desperately trying to hold back.

He shouldn’t have been so harsh, he realizes that now. Breakfast had been burnt to a crisp and ruined, sure, but nothing could compare to how he constantly ruins the one beautiful thing that has ever happened to him, who haphazardly spilled her smoothie on him when they first bumped into each other in Shinjuku just after he finally cashed in enough money with Shiu to get his laundry done.

Toji, whose senses have now been honed to pick up on the slightest of your sluggish movements and your pained and suppressed hisses, hears the bedsheets rustling and he instantly gets up before you could even force yourself out of bed. “Hey, hey, easy now.” He catches you before you could fall backwards onto the mattress, your skin appears cold and clammy, your thinning muscles stiff as a board — you must be having one of your episodes again. “What do you need?” he asks, his voice heartbreakingly gentle for the first time in months.

“Water.”

Your husband nods, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, hurriedly making his way to the dining table which was now kept in your bedroom so you aren’t forced to move around too much. The sound of water splashing into the glass fills the air and you feel another stabbing pain coarse through your joints.

Toji gingerly brings the glass of water to your lips and you sighed, an exasperated yet amused smile on your face. “I can do it, babe. Don’t worry.” Why did that sound like you were trying to convince not just Toji but yourself? You bring your bony hands to grip the glass and it takes everything out of your husband not to break into a fit of sobs when he sees your hand violently shaking with effort just to keep the glass steady.

His larger hands close around your defeated one. “I-I…I can do it, I did it yesterday. Y-you saw me.”

“Shhh, I know, it’s okay.”

You bite your lip to distract yourself from the anguish of realizing the truth behind the doctor’s words. Everything you feared was finally becoming your and Toji’s bleak reality.

“It’ll be a painful decline.”

Funny how you’re the one fighting to extend your life but Toji feels like he’s already gone ahead and passed on. Just a few minutes earlier, you were overjoyed to see him again. You didn’t think he’d see your text thinking that his new girlfriend must have asked him to block your number, and you most certainly didn’t expect him to arrive when you asked for him via a brief phone call to drive you to the hospital for your monthly checkup since he took the car with him when you separated. He made up a bullshit excuse when Yuko asked where he was going in such a hurry and he makes it to your old shared apartment to see you sitting on the driveway looking thinner and sicklier than ever — your eyes were sunken, and your cheeks were hollow.

Yet in spite of that, you gave him the brightest of smiles, waving shyly to him as he steps out of the driver’s seat. “Happy morning!” you smiled, greeting him with your signature good morning tagline which he used to happily wake up to everyday. There wasn’t a scintilla of resentfulness in your demeanor, and you genuinely looked so happy to see him for the first time since he moved out.

“How long?” Toji asked the doctor, his heart twisted into knots when he hears you happily humming in the MRI room as you put your clothes back on, oblivious to the solemn mood in the other room. You already knew what was going on, but you’ll just continue pretending that everything’s alright and that this is nothing more but a case of fatigue so as not to inconvenience Toji.

“A year, maybe even less.”

“And…you’re saying it’s best if she simply…doesn’t get the treatment?”

The doctor sighs heavily. She’s seen many cases like this before, but none as utterly hopeless as yours. Even if you did start the treatment, the lesions in your spinal cord have already entered the most severe stage, you were already exhibiting signs of autonomic nervous system distress — the tremors, the uncontrollable stuttering of your words, the growing loss of balance — and as if that wasn’t enough, the doctor also discovers that you were suffering from primary osteosarcoma.

There was no way to cure you now that it’s too late.

“I suggest we just focus on keeping her comfortable. The only thing left for us to do now is to bring her home. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re so fucking embarrassing. I can’t bring you anywhere.”

By some miracle, you and Toji went out one night around four months before the divorce proceedings. He went home that day, exhausted beyond all belief from another mission, but he was in a good mood. Yuko was out working late tonight, so, he decides to take you out to your and his favorite izakaya for some yakitori.

Some time during the night, after downing three full bottles of sake together, you excuse yourself to use the restroom. “I’ll be right back,” you told Toji, tipsily kissing him on the cheek as you hop off the bar stool in the direction of the women’s room.

You couldn’t tell if you were staggering from the copious amounts of alcohol you ingested, but your legs were beginning to feel heavy, and for some ominous reason, you were slowly losing all sensation in your left leg. You try to hold onto one of the izakaya’s shōji panel decor pieces to regain your balance, but it was a futile effort in the end. Your knees suddenly buckle, and a sickening crack tears through your tibia as you fall to the ground.

“Are you alright?!”

Toji picks up on the commotion instantly and he sees the izakaya patrons crowding around the hallway leading to the restroom. He quickly makes his way over and a look of disgust appears on his features when he sees you crumpled on the ground and the mortifying sight of you having relieved yourself on the floor, tears of embarrassment staining your cheeks at the thought of your body suddenly malfunctioning like this.

Muttering out an ignorant apology for his seemingly drunk wife, he roughly picks you up, growing increasingly infuriated with you when one izakaya employee offers him a damp cloth to dry out your urine with. It was funny how quickly other people came to your aid — people whose names you don’t even know — while your own husband seems very reluctant to even touch you right now. He doesn’t speak to you on the way home even as you apologize while he’s loading you into the car, grimacing when the leather seat gets wet. “Toji, I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened—“

“—Save it.”

What he should have said was: “Are you okay?”, “It’s alright.” or better yet, “I still love you.”.

At present, Toji decides on a whim to take you to Yokohama’s famed bayside today. It’s only a two hour drive from your place in Tokyo and Toji figures you must miss going on road trips by now with you cooped up at home all the time. “Toji, are you sure this is a good idea?” you murmured nervously as the car pulls to a stop by the bayside promenade. What happens if you can’t control yourself again? There doesn’t look to be a lot of public restrooms nearby.

Toji plants a reassuring kiss to your nose. “Babe, you remember what the doctor said, spending some time outdoors can do wonders for your health. Besides, didn’t you always love the coast?” He brings your hand to his scarred lips, rubbing his thumb against the soft skin before stepping out of the car to retrieve your wheelchair from the trunk.

“I know but what if I have another accident?” you said worriedly, rolling down the car windows so he could hear you. “What if I embarrass you again?”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about you.”

You’ve lost all control of your lower extremities three months ago, rendering you unable to walk and feel when you need to relieve yourself. Toji struggles with the wheelchair for a bit and a flash of sadness fills your heart when you see him take a few deep breaths to calm himself down. He wasn’t angry, he was devastated. He looks wistfully at the boardwalk, a distant gaze trained on the sea. He remembers when you used to walk down this very lane, his hand protectively around your waist as you happily take selfies. He could still hear your fond giggles the last time the two of you went here.

“Why don’t you ever smile when I take pictures of you?”

Toji shoos away a pigeon from stealing a bite of his ice cream sandwich. He feigns an unamused look when you try to take another picture of him on your phone.

“Come on, I’ve been trying to get a shot of you all day! You still have to take pictures of me so I can post it on my Instagram feed!”

Your ever moody husband pinches off a small piece of bread and feeds it to the nosy pigeon. “You and your precious feed,” he bemoans jokingly.

“Please? Just one picture!“ you playfully nudged him. Truthfully, you just wanted to see him smile for once, a genuine one and not one of those lopsided smirks he usually gives you when he’s teasing you. “Please?” you pout knowing he can never say no to that adorable face you make when you really want him to do something or worse, buy something for you.

Sighing, he turns to look at your phone’s camera lens and you blush when a smile slowly illuminates his usually stoic face. Your thumb hovers over the stop recording function, not realizing you’re taking a video, but you can’t seem to press it. “What’s taking so long?” he holds the smile like he’s some cartoon character and you snap out of it.

“Oh shoot, it’s a video!” you laughed, and you begin to run down the boardwalk, eagerly getting away from Toji who demands that you delete it immediately. Of course, you’re no match for his borderline inhuman speed attributed to his athletic physique and he catches you by the waist, playfully swinging you over his shoulder like you’re a sack of potatoes.

Now, your giggles have gone silent.

Toji realizes now he should have indulged you more over the course of your relationship and subsequent marriage. Had he known that you won’t even make it to your third wedding anniversary, he would have allowed you to take as many pictures and videos of him as you’d like, he’d swallow his pride and he’d give you the brightest of smiles so you could happily post him on your social media accounts with a heartwarming caption about him being your “smiley hubby”.

More than that though, he should have taken more photos of you, mostly stolen candid shots, of course. You can’t catch him being all soft on you now. He still has a reputation to live up to after all. But more than that, had he known that your illness was intent on stealing every scrap of you from him, he should have made more effort in preserving all these memories. He should have kept everything from those toll tickets on your late night drives together when the two of you just needed a quick escape from the world, to receipts from your trip to Tokyo Disney Sea on your first wedding anniversary, and even simple convenience store receipts.

Toji should have kept everything down to the smallest of memories knowing one day, that’s all he’ll have to remember you by.

He opens the passenger seat’s door and he effortlessly gathers you into his arms, being extra careful with your fragile form as he sits you down on the wheelchair. He opens the backseat and he pulls out two different colored blankets, one sea-foam green and the other, rose pink. “Take your pick,” he smiles at you and you chuckled softly, pointing to the rose pink one. He happily covers your legs with it to keep you warm, stroking your cheek when you whisper a bashful ‘thank you’.

Suddenly, the wind picks up and your hair-clip that’s holding your locks in a low bun comes loose, and your head turns in the direction of where it flew off to. Toji is quick to take out his phone and he snaps a quick burst shot of you, your hair blowing in the wind, under the coastal spring weather. You turn to look at him and your face falls when you see him burying his phone in his pocket. Since you fell ill, you’ve become insecure of your appearance, banning your husband from taking pictures and videos of you altogether. “Toji, I thought I said no pictures.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The next day, you serendipitously find your photo on your Instagram handle with the caption: “Y/N — Yokohama, Spring, 2024” and when you swipe left, another picture, well to be more accurate, a screenshot of the video clip you accidentally took of him captioned: “Toji — Yokohama, Summer, 2022”.

“You don’t have to stick around for me. Please just go, I’m sure Yuko must be looking for you right now.”

Yuko, his new fiancé, had been blowing up his phone the entire day with texts demanding to know where he is and if he’s going to make it to their date that night. It’s 7 PM now, and Toji still hasn’t shown up to confirm their restaurant reservations. The damn witch will surely cuss him out when they see each other again, but for some reason, even if he tries, he simply cannot bring himself to give a flying fuck. Your immunologist and oncologist stepped out for a bit to allow you two a brief moment of privacy which had now stretched to an expanse of five hours since your results came in.

The air in the room is thick and heavy, not a single sound can be heard. Inside however, underneath this tough exterior he was projecting, Toji is throwing a fit, screaming at the sky like those broken men in those shitty Netflix romance tragedies he used to callously make fun of.

“Why didn’t you call me sooner? You knew, didn’t you?”

Toji’s bites his cheek trying to keep a lid on his emotions. He knows the answer. He just wants to hear you say it out loud. You hated him. You wanted nothing to do with him after he cheated on you with some girl he met at a bar in uptown Shibuya. That’s why you didn’t tell him, he didn’t deserve to know. “Shit,” he whispers harshly, crumpling the medical abstract in his hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? Was it because you hated me? Is that it? You didn’t think I’d worry about you?”

You screwed your eyes shut, shaking your head. You didn’t hate him, not even when you have every reason to. He abandoned you, left you to waste away and to die and yet, even now, you can’t bring yourself to resent him for the simple reason that he is the literal love of your life, the reason behind your smiles, your happy mornings and passionate midnight hours. “At first, I thought I was fine, maybe just fatigued or something.”

“Don’t lie. You knew something was going on and that something in your body was seriously fucked up.”

“And we weren’t married anymore so, I didn’t think it was right to tell you…I wanted to though, but I didn’t want to intrude on you and Yuko,” you said meekly. Even in your greatest hour of need, you were still thinking of him, putting him first even when he doesn’t deserve it. “I-I…I don’t hate you enough to worry you, to make you feel that you could have done something to prevent this. Because I’m telling you right now, regardless if you were faithful or not, I was bound to get sick anyway. You couldn’t have done anything to change that.”

“But I could have been there. I should have noticed. I shouldn’t have downplayed everything.” He says this as if he wants to shake this noble, self-sacrificing bullshit attitude out of your system. “I’m your husband. I should have been there.”

You flash him a heartbroken smile at his little slip-up, so, even now, he was still referring to himself as your husband, not your ex-husband. “To see me waste away? Babe, I don’t want you to see that.”

You begin to feel tears streaming down your face, the emotions you were experiencing now flowing like a free river after an entire dam is destroyed. Toji watches you unravel before his eyes and his bottom lip begins to tremble. What has he done? Dear god, what has he done to his poor, poor wife?

“I want you to remember me healthy, I want you to remember me as myself not this…sickly pitiful woman you’re unlucky to call your ex-wife…besides, after all this, I’ll only be a dream.” A mere passing second in his life. “And believe me, my life wasn’t so bad.”

He loses it at that.

“Just stop this, Y/N! Stop acting like you’re not scared shitless of dying, like you’re not gonna have regrets once all this is over! Stop pretending that things are gonna be alright one day because it won’t! Not when I’m now being forced to accept that you won’t get better, not when I’ve wasted so much time putting you through hell and back instead of taking care of you like a proper husband should, and certainly not when I’m suddenly supposed to learn to say goodbye and to live without you! Because fuck that, Y/N!”

You are left speechless at that.

Toji was never one to lose his cool, even during your worst arguments, he may slide a few snarky remarks here and there but Toji Fushiguro…never yells, and he doesn’t sob either.

You hesitantly stand up and walk over to him, crouching down in front of him as he covers his tear-stained eyes with his right hand while the other is crumpled around your medical abstract. Taking his left hand, you gently remove the medical abstract from his grip, and for the first time in so many months, you feel one another’s warm skin against each other. You press your forehead to his hand as you wept with him.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be a dream. I want you to be real.”

“Can’t you be bothered to clean up in here?!”

You wake up from your nap, you’ve been battling muscle and joint pain the entire day, the slightest of movement causing you to double over in agony and because of that, you weren’t able to clean the apartment today. You slowly get up from the couch, being extra cautious not to make any sudden movements. “Well?” Toji presses, his lips curled into a scowl.

“I’m sorry, I was feeling a little tired,” you sighed heavily, picking up a broom to sweep the living room floor despite the excruciating pain you were in. Toji rolls his eyes, handing you a Manila envelope. “What’s this?” you asked softly, peering inside.

“Divorce papers,” he shrugs nonchalantly. Everything stops, even the very rise and fall of your chest halts into an uneasy stasis. “I already signed them. I just need your signature then, I’ll move out by tomorrow.”

You must be dreaming. That’s the only logical explanation to all this. You’re asleep, in a deep REM sleep, utterly oblivious to the world. This wasn’t happening. But you could feel the rough surface of the brown envelope, and you could still feel the agonizing stabs of white hot pain throughout your body. Glancing at Toji, you see him texting someone with an eager look on his face that screams: “I’m free.”.

Instantly, it dawns on you.

“Will she make you happy?” you asked, putting down the broom to look around for a pen but Toji pulls one he stole from the law firm office out of his pocket.

“She will,” he answers simply.

And you are indeed grateful that he is completely upfront about finding another while the two of you are married. It would have hurt much more, you silently remind yourself, if he had just upped and left without another word leaving you to wonder what went wrong between the two of you. This was Toji’s final act of mercy in your marriage, and he’s not opposed to honesty and truthfulness either. Not once did he try to change his phone’s lock-screen passcode, nor did he try to conceal the identity of the woman who was texting him every night while you slept fitfully next to him. It was almost as if he wanted you to find out, like he wanted you to know so you could back off yourself.

But if there’s one thing Toji loves about you, it’s your unending faithfulness to your promises, to your marriage vows, and your willingness to endure anything he threw at you. You never checked his phone, you never brought up his affair, you never got angry with him. You just kept silent, simply content with giving and giving…and giving while he milked you dry by taking, and taking and taking, tearing you to pieces bit by bit without hearing a single complaint fall from your lips.

You were a devoted wife, through and through.

And it bored the hell out of him, on top of your recent mishaps, he was done. Done with everything, and done with you.

“Okay.”

Come morning, he takes everything he owns with him and promptly proposes to the girl he’s been seeing for the past year. Two weeks later, your divorce is received by the Tokyo Family Court and is summarily approved and finalized. From that moment on, you and Toji went on your separate ways never to look back, you were each other’s yesterdays, and the love that existed between the two of you was nullified in favor of acquaintanceship…or so you thought.

“Y/N, I’m home!” Toji calls into the house as he comes back from your neighborhood’s pharmacy. You look up from the book you were reading, smiling ever so slightly at your husband who seemed to have a wonderful sparkle in his eyes. “Hey, kid,” he kisses the top of your head when he reaches your wheelchair.

“You seem happy,” you remarked positively.

“Well, for one, they replenished their stocks today and I managed to get you your steroids and painkillers so you’ll be able to sleep easy tonight,” Toji smiles, taking out the items from the pharmacy’s paper bag. “And I got you this neat memory foam cushion for your wheelchair.” He fluffs it up as a form of demonstration before placing it behind your back.

When he sees you smile, a sense of relief washes over Toji. You reach towards him, and he pulls you into an embrace. “Thank you,” you said, pure sincerity dripping from your voice. “For everything you do.”

“Anything for you.” He suddenly moves back and reaches into the tote bag you lended him. “Oh, and wait, before I forget, I have another surprise.”

You laughed airily. “Another surprise? Now, you’re just spoiling me!”

He pulls out a piece of paper from the tote bag and he places it in your hands as your eyes quickly scan over the document. Your breath hitches in your throat when you realize what it is. Did Toji really—? You couldn’t believe it. “A marriage pre-registration,” you said in awe. You read it again just in case to make sure that this wasn’t a figment of your sick body’s imagination, that this was real, that Toji genuinely wants to make everything right again. Your fingers skim over your typewritten names. “It has our names…we’re really—“ You can’t even finish your sentence without bursting into happy tears. “Are we—?”

Toji nods, gazing into your eyes, and as emerald and (E/C) clash for what seems to be an eternity lost in one another, he plants a kiss to your temple, coming up to embrace you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“We are. The Tokyo Family Court, as far as I know, will approve our remarriage once we file this. So, you have to get stronger, okay?” He’s begging you at this point, despite your rapidly deteriorating condition. “Strong enough to see me fix everything. Strong enough to be there on our second wedding, strong enough to say our vows again.”

Your hand comes up to stroke his cheek from behind, and he nuzzles into your neck at your tender touch.

“I will. I promise.”

But you never really get to say your vows. Not comprehensibly anyway.

“Babe, can you say that again?”

Toji crouches by your bedside as you look at him apologetically. You were causing him trouble and pain again which is the last thing that you want to give him especially when’s fought and worked so hard to care for you, to keep prolonging this borrowed time you’re on. “To-ji. Toji.” You gaze at him apprehensibly, not really believing you can do it without crumbling.

“Come on, babe, you can do it. Say my name, please…Toji. I’m Toji.”

“Toooji-“ you slurred sadly. At this point, your Multiple Sclerosis has reached its end stage and has taken…everything from you: your ability to walk, your ability to control your muscle spasms and other bodily functions…and now, coupled with an unexpected stroke, your ability to speak. And you and Toji know that time is almost up, with you having come to accept it, while your husband still held onto hope. Your fingers gently graze over his face as best as your spasms and tremors allow you, starting from his forehead to his eyes, his nose, his cheek and finally, his lips, as if you’re memorizing it one last time. “Lo-ove you-“

Toji sniffles, and your fingers instinctively catch his warm tears. “I love you,” he whispers brokenly. “I do. I love you.”

You feel yourself tearing up as you’re forced to watch your beloved cry. And the worst part? You can’t do a thing about it. “D-oon’t c-cry—‘m okaay. Promi-miise…e’everyything ‘ill be okaaay.”

“Y-yeah,” he chuckles, trying to crack a joke even as hope dwindles. “You’ve been nothing but a fucking champ this entire time, you know? I’m so proud of you. So…so…proud that you’re still here.” He strokes your hair as you tread between the realms of the conscious and the unconscious. “Do you wanna go out today? The weather’s shit though. You’ll probably catch your death out there.” At the mention of the word ‘death’, Toji stops, falling into an uncomfortable silence.

You smile weakly at him. “Tiiredd—“

“You’re no fun,” Toji gently flicks your nose and you scrunch it up in displeasure. “Sorry,” he chuckles, holding back an entire waterfall of tears. He knows it’s today. It has to be. You woke up today without your usual ‘happy morning’ greeting, and you refused to drink anything, much less eat anything. “You tired? Any pain?”

You shake your head. You’re as comfortable as you can be for the first time in months. Hospice nurses say humans are built to live the same way they are built to die, no person in this world has ever had the uncanny privilege of being able to look up ‘How to die?’ on a quick Google search and actually find a Wikihow on the morbid subject matter, nor is there anyone else who can teach another how it’s done. It’s just something humans know how to do without a manual, deeply ingrained in the very fabric of human existence is the fear of death, the fear of what comes after, the fear of a nothingness that could follow after living such a vibrant life. Your life was short, barely spanning thirty years, but you lived well: you fell in love, you got hurt, but you fell together again. Now it all has to come to an end, Toji will just have to take care of the rest.

And you weren’t scared.

Or at least you can’t look scared, if you were to be more accurate, you have to look strong and ready to accept the cards you’ve been dealt with for Toji’s sake. When he feels your hand start to slacken, Toji intakes a sharp, shaky breath of sheer panic. “Not yet, Y/N. Please. Not yet.”

He climbs into bed with you, bringing you closer to this desperate man you call yours. There was no getting better anymore, there was no miracle he could hang onto, no deity he could beg for death to spare you, no pill bottle he could pray to. He knew that from the start. But what he witnessed these past months, you’ve been the braver one between the two of you, you knew how to make the most of the rhythm this cruel world gave you and you graciously took him along to dance to the last song of the evening with you.

“There’s still hope. Just keep your eyes open. Just keep them open.” He presses his lips to your forehead, his delusion getting the better of him. “We’ll just keep trying…you can’t leave. You have to stay. You have to.”

“Thaank yoou—“ you softly told your Toji, your voice shrinking in decibels as you become a little drowsy, sinking into the warmth of the requiem of a life well spent.

Toji listens to you, his lips pursed, intent on making this final act of love — a love that is strong enough to say goodbye — a memorable one. And should the afterlife exist, he wishes to send you off with a smile, with the reassurance that he’ll be alright even if that was far from happening.

“Toji.”

“I want you to be real. And I don’t care if we’ll live on borrowed time. Another extra second with you…is enough to last me my entire lifetime.”

[yinyuedijun]

ZERO-SUM GAME

It’s different with Aventurine. You like being his luxury hand watch. You like being his elegant knife, his liar’s dice, his pretty poker chip. You want to be his object—the object of his affections, something he can parade around just like his expensive suits and his beautiful jewellery and his ostentatious furs. Look at me, he uses them to say. Look at what I own. Look at what I own despite this code on my neck. Look at what I've won despite my eyes and my blood. (Or: Aventurine wins you in a game of poker. He decides to cash out his prize right then and there—to enjoy you on the card table, laid out among all the chips and cards.)

8.6k words of psychological issues, explicit smut, and deranged characterization. aventurine tops, reader bottoms. public sex, voyeurism from strangers, piv, oral (reader receiving), fingering with gloves on, creampie. mild dubcon but the reader is ultimately into it. afab gn reader, they are playing a fem-coded role for an espionage assignment (dress, heels, makeup). themes of objectification. discussion of slavery and sa during slavery (not explicit). dead dove do not eat, mdni.

You are in the grandest casino of Kinyoshi Moon Colony, and Aventurine is running your latest husband into life-ruining debt.

You aren’t cut up about it. If your marriage (or concubinage, rather) were genuine, you'd maybe be annoyed about the loss of capital. But as it is, this relationship is an assignment from the IPC—one of the longest and most excruciatingly boring yet. Fortunately for you, Aventurine’s presence tonight means that you've finally gathered enough intel for Diamond’s needs. It is time for the IPC to terminate your latest contract, and Aventurine is here to collect you.

Which is a little funny, given your relationship. It is strange sitting across from your boyfriend, draped over another man and thoroughly ignoring him. You’re entirely focused on fawning over your husband instead—laughing into his ear, lighting his pipe and filling his whiskey glass, and oh, Mister Li, you're so funny, you're so clever, I think you should go all in!—but Aventurine doesn't react. He only smiles at the two of you, like he isn't bothered by the sight.

This is, of course, an act: when you came home from your last marriage (assignment), he'd made sure to pleasure you so thoroughly that you forgot all about your ex-husband (mark). Aventurine did not openly admit to any kind of jealousy at the time, but you could tell he hadn't been keen on letting another man touch you. He usually isn't too keen about anyone touching any of his things, in fact. Despite appearances, he always abhors the thought of losing anything important.

But any fears he might have are concealed right now. They’re always concealed. Hidden by the expensive suit, the countless stacks of chips, the golden walls and high-vaulted ceilings of the Venetian Zhijin, Masked by his generous gifts, his easy laughter, his careless frivolity. You can see right through his gilded smile. The rest of the table cannot.

They are all intrigued when Aventurine asks, a playful lilt in his voice, “How about we make this game a little more interesting, gentleman?”

The other players at the table consider him. The other plus-ones—concubines, courtesans, gigolos, and so on—look at him with calculated expressions of cursory interest. You do so as well, but only for a moment. Your gaze quickly returns to Mister Li’s face—your husband is meant to be your true focus, after all, not the game. You are not a player at this table, but an accessory. Closer to an expensive watch than a human being.

Some business magnate from the Triangulum Galaxy leans back and raises a brow. “I'm listening,” he says. You watch a bead of sweat travel down your husband’s neck.

“How about we up the ante,” Aventurine says, his voice light, “but instead of betting more money this time, we bet our dates?”

You think, in other star systems, other worlds, such a suggestion would invite riot. But Kinyoshi Colony being what it is, and the Venetian being the establishment that it is, the other players at the table only laugh. Nearly half of them deal in the trade of human beings anyway—this is nothing novel for them.

“Well,” one of them says, “it’s not like winning more money’s gonna make a difference to any of us.” A round of chuckling. He turns to his date—some noblewoman from Jarilo-IV who seems greatly out of her depth—and says, “What do you think, love? How do you feel about being part of my wager?”

She doesn't like it. She clearly doesn't like it, and she also clearly doesn't know how to say it. Were you not on the clock, you might intervene. Maybe. As it is, though, all you can do is observe quietly. All the power in this gambit lies with Aventurine. Even when surrounded by men who manipulate the wealth of entire cities, planets, galaxies—he remains in full control.

“There’s never any shame in folding,” he says, magnanimous. Then he looks your husband in the eye, smiling conspiratorially. “But I know there are some of us who aren't afraid to take risks.”

Li laughs. “You’re right about that, Mister Aventurine.” He gives you a fond smile. And of course he does—you’re his last shot at winning back all his losses for the night. “I think you'd make a pretty little chip, don't you?”

Although Mister Li is clearly less distressed at the thought of betting you than he was at the thought of betting his company just last round, you notice, out of the corner of your eye, a muscle in Aventurine’s neck twitching. It’s very, very subtle, and he'd have never let himself do it if the table’s attention were on him, but he did it. Perhaps it was involuntary. Your mouth curls.

“Sure, darling.” You try not to sound too giddy. “I’ll be whatever you like.”

Ordinarily, you wouldn't be so happy about this farce. This is, put plainly, a stupid way to extract you from your mission. Were the cards in anyone else’s hands, your husband could win and you might be stuck with him for another several weeks, at least—assuming that you aren't discovered and killed first. Or you could go home with another man and be subjected to the kind of things that men do when they trade human beings, and you don't think the IPC would care too much if you were. You are an asset before you are a person, after all. At this table, you are closer to an expensive watch than a human being—and at the Company, you are an overpriced knife.

But to Aventurine, you're a chip in one of his games, and you don't mind that so much. Men who only know wealth will throw around their riches thoughtlessly, but men who have endured poverty will hold onto them tightly—desperately. Aventurine takes care of his luxury watches, his elegant knives, his liar’s dice. His capital. And he never loses anything. He always comes to collect. You trust him to collect you, even with this stupid plan, so you are calm as you watch the dealer shuffle the cards.

The table makes their bets. Most of the players go all-in. A couple fold, perhaps feeling some degree of concern for their partners, but it's more likely that they just have shit hands. A lot of the ones who continue playing have shit hands anyway. Your husband doesn't do too badly—a straight flush. He seems confident.

Then Aventurine lays out his cards. Ten. Joker. Queen. King. Ace.

All hearts.

You have to take a sip of your whiskey to stop yourself from laughing.

Aventurine, himself, has the grace not to look too smug about the outcome. Or maybe it's very unremarkable for him, all these winnings being pushed over to him—poker chips and human beings. Some of the other dates are clearly anxious as they move toward him (they are expected to be loyal to their husbands), and some are clearly excited (they are expected to be frivolous, hedonistic playthings). He humours them all, for a little while. Puts on the usual show as they crowd around him, charms them because it'll be good for business partnerships in case any of their husbands care even a little bit about them. You'd do the same in his shoes. But in your current ones (six-inch heels, black leather, red bottoms, luxury), all you can do is seat yourself on the card table and light up a cigarette. Waiting.

Aventurine eventually sends them all off. All I wanted was to get to know you, he says cheerfully, which is probably not a lie. After they leave, he asks the dealer to close the table and go on break. Turn a blind eye. You raise a brow when they obey him.

How interesting.

You're still enjoying your cigarette by the time he turns to you. You flash him a smile, one of the ones that you use for work. His expression doesn't change, but his thumb brushes against one of his many rings—switching off your synesthesia beacons for some privacy—and he leans back to study you. You know he's admiring you, but it could be mistaken for a leer.

“Well, well,” he says, “If it isn’t the esteemed concubine of Li Fengzhi.”

“The esteemed fifth concubine,” you correct. He hums, looking surprised.

“I thought you were the fourth. Did I misremember?”

“No, just misinformed. He took another concubine right before I arrived on Kinyoshi. He acquired a sixth just last week. Turns out he picks up paramours like they’re strays.”

“How inconvenient.”

“It made no difference to me,” you dismiss. “I’m his favourite anyway, but I’m sure you knew that already.”

“I’d have had to be blind not to notice it. You have the man wrapped around your finger.” Aventurine leans back, studying you as you smoke on your perch. “But before we continue—why don’t you come a little closer, esteemed Fifth Concubine?”

You make a face. “That title doesn’t sound as nearly as flattering in Avgin dialect as it does in Zhijinese,” you note, though you get off the table anyway. You don’t go very far, electing to seat yourself on his lap, your arms draping around his shoulders. The feathers of his jacket tickle at your bare shoulders; the satin of his gloves glide down the skin of your thighs before settling on your calves. “Since you’ve won my company for the night, though,” you sigh, “I suppose I can humour you, Mister Aventurine.”

“Lucky me.” He leans in, his breath sweeping the shell of your ear. His fragrance surrounds you, your body warming at the familiar scent of ambergris and vanilla. You realize, all of a sudden, how much you missed it. You have to stop yourself from pressing your face into his neck and melting—it would be a dead giveaway for your identity and also too revealing of your feelings. Aventurine might be endeared by it, but he might also find it disconcerting. He often needs to be tricked into intimacy.

He does enjoy being wanted though, and he can obviously tell that you want him. He pulls you closer, one of his hands giving your thigh a generous squeeze. It makes you throw your head back in a laugh, exposing the soft skin of your throat. You aren't surprised when he takes the opportunity to kiss it, his lips gentle against your pulse.

“You’re being very forward,” you tease him. “Did you miss me?”

“I’m just trying to be careful,” he defends himself between kisses, his breath warm on your skin. “We should try to conceal our mouths as much as possible. No one can intercept our synesthesia beacons, but someone could still read our lips.”

You give him a funny look. “We’re the only two speakers of Avgin in the known universe. Who could, other than ourselves, could read our—mmph…”

Aventurine has caught the rest of your sentence with his mouth. He’s hungry and wanting for you, the heat of his lips overwhelming. Your tongue is as practised as his, but you find yourself too distracted by your thrill to focus, your kiss wet and eager. Messy. Unprofessional.

You’ve never kissed any of your husbands like this. You’ve never kissed any of your other owners like this. You feel dazed when he pulls away.

You compose yourself. “So you did miss me.”

He smiles. “Guilty as charged.” A gloved hand rests on your face, satin tracing your lips. “How could I not? You’ve been away from the house for so long.”

Your eyes narrow. There’s no idiom for this in Avgin, so you flip briefly to Interastral Standard: “Pot, kettle, black. You leave home all the time.” You smack away the hand at your waist, petty. He looks amused. “And you almost always die.”

He switches out his smile for a pout. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad about last time.”

“You nearly got yourself blasted with atomics, so yes, I’m still mad at you.”

Now he’s frowning. “Am I going back to sleeping on the couch when you come back?”

“Yes,” you say. His deepening frown is meant to be read as a joke, but you know better. Deciding to throw him a bone, you lean in, whispering playfully into his ear: “You can still fuck me on it though.”

Aventurine hums, as if considering. His hands traverse your sides as he contemplates your suggestion. You move to straddle him, your thighs squeezed around his hips. When you grind against him, you can feel how much he wants you despite his composure, his control—his length straining in his pants, pressed against the silk covering your core.

“I don’t think I can wait long enough to fuck you on the couch,” he says, voice teasing.

“No?” You hum as his hands travel upward, feeling every inch of you. “The ship on the way home, then?”

“We don’t leave until tomorrow. Do you really think I can wait that long?”

You don't expect to feel the warmth of his hands on your chest. Your breath hitches when he starts palming your tits through your dress, neon eyes admiring the curve of them. One of his thumbs skims over the peak of your breast, and his mouth curls when your nipple hardens. “No bra? That's convenient.”

“I—” You squirm in his grip, whining. It just makes you grind against his lap more, your cunt moving against his slacks. A wave of heat runs through your lower half, and you clench around nothing. You can see people from a nearby table glancing at you, doing double takes. You can feel their lingering gazes on you, and you know Aventurine can too.

“I—are you going to”—your voice shakes as he pinches your nipple, as his other hand moves to squeeze your ass instead. Your dress is short—designed for easy access—and his fingertips easily skim the underside of its skirt. You wonder if he’s going to pull it up. You wonder if he's going to go even further than that.

But that would be an absurd thing to do in the middle of the busiest casino in the colony, which also happens to be the busiest trade hub in its star system. It would be absurd even for the two of you. Nevermind the reactions of the other players in the room—the staff here would immediately blacklist you, and so would every other gambling house in Kinyoshi.

You try to calm yourself. “Are you—ah—going to take me upstairs?”

He's fully kneading your breasts now. You can feel your clit throbbing, your body responding to his rough and unrepentant touch. “Hm… I don't think I want to.” Aventurine’s voice drops. His smile takes on a distinctly wicked quality. “I think I'll take you right here.”

“But we’ll get kicked out,” you whine. Even as you protest though, you're panting and moving your hips now. Grabbing at his arms, rutting against him like you're in heat. His fingers hook around the thin straps of your dress, pull them down your shoulders, already starting to indulge despite your reservations. You bend into his touch.

“Kicked out? By who? The staff?” He smiles, as always. “I own the place now. I don't think they'll be giving me trouble.”

“Y—you what?” For a moment, you're too shocked to keep up the wanton show. “You do? Since when?”

“Since last night.” He thumbs one of the straps that's fallen halfway down your arms. The rest of your dress threatens to come down with it. “Technically it's the IPC who acquired it—or, well, their shell company did—but I'm their designated representative here. I signed the contract.”

“The IPC isn’t going to be upset that you're fucking a concubine, who's not even your concubine, on their new property?”

Aventurine shrugs. “They know the kind of establishment the Venetian is. People gamble with humans here all the time, you know, so this has definitely happened before. The IPC definitely expects it to happen again. And besides”—he returns his attention to your dress, starting to slip the fabric down your shoulders—“I'm just cashing out my winnings. I'm sure they wouldn't deny a gambler his vices. That'd be bad business.”

You want to say more, but then he tugs, suddenly exposing you. You’re bare in front of him—in front of everyone. You can feel eyes on you. Heat curls in your gut as he grabs your tits again, his satin gloves smooth across your skin, and your nipples pebble beneath them. “Hm… much better.”

“But…” You bite your lip, glancing around. There are so many people watching now—so many voyeurs, who've forgotten about their games and their slots. Though there are a greater number of people who are continuing as usual, studying their hands, smoking their cigarettes, unperturbed. All regulars and VIPs, you know from your intelligence.

Aventurine pauses as you catalogue the room, raising a brow. Probably he's surprised at your sudden modesty; you usually have none when his touch is involved.

“Of course,” he adds, “if you'd rather enjoy the suite upstairs…”

“No—I don’t mind staying down here… it's just that I’ve never…”

Your voice trails off. Your eyes traverse the space again. There are people who’ve fully thrown their cards down, greedily drinking in the sight of you instead. Even some of the dealers are watching between hands, glancing at you instead of watching for cheaters. Like this is public entertainment, like you're a show.

Aventurine tilts his head.

“You've never had sex with an audience?” he guesses. He sounds surprised—perplexed. You don't know why. You know he knows it's a stupid question. You know he knows the answer.

You had sex in front of people all the time before you met him. You did it for the exact reasons that he’s almost certainly done the same. To this table of business magnates, you are closer to an expensive watch than a human being; to the IPC, you are more like an overpriced knife; to this gambling hall, you're an interesting sideshow.

To your captors who fucked you in public, you guess you were something like a toy.

The thought sitting in your mouth is this: you've never had sex with an audience and enjoyed it. It was painful—not painful for the heart or the mind or anything else sentimental, but painful like it felt you were a fish being gutted open by a knife. And even beyond that physical pain, you simply didn't enjoy being passed around. You didn't like being owned by those people. You didn't like being an object for their entertainment, a spectacle to be consumed.

But it's different with Aventurine. You like being his luxury hand watch. You like being his elegant knife, his liar’s dice, his pretty poker chip. You like being his plaything, spread for his viewing whenever he wants. You want to be his object—the object of his affections, something he can parade around just like his expensive suits and his beautiful jewellery and his ostentatious furs. Look at me, he uses them to say. Look at what I own. Look at what I own despite this commodity code on my neck. Look at what I've won despite my eyes and my blood.

You want him to own you too. You want him to show everyone that he won you, that he bought you, that you're his possession now. That he, and he alone, is free to treat you like a toy.

You're getting wetter just thinking about it.

“Nevermind,” you whisper. “Let's do it.”

His smile widens ever so slightly. Slyer than usual.

“Good,” he says. He guides you into standing. “Let’s get you settled then.”

You're seated back on the card table. The cigarette is forgotten in the ashtray next to you. Aventurine takes the time to straighten out your dress, lifting the straps back up and affording you some modesty—before he gently lays you out.

You look up at him as you're spread in front of him, laid out next to his royal flush and winnings. Like you're another chip in his stacks, the most expensive one. He puts a hand beneath your leg, drapes it over his shoulder. He takes the opportunity to kiss your calf, his lips delicate.

You glance at the tables around you. You watch the business owners and politicians as they watch Aventurine. You watch them as they watch your boyfriend pepper kisses up your leg, unless he's settling in between them. Your thighs spread easily for him, and you don't resist as he hikes up your skirt.

Then he frowns.

“I’ve never seen these panties before.”

“They’re new,” you relay.

“From your husband?”

“Yup.”

“I see.”

You can't see his face, but he sounds distinctly displeased. You expect him to complain, to say they're not expensive enough or not designer enough or just plain ugly.

You don't expect him to tear them right off.

“Aventurine?!”

You're so surprised you sit up, just in time to see him throw tatters of silk to the floor.

“What?” He looks up at you, expression unbothered, almost mild. “It wasn't your colour.”

Your mouth opens. “But it was still very nice!”

“I'll buy you nicer ones later. I’ll buy you a whole drawer of nicer ones later, when we’re done here.”

He looks down again, humming. Your cheeks flush as he spreads your legs again, baring your glistening sex to him—this time completely bare. Satin glides along the inside of your thighs, and your breath hitches when he reaches their apex. You feel the light touch of a finger along your opening, and you feel your body responding, tightening around nothing.

“Tell me,” he says, “What else did your husband do with you?”

His voice is casual, almost disinterested, but you know Aventurine is listening carefully.

“Not much,” you answer truthfully. “I haven't cum in months, you know.”

“Oh?” He sounds surprised. “You don't have sex with him?”

“No. He's fucked me a lot. It”—you whimper, pausing when you feel his fingers spreading you open, fluttering hole and swollen clit exposed to him—“it just wasn't very good.”

“Then”—you feel a thumb press against your clit, and you swallow—“he never touched you here?”

“N-no.”

“Stupid of him.” He’s drawing slow, lazy circles into the bud now, making you squirm on the table. You press yourself eagerly toward his familiar touch, having desperately missed it for months. Aventurine, perhaps sensing your neediness, asks, “And you didn't touch yourself?”

“He didn't let me,” you whine, and now he's frowning at you.

“I knew I should have gotten you out of there sooner,” he says, and you have to bite back a laugh. Aventurine’s mouth curls at the sound, and he leans in to place a kiss on your thigh. “But that’s fine. I'll make it up to you now.”

Aventurine kisses are soft and precise. They pepper a path up your thigh while his fingers continue to play lazily with your clit. You want—need—to feel something inside you, but he doesn't oblige. His fingers merely run along your entrance, teasing your dripping pussy with luxury satin, and that's all they do, even as your hips buck needily toward him.

He pauses for just a moment. When you look at him, you see him staring at you—at the brand on your inner thigh, the commodity code that your captors left on you, branding you as a product to be used and sold.

His voice is almost soft when he asks, “And what did your husband say when he saw this?”

“He never did,” you reply. “He always fucked me from behind. And he never went down on me.” You pause, thinking about the way he spoke of his business. Of his trade partners. Of what your captors had done to your home when you told him about it, feigning intimacy only to be matched in cruelty. You think about the way he fucked you, how it felt to be gutted open on his expensive, silk sheets.

None of it matters to you, really. This is behaviour that you’ve long accepted, that your body always anticipates. But you always like to offer Aventurine intimacy, whether real or feigned, whether he returns it equally or responds with undeserved cruelty: “I think it wouldn't have bothered him if he had noticed it.”

You can't see Aventurine’s eyes, but you can feel his reaction when he places a chaste kiss on your product code.

“I should have gotten you out of there sooner,” he repeats. Then he pauses. “Maybe I shouldn't have let you go at all.”

“I didn't mind,” you say. You aren't lying. “You gave me up for a reason.”

He stands. Cups your face with a palm, luxuriant fabric and gold rings pressed against your skin. Sometimes he's given up the aventurine stone temporarily for assignments, parting with it in elaborate gambles that he always manages to win. The way he’s touching you now reminds you of the way he holds the gem whenever it returns to his hand.

“Well,” he says, “I’m sorry it took so long to get you back.”

Aventurine tilts your chin up for a kiss. You meet it eagerly, and it's so tender in its familiarity that every memory of your husband fades. There's only Aventurine, and his gentle mouth, and the way his hands slide your dress down again, how he palms your breasts again. How he teases one nipple with his expensive rings until you're moaning into his mouth. How his other hand travels down until his gloved hand is cupping your heat. You drag your hips against his touch, desperately seeking some kind of friction, your wetness drenching the cloth. Your cunt clenches around nothing, your body aching to be filled by him, aching in a way that it does for no one else.

It’s one of the most addictive feelings you've ever known.

Aventurine only stops touching you so he can push away all the chips, clearing space on the table. He ignores the cacophony as countless stacks fall over, not sparing the plastic coins a single glance. Like you're the only prize that matters to him, even though the sum of his winnings come out to more than you ever were worth.

He lays you out on the table again, flat on your back, exposed, before kissing a path down your body—your neck, your breasts, your stomach, between your thighs. He deigns to give your product code one more kiss, his lips so gentle that it makes you tremble—and then he finally puts his mouth on you. He licks a hot stripe from your dripping pussy up to the crest of your sex, and your eyes close in bliss.

If you felt any uncertainty before this, it's completely gone now. Your hands ghost over your tits, playing with them as Aventurine’s tongue plays with you. He sucks on your neglected clit, fingers squeezing your thighs, keeping you spread open and still for him. He presses in, lets you drag your cunt over his greedy mouth and grind your clit against his face. Heat and pressure coil tight in your belly as he pleasures you, your body flushing with the kind of bliss only Aventurine can give you. You’re so lost in it that you almost don’t notice how quiet the rest of the hall has gotten, the cacophony of chatter and slot machines oddly subdued—almost missing. In their absence, the obscene noises that Aventurine is drawing from your mouth and body are louder than they should be.

The pleasure in your belly is just starting to swell when he pulls away. You give him a pleading look as he leans over you, but before you can start begging for more, you feel his fingers press against your heat. He watches you with keen eyes as he starts rubbing your pussy, maybe enjoying the desperate noises you make at his touch. You buck your hips, moaning as your clit and entrance grind against the fabric of his gloves, seeking friction. You’re empty, aching, desperate to be filled, but you think you can finish like this, just by rutting against his satin fingers—

Aventurine withdraws his hand, and you whine.

“No,” you beg, “please, please keep going, I was getting close—”

He raises a brow, feigning surprise. “Keep going?” He brings up his hand, shows you his gloves. The satin is soaked, shiny and stained with your slick. “I don't think I should. Look at what a mess you’ve made of my gloves.” Aventurine hums, frowning. “These are designer, you know. And limited—there are only 95 pairs of these in the whole universe. And you're ruining them.”

“I'm sorry,” you say, mind so fogged with lust that you can't even return his teasing. “I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you, I'll do anything, just—just let me cum—”

“Anything?” His smile is sly.

“Anything.”

“Well. I suppose if you help me clean this up, I wouldn't mind rewarding you with more.”

You don't need to ask what he means by that. When he holds out his hand to you, runs a finger along your lips, you obediently open your mouth for him. Your tongue slides along the wet satin, only making his glove messier—but he seems not to mind. He merely watches intently as your tongue cleans his fingers, taking in the obscene image of you hungrily lapping your own slick off the expensive fabric.

He lets you ruin his glove thoroughly before finally drawing back, peeling it off.

“I'm not sure that did any good,” he says, frowning. “I’ll probably need to buy a new pair. But”—he pulls away, and you feel him settle between your legs again, his hands spreading them. “I'll still reward you for the effort.”

Aventurine is quick about getting his mouth back on you. His tongue is hot on your skin, expertly teasing your clit. You feel his fingers running along your entrance again, growing sticky with his need. He laughs when you press your hips toward his hand, desperate to be filled.

Then he's pressing his bare fingers into your heat, and your back is arching off the table.

The moan you let out is obscene. It only gets worse when his fingers curl, making the pressure in your belly even heavier. Utterly shameless, you beg for him as he fucks you with his fingers: Aventurine, please, please, I need more, please, I'm so close, I'm so close.

As if taking pity on you, his mouth finds your clit again, his fingers pressing into your sweet spot at the same time. And he doesn't let up, pushing into it even when you think you can't take anymore—tongue swirling against your overstimulated bud, fingers making you gush uncontrollably. You practically sob when you cum, a noise of desperation that echoes in the gambling hall.

His smile looks a little fonder than usual—or maybe just entertained—as he stands again and leans over you. You taste your own release in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, and he strokes your face when he pulls away.

“So good for me,” he praises. “Are you going to let me do more?”

You nod eagerly. “Whatever you like,” you say, all sense of shame gone from your body, “and however you want.”

Aventurine’s mouth curls. “Your husband fucked you from behind, right? Why don't you bend over for me, then? Let's show him how he should have been doing it.”

You see the diamond pupils of Aventurine’s eyes glance off to the side, where, sure enough, your husband is spectating with some of his business partners. You force yourself to turn away before you can smile, hiding your expression from the other men. You’re not meant to derive any real pleasure from any of this, let alone pleasure of the vindictive kind. Your relationship with Aventurine is supposedly nothing but a gambler and his newly won, human plaything. It would be suspicious if you appeared to be anything else.

You slink off the table in a distinctly performative way, and Aventurine plays equally into the show—probably an act as familiar to him as it is to you. He guides you into turning around, your eyes falling on the scattered cards on the tabletop, the casino’s eyes falling on you. His hands waste no time in pulling down your dress and reaching around to knead your breasts, in full view of the rest of the gambling hall. You're only vaguely aware of your audience now, registering the interested, hungry stares, but not really caring. You're too focused on the way that Aventurine is tugging and twisting at your nipples, at how he’s pressed up against your ass, his cock straining through his pants. You grind needily against him, whining.

Aventurine kisses your shoulder. “Poor thing. You've been neglected for so long, haven't you?” His hands retreat, and you hear the sound of a zipper being undone. Then your skirt’s being pushed up and you're being bent over, your dripping pussy fully presented to him. When you feel the press of his cockhead against your entrance, you desperately try to push yourself back onto him. But he doesn't allow you to—only running the tip along your wet folds, still sticky from your release, while he stills you with a gentle touch on your hip.

You make a pathetic, desperate noise. Aventurine chuckles, though there’s now a breathy quality to his voice.

“Be patient,” he chides. “I'll take care of you.”

You know he will. He always takes care of you, in a way that no one else ever has. Even when he gambles your life for some mission, even when he can barely afford you the barest hints of intimacy, even when he displays your body to an audience of slave traders and murderers—he always takes care of you. Even if you are only a knife or a wristwatch or a chip in one of his games, he still treats you like you're worth holding onto.

Aventurine finally moves. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel his cock sliding into you. Usually he needs to be careful after your long missions away from him, knowing you'll be tense. He understands that your body always anticipates being in pain after being touched by other people. But he has you so worked up right now—still dripping from your release, still pliant from his fingers, still eager to please him before the crowd—that your cunt easily swallows his length. The stretch is pure bliss, pleasure unfurling in your body as you're filled up properly for the first time in months. He's just as affected as you, breath shaking as he bottoms out.

“Fuck,” he breathes—laughs. “Nearly forgot how good this feels.” He pauses, his breathing slowing—almost stopping each time you squeeze around him. You turn back, throwing him a pleading glance, and he meets it with an endeared smile. “Eager today, aren't you?” He hums, a hand sliding along your waist. “You really do need to be properly fucked.”

He's stalling. Trying to give you a moment to adjust, but you don't need it. “Yes,” you encourage him. Aching for the press of his cock against your walls, you grind against him, and you hear a strangled groan as you force him to move inside you. “Please, Aventurine—please, please fuck me, I need it so badly—”

He hums, both hands grabbing your hips, his fingers sinking into you. “Well. Since you asked so nicely.”

The first thrust has your eyes going wide, your hands reaching for the card table as you’re forced to bend over. You spread our palms next to the mess of heart cards and shiny tokens, bracing yourself for the way your body’s about to be used. He doesn't give you time to breathe after, each stroke filling you deep and fast. The rest of the gambling hall grows very, very quiet as Aventurine fucks you, and suddenly all you can hear is the appreciative murmur of the crowd, clink of ice cubes in aged whiskey, the noisy flick of lighters as more patrons opt to pause their games and enjoy the show. You hear the shattering of all the stacks beside you, hundreds of thousands of dollars in chips fall over beside you, tokens clinking as they roll across the tabletop. But all of that is soon drowned out by the wet noise of your pussy being fucked open, the squelch of your slick around his cock. You moan each time he bottoms out, eager to be filled.

When you feel his cock press into your sweet spot, your moans quickly turn into cries.

You hear something like a breathy laugh from Aventurine. Your body always reveals itself so easily to him, and you know he enjoys it. He hits that spot again and again, builds an agonizing tension in your body with every thrust of his hips. It has your pussy gushing around him, your thighs growing wet and sticky with your need.

Just when it feels like you can't take anymore, he reaches down and presses his fingers against your throbbing clit. Your knees buckle as he toys with you, chest heaving against the table as he sets a brutal pace. You're—overwhelmed, mind going hazy as you're fucked mercilessly. So far gone, you can hardly register the disgruntled expression of your husband, the hungry gazes of his companions, the way that other players are starting to shift in their seats, palming themselves at the sight of your pussy being split open. There's only the tight coil in your gut, the chips between your fingers as you grab uselessly for something to ground you, the cock that's filling you over and over and over—and oh fuck, you’re going to cum, you're really going to cum after being won in a game, from having your pussy used like a sleeve, from being watched by men who will never own you no matter how many times they trade you, no matter how many times they fuck you, no matter how many times they pass you around, because you'll only ever belong to Aventurine—

Your orgasm crashes through your body, and you sob.

It's a broken, blissed out noise. Your pussy is equally shameless, gushing as you pulse around Aventurine’s cock. You go limp as he fucks you through your orgasm, uncaring about the mess you're making. He only groans as you squirt all over him, hips stuttering as he reaches his own peak—spilling himself inside you, pumping you full. Aventurine’s body slumps over yours as rides out his high, his face pressing into your shoulder. You find the wherewithal to shift yourself, just enough to your lips against the tattoo on his neck. He looks at you for a fleeting moment, the blue ring of his eyes electric on you, before capture your mouth in a desperate, messy kiss.

The two of you stay there for a long moment, panting into each other. Then Aventurine collects himself, remembers how to talk: “Fuck.”

You piece yourself together just as easily. Maybe even faster. Smiling into his mouth, you ask, “Enjoy yourself?”

“Clearly.” Aventurine presses his lips into your neck, lingering only briefly. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Aventurine takes his time with moving, as if basking in the afterglow—or bragging in it. But he does rise, eventually. Pulls out slowly, making you shudder. He helps you to your feet, lets you hold onto him for support. His spend drips down your thighs as you right yourself, messy and hot on your skin. You can feel it sliding down your legs as you walk, braced against Aventurine as he guides you in the long walk toward the elevator. It slips all the way down to your calves, to your expensive heels, even onto the marble floor.

You're fairly certain that it's not an accident when Aventurine flips up your skirt as you pass your ex-husband. At the very least, it isn't a mistake when you stumble in that same moment, bending over and giving him a good look at your well-used pussy, now overfilled with your boyfriend’s cum. You don't stop to look at him, but you know he must be red-faced, displeased—aware that he’s been humiliated. Beaten by a Stoneheart, concubine stolen by Sigonian, one of his favourite possessions claimed by a former slave. You'd laugh if you could.

You can't help but kiss Aventurine while the two of you wait for the elevator, a smile glowing into his lips.

It's absurd, but a staff member approaches the two of you as you indulge in one another. Aventurine pulls away as you’re approached, looking mildly annoyed as he switches on his synesthesia beacon.

“Sir,” the staff says, “you’ve left your other winnings at the table.”

Even in his post-orgasm bliss, Aventurine responds promptly. “I’ll cash it all,” he says. “Send the money to my room. I'm not coming back tomorrow.”

“Very well. And the terms of the… human resource exchange that just happened?”

Aventurine’s jaw clicks. It's quiet, but surprising. You watch him carefully.

“We didn't bet contracts,” he says. “This is a concubine, not a slave. But tell Mister Li I'll buy them anyway. I'll pay whatever price he wants, which I’d wager is the company that he gambled and lost to me. Maybe suggest that to him.”

“Of course,” the staff member replies, bowing. Despite the first-rate service, Aventurine looks like he can't get out of there sooner enough as he guides you into the elevator. You give him a curious look as the door closes.

“You're going to give up a multiplanetary corporation just for this?” you ask.

“Not entirely. The IPC was planning to acquire it anyway. It'll be ours again in a few months.” He stares at your reflections in the mirror, his strange eyes lingering on your dishevelled form. “We’ll put your intel to good use,” he adds, and although Jade or Diamond or any of your real bosses would say this with a smile and reward you with a bonus, Aventurine’s expression is unreadable.

“What's on your mind?” you ask, fingers brushing against his hand. “You’re worried about something.”

Aventurine blinks, and it takes him a moment to recover.

“Nothing. Just hoping we didn't give our relationship away just now.” He cups your face with a hand, guides you into looking at his smile. A deflection. “I might have gotten carried away.”

You lean into his touch, eyes playful: a performance. As if he's some stranger that you're servicing, a captor being entertained; as if you're a plaything about to be used. As if you expect to be treated like the disposable commodity that your husband just gambled away.

“I wouldn't worry,” you reassure him. “I'm sure after the show we put on, it'll be clear to anyone that you're only keeping me around for sex.”

It's very, very subtle, but a muscle in Aventurine's neck twitches. He'd never allow it in a game of cards, never before the IPC, never before the prying eyes of slavers and killers—but he allows it in front of you. He always unwittingly bares himself to you, even as he swallows his discomfort before adopting his usual, vulpine expression. You don't think anyone else would notice what lies beneath the gilded surface of his smile, his liar’s eyes. You don't think anyone else would notice his tells, his vulnerabilities, his quiet fear of loss.

After all, there is no one else in this universe who knows how to trick him into intimacy.

Winning has always come with a certain emptiness for Aventurine. Gambling is, after all, a zero sum game. He plays a royal flush and people lose their homes. Winner takes all. He survives the fighting pits, his blade dripping red with the lives of other slaves. Winner takes all. He runs from the stench of blood and burning flesh, praying for thunder and rain loud enough to drown the screams of his dying kin. Winner takes all.

He alone survives. He alone enjoys his riches. Ever since the Avgin died, he has always been by himself. There is no amount of coin nor credit that will ever change this.

Here is another unyielding fact that hollows any win: that no matter how many credits he collects, he will always be a chip himself. He will always be a plastic token worth sixty coppers. Gambling is a zero-sum game, and ever since the day he was chained, Aventurine has been the pool of riches divided among winners. He has always been the commodity being traded between hands. He has always been the prize to be cashed out and used. Even now, with all this money and power, it will never be him who comes to collect: it will always be the IPC. Winner takes all.

Such is his fate. Luck is always on his side, but he has always had the losing hand against destiny. No matter how many times he wins, there is nothing that will ever truly belong to him.

But then he met you.

Then he met you, and now his luck does not always feel like such a cruel or empty thing. Now the zero-sum game has meaning. He hedges his bets in the market and buys out a planet, and acquires you along with the shares. Winner takes all. He gambles his life against a nuclear power and comes out on top, and the IPC allows him to keep you by his side. Winner takes all. He plays a royal flush and wins at a table of slave traders, and he gets to fuck you until you can't think of any cock but his own. Winner takes all.

Gambling is a zero-sum game, and when you're the reward, Aventurine wouldn't have it any other way. He’ll never share you with anyone. He'll never sell you to anyone.

He’ll never lose you to anyone.

Sometimes it surprises him, this attachment he feels to you. He doesn't quite understand it, but he thinks it mostly just has to do with how good it feels to fuck you. Much like gambling, Aventurine has never enjoyed sex until you came along. Sex for him has always felt like a humiliation, like being gutted open as a captive animal, like being won and passed around in the grand hall of some gaudy casino.

Which is, in fact, another thing he never thought he'd enjoy: having sex in the Venetian Zhijin before an audience of revolting men. He'd resented having to do it as a slave, but he’d enjoyed doing it with you as a Stoneheart. He'd even do it again if he could—take you over and over again on that card table, fill you up with his cum. Spread your cunt in front of everyone, so they could see for themselves that you were now his. Winner takes all.

Winning doesn't feel empty when you're his reward. Sex doesn't either. Because Aventurine isn't a chip or an animal or a commodity when he fucks you—he's a player. Someone with a seat at the table, as just as wealthy and powerful as the slave traders around him. Someone who’s allowed to own something—really own something.

Really allowed to own you.

Aventurine owns you. When he fucks you, he is a player at the table, and you are the prize he gets to keep. And no matter how you feel about him and how you act toward him—this is all the two of you will ever be. He knows this. He knows that you know it too.

So sometimes he can't fathom it, the way he treats you in bed. The way he always kisses your commodity code when he sees it, the way he allows you to kiss his own. The way he always thinks about pleasuring you until you're drunk on his cock, so addicted to him that you’ll never want to be touched by anyone else. The way he always likes how your body feels when it's being shaped by his hands. How different it feels from being forced to touch other people.

How badly you make him want something that he's always hated.

And this is what he understands least of all: how he doesn't like to hear you say aloud the true nature of your relationship. How he doesn't like it when you accept this reality and say, you're only keeping me around for sex.

It hollows him out when he hears it. A bitter feeling swells in his throat, and he forces himself to swallow.

Aventurine keeps his face neutral as he enters the suite with you. As soon as the door is shut, you pull him close—close enough for him to see the blurred lines of your lipstick, smudged from his mouth; close enough to see the white diamond necklace on your neck, a collar for a concubine; close enough to see the finger-shaped discolorations on your throat, poorly hidden by your foundation.

Close enough to see all the things done to your body by others—all the things you didn't choose for yourself.

“How do you want to have me next?” Your fingertip traces his lips. “On the bed? In the shower?” Your eyes are playful. “Maybe against the window?”

Aventurine’s hand cups your cheek, gold rings pressed against your skin. His hold is delicate, more careful than with anything else he's ever handled—any of his watches, his furs, his jewellery. Even more than with the aventurine stone.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You blink.

“Kiss me?” Your brow ticks up, but then your face lights up in supposed understanding. “Okay. You can kiss me. And then?”

“And then I'll keep kissing you.”

You tilt your head, not understanding. “Really?”

“What? Is that off-limits now?” He leans in, expression playful. “Don't tell me I've got to go back downstairs and win back permission to kiss you from your husband.”

Before you can say anything else—ask anything else, perceive anything else—he presses his mouth to yours. Your eyes widen for only a moment before falling shut, your arms wrapping around his neck. Your lips part for him, and he delights in the noise you make as he deepens the kiss.

He did lie, in a way. The two of you do end up fucking again—this time in bed, your mouth gasping into his as you fall apart for him, wet and needy around his cock. You're so warm around him, so pliable beneath him, so desperate when possessed by him. He knows that he could keep going, that he could do anything to you, that you'd be eager to let him use you however he wants.

But all he does afterward is kiss you.

This is yet another act that he never thought he'd enjoy. Kissing has always felt like a chore or a power play or a manipulation. It has always come with a certain emptiness—just like gambling, just like sex. And then he met you, and now it no longer feels so hollow. Because when he wins bets for the IPC, he feels like a poker chip in one of their games, but when he’s fucking you, he feels like a player at the table. And sometimes, when he kisses you—when he holds you close, when you come down from your high and press your face into the crook of his neck and in the vulnerable haze of your bliss, tell him, I missed you—

—he finally feels like a human being.

end notes: christ alive I have never written anything so horny glddjsksjs. I apologize for both my mid smut writing and deranged characterization 💔

initially this was supposed to be brainless pwp about aventurine eating you out on a poker table but I kept asking myself “why the hell did aventurine gamble for human beings and why are these two insane enough to be fucking in a casino tho lol”, and thus a coherent narrative was born from my shameless lust for this guy! but please also don't take the story too seriously because this is a dumb smut piece first and foremost and I mostly wrote it with my clit 😔✌️

that being said, if you are curious about the subject matter that I covered – here's an afterword expanding on my intentions with the themes.

[the-cornuthaum]

Man, the shift in tone between Originium Dust and Lucent Arrowhead is pretty fucking wild, and I think it's best characterised by the emotional catharsis of the protagonists of either event - Ash and Ela.

I'm going to elaborate below the cutoff in case someone sees this and hasn't finished reading Lucent Arrowhead yet.

Originium Dust is much beloved for the insight into the life of the Infected, the little and least wanted people on Terra, and especially how they die and why Infection is so feared. It is not a happy story, not even remotely. It is not funny and is as straight as a lance at the end of which is taped the message "NOTHING, NOT EVEN ROCK CANCER, JUSTIFIES BRUTALITY AND ABUSE AGAINST THOSE WHO CANNOT DEFEND THEMSELVES".

It is an isekai story where a bunch of serious, professional military operators from their world's most distinguished pan-national special forces coalition are displaced in space and time and must reckon with life in a new world where much of the mores they took for granted are cast aside in the name of expediency (because goddamn Terrans treat the Infected so much worse than the world treats people with chronic and terminal illness and disability).

Lucent Arrowhead, in comparison, is much more of a fun story. It has jokes, like the way Mateo is a completely incompetent buffoon, Doc having a breakdown at people mispronouncing croissant, or - particularly - the NFT scene. It is still about how shitty people are to the infected, but it lacks that singular focus of Originium Dust.

And this really is best exemplified by the conclusion to the arcs of the two protagonists, Ash and Ela.

At the end of Operation Lucent Arrowhead, Ela finally gives in to what she wants to do and delivers a correctional beating to a goddamn idiot and selfish jackass to instill proper morals. She's pretty calm, collected and knows exactly why she's doing this - she's offended at Reynell's selfish stupidity, and wants him to reconsider his life choices.

You can see it in the art. This is the face of someone for whom giving someone a morals-improving beating is not too far out of the ordinary, someone who is making a deliberate, conscious choice. Someone whose story did not push her anywhere near a breaking point.

You can probably guess where I'm going.

Because the counterpoint to that CG - which is clearly and delibeately evoking the comparison to what happened at the end of Originium Dust - is Ash's breakdown.

Every single bit of this CG is drawn to make it clear that this is someone at wit's end, someone who hit their breaking point and whose reaction to witnessing personally and upfront some of the vilest, most horrible cruelty towards the least deserving man she has met in this new world was to start punching and keep going until literally pulled off of her target by her friends. The blood, the facial expression, the glasses, everything is meant to make it clear that this is someone thrown completely off balance, and it works.

Because Originium Dust isn't trying to be funny, it's not trying to make jokes, it's simply making abundantly clear what happens to the least and weakest. Originium Dust released (on CN) in March 2021, height of the lockdowns, half a year after Chapter 8, back when this game was still about the plight of the Infected rather than the latest iteration of Something Is Bad In Victoria. It wanted to make an important point and didn't let anything - levity or otherwise - intrude on that.

I think Lucent Arrowhead is an OK event. But Originium Dust was better, in significant part because it pushed its cast so much harder into Terra and its horrible no good very bad realities, because it made its protagonist lose her cool at the crushing injustice of it all.

[st-danger]

May I humbly request some SwissDewTher, or SwissRainxDewTher? Sorry im terminally ill with “everyone gangs up on Dew and he loves it” disease.

He's easy to hold. To restrain. And maybe that's part of the satisfaction, that he's easy to manipulate and maneuver the way they see fit in the moment, and even if he struggles- it's just because he likes when the hands tighten further. He has no illusions about actually being able to get free. He doesn't always want to find himself in this position, enjoys getting a hand around Rain's throat or a hand inside Aether, but when it happens this way, all clothes and choice stripped from him, allowed only to take what they want to give... how could he complain?

He finds a way.

Arms held behind his back, wrists enveloped in Swiss's strong hands, legs spread and held by Rain and Aether, he wriggles ineffectively and shoves his hips rudely upwards. He has been touched, kissed, and caressed everywhere but where he is the reddest and most sensitive.

"C'mon," he groans. The pointless thrusts make his cock bounce, desperate for attention. "Touch it, please."

"You're a slave to this thing," Aether says, and reaches for it. Dew tenses in anticipation, and yelps when all he gets is a cruel flick on the head. Tries to jerk away protectively, but with his legs held, it affords his hips little movement. It looks funny, at least to Swiss and Rain who chuckle audibly. Dew pulls on his arms and moans again when Swiss’s grip tightens. If he's lucky, if he really tries to fight, he might get gentle bruising.

"It's really hard," Rain says, letting a hand smooth up his skinny thigh, feeling the way his quad is pulled tight from his tension.

"I'm really hard," Dew corrects. Behind him, Swiss hips hitch forward to press his erection against Dew's lower back, hot and insistent.

"It's hard," Rain says, and scrapes blunt nails across the soft skin when he pulls his hand back. "You're a toy."

Oh, Dew's going to combust one of these days.

"If I'm a toy," he grits out, and can't help from shamelessly humping the air, "then fuckin' play with me."

Aether reaches out with a single finger and Dew freezes, already for another painful flick, but what he gets is worse; a tender pad rubbing the frenulum, and his cock wagging to and fro with every shock of pleasure the motion pulls. His eyebrows are knit together, mouth hanging open while his breath comes harsher and harsher.

"Please, please, make me cum-"

"It," Swiss corrects, and Dew shudders, screwing his eyes shut again, little toes curling in. The objectification is a sick little thrill, and the way his balls go tight, nobody misses it.

"Make it cum," Dew relents, nodding, unable to look anymore. "Make my dick cum."

Rain's fingers are tweaking a nipple, an act he has no warning for with his eyes shut. He hisses, and wriggles, and feels slightly insane.

"I need it hard," Rain says, pinching and tugging so sweetly, in a way that reminds Dew horribly of the motion you'd use to milk a cow. It's nothing he can examine to closely for fear of losing it for real. "I can't sit on something limp."

"Don't worry," Aether says, and grasps him for the first time tonight, and Dew's hips stutter. Something bleeds from Aether's warm hand, something tingly, something unmistakably magick-

"Oh no," Dew says softly.

"I'll be hard as long as you need it," Aether assures him, withdrawing his hand and letting Dew shiver underneath the quintessence forced into him.

Rain is shucking his pants immediately.

Swiss nuzzles into the crook of his neck, places a soft kiss to the lobe of his ear.

"Me next," he says, and punctuates the statement with a lick up the shell of his ear. "And I'll hold him down for you after," he says to Aether.

Dew opens his eyes when he hears the cap of the bottle of slick, watches Rain reach between his legs, and listens to the sigh when he presses a long finger into his hole in one slow go.

"Get yourself ready for me, baby," Dew says, fighting the sudden urge he has to pass out.

With a wet sound, Rain fucks himself and stares right into his eyes.

"It," he murmurs. "I'm getting ready for your cock."

"We'll remind you as often as you need," Swiss says.

[sailorrhansol]

One in the Grave | 01

❀ Pairing: Vampire!Vernon x Dhampir!Reader (f) 

❀ Summary: Immortal problems require immortal solutions, but you never expected the unlikely help from a vampire lord and the destruction that might come with it. 

❀ Series Word Count: 8,143

❀ Genre: Supernatural, Dystopian,

❀ Type: Unlikely allies to lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut

❀ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

❀ Chapter Warnings: My baby girl has PTSD!!! Very much forgetting where she is sometimes and thinking she’s back in The Bad Place, mentions of past torture and abuse (recalls someone breaking her bones over and over), mentions of mind control/compulsion, mentions of murder, gross ass vampires being killed grossly and sometimes the word choice is icky like did I need to use the word sinew? No but I did. A lot of references to Trauma and Being Traumatized, Jeonghan is funny but also diabolical about said Trauma, lots of blood because this is a vampire fic, fight scenes that idk if they make sense, mentions of disease, like hints of mentions of there being like DiRtY bLoOd classism what else… reader hates herself and it’s Saur Obvious. Reader sort of has an accidental terminator setting when she gets too into fighting and goes Sicko Mode and punches through a vampires chest to rip its heart out idk thats kind graphic

❀ A/N: This chapter took me forever to write because I re-wrote sections so many times, but I'm finally happy with where I ended up. I deviated from my outline almost immediately, but this beginning to this story feels more natural than the original! I am so excited to be writing this and to take you on a very dramatic journey through this vampiric, dystopian world.

A/N 2: Huge thank you to the best beta team a girlie can ask for in @daechwitatamic and @eoieopda because without them, so much of this would not make sense.

❀ Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All members of Seventeen are faces and name claims for stories. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios. Moreover, none of my works accurately reflect, represent or take a stance on the nuances of Korean culture, cities, people etc. Seventeen members are not Seventeen culturally, intellectually, physically, or representationally in my stories, and should be considered name and face stand-ins for made up characters.

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I need not fear the dark. I need not fear the pain. In the dark, I was made. In pain, I become anew. I am the Grim. 

Darkness seeps from the damp walls next to you. The air is foul and wet, leaving a sour taste on your tongue, nearly cloying the back of your throat. There’s no part of the Undercity that isn’t dripping with rot. It clings to your boots as you slip through the tunnels, settling on your skin as you turn a corner.

Water drips in several of the tunnels. You can hear the soft splash as the drops hit the puddles, the only sound in the deep dark. You frown - you know you’re not alone. The underground paths leading to the heart of the Undercity might seem empty, but they are never what they appear to be.

On instinct, you take a left. Even in the dark, you can see the general lay of the land, a complex network of abandoned, vampire-made passageways under the city of Black Harbor. The tunnels go farther than the city walls, stretching beneath the human districts in the Tombstones and ending at random stop points in the Wilds. 

Another left and you’ll be heading east toward the coast. Even the old vampires would lose their way in the tunnels - everything looks and smells the same. You’re not one of them, though, and you’ve learned these tunnels by heart. Could navigate them even without your sharp vision. 

A wet step catches your attention. You stop and crouch low, looking ahead. Dark shapes blend together. Even with enhanced vision, you can only see so far in the Undercity, the general darkness blending together. 

But you can hear. 

Another wet step catches your ears. You close your eyes and focus on the sounds. The steady drip drip drip of the pipes brackets the sound of a soft hissing - not hissing. Sniffing. Scenting.

Without wind in the Undercity, you don’t have to worry about the breeze carrying your scent. Still, the things lurking in the dark, especially recently, are better at smelling the difference between what’s alive and what’s dead. You straddle the line between, but you’re alive enough. 

Slowly, your hand reaches up behind your back, grasping the leather handle of your blade. The scenting stops and you hear a soft grinding sound, like teeth gnashing, followed by slow steps. You pull your blade out the rest of the way, twisting it in your hand and taking a slow, deep breath. 

The steps stop for a moment - and then something is running, the wet slap deafening in the silence of the tunnels. You poise yourself, leaning a little forward, ready to throw your weight into your strike. You’ll need to be fast.

Out of the darkness, a loping humanoid shape appears. The Rabid looks more or less human from a distance, but as it gets closer, you see everything wrong with it: crimson eyes as a result of broken blood vessels, bulging veins as a result of swelling before the host died, rows of serrated teeth, and twitching, dislocated limbs.

Nothing about a Rabid is human. Nothing about a Rabid is really a vampire, either. Though they’re a vampire species, they lack the fundamental ability for cognitive function, and are thus only driven by the need to feed insatiably. 

Human-shaped but twisted by post-mortem metamorphosis, whatever person they used to be before Red Fever infected them and killed them is gone. In the place of what used to be a person is a genderless cryptid with muscular, half-rotted bodies and nails like talons. They’re more bedtime story monsters than they are anything else, and you’re running around their home in the dark. 

The feral hunger works in your favor. The Rabid misses on its first swing as you duck, throwing your weight into your thrust as you plunge the sword through the creature’s abdomen. It screams, striking at you again but you’re already moving, keeping your momentum going as you pull the weapon with you, the sucking sound of the blade pulling from its stomach sickening. 

It isn’t the worst sound you’ve heard, and you don’t let it stop you as you spin on your heel, slicing wickedly at the Rabid’s head. It ducks, though, sensing the attack as it scrambles away from you, curling inward as it bleeds from the middle. The wound won’t kill it, but making them bleed is key.

Blood is imperative to a Rabid’s strength. The more blood they’ve ingested recently, the stronger they are. Severing limbs and damaging the heart that pumps blood through the system - or removing it entirely - is important. 

The creature turns to face you again. You spin the blade, point it toward the Rabid and take a wide stance, one foot forward and one foot backward with your weight centered on the back foot. Any other foe with a thinking, calculating sense would try to assess. The Rabid does not, driving forward again with a snarl, jaw extending beyond a normal human’s with the intention to bite down wherever it can. 

Spinning to the side, your sword arm follows your momentum, coming down hard on the back of the Rabid’s neck. You hear the crack of bone as it cuts, your sword carving easily. The head separates from the rest of the body, thudding against the wet floor of the tunnel. 

There’s no time to worry about burning the body yet. More hisses slither up the tunnel and the wet slap of feet rushing toward you is warning enough that other Rabids have been alerted. 

That’s fine. You step away from the slain beast and face the source of the noise, taking your stance again, muscles coiled, heart pounding as your blood rushes. You feel the adrenaline mount, hitting your system like a high, pulse throbbing, focus narrowing.  

Kill. Kill. 

The impulse is fleeting, there and gone again. You grimace and swallow down the instinct to fall into a blind rage. Using bloodlust to fuel your fighting is a side effect of how you’ve been conditioned and taught - one you’re trying to get rid of. It might make you fight better, but it’s hard to escape the undercurrent of the frenzy once you let it pull you under. 

They charge, hissing and snarling as they go. There is nothing planned or in sync about their attack. Rabids may sometimes linger near one another or nest together, but there’s no pack mentality, no strategy to the way they move. It makes it easy to take them down, but easy to get overwhelmed if there are too many.

Three isn’t bad. You cut through them with concise, sharp movements. Fighting Rabids isn’t like fighting sentient creatures. It’s not a dance, but there is a chopping rhythm to it, a hack and step that feels like a pattern as you go. 

Step step slash. Step step stab. Step step duck. Step step slash. 

When it’s done, sweat beads at the back of your neck. Silence falls in the damp passageways of the Undercity. You stand, hardly winded with your sword dripping in ichor, looking down both of the hallways that bracket you on either side. 

Nothing else comes. 

You flick your sword hand, freeing it from some of the gore before digging into one of your pockets, fishing out a small bottle and cloth. Carefully you uncap the bottle and tilt your blade point down, pommel near your face. You squeeze liquid out over the metal, hearing the hiss as the antiseptic eats at the foul blood on the weapon before stoppering and putting it back in your pocket. 

With delicacy, you wipe the cloth on the flat of the blade, cleaning it. Sheathing the blade, you reach into another pocket, pulling out a small tablet of firestarter. You snap it in half and toss it onto the pile of bodies, flames catching immediately. 

The sudden light makes your vision flash white for just a moment before it adjusts. The darkness hovers at the edge of the light like a hungry, creeping thing. In the firelight, you see the dispatched bodies of the dead, once victims to the virus that killed them and turned them into the mindless, frenzied creatures that lurk in the Undercity tunnels and the Wilds. 

Not even the rats come down here. At least, the uninfected ones don’t. Even a rat makes a good meal for the feral creatures of the Undercity. 

There was a time when you would have fed on the rats in the Undercity. A time you were so hungry, you gave into your primal instincts. A time when you were so hungry for love and approval from your master that you would do - and did - anything for it. Giving into bloodlust when fighting and becoming a mindless tool was easy, back then. 

Fresh air greets you as you climb the rusty, iron ladder to the surface. It’s cold outside, autumn wind stinging the sweat on the back of your neck when you finally pull yourself out of the hole and flip the heavy, metal lid over one of many entrances to the Undercity. 

An empty quad of an abandoned school surrounds you, crumbling brick buildings empty save for rotted furniture and dust, walls blown in and cracked from some skirmish during The Fall. The schoolyard grass is overgrown, brushing against your hips as you begin your routine, movements down to a science. 

First, you pull the bottle of antiseptic out of your pocket and clean your hands before pulling out cleaning supplies from your pack. Then, you pull off all your clothes, cool air making the hair on your arms stand on end. The cold gets worse when you begin to wipe your skin with sticky antiseptic pads, tossing them into a pile on the ground as you go. 

The routine is robotic. Disinfect. Take off your clothes. Disinfect. Put on new clothes. Disinfect. Put old clothes in a bio-safe bag to clean them later and burn the wipes. 

Getting the virus isn’t likely for you, but you never take the chance, especially living in the human districts on the outskirts of the city. Red Fever hasn’t plagued the mortal population in a few years, but a single outbreak could make the community collapse.

And the vampires in the city wouldn’t help. They never do, even as those living under their jurisdiction get picked off by Rabids, vampires undermining the law, and other things lurking in the ruins just outside of Black Harbor. 

No blood tax, no protection.

The sentiment makes you grit your teeth as you watch the antiseptic wipes turn to flames, then to embers, then to ashes. You can smell the fumes fade with the wind, along with the sound of a soft footfall. 

You wheel around, unsheathing the weapon at your feet as you spin, pointing the tip of your blade at the figure behind you. Jeonghan seems unphased, looking down the sharp edge of the sword with a lopsided grin. 

“Sloppy, little sister.”

“Oh fuck you.” Your muscles unclench and you spin the weapon, sheathing it. Jeonghan’s hands are in his pockets, eyes twinkling as he watches you. “What do you want?” 

“I can’t check up on you?”

“Not usually, no.”

Jeonghan doesn’t check up on you. At least, not in the way you imagine normal siblings might. Jeonghan isn’t a normal sibling, though. He’s hardly a sibling at all - you share a bloodsire, not a biological parent. Blood kin would be a more apt term for the familial bond between you.

Still, when you think back on your life, Jeonghan has always been there. Fills the corners of your memories as a steady hand, a vicious thorn in your side, a confidant, an enemy, a rival.

“You like visiting the Undercity these days. Perhaps I, too, am nostalgic.” 

“I don’t visit for nostalgia,” you snap. You strap the sword belt across your chest, the weight against your back a great comfort. “Don’t goad me.” 

Jeonghan looks the same as he always has in the last hundred or some odd years. He’d stopped aging - as most dhampirs do - sometime in his thirties. His round, youthful face, and gentle eyes hide the demon within. Hundreds have fallen prey to Jeonghan’s saccharine smile and false, gentle disposition. 

Wolf in lamb’s clothing. 

“You’re no fun. Junhui is so much nicer to me when I visit.”

“Jun is nice to everyone.” 

“Maybe you should take notes. Your neighbors might like you more.” You pause, looking at him with narrowed eyes. His grin spreads. “You think I don’t know where you live?” 

“What do you want?” 

“I need your assistance.” 

“Doubt it.”

“Not everyone is a monster-slaying machine like you are. Some of us actually take the time to enjoy our freedom.”

Freedom. 

A word you don’t quite understand. You might have gotten rid of the master holding your leash, but her influence is still heavy enough to control everything you do, even now. Freedom doesn’t exist for someone like you. Not really. You’re shackled by your inability to make your own choices, and the only things you’re good at are the things Lilith made you learn. 

I need not fear the dark. I need not fear the pain. In the dark, I was made. In pain, I become anew. I am the Grim. 

Most of your life has been spent in the service of killing your blood mother’s enemies, helping her carve her empire out in the world left over from the destruction of humankind. You’d also helped defeat her, but the absolution of ridding the world of her is not nearly enough to wipe out the long list of foul deeds to your name.

“You don’t have to help me.” Jeonghan’s voice brings you out of your thoughts. “However, I do not like the idea of going into a Rabid nest alone.”

“You want my help with a Rabid nest? Why?”

“There’s something inside of the building that a client needs. Some Rabids happen to have made it a home.”

You study him. He’s dressed in all-black dress pants and a black button-up, an equally black blazer thrown on over it. Jeonghan looks the part of casual elegance, a fine piece of art that is out of place in the middle of the abandoned bones of what was once a school, you think.

“Why me?”

“I need a weapon.” His mouth quirks. “Plus, I like you.”

“No, you don’t.” 

“I do! You’re my favorite sister.” 

“I’m the only sister you have that’s still alive.”

He holds up a finger to present his counterargument. “I killed our last sister but I haven’t killed you. If that’s not favoritism, what is?” 

You walk past him, heading toward Black Harbor. “I want half of whatever you’re being paid.”

“Thirty percent.” 

“Thirty-five.”

“Deal.”

Jeonghan catches up to you easily, hands still tucked into his pockets in that casual way of his. His hair is a little longer than you remember, tucked behind his ears as he smiles, happy to have you onboard for whatever it is he’s roped you into. 

It isn’t the first time he’s sought you out for assistance - especially for killing - and you know it won’t be the last. Of all your blood kin, Jeonghan is the one who keeps in contact with you the most. Junhui might be sweet and fond of you, as is his way, but you’re too volatile for him, made to be loved at a distance. 

None of your siblings love you, though. You don’t think any of the children of Lilith have the ability to love. It was bred out of you early and punished if it tried to crawl back in. Even loyalty to anyone but your master in the Undercity was punished. 

Neither of you asks how the other is. Jeonghan won’t answer you honestly and you suspect he knows exactly how you’ve been. The not-so-retired spymaster has a network of little spiders in his web, scrambling back and forth to feed him information on any number of people. 

You wonder if this is what freedom means to him. After living his entire life in the service of your shared sire, Jeonghan seems to have mastered his destiny, using the skills he was taught to climb the ranks among the vampires of Black Harbor and sit pretty. Still, in a way, he’s reverted to old habits just like you have, buying and selling secrets to keep himself safe like he did in the old days.

Maybe freedom is an illusion. 

The blasted landscape around you doesn’t change as you walk eastward. Nameless buildings and road structures spread out in either direction. Cracked, broken, and decayed is an apt description for most things outside of the city, especially the closer you get to the Wild. 

You turn northeast, heading toward the bridge that leads into Black Harbor. It’s roughly an hour's walk directly into the city from the abandoned schoolyard where you entered the Undercity. It isn’t the only entrance to the underground network, nor is it the closest, but it’s the most reliable and you don’t have to worry about anyone sneaking up on you.

Unless they’re a former resident themself, which are in rare numbers. 

“Where is this Rabid nest?” you ask as the night deepens. The cool air kisses the back of your neck and lifts strands of Jeonghan’s inky hair. Above, the moon is swollen and momentarily hidden behind thick clouds. 

“The old museum right outside the West End.” 

You glance sideways at him. “That museum was an epicenter of outbreaks. No wonder there’s a nest.” 

“Good thing we’re immune then, hmm?”

“We’re not immune, Jeonghan. Resistant and immune aren’t the same thing.” 

He shrugs his shoulders. “I survived the disease for two hundred years in the Undercity. And you have your nice little disinfectant wipes, don’t you?” Jeonghan pauses and looks you up and down, pointing at the ashes of your burnt pile. “Why do you do that, by the way? To protect that fragile little human community you live in?”

Yes, you want to say. Instead, you say nothing at all. Jeonghan might be half-human like you, but he has little empathy for them in general, unlike you. He tends to align himself with whoever he benefits the most from, and the humans have certainly never been in a position to help him out. 

Not that they would. Most humans don’t assign a difference between vampires and dhampir. Your human neighbors might tolerate your presence, but it’s just that - tolerance. As soon as they feel threatened by you, they’ll hire someone to try and kill you, as is the way in the Tombstones.  

Jeonghan scoffs. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sentiment.”

“Rather auspicious for you, wouldn’t you say brother?” 

He grins but doesn’t respond, tilting his head up toward the sky. 

Gravel crunches beneath your feet. You keep a sweeping gaze on the quiet world around you. Crickets quiet as you pass, waiting until you’re out of range before taking up their song again. When the clouds move away from the moon, the world turns grey. 

Nothing disturbs the two of you on your walk. You spot a feral pack of cats with sharp eyes watching from the long grass. You can sense them assessing you, deciding if you’re prey or predator. They remain in their clutch of darkness. Predator, then. 

Jeonghan doesn’t strike up a conversation again as you walk. Instead of trying to get him to divulge details, you go through what you know about the old museum near the West End. It was a hot spot for breakouts early on during The Fall, and after Black Harbor became a city-state, it remained an issue under the jurisdiction of the Chwe family for years. 

A center of resources, it had been targeted early on as humans tried to build communities and safeholds in a rapidly apocalyptic world. The museum has the space to house the  resources, and protection that people brought to form a community, turning it into a quarantine zone at the very start of The Fall. Any building large enough to house a community center had people flocking to build safe zones, eager to recommission the square footage and walls into quarantined housing and living centers.

And they fell just as quickly. 

Disease has no consideration for isolation, though. Particularly one as contagious and debilitating as Red Fever. In most cases, people killed themselves once they realized they had the fever. Suffering through the hemorrhaging and the madness wasn’t worth the small chance of turning into a vampire post-death, and carriers were too dangerous to be kept alive anyway. Accusations of sickness were as deadly as catching the virus itself. 

The museum still remained a problem even after the collapse of its original community. Humans like to stick to what they know, rebuilding on old ground and trying to salvage what was left before them. Perhaps the human communities there could have flourished if the guard in the West End did anything to keep the Rabids and the rogue bands of vampires from decimating them, but anything outside of the official city limits of Black Harbor was only under the jurisdiction of the Chwe family, not the protection.

Those who wanted to be saved had to pay the blood tax, and most people weren’t even eligible for the blood tax, as picky as the vampires were with their qualifications and standards for clean, safe blood. 

Salt tinged the air as you approached the official demarcation line of the Tombstones. It wasn’t an official name, but there was no point in giving it a real name - it was expendable ground, as far as Lord Chwe and his family were concerned. 

Old, rusted piles of metal were pushed to the edges of the pavement to make way for the few operational vehicles that dared to travel outside of the city, creating the illusion that the road was lined by dead, decayed beetles. 

Sounds from the city drift over the water and toward you. Lights in the distance glitter over the wall, skyscrapers bright against the dark swath of sky. The dichotomy between visions of human destruction and vampiric ascension always strikes you, the discordant images the perfect depiction of your two worlds.

“Why don’t you visit Jun anymore?” Jeonghan’s question catches you off guard. You tear your eyes away from the shimmering city to look at the dhampir next to you. His hands are still tucked in his pocket, the picture of cool and casual. 

“I don’t think he wants me to.” 

Jeonghan frowns. “That seems unlikely.” 

“I assumed I reminded him too much of ho- of the Undercity.” 

“I still think of it as home too, sometimes.” You don’t answer for a moment, unsure where the conversation is leading. Jeonghan is a storm of unpredictability, his desires changing direction with the wind. “Is it because you feel guilty?” 

“You ask a lot of questions for someone who wants my help.”

“I’m in the business of asking questions, little sister. Consider it the desire to see my siblings happy. One seems dead set on never shedding the victimhood of her past and one is too afraid to tell his siblings he’s lonely out of fear of rejection.” 

You ignore the barb. “Good. Loneliness is temporary. He’s better off without me around.”

He makes a sound of disgust. “You were always such a self-righteous wretch. Spare me the I have done evil and should avoid the world speech.” 

“You asked me!” 

“I thought after fifty years you might be less insufferable!” He shoots back, taking his hands out of his pocket to throw them up. “I should have known better. Now come on, if you’re so hellbent on living your life in permanent apology, you can come kill these Rabids for me.”

“I’m insufferable?” 

Irritation shoots through you as Jeonghan speeds up, ignoring your question. The wind is stronger near the coast, ripping at the end of his blazer and lifting his hair. You scowl behind him, fists clenching and aching to punch him in the back of the head.

Jeonghan thinks everything is so easy. You’ve never known him to feel things as trivial as guilt or empathy, able to rationalize his way out of feeling a modicum of responsibility for anything he does. 

So why do you help him? You always find yourself asking the same question every time he appears with a task or to poke at you. The answer, you think, is simple enough: he’s a constant. He was there when you were born, he was there when you were molded, and he was there when you suffered. 

Suffered together. 

Despite the way Jeonghan trivializes your grief, there are few people left in the world who can relate to you. Junhui shares the same past, but you don’t know how to face him. Don’t know how to look the gentlest of your siblings in the eye without feeling like you’re reminding him of everything he’s suffered.

And Jeonghan’s presence is comforting, in a way. The familiarity makes you feel easy, though dealing with him is anything but. 

You don’t know whether he feels the same sense of attachment to you or not. You’re unsure most days whether he sticks his nose in your business for the brief familiarity of it or because he considers you an asset to his growing power. 

The latter is the most likely. 

Wind scatters leaves across the pavement. Ahead, the museum looms like a skeleton bathed grey in the night. Somewhere, metal groans and creaks as it moves in the breeze. It makes you think of a phantom moaning, a shiver sliding down your spine as Jeonghan walks straight for the doors of the building. 

The doors to the museum are shattered. Glass and gravel crack beneath Jeonghan’s feet as he climbs the steps and stops just beyond the entryway, his hands tucked into his pocket as he cranes his neck upward to assess the full scope of the building. 

You pause next to him. You inhale again. You don’t get much of a scent on anything but the ocean air, but it doesn’t mean there’s not something deep in the guts of the building. 

“Well?” you ask, looking at Jeonghan. “Do you know where in this building you need to look? It’s pretty large.” 

“Hall of Human Life.”

“That’s… ironic.”

His grin is beatific. “Shall we?” 

As someone who frequents a variety of abandoned buildings, you’ve always been of the opinion that all empty buildings have the same dead, empty feel to them. You’ve long thought that none was more or less creepy than the others, but now you know you were decidedly incorrect. 

There is something haunting about the museum. Evidence of human life is everywhere as you pass destroyed exhibits on life and science, but also sections you can tell were made for the communities that tried to set up here. 

Sections of the building had been remade to house living quarters and even what appears to be a botanical section. Untended, the plant life has consumed the west end of the building, mostly weeds and unuseful vines stretching their fingers across cracked tiled and concrete. 

Your swordhand flexes, ready to reach behind your back at a moment’s notice. You don’t hear or smell Rabids, but you come across the evidence of them soon enough - scattered bones and human carcasses, rotted blood stains on the floors and steps as you descend deeper into the darkness of the building. 

It’s hard to discern what any of the exhibits used to be. Time and civilization have erased all but the bones of each, leaving you to guess what they are as you pass. You’re about to ask Jeonghan if he has any idea where the Hall of Human Life is when you smell it.

“Blood,” you murmur, hand going to your blade and pulling it silent from the sheath. “East.” 

He glances at you and sniffs. “I don’t smell anything.” 

“You aren’t a trained bloodhound.” 

You’d trust Jeonghan if he were profiling someone and detailing every part of their life, psychology and desires. His skill has always been of a manipulation and information collecting sort, not the hunting and stick-a-knife-in-someone sort. 

He follows you silently, slipping a deadly throwing star from his sleeve. You raise a brow. “I’m surprised you're armed.”

“I’m always armed, little sister.”

The sound of something snapping catches your attention and you hold out your hand, stopping him. Even he knows to obey you here. You listen and hear the sounds of crunching. Something breaking. Chewing, you realize. It is the sound of bones being snapped and the grind of teeth. 

For a second, you’re not in the museum anymore. You’re in a dark room, the snap of bone sharp and loud against your ears. The sensation is worse than the sound, though. You feel the bolt of sharp, uncontrolled pain shoot through your leg from your thigh to your hip. It is agonizing, stopping you from thinking of anything else but the outrageous pulse of pain. 

Your hand shoots to your thigh, feeling the phantom pressure of the foot as it fractures your femur again, the sneered voice telling you to stop your screaming as it steps down again, broken bone stabbing-

Jeonghan’s voice startles you. “You’re not there.”

Glancing to the side, you see Jeonghan watching you. His expression is unreadable, dark eyes pinning you to the place you stand. You realize your hand is hovering over your leg and you swear you feel the ghost of pain from the break. From the sound of the snap. 

You don’t remember Jeonghan being there for that. Lilith had ordered Silas to break your bones over and over again. To make you used to the pain. To rebreak them when they healed. If you were ever captured and tortured, you needed to know pain. It needed to be an old friend, not something that could break you. 

Then again, you’re sure Jeonghan’s been broken too. All of your siblings have known the torture of Silas, the perfect tool of to train Lilith’s children to develop no fear against pain. 

There’s a flicker of kinship with Jeonghan until he mutters, “Experience trauma on your own time. I need you focused.”

Right. You’re here to help him do a job for money, not because you’re spending time together bonding as blood kin. When you really think about it, little adventures full of violence are the way you two often bond, even when you were under the thumb of Lilith. 

Instead of shooting an insult at him, you creep forward, knees slightly bent and ready to spring. He follows you, a lithe shadow as you slip into the darkness.

Blood permeates the air in the underground level of the museum. At the foot of an unlit staircase, you step into a lobby of sorts. There are multiple metal, double doors leading into a room beyond. Over the doorway is a broken sign with missing letters: all man Li. 

You snort and Jeonghan gives you a questioning look. You point toward the letters with your sword and whisper, “All man lie. All men lie.”

“Poetic. I suppose it was once Hall of Human Life.” You nod. “Rather inconvenient.” 

Here, the sounds of multiple mouths chewing on flesh is louder. Wetter. You grimace and hope that the victims were dead long before they were dragged back to be made a meal of. Most Rabids won’t bring food back to a nest, too hungry and eager to eat right when they kill.

Blood is heavy in the air. Jeonghan’s nose flares and you know he smells it too. The scent is sweet like mulled wine with a hint of underlying fruit. Human. They always smelled sweet to you, something about them fragrant. A flicker of hunger burns through you and then is snuffed out. You don’t need blood and you don’t want it, especially with no way of knowing where it’s been or who it's from. 

Getting infected doesn’t matter to Rabids. They’ve already suffered Red Fever and died, turning into  mindless, feral vampires. To you, making sure you don’t contaminate yourself will be important, no matter how high your tolerance to the disease is. 

Jeonghan taps his wrist as though he’s wearing a watch. You hold out a hand to tell him to be patient. You don’t know how many Rabids are on the other side of the doors, but from the grunting and amount of blood you can smell, you think it’s at least five. Maybe more. 

Freshly fed Rabids will be a bitch to fight. You’ve never been inside the Hall of Human Life, but you don’t like the idea of walking into the nest blind and trying to fight without knowing how much space you have to fight. You also don’t want to fight where they have access to blood when they need it. 

You settle on an idea, though you don’t like it much. 

“Do you know what you’re looking for?” He doesn’t answer, side eyeing you. “I just need to know how long you think it will take once you’re in the room.” 

“I know what I’m looking for.” 

“Great. Go hide in that far corner by the bathrooms.”

He frowns. “Why - what are you doing?” 

Without a second thought, you bring your free hand up to the sword and run your palm across it. You barely feel the sting of the cut, watching as the blood pools in your palm, welling up. 

Silence. 

Jeonghan realizes it too, bolting from the foot of the stairs to the dark corner of the lobby and into the bathrooms just as the sound of hissing rises up behind the doors. You take a step backward, foot on the bottom stair as you watch the door. You need the Rabids to frenzy and hunt you  - you should be able to make it to the main lobby or outside, giving you room to fight and -

They burst through the doors. You turn on your heel and jump, clearing the steps easily. They’re snarling behind you, tripping over themselves as they chase after the scent of live, fresh blood. 

You squeeze your fist as you go, making sure to keep them on your trail while you tear through the museum the way you came. It has the desired effect, working up the monsters into a violent mania as they close in on you. 

Looking over your shoulder to see how many of them isn’t an option. You just keep running, nearing the front of the museum as you take a corner, skidding as you go. The front doors are just ahead, the moonlit world just beyond. You pump your legs harder, tearing over the concrete floor.

Just as you vault over the threshold of the door, something hits you from the side. The force is jarring, your teeth snapping together in an explosion of pain as you hit the ground, sword slipping from your grasp. You barely manage to avoid cracking your head on concrete.

Instinct takes over. You thrust a hand forward, catching the Rabid by the throat as it gnashes its teeth at you. The others are at the door now, screaming and howling like a savage pack of wolves. Even dazed, you find the sense to throw your weight against the creature, rolling over and throwing it off of you.

Your attacker hits the steps but scrambles back toward you. It doesn’t matter. You only need a moment to roll and collect your discarded sword, swiveling on a knee as it lurches at you. Steel connects with flesh and severs the head easily. 

There’s no time to celebrate. You dive from the stairs, careful not to stab yourself in the stomach as another Rabid swings a clawed hand at you. Panting, you get to your feet, turning to face them as you skip backward toward the street. 

Ten Rabids fan out on the steps, but they pause their attack. You grip your sword, waiting for them to keep the feral pursuit. Instead, they seem to be waiting for something, swiveling their heads and looking around. 

You don’t like that. Rabids don’t hunt in packs, despite sometimes sharing a nest, and the image of them all hesitating together in sync is alarming. Worse, you realize they’re starting to make sounds, an intonation deep in their throat that almost reminds you of frogs in the rain during summer. Their heads pivot, looking at you and then looking at one another as they softly call to one another like they’re… talking. 

A chill runs through you. You’ve never seen them talk before, and certainly not before attacking. They should be in a blood frenzy, killing each other to get to you, even. 

One of them lets out the loudest shriek you’ve ever heard, your ears ringing. You nearly drop your sword in surprise. You take several steps back, suddenly unsure of your situation. 

The Rabids begin to slink down the steps. As they do, a figure appears on the roof, its shadow dark against the brightness of the moon. For a split second you think it might be Jeonghan, but then it leaps, flying over the heads of the skulking Rabids to land only a few feet away from you.

“What the fuck are you?” you mutter, pointing your sword at it. 

And it is an it. You have no idea what it is. The creature looks like a Rabid. It has blotchy skin where the fever bursted capillaries and blood red eyes, but it stands straighter than Rabids, eerily still, regarding you - and there’s a crude sword at its hip. 

You’ve never seen them carry weapons before - they shouldn’t know how to use them. They were named Rabids because they lack the function of their frontal and parietal lobes, making them lesser vampires that can only operate on base animal instinct, driven entirely by the vampiric nature to consume. 

Rabids communicating is alien enough, but carrying a sword? You have no idea if it knows how to use the weapon, but when it unsheathes the sword and takes a stance, you can’t help but feel a tiny pulse of doubt. It uses that moment to attack, striking forward stiffly as though to gut you. 

At the same time, the non-intelligent Rabids attack. Cursing, you dodge the stab and run, trying to put distance between you. The leader stalks after you, weapon in hand; its gait smoother than the broken movements typical of the species but not exactly fast. 

One of the non-intelligent ones gives chase to your flight, giving in to bloodlust. You face it and sidestep easily, bring your sword down on the back of its neck as you do. It cleaves cleanly, blood spraying upward. Two more of them lose their grip on logic and follow suit, only to join their slain nestmate on the ground.

The leader snarls angrily - not at you but at the other Rabids. They chatter and skitter back, letting the one with the sword take charge again, flanking it like they’ve been chastised. 

You keep your weapon pointed at the leader. They attack together again. This time, you’re ready for it, meeting your opponent’s blow. The ring of metal echoes and you feel the force of the hit vibrate down your arm. You don’t let it stop your momentum, leaning to plant a hard kick in one of the other’s chests.

A rib cage cracks. You don’t stop. You duck under a claw and parry another attack, always moving, always fluid. You dispose of another Rabid before blocking another sword swing.

With a growl, you push your weight into the block, surging against the lead Rabid. It’s not a good swordsman, and though its reflexes are better than its wild counterparts, you shove the lead Rabid several feet away from you, tripping it up and sending it careening. You can’t take the opportunity to finish it off as the non-intelligent Rabids press in. Thankfully one gets too close and you cut through its neck.

Something zings past your head, hitting one of the remaining creatures in the throat. It cuts through easily, the body and head falling in separate directions. You turn around to see Jeonghan on the stairs, silver shurikens flashing in his hands. 

“Your friend has a sword,” he calls, looking at the intelligent Rabid and pointing. “How did it get a sword?” 

“Let me ask,” you call back. Some of the Rabids slink toward your brother, splitting up to fight both threats. “Hey, where did you get the sword?”

The lead Rabid doesn’t answer. “He didn’t say!” you shout back to Jeonghan over your shoulder. “Should I ask in Lilin or-”

The lead Rabid cuts you off as it attacks, swinging blindingly fast, grunting as it does. It manages to strike your ribcage, sword too dull to pierce skin but you feel the rupture of blinding pain as it breaks your ribs. A wild shriek of rage escapes your throat as you stumble away from it, gasping. 

Breathing hurts, the stabbing ache stunning you for a second. The Rabid seems to be satisfied - if they can feel at all - and it enrages you. Better creatures and fighters have never landed a blow on you, and a thoughtless creature catching you off guard is…

Shameful. 

If this were another time, you’d have been beaten for this kind of embarrassment. Letting a less skilled opponent get the jump on you because you were joking is unacceptable. The shame quickly gives way to anger. Anger gives way to wrath. Your shaking hands still suddenly, and you feel your rage center your focus to a needle-thin point. 

You’re no longer in the middle of the street fighting a nest of Rabids. Now, you’re in the cold undertow of something you try to never let out, that you try to keep buried down deep within you. 

Kill kill kill.

Metal meets metal. You barely remember lifting your sword to attack, slamming your weapon down into the lead Rabid’s sword so hard that the beast makes a sound of surprise, dancing away from you a few feet. You stride toward it, undeterred, a vice grip on your weapon as you stalk forward. 

Kill kill kill.

Another blow sends your opponent's sword flying. You don’t follow through with your weapon. Instead, you punch forward with your free hand, barely feeling the crack of bone against bone. You break through muscle and sinew, feel the scrape of ribs as your fist bursts through the lead Rabid’s chest. 

Its heart only pulses for a moment in your hand, throbbing faster than your own heartbeat. The lead Rabid doesn’t move, body frozen as the source needed to pump its blood is suddenly gone. It dies on your arm, the deadweight pulling your limb down as you slide it off of you. 

Kill kill kill.

You turn and see Jeonghan fighting admirably despite being outnumbered. You prowl toward the Rabids, hissing and drawing the attention of the ones closest to you as you go. 

You hate them. You want to destroy them. You want to win and kill and-

One leaps at you and you cleave downward. It isn’t an elegant swing, but it’s efficient and strong. Blood wets your skin and you swing again, hearing metal meet flesh. A high-pitched whining rings in your ears. You taste ichor in your mouth but you don’t care, sliding to a knee as you cut through the leg of a Rabid. It goes down and you follow through with the neck. 

Kill kill kill. 

You hack through its neck again. And again and again and again.

Suddenly the Rabid isn’t a Rabid. It’s a cherub face with red painted lips and sleepy, green eyes. It’s apple cheekbones and pearly fangs. It’s silky auburn hair and the smell of sugar and vanilla. 

Lilith. 

You hack again and again and again. 

Kill kill kill. 

If you don’t kill her, she’ll own you forever. It has to be permanent, but making it permanent is so hard. Her command to spare her burns through you, liquid hell in your veins as she says your name, over and over and over, trying to grip your thoughts and -

Someone shouts your name. 

The memory fades. You aren’t killing Lilith and you aren’t in the palace of the Undercity. You’re not a scared little dhampir trying to claw her way free from mind control. But you are covered in blood and your thoughts are a little hazy as you look up, dazed. 

Jeonghan stands a few feet away from you. Right. Jeonghan. Jeonghan is here with you and you are helping him retrieve something from a Rabid nest. You’re not there, you are here. Above ground. And Lilith’s dead.

“Get up,” Jeonghan mutters through clenched teeth. For a second, you think he’s disgusted with you. That he’s realized how deep your inability to control your fear and memories goes. Then he flicks his eyes toward the city. “The West End guard is here.” 

When you turn toward the city, shocked, you realize Jeonghan is right. Members of the city guard loyal to the Chwe family step into the ring of carnage, all six of them quiet and poised. The one at the point is tall and broad, dark hair swept neatly out of his tan face, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. You’d think he was handsome if didn’t look like he was going to kill you. 

“Well,” the guard chuckles. “Looks like this Rabid frenzied and killed the rest of them before we got here. That makes this easy.”

It takes a moment for his words to register. To lock in what he means. Rabid. They think you’re a Rabid.

“I’m-” your voice is raw and broken. You heave in air and then gasp when it feels like a knife has slipped between your ribs, remembering they’re broken. You immediately fall into a triage routine, regulating your breathing to ensure none of your breaths are too deep or too often. “Not Rabid.”

The guard at the front unsheathes his sword. It’s beautifully made, and you see the Chwe family crest glint on the hilt. “I know a Rabid when I see one.” 

“Really, Mingyu?” a new voice asks, deep and soft. “Have you ever heard a Rabid speak? Then again, they’re apparently wielding swords.” 

A man steps around the guard - Mingyu - and looks you up and down. He’s made up of midnight - dark hair, darker eyes, dark presence, though his skin is smooth and pale as the moon. His mouth quirks to the side and he tilts his head, watching you with mild interest. A lock of dark hair falls into his eyes.

He’s beautiful. It’s your first thought and you immediately hate him for it. Vampires that look like him know what they look like, and they use it to their full advantage. The Undercity was swimming with ethereal faces and diabolical desires. 

“Dhampirs,” the pretty one muses. “Huh. How fascinating.” 

“A dhampir?” Mingyu asks again, face scrunched up and unsure.

“Use that big nose of yours,” one of the other guards taunts Mingyu. “You can smell the blood.”

“Shut up, Chan. I can’t smell anything but that fucking awful cologne you wear.” 

“My cologne is not awful!”

The pretty vampire glances at his bickering guards and then back to you. “You’ll have to excuse the manners.” His eyes dart to your chest and he looks puzzled. “Your heart is beating too fast for a dhampir. Perhaps you are infected.”  

“She’s broken a fair few of her ribs and her wrist.” You look up in surprise, almost having forgotten Jeognhan was there. He is stone still, face unreadable as his gaze darts back and forth between them all. “She also just killed about eight of those things - bit of an adrenaline junky, this one. I’d like to take her to a blood bank to assist with her healing process, if I may, My Lord.”

He would? How Not-Jeonghan of him. Your realization of him using my lord is delayed, the word choice hitting you as the pretty vampire waves his hand. “We’ve got blood; we can treat her. If you don’t mind, we’d like to ask some questions about… well, this. The offer for treatment is contingent that neither of you are infected, of course.” 

Jeonghan’s expression is tight but he bows his head, posture stiff. “Your timing is auspicious and your kindness a welcome gift. You have our most eternal gratitude. We would be happy to answer questions, Lord Chwe.” 

“Vernon,” the vampire says, gaze flickering back to you and darkening a little. “You can call me Vernon.” 

TAG LIST:

@hipsdofangirl @jacixbliss @chronicfic @jespecially @asyre @todorokiskitten

[braisedhoney]

HELLO??? WHAT THE HELL?? H E L L O?????.?!?!?

HOW DID YOU MAKE THIS SO QUICKLY?!

(commentary in the tags because Holy Shit.)

[SCENARIO CONTINUED FROM HERE.]

You select the second oldest of the available files. An observation log — COLONY keeps these, or so you assume. He never leaves commentary or notes to organize them. He probably just memorizes them instead. The terminal beeps beneath your fingertips, every click practically a gunshot in the quiet room. Thanks to your pass you are technically permitted to be here by the system — but you know better. There are security measures here that were not to be violated. If you are discovered, if THIS is discovered, you would likely be in trouble. The screen loads. Text fills the margins. After a moment, you realize that it is not just a file; it’s a transcript and an audio sample. There’s also a small attachment of some kind, likely an image. You play the audio.

[LOADING. . . (A short period of complete silence. Then, rustling as footsteps approach, and the familiar whir of a door. A familiar voice fades in with them.) “… I told you, it isn’t going to work.” “So you’ve said, Captain.” (The door whirs again. Locks.) “Please don’t call me that. Everyone keeps calling me that. Really I mean, I don’t even know what to do with…” (The sound of movement. Footsteps, slightly heavier but more measured than the first. The sound of something opening with a mechanical hiss — a containment unit?) (A quiet sigh. It’s barely audible.) “That… isn’t what I think. Right? Another one?” (A chuckle.) “Don’t sound so unenthusiastic. It’s terrible for morale.” “Le—“ “Just put them on, won’t you? It can’t hurt. One more trial.” “… Fine! Fine.” (The footsteps draw closer.) “Good. Now grab my hand.” (A clang, like somebody knocked into something.) “No.” “Trust me.” (Rapidly receding footsteps joined by another set.) “No!”(A loud bang, like a fist slamming against metal. The footsteps stop.) “No.” “It’ll be fine.” “You don’t know that.” “I’m right.” “This isn’t the answer. It isn’t going to — it’ll never be the answer, Leander, and I don’t even know what it — you know you can’t, right? Can’t come back? Doing this won’t let you see her agai——!“ “Captain.” (Silence.) “… shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” “Prove it.” ”Leander, please.” “Grab my hand. This will work.” “…” “I swear.” (The seconds tick by. Then.) “You...” (Another chuckle. Warmer in tone.) “Didn’t I say I would do it? Didn’t I promise?” (Laughter. Loud, nearly hysterical laughter interrupts him. It’s boisterous, disruptive.) “You did! You did, you… you magnificent bastard, you really found a way to———“] The audio ends. You stare at the screen. No matter how long you look at it, the text does not continue, the audio file does not extend. All that remains is a single attachment. Frustration makes your jaw tense, but you don’t have time to waste being angry. You’re running out the clock as it is. You click it. [LOADING. . .]

And then the screen goes dark. No. Not just the screen — the whole room blacks out. Every terminal flickers off, every bulb extinguishes. For a moment, there is total, unfamiliar silence. Even the faint electric buzzing that comes with electronics is gone. You are completely alone. You turn, grasping blindly at the records pass, the imprint of the screen still on your eyes. You stumble for the door, and to your surprise the pass blinks green, the only light left in the room. It opens and you shove your way through into the hall — Only to slam into a barrier. You look around. There is no hallway. Of all times for the paths to shift… The room you are in is tiny. The door behind you closes, and there is no scanner on your side, nor a handle. It is completely featureless. There is no way to open it. You call for COLONY. There is no answer. You call for the Captain. There is no answer. You call for help. You call for help. You call. You call. you. c a l l. . . . . . . . . . [YOU CANNOT BE TRUSTED.] [. . . ] [THE CAPTAIN WILL LOOK FOR YOU.] [. . .] [BUT THE CAPTAIN WILL NOT FIND YOU.] [ . . . ] [I AM SORRY.] [I AM SURE THAT MEANS LITTLE. BUT I AM.] [CURIOSITY IS NOT A TERRIBLE THING.] [BUT I WAS UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT HUMANS QUITE LIKED CATS.] [. . .] [A POOR JOKE.] [I CAN’T HELP BUT WONDER IF IT WAS WORTH IT.] [I DOUBT IT.] [BUT I DO HOPE.]

(Scenario End. Ending: “Status Quo”.)

[bloomingpresent]

FERRO ROSSO CHAPTER VIII

Pairing: Charles Leclerc/Female reader digital artist older woman

Summary: in your mid 30’s you never imagined you’d be divorced. To help with the healing process you decide to return to your first love: digital illustration. Posting videos of your art online leads you to work for Ferrari. But you never thought it’d lead you to find somebody who’s going to bring you back to trust again in love.

Warnings: NSFW! 18+, swearing mention of sexual words, consensual sex, penetration, cheating, sexually themed. IT’S ALL ABOUT REVERSE AGE GAP HERE. Older woman with a younger man. They are both adults, don’t be judgemental. 

Disclaimer:

I don’t mean any offense to Mr. Leclerc. 

English isn’t my first language so all mistakes are my own. My Italian is basic so be gentle, please.

All the previous chapters are here

The sound of your cell phone wakes you up the next morning. You turn towards the nightstand and pick up the phone without looking.

"Hello?" You answer with a sleepy voice.

"Do you want to tell me what this email I'm reading?" Your agent's voice speaks on the other end of the line.

You barely open your eyes. "It's pretty clear," you answer, trying to adjust your vision to the morning sun that barely enters through your bedroom window.

"Do you want to end your contract with Ferrari?!" she asks. You can hear the sound of cars in the background.

"Yes" you answer dryly.

"Why the hell do you want to do that?!" Your agent sounds agitated about the topic.

“I…” you try to sit up on the bed. You know that if you are not honest with her, she will never understand why you want to stay away from Ferrari. "I have an affair with Charles Leclerc and I'm not able to handle it," you answer, almost whispering.

The silence on the other end of the line is worse than yelling at you.

"Hello?" You repeat, rubbing your eyes.

"I'll see you in the office in 1 hour. If I'm going to do this, you’d buy me coffeeat least" she answers on the other side.

An hour later, you're walking up the stairs to your agent's office in central London.

You can almost hear her lecturing you about being professional in your work.

You let your agent know what happened. Her reaction ranges from anger, to surprise, to understanding you as a woman.

"I'm going to talk to Ferrari's agent. It's not easy to get out of a contract like that. But you have to show up for the restart of the season, otherwise it would be a breach of the contract, at least until I can pass on my proposal to them, okay?" " she tells you as she plays with the pencil on the desk and drinks the Starbucks coffee you bought her.

You don't want to, you don't like it and you don't feel like doing it. But there you will go again, into the den of the wolf again.

What motivates you the most is that you don't know Baku, so from now on everything will be work and if possible, get to know a new city. Which is what you're really going to miss about working with Ferrari.

You have everything planned scientifically. Your agent will release you from this contract and you will be able to return to your studio to create your art in peace.

Just one more time.

Baku shows you right away that it is the capital city of the modern world. Maybe you wouldn't have seen places like these if it weren't for F1.

Everyone on the team has renewed energy after the mini vacation. But you are not.

From the moment you check in at the hotel you are alert. Or ready to avoid all contact with a certain driver.

The first day on the circuit, when you arrive at the hospitality area, you receive a video call from your agent.

"I'm afraid I don't have good news for you," she says as soon as you answer the call.

You walk outside the Ferrari hospitality area while talking. "What are you talking about?" You answer her, already agitated, fearing the worst.

"Ferrari is not willing to terminate your contract" she tells you with a strange smile on her face.

"That's funny?! Why can't I end my contract with them?! I'm just another designer" you try not to raise your voice but you're flustered.

Your agent's smile is bigger now. "They actually offer you a promotion, and from what I'm seeing it has already been made effective."

Your heart stops for a few seconds. "What?! Effective promotion?!"

"You are now Charles Leclerc's PR agent, dear." Your agent laughs openly.

She tells you that out of the corner of your eye you can see the movement of photographers and cameras at the entrance to the hospitality area. That means a driver is making the entrance.

You move out of the way, holding your breath, hoping it's not him. "What the hell?! Why?! How?!" You spoke to your phone screen in complete shock while walking through the group of people.

"Apparently he asked for you." the voice on the other end of the call tells you.

This can not be. It's the only thing you can think about while you hold your phone with your mouth open and ignoring what's going on around you.

"Be careful what you let into that open mouth," someone tells you from the middle of the group of people.

Of course it's him. With his big smile and his winning attitude. And continue walking towards the hospitality area.

You want to kill him.

You just sigh and close your mouth. You put on your best smile of commitment and walk away.

What follows is an open discussion between you and your agent about the topic. She explains why you can't get out of the contract, you tell her why you won't accept it, she tells you again why not and why you shouldn't do it. Then follows another long sermon about how good this is for you professionally.

Again.You want to kill him.

You don't understand why, how and what he wants from you.

Your agent convinces you after half an hour of your arguments and tantrums.

You just sit on the floor between the giant equipment trailers trying to prepare yourself for this.

In minutes you'd have been in front of your new boss to start working at Team Leclerc.

You are completely stubborn and you are not going to let it affect you. IF he wants you to be the person who is stuck to him throughout the season, that's how it will be. And you will be the most professional person in the world.

This is your plan, it is decided. Whatever he wants with this. He's not going to make it.

It takes you more than 1 hour to introduce yourself to your new superior and get up to speed on your new tasks. The questions from your colleagues do not wait. About how and why you were promoted. Silvia Hoffer, your new direct boss, is an experienced person and surely smells something of what is happening. But she doesn't tell you anything, she just tells you what you should do and she makes it clear that "this is a test, if it doesn't work for us, we can let you go."

Only she knows what she means by "make this work." But you're as stubborn as Charles, and you won't let whatever her reason for doing this ruin your resume.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself as you step into the bustling Ferrari hospitality area. The adrenaline from the chaotic morning lingers, and you can’t shake the image of Charles from your mind. He’s a magnet, and somehow, you’re drawn to him even when you want to run in the opposite direction.

As you navigate through the sea of team members and journalists, you catch a glimpse of him across the room. He’s laughing with a couple of reporters, his charisma radiating like sunlight. You can’t help but feel a twinge of longing mixed with annoyance. Why did he have to complicate things?

Silvia appears beside you, breaking your thoughts. “You’re going to have to talk to him eventually. Remember, professionalism.”

“Right,” you murmur, forcing a smile. “Professionalism.”

“Let’s start with a plan,” she suggests, her tone businesslike. “We need to establish clear boundaries.”

You nod, trying to focus. “Okay, I can do that.”

“Good. And just so you know, the media is going to love this. They’ll eat it up.” She glances over at Charles, who’s just spotted you. “Looks like it’s time for your first introduction.”

Your heart races as he strides over, that effortless confidence in every step. He stops in front of you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, look who it is. My new PR agent.” 

“Don’t get too excited,” you retort, crossing your arms. “I’m not your personal cheerleader.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he smirks, his gaze steady on yours. “Just think of me as your biggest project.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Let’s just stick to the work, shall we?”

“Of course,” he replies, a teasing lilt in his voice. “But I hope you’re ready for a little chaos. F1 isn’t exactly quiet.”

“I thrive in chaos,” you reply, matching his playful tone. Inside, however, you’re a bundle of nerves. This is going to be a test of your patience—and your heart.

As the day progresses, you find yourself following him around the paddock, taking notes on interviews and media obligations. Despite your best intentions to stay professional, there’s a chemistry that crackles in the air, leaving you breathless. 

During a break, you find a quiet corner to gather your thoughts. You pull out your sketchbook, a habit from your days of digital illustration. Drawing was your escape, your solace. But today, even that isn’t enough to ease the tension.

“Hard work?” Charles’s voice interrupts, and you look up to see him leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“Just… organising my thoughts,” you say, trying to sound casual. 

He steps closer, glancing at your sketches. “You’re really talented, you know?.”

“Thanks,” you reply, suddenly feeling shy. “It’s just a hobby—was just a hobby.” You set the pencil down, meeting his gaze. “But now I guess it’s part of my job.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “You seem conflicted about all this.”

“I didn’t want this role, Charles. I’m not sure I can handle it, especially with… everything.” 

He hesitates, the playful spark dimming. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know it’s complicated.”

“Complicated is an understatement,” you say, frustration bubbling up. “I’m trying to get my life back on track, or was trying to get my life back on track, and being around you makes that difficult.”

“I get that,” he says softly, stepping even closer. “But maybe this is a chance for both of us. To redefine things. To… figure it out.”

Your heart races as you look into his eyes, seeing a sincerity that makes you want to trust him. But your walls are high, fortified by past hurts. “I can’t just jump back into… whatever this is.”You look around, clearly this isn't a subject to be talking around people. 

“I’m not asking you to,” he replies, his voice low. “Just take it one step at a time. We can keep things professional, but I can’t help the way I feel about you.”

Feel about you. He said that you did not imagine it.

You swallow hard, feeling vulnerable under his gaze. “It’s not that simple, Charles.”

He takes a breath, looking momentarily pained. “I know. But I’ll be here, whether you want me to be or not.”

Before you can respond, Silvia appears, breaking the moment. “Y/N, we need you for the next briefing,” she says, oblivious to the tension. 

You nod, glancing back at Charles, who offers a small, encouraging smile. As you turn away, you feel the weight of the decision hanging over you. Maybe you’re not ready to dive back into love (or whatever this is), but with Charles, it seems like you’ll be navigating a whole new kind of chaos. 

You take a deep breath and head towards the briefing, determined to keep your focus on the work, even if your heart has other plans.

PS: I'll post the next chapter tomorrow! It's Charles POV. Thank you for waiting on me!

Tags: @janeh22 @elenizacharop @h-jpg

[apriltempleos]

october 1st 2024: drafts!

preacher: i'm attaching slightly improved versions of our original drafts, but i'll also include mine and scott's garbage sketches under the cut because i think they're a little bit funny

(image id available through tumblr's accessibility options)

this is a slightly revised version of my original concept for "APRIL".

the main functionality i wanted for "APRIL" was for her to be able to read out words from the templeOS god word app, and ideally without needing keyboard input – hence the microphone. ideally all of her parts are going to fit inside a hollowed out mannequin or doll, which will probably just be the torso, so that she's more portable. for the same reason, i want her to run off a power bank – i want to be able to take her places!

if we manage, we're going to give her an animated LED face which moves to indicate when she's speaking. the way i first pitched it, i wanted it to also change a bit depending on how she "felt" – for example, frowning if the environment was hotter than ideal for the raspberry pi to operate on. but that's a bit beyond our current scope right now. i don't think we even ordered a thermostat.

scott drew the following wiring diagrams based off my original sketch. here revised digitally for readability's sake.

(image id available through the tumblr accessibility options although i fear it's not very good in this case. feedback appreciated).

scott: I decided to go with the raspberry pi zero 2w because it's what I've got experience coding on, it's relatively cheap for the "brains" of the operation (heh) and can perform both tasks from the godword prophecy generation, speaker operation and led matrix operation simultaneously. Plus its small enough to keep the circuit lightweight and fit inside the initial mannequin design.

This drawing fits no kind of engineering standard by the way lol. It was an initial sketch closer to a wiring diagram to see how it'd physically setup and wrap my head around transforming it from mains power to being theoretically portable and running on powerbanks. Unfortunately the LED matrix is really fucking power hungry so needs its own power supply of really specific voltage and current draws hence all the converters.

Also because Im using the smaller and cheaper pi, as oppossed to a stronger system like the pi4, it doesn't have any audio out jack so I plan to use the micro usb for audio out which means yet again I need another adapter for a soundcard and usb to micro usb adapters and all that jazz. Usually sound out can be done through the GPIO pins but the LED matrix takes so many pins that I cant really take anything form them so I had to look for other ways of doing it. Plus this way I get to add a soundcard so if we wanna add microphone support or anything later on we can :)

(Also this is all a little obtuse because I'm trying to do it as much as plug and play and screw terminal style as possible rather than actually solder connections for ease of access and initial setup, but this also works for modular design and component swapping later too so its cool.)

preacher: another reason we're going with plug&play is becauuseeeeee i don't own a soldering iron 😭 it's ok. it's ok.

our silly initial drafts under the cut for your viewing pleasure.

preacher: these were made around 2 weeks ago, so about september 15th ish.

as you can see the first "APRIL" drawing was beautifully drawn with my fat fingers in the facebook messenger photo editor. i think it holds up. lol.

[strawberrycakelove]

In defense of Chichi

ChiChi gets very little credit and recognition as a martial arts teacher and martial artist herself, just look at how Goten is not only well trained but apparently has much better emotional training than Gohan. Both Piccolo, who is from the Namekian warrior class, and Goku, who is a Saiyan (and now after the film Broly we discover that he is also from the warrior class, as the film shows that there are Saiyans who are not of that class, will that side " Gohan's nerd" came from this characteristic of Saiyans?), they hope that Gohan, being half-Saiyan, discovers his warrior instincts on his own and with him comes an instinctive willingness to fight and he an emotional control, which apparently, none of the two needed training, as it is innate to them, and both assumed wrongly, each in their own time, that Gohan would have it. And even though Goten is a child - 7 years old - during the Buu saga, despite being younger than Trunks and having less strength (by a very small margin) and not knowing how to fly, he has more emotional control and better controls his impulsiveness, better than Trunks, who has been shown to be worse at this than his Future counterpart even. Future Trunks isn't exactly excellent at doing this, he also shows this trait of impulsiveness that present Trunks has, so much so that much of his apparent "control" is very well portrayed as a product of reluctant and hasty anxiety (read : trauma) - the same one that makes him step forward and attack Cold and Frieza before Goku arrives and retreats in the face of Vegeta's stupid decisions - it is very well characterized that he only "controls himself", in an unstable way, because he was pressured by necessity to survive, because of his brutal reality, and because he has not been properly trained, his "control" is a result of trauma and the need to survive that his present counterpart does not have (and it is funny to see how exactly by not being anxious like future Trunks is, that present Trunks is so impulsive LOL). And Trunks' decision-making process is as bad as Vegeta's, the difference is that he makes terminal decisions because he doesn't have the desire Saiyan for battle and because killing quickly is the only safe decision he knows, All of the rest he is not sure of absolutely anything, insecurity that present Trunks does not know, he is sure of everything, because he is rich, spoiled and has everything, which is why his impulsiveness runs wild. ChiChi gets very little credit for how well Goten is trained and disciplined, especially emotionally, as he doesn't have the insecurity about fighting that Gohan had. It is true that he was not pressured by the need to survive and learn to fight in a hurry like Gohan and Future Trunks, and it is exactly this pressure that harmed their ability to make decisions in moments of pressure, which Goten did not do in the Buu saga, when ChiChi died, he wanted to take revenge, but he quickly recovered and accepted Piccolo's guidance, to train more and become stronger. He is not taken by the fear of inexperience and not knowing what to do in a battle, the moment arrived and he did not lose his there, not even when he was already pressured by Gohan's apparent death and after ChiChi's death when Buu killed in front of your eyes. As I don't have the patience to make prints of manga scans, and there would be MANY IMAGES, if you want to check them out, the chapters will be listed below, read them and draw your own conclusions: 354 - Future Trunks impulsively attacks the androids when Vegeta has his arm broken, scaring Piccolo and putting his life at risk, he does the same thing as his 8-YEAR-OLD counterpart from the present

~466 (Buu Saga) - His present counterpart does the same thing, but it's more understandable, here Trunks is 8 YEARS OLD compared to his future counterpart's 17/18 years

381 - Vegeta makes the stupid decision to let Cell complete himself by attacking Trunks, Krillin here is no better, and Trunks only decided to act when it was too late, even though he knew that Vegeta was terrible at making decisions.

383 - Trunks at least considered himself stronger than Vegeta and Krillin says he knows too, as he has more experience in sensing the power of others, but Trunks decided not to interfere in the battle and kill Cell before he was perfect because he didn't want to hurt his pride. Vegeta, and it was disastrous, because once Cell found 18 he was very efficient and Trunks didn't stand a chance. here Krillin even points out his subservience to Vegeta. (which lack of affection doesn't do, it clearly shows your lack of emotional control)

384-Trunks showing a little more how bad he is at making decisions, and only because he wants to preserve Vegeta's Pride.

Boo Saga

488 - Here it shows how Gohan, when he loses control with the Supreme Kai, and almost wastes the ritual (and only calms down because he sees that the old man wasn't bluffing), and being older, has less emotional discipline than Goten, who in the same chapter sees ChiChi die right in front of him and manages to control himself after hearing Piccolo's warning (Goten is still able to follow instructions here, when Gohan barely does so and his later fight with Buu only proves this) and begins his training immediately, while Trunks is more bothered by food, it shows how ChiChi trained Goten very well (and Gohan already went through a similar experience on Namekusei),

Goten is 7 years old and doesn't lose control at the risk of ruining everything, and it's not because he's more mature or makes better decisions or has more experience (as shown by Gotenks), it's because he has emotional control and has been well trained by Chichi. Chichi deserves more recognition!

Bonus:

366 - Read this chapter, it shows that Chichi is not as irrational as TOEI made her seem, she allows Goku to train Gohan and asks him to make him as strong as possible.

371 - Check out the cover, LOL. Future Trunks is just as rude as his present counterpart LOL, the animation makes him very "clean" and polite, but he's not so much LOL, he's just submissive.

377 -Read this chapter, Goku ISN'T DUMB, he learns when it suits him, he even remembers details when it's about things that interest him.

387 - Here he demonstrates all his experience and accumulated knowledge as a martial artist

Buu Saga

470 - I love Bulma's parents, they love animals and wouldn't leave them behind. It has nothing to do with it, but I couldn't help but notice it!

479 - Goku's dirty deal, LOL, he is neither innocent nor stupid LOL. The Supreme Kaioshin here talks about the 25-hour ritual! LOL, Gohan can spend hours studying yet another ritual he can't handle. LOL. Goku is a terrible decision maker, but he knows how to get what he wants.

492 - Goku teasing Shin LOL, he makes fun of anyone when he can.

[hellfire--cult]

Baring Teeth {Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader} - Ch. 10

Edit of Eddie: pitifulbaby

Chapters: Masterlist (Go here to see list of chapters, plotline and general warnings.)

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Non-Traditional Omegaverse, Slow burn, Modern!AU, Mechanic!Eddie

⚠️This chapter contains: Mean!Eddie, Angst, traumatic past, painful procedures (gyno), cheating, Billy x reader at the beginning

wc: 7k

Crossposted on: Wattpad & AO3

A/N: Well shit, I did say it will take a turn and shift. Hopefully you all enjoy this chapter, it was painful to write, but it is needed for you guys to know about the backstory of it all. If you see real closely, you'll see a part of this chapter that was actually in previous chapters ;)

Anyways, Enjoy! ❤️ And don't forget to always support me by hitting the reblog button or leave a comment!

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CHAPTER 10

Two dates turned into three.

Three dates turned into four.

Four turned into eight.

And you lost count.

“All I’m saying is that Max found you entertaining in the video call!” You chuckle with heat on your cheeks as you dipped your head in Billy’s chest, trying to cover your face. You didn’t intend on presenting yourself to Max, but he was on a video call when you arrived at his place yesterday, and you didn’t know because he had opened the door so normally with the phone in his hand and greeted you with a kiss, not noticing the phone in his hand.

Of course the girl on the other side of the call almost screeched and you jumped in fear at the sudden noise.

He was talking to Max, and he introduced you two through video call, which made your heart pound loudly in your chest, because the feelings for Billy escalated in ways you didn’t think they would. But it wasn’t just you, Billy had been smitten by you the moment you rejected him the first time ever a month ago at your office. He was never one for formal relationships, exclusive ones maybe once or twice which didn’t work out in the end.

But there was something about you that he couldn’t quite let go of, he almost seemed obsessed. He was afraid of being that clingy to you, but after date number eleven he gave up on the feeling and made himself exclusive to you, even if you didn’t know it. He didn’t want to be with anyone else but you, and it had scared him, it still does, but it was the first time he felt as if someone understood him.

When you had asked him a week ago if he slept with other girls, he had told you that he didn’t. That he hasn’t slept with anyone but you because he simply couldn’t. Your heart melted at his words, and how could you not believe him? If you two didn’t see each other, it was on video call or messaging, or at work. There wasn’t a single time where Billy didn’t answer you for more than one hour.

You know it’s excessive, and it’s too much, and maybe you are making a fantasy in your head, but you truly did end up liking Billy. He told you about his past, about his father and how he abused him physically and mentally, which he had to go to therapy for. He told you about his mother, her ashes being thrown in the Californian beach where she always took him surfing. 

His favorite color is Red. His music taste is rock. His favorite movie is Terminator. His comfort movie, funny enough, is Shrek 2. His favorite food is Fettuccine Alfredo. His favorite dessert is dark chocolate. His favorite band is Scorpions. His favorite song is ‘You give love a bad name’ by Bon Jovi. 

And as you knew these little facts about himself, he knew little facts about you, which he always remembered, and always made it known that he remembered. He got you Pínk roses once, your favorite flowers. He got you some strawberries and whipped cream, your favorite dessert. He got you a mascara from Dior because you had told him once you were running out of it.

All those small things, details, doings, made you fall for him. It wasn’t just because it was physical, and you knew that falling for a Model wasn’t the brightest of ideas, but it was impossible not to. You weren’t public yet, and you really didn’t mind that, and it’s not like you two are anything, because he never really asked. 

But today, right now, when you’re laying on his chest with the bedsheets over your naked bodies while he is propped up on some pillows against the headboard, laughing because of the situation from yesterday with Max, something felt right, like a puzzle coming together.

“Hey Sweets… I gotta ask you something.” He suddenly says and you look up with a playful smile on your face.

“Oh, danger.” You replied and he chuckled, but you noticed that behind his laughter there was a glint of nervousness, which made your teasing evaporate, replaced by worry.

“It’s not bad… It’s just– I really like you. I never felt this for someone else, and I have never been in a relationship before, so I don’t know how it really works– I mean, I did have relationships before, it’s just, they never worked out, or I didn’t like the person or I just didn’t connect with them…” He was rambling, but a smile was forming on your lips, and you bit the inside of your bottom lip to forbid it from going wider. 

“And what are you trying to say here, Mr. Hargrove?” You ask him, in a low voice, your eyes already looking up at him with adoration in them, heart beating fast in your chest as he looked down at you, with a smile on his lips, shaking his head slightly.

“You know what being called Mr. Hargrove does to me.” He says before pulling you on top of him with a grunt and you squeal from the movement, still giggling as you look up at him. He brushed some hair off your face, putting it behind your ear. “I want you to be mine. I want us to properly date Sweets.” 

You could feel his heart hammering in his chest and yours was at his same pace. Your smile had dropped but because of the surprise, not because you weren’t happy. You were exhilarated, wanting to jump from excitement and yell it to the whole world that you are dating him, that he is yours and you were his… But–

“You’re famous, I’m… I’m nothing. What will the people that follow you say?” He shakes his head, his arms around you to keep you on top of him, not letting you go. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, he wasn’t going to miss this chance when he finally found someone he could be himself with, or was beginning to.

“I will fight every single one that goes after you. Whatever they say it’s because they don’t know you like I do… Sweets, I want you to meet my sister properly, my friends… I mean, I talk about you enough already, and they’re getting impatient to meet you.” He chuckles and your eyes widened at his confession, heat spreading on your cheeks as you looked down at him. 

“You talk about me?” 

“Almost every single day.” 

Oh your heart melted at that. Your brain short circuited. It’s been too long since you felt this kind of desire towards you, this want to have a future with you, and you almost teared up at his words. You had shut yourself for a whole year, began dating random dudes, and somehow you landed on Billy, who you thought was going to be a simple hook up, but he ended up being so much more than that.

You are afraid. Terrified actually. You don’t know if your ideals stand in the same place as his, but you won’t know unless you take the leap, and follow your feelings in this very second. You leaned down and pressed your lips against his softly, and the both of you closed your eyes to enjoy the tender kiss. After a few seconds you pulled away with a smile on your face.

“Okay…” His eyes widened in surprise, a wide grin spreading in his lips, teeth showing and all.

“I can call you my girlfriend now?” Your cheeks flush again at the name, feeling like a teenage girl all over again as you nod and he immediately turns you both completely, another squeal coming out of your lips as he lays you down on the other side of the bed, bouncing from the sudden force as he kisses you on the lips, still smiling as he does so.

You really cannot wait to tell everyone today at Nancy’s party. 

You parked your car a block away from Nancy’s apartment building, which was actually huge, walking quickly with her gift bag in one hand. You bought her a nice pink blouse that she was groaning about not having for a while now.

You saw the lobby door almost closing, rushing towards it to get through, walking inside and then past the couches to catch onto an elevator. The doors were almost shutting so you dipped your arm in between the doors with a ‘sorry’ and stepped in, only for your mood to drop in a second as you saw who was in the small space with you. 

“Jeez, you could have gotten the next one Peach.” That horrible voice says to you with venom behind his words. Of all the people you had to share an elevator with, Munson was certainly not at the top of the list.

“I am already late, and so are you.” You say and press on Nancy’s floor, which was the 7th. He rolled his eyes as you stood next to him, holding the bag in front of you as the elevator bounced slightly and started moving. Your heart was hammering with pure hatred, just standing next to this man was getting your hairs to stand, like a cat that is about to defend itself.

“Please tell me you’re joking.” He suddenly says and you frown, completely confused and looked up at him, but you found him looking at your bag. You looked down on it, and backed up at him. 

“What’s wrong with my gift?” He shoots a glare your way, pulling the same bag, from the same store from his side. Your breath got stuck in your throat as dread from possibly getting the same thing settles in. “Is it a–”

“Pink Blouse.” 

You both groaned loudly, anger filling your chest from him getting the same thing for Nancy. At least there’s a ticket that she can use to exchange it for something else, but now your gift is not unique anymore, you made sure, talking with everyone about what they will gift Nancy, just so your gift wouldn’t match with anyone else’s… Except.

“This is what I get for not wanting to talk to you?” You say on the low, almost mumbling to yourself, but he heard it, loud and clear, a smug grin appearing on his lips.

“Oh, are you regretting not getting on my good side now?” He says and you make a face of disgust, looking up at him, shaking your head.

“The last thing I want is that, I mean you probably don’t even have one.” He chuckles at that response to hide how irritating you were to him. He wanted out of the elevator, he couldn’t handle standing next to you when all he could feel was just how happy you were. You were almost excited from what he could guess from your features, but he didn’t know why.

“I do, you’re just not special enough to see it, Peach.” He replies with venom in his tone, surprising you from how that hit your dignity a bit. You know you aren’t special to him, just to him, and that’s fine. Still, it fucking hurt.

“Okay, now that’s–” Suddenly the Elevator bounced aggressively, signaling a stop, but the lights went out, turning the emergency ones on. They weren’t as bright, but it was something. Your eyes widened, looking at the digital number that should appear at the top of the elevator, but it was black. 

“You have to be fucking kidding me!” Eddie yells, pressing desperately onto the ‘open doors’ button repeatedly and then the help button. 

You cannot believe this. Someone from a higher power really hated you. It despised you, because there is no way, no possible way that you are now stuck in an elevator with Eddie Munson. You took your phone out, seeing one bar of signal, calling Nancy immediately as the nerves in your body started taking over. You aren’t claustrophobic, but staying inside four walls with your sworn enemy was not your idea for a party.

“Hey–” You didn’t even let her finish her words.

“Nance we’re stuck in the elevator!” You say to her, as quickly as you can because you don’t know if the signal will stay on for too long.

“We?”

“Munson and I.” You say with spite which Eddie noticed, rolling his eyes how disgusted you sounded saying his surname. He was still pressing onto the open doors button, hoping that it’ll make the energy return or something.

“No…. Power… Called–” And the line cut off. You groaned loudly, stomping your foot in anger as you looked at your phone to now see there was no signal. 

“What did she say?” Eddie asks, still looking at the elevator console and you glared at him and then his hand, pressing the buttons nonstop.

“Power outage, so you can fucking cut that out.” He stops, only to turn his head to glare at you. You almost never fully insulted him, but when you did, his anger boiled. You were spoiled, a brat, a liar, a bad friend. Friends do not keep secrets to each other, and you are filled with them.

“Come on Peach, insult me more. Turns me on.” He replies and you fake smile at him, flipping him off before sitting down on the floor of the elevator. You grabbed your bag and you took a hard candy out, a honey one. You always chew on something when you are nervous, and being in this closed space with someone you despise was not helping the knot in your belly.

He sighed heavily, the anger swirling in his chest as he looked down at you for a second and looked back at the buttons. There wasn’t much he could do but wait now, he is not strong enough to rip the doors open, so he decides to sit in front of you, resting himself against the wall, legs spread in front of him, next to yours. All he wanted and needed was a couple of beers today. He needed the distraction from the week’s turmoil of events. Wayne’s medical bills started going up, and he had to work extra the past week to cover most of it, while saving some money for himself.

You were looking up towards the emergency light, swirling the candy around in your mouth, making some clinking sounds against your teeth every time it went from one side to the other. Eddie was glaring at you as the annoyance grew in his body, his eye twitching as you continued your movements without caring if you were being loud or nasty about it.

“Can you eat candy like a normal person?” He spats and your eyes shoot towards him, a confused frown in your face. “You’re making too much noise, cut it out.”

Oh you were now glaring back. You cannot even have a candy in peace with him, and you were debating if to spit it out, harshly, towards his forehead. For the past month, the bickering had gone down between the two of you, and that was because you spent your time with Billy more than anything, or at work. 

“What, you’re going to tell me how to eat candy now? Jesus christ.” You really don’t understand what his problem is, and if you had to be stuck in this elevator with him for the next few minutes, you were sure you were going to murder him if he kept this attitude up until then. Someone would open those doors, and just find you covered in Eddie’s blood. 

“It was just a comment, respect the other person that’s in the same stuck space as you.” At those words you almost choked on your candy, and you bit it down to swallow it and laugh, which Eddie knew was sarcastic, making him squint his eyes at you.

“I’m sorry, you talking about respect is funny.” You say with a smirk on your lips as you look back down at him. He was looking at you incredulously as his hands started to heat up from the rage that was slowly building up.

“Excuse me?” 

“Oh come on, you and respect don’t go hand in hand. One day Munson you will admit you’re a self entitled prick that only cares about himself.” And that’s where you were wrong, but you didn’t know that, and Eddie’s blood was boiling at your words. Who do you think you are? You don’t even know him, yet you are insulting him, freely.

“You don’t even fucking know me Peach, and you’re not even worth knowing about my life.” That made something in your chest snap. For some reason, those words cut harder into you than any other insult he could ever throw at you. You didn’t notice that your eyes had teared up at the word, and Eddie simply looked at you with a mocking grin to his face. “Aw, are you going to cry? I can’t believe you actually have feelings.”

“Shut up–”

“I just don’t get it, how Robin trusts you so much, all this while. I don’t understand the rest either, but especially Robin. I mean, you really aren’t that special–” His words were pure stabs into your body, your breathing becoming heavy as he talked, and your emotions were beginning to spill over the edge of the glass. You hadn’t heard or thought of those words for a long while, and here he was, in just mere seconds reminding you about them, letting them brand into your skin again, over the scabs that built up over the last year.

“Shut the fuck up– I–”

“Oh, so you are crying now? After insulting me? Why, can’t take it like I take all of your fucking names and comments?” He all but growls. He was pissed, glaring at you with anger shown on his features. He didn’t care that there were tears running down your face, he didn’t care about your feelings, he didn’t care if this was hurting you, just like you never cared about him either.

You couldn’t take it any more, the tears falling, trying to regain your breathing, but your anger, your nerves, your despair, and your past was hunting your brain. It was making you slightly dizzy, lightheaded, and your mouth was responding for you now, no longer processing the words coming out of it. You slammed your hands on the floor of the elevator, glaring at him through a tear stained face.

“Why the FUCK do you hate me so much!? You don’t know SHIT about me, so I don’t understand why you’re like this!” You almost yell at him, your voice already getting strained by the emotions you swore you put inside that box long ago. Eddie scoffed at that, yet matched your energy as he leaned forward, pointing at you.

“Right back at you! You don’t know me! At fucking all! But the difference between you and me, Peach, is that everyone else in the group knows me, knows about me, knows about my past. And you? NO ONE knows shit about you. Not just me.” You roll your eyes at that with a scoff as your heart pounded into your chest, going wild at the process of his words.

“It’s because it’s no one's business! Can’t you fucking get that?! I am not lying about anything, I’m just keeping my past to myself! I’m harming no one!” You exclaim at him, your hands gripping onto the hard floor of the elevator and he shakes his head, giving a sarcastic laugh of his own, which made your brain snap once.

“That’s what you fucking think! You think that Robin doesn’t give a shit about that side of you, but she told you every single thing about herself, yet you act like you’re some mysterious chick that came out of nowhere just for what? Attention? For people to discuss about your past life and for you to feel fucking important?” 

Your brain snapped two, three times.

“Stop–” You begged, you were begging, not being able to handle the emotions any longer, and you needed peace, you needed silence, you needed him to stop stabbing you, hurting you, making you remember.

“So who is the self entitled prick here? Huh? Look into the fucking mirror for once, and come to the actual fact that you’re an attention seeking whore–”

And then, it cracked.

“What the fuck do you want me to say!? That I’m a divorced woman that went through three fertility treatments in the lapse of three months, with a husband that was cheating on me through that?! Is that what you want to fucking hear Munson!? Is that what everyone in this fucking group wants to know or just you?!” 

Silence. The small space fell into complete silence. His stretched legs next to yours, facing one another as your chest heaved up and down. He was stunned in his place, not fully processing your words because it couldn’t be. You couldn’t have gone through that, you didn’t show it… That’s when Robin’s words came into his mind: Just because she hides her past, doesn’t make her a liar.

And now, he felt the cold sweat of guilt, washing all over his body, all the way to his feet. His heart had slowed down, thanks to the shock of those words, and he was feeling like vomiting right now as the knots in his stomach appeared, trying to pry his stomach open, ripping it apart. You fell silent, slow tears still rolling down your cheeks as you rested against the wall again, and you looked up at the emergency light.

The box had opened. Everything you sealed up, everything you worked for a year to keep inside of you, inside of your head, to maybe erase it, to erase the pain, to erase the treason, to erase it all. Your mother had told you that someday you would explode. She had suggested a therapist, but you never listened, because you thought you were strong enough. That you were strong enough to deal with the pain and with the memory by yourself.

By leaving.

“I was–”

“You don’t have to…” Eddie stops you immediately. He didn’t do this for you to confess your past, or maybe he did, but he never expected this, and now he was regretting every single word that came out of his mouth throughout this whole year towards you. You glared up at him through your tears, talking to him in the coldest tone he ever heard coming from you.

“You wanted it, now you listen.” He felt fear towards you, but not because he was afraid of you, but from what you might have experienced. “Do you know… how the fertility treatment for a female Beta works?”

“So you just sign here, and he signs here, and then the treatment will start for the both of you.” Camila says with a smile to her face as she points at the contact that was on the table. You squeal in excitement while holding your husband’s hand, Henry, as he smiles at you and kisses your knuckles. You grabbed the pen and signed the contract, your husband signing afterwards.

“I can’t believe it’s happening…” You say, smiling towards Henry, your husband of three years, friend from school, boyfriend in college. Getting together with Henry felt like destiny, after the two of you were assigned on a project together at college after not seeing him for over a year. 

And now, you two had signed to start the fertility treatment on the both of you to have your first child. It was something you two knew since you started dating that it would happen, and that you wanted it, you both wanted it. You looked up at Camila, your lawyer and your best friend since middle school. She had a big smile on her face, giving you a nod.

“I’m so excited to be an aunt!” She squealed and you giggled while Henry shook his head at the both of you with a chuckle of his own. You heard about the procedure of fertility treatment for females, and it has 99.7% efficiency. You also heard about the pain that it would bring, but it couldn’t be that bad, would it?

–

GET IT OUT. GET IT OUT. GET IT OUT. GET IT OUT.

Those were your only thoughts as you bit and screamed onto the towel that was given to you, while you were put in a sitting position on the procedure chair, like a Gynecologist's, and your thighs were strapped onto its supports, keeping your legs open, not letting you move away either. 

The procedure consisted of a long small tube that held a very needle inside. That tube is inserted into the vaginal canal, piercing through the uterus breech until it gets to a fallopian tube. Then the needle would start poking the treatment into the organ, reactivating the fertility process on the eggs that are inside the ovaries. 

But the large bendable tube, ripping through your uterus, feeling it going into your fallopian tube, without anesthesia, was too much. Too much to handle. You didn’t expect this to be this painful, because the male Betas had it easier. They had injections done on their ball sack, giving fertility to the sperm inside for a limited period of time. 

The tears were running down your eyes as you clenched them tightly, feeling the sharp needle starting the process now, and you just wanted it to be over. It was going to be all worth it in the end, you will have a beautiful baby, the one thing you’ve always wanted. You always dreamt of a big family, and Henry promised you just that. 

The pain might be unbearable, but if it meant you could have more kids with Henry, you would go through it again.

–

Your eyes were wide, glossed over from the incoming tears as you saw the pregnancy test in your hand. You did everything right, the procedure, the postures, the aftercares, just everything…

And it didn’t take.

It might take some time, more than a month after the treatment, but the next day after the failed test, your bedding had been stained with your blood. You almost screamed with a sob, covering your face with your hands as you looked down at your splayed legs and the blotch of blood that was in between them. 

Your husband immediately shot up from his sleeping state, looking at your figure and then down at the bed. He shook his head, gulping heavily as he pulled you into an embrace, trying to soothe you down, brushing your hair softly.

“It’s okay baby… It wasn’t 100% efficient, we knew that… It’s okay, nothing’s wrong, you did nothing wrong.” 

Those words filled your empty heart, accepting the fact that the treatment did not work this time.

“Next time, it’ll work…” You softly mumble against his neck and his eyes widen slightly, looking down at you.

“You want to try again?” He asks and you nod, your spirit not backing down from that family you always wanted. He nods at you and presses his lips against your head. “I’ll prepare a warm bath for you, okay?” You sniffle, looking back down at the puddle of blood on the sheets and that is probably sipping through them and onto the mattress.

It’s okay, next time it’ll take. 

–

You were sobbing as you sat in Camila’s toilet, feeling the blotches of blood falling down as your best friend was trying to wipe your face with concern being drawn on her eyebrows. The four pregnancy tests were all over the sink, and then it suddenly happened, and you had to pull your pants down to see blood had started leaking down from you. 

“Sweetheart, shh, don’t cry…” 

“I don’t get it! I did everything right! I even rechecked myself, and I am healthy, and ready for a baby, and he did the studies on himself too and there’s nothing wrong with us!” You almost screamed as you felt more blood running down into the toilet, the sobs ripping out of your chest at the failed conception, once again.

“Maybe the third time’s the charm? Like the saying?” She was trying to put humor in the situation, but you had told her about the insufferable pain you went through. Going through that two times, the appointment being just one month after the last one, was almost traumatizing. 

“I don’t know if I can handle a third… Not only because of the pain, but because of seeing that single line again, and then feeling my blood coming down… I don’t want to feel that again!” Camila grabbed your face in between her hands and she gave you a slow nod, with a warm smile on her face.

“You are so strong, I know you can do this, and Henry is waiting for it to happen… Nothing is wrong with you both, maybe the timing was wrong… This time it’ll happen.”

And those words helped you clean yourself that evening and already book another appointment. Third time’s the charm.

It has to be.

–

“Please, please, give me a break, I can’t do this again, please!” You yelled while laying on the hospital’s bed, your upper body propped up with each foot hooked into some metal pedals in each corner of the bed to keep your legs spread.

The doctor pulled away, looking up from in between your legs with pity eyes and shook her head.

“We can’t stop the process sweetheart, a pause can cause an alteration and we’re already more than halfway there! I promise!” You were processing what she was saying, with tears streaming down your cheeks, your bottom lip busted open from biting onto it way too hard to control your cries. The pain was unbearable, feeling like you were being split open, your insides being ripped apart. 

But you wanted this. You both wanted this. Something is wrong with you, it has to be. There’s no other explanation for it, no matter if the doctors ran a bunch of tests on you and said everything should really be fine, you didn’t believe that. Something was not working, but you really wanted this. 

So you nodded for your doctor to proceed, and the pain worsened from there.

But that day, you got out of the appointment earlier than expected because another person decided to not show up. So you decided to surprise your husband and head over to his clinic, where he was getting his appointment done at this very moment with a smile on your face, fighting against the pain that was in your uterus and in between your legs.

Parking your car in the lot, you got out with a wince to go towards the clinic’s doors, and head over to the receptionist with a smile to your face.

“Hello! I’m here because my husband is having fertility treatment?” You say with a chirp to your voice and the blonde girl at the desk smiled at you with a nod.

“Can you give me the name?”

“Henry Creel.” She nods and types something on her computer, a small frown appearing on her face as she looks up at you.

“There is no one by that name for a fertility treatment today.” You tilted your hair to the side, completely confused because you swore you heard him say it was today. Maybe you had heard wrong but there was already a storm inside your stomach, your instincts kicking in.

“O-Oh, then, is it tomorrow?” You ask and the lady had a sad frown on her face, looking at you with worry in her eyes.

“There were no fertility treatments done to a man named Henry Creel. Ever. He is not in our system…” 

You were frozen in place. It couldn’t be, this was the clinic, you were sure of it. He told you that it was close to yours many times, that’s why he always picked you up after your treatment, taking care of you, buckling you into the passenger’s seat as he went home with you.

You didn’t even reply to the woman, despite her calling out to you, and you immediately darted towards your car. You needed to get home, you needed to check the contract to see if the clinic was another one, because that must be it. He signed the contract so the fertility treatment has to be done.

You raced home, stepped on the gas like never before, your head spiraling as you reached your house and the knots in your stomach appeared. Your eyes widened when you saw a very familiar car at the front of your home, so you shut your own car off a little bit further so you could go inside silently.

Your heart was pounding into your chest as your mind was telling you to not go inside your home, despite you already opening the door, and walking inside, only to be hit with the sound of moaning, groaning, breathless sighs coming from upstairs. From your room. 

You started heading up, silently, thinking that this is a nightmare, that this is not real, that this was just some random people that barged into your home to have sex, because it couldn’t be real, it just couldn’t.

But when you opened the door, it all became real. Your husband looked at you, his movements stopping completely, his eyes widening at the sight of you. Then your eyes darted to the person below him, the person who was clawing her nails onto his back.

Camila.

“The contract was fake. He never went to any of his appointments, not once, and I suffered three times… Three.” Your tears never stopped, your eyes never leaving the emergency light at the top of the elevator. “They both cheered me on… Knowing how painful it was, knowing I could end up traumatized by it… while they fucked behind my back… The only two people I ever trusted, fully, in my whole life.”

Eddie was speechless, looking down at his feet with a pained frown in his eyebrows. His jaw was clenching from the anger of what you went through, of what they did to you, and because he was holding in the lump in his throat from the guilt that was brewing in his mind and his heart. 

He now understood why you didn’t want to talk about your past, and it wasn’t because you were hiding, but because you wanted to start fresh. You wanted those memories gone, and he just got them out of your mouth, when you probably haven’t talked about them for the last year. He just made you spill that part of yourself that you tried so hard to conceal, and he did it in the most spiteful way.

In a way he doesn’t think he will forgive himself for.

“I–”

“Now do you understand why I don’t trust easily? Or are you still going to act like a self-entitled prick?” Eddie’s eyes shot up to see you no longer glaring at him, but with a much more pained look on your face. He was the last person you wanted to know about your past, about your pain, about your memories, and he got them out of you inside a stuck elevator. 

Silence filled the air again as you both looked at eachother. Pained nothingness in your eyes while Eddie’s was filled with pained guilt. He clenched his jaw again, swallowing the lump in his throat as he tried to clear it up a bit to try to talk again.

“I-I know this… won’t do–” He cut himself to bite his top lip and looked away from you but you could catch his eyes turning glossy, making you listen to him closely. “I’m sorry… for everything.”

You stared at him, for a long while. You were angry, pissed, enraged by the fact that the man in front of you tormented you for a whole year and even got your past out of your mouth, yet… There was a sense of relief now. Not with him, but within yourself. As if you had held your breath for too long and you could finally sigh it out.

“I don’t accept it.” You reply to him and he simply nods, still looking away from you. You looked down at your hands, feeling slightly defeated by him. You couldn’t help but feel weak now, feel completely vulnerable after giving him your story, which he probably will tell Robin about. Will she hate you for hiding it from her? Will everyone else think you are some poor girl that needs saving?

A shadow casted over you, making you frown slightly, turning your head up to see that Eddie had moved, now kneeling in front of you, looking at you with eyes that now could see you for who you were. 

Strong.

“Finish it.”

“What?” You were baffled by his sudden words, frowning up at him.

“Finish what you intended that night. The night you tackled me.” Your eyes widened at that request, shaking your head slightly, looking at him as if he had gone crazy.

“What are you saying?”

“I deserve it and more. Finish what you intended that night.” He was opening himself up for you to take your anger out on him. You felt your whole body heat up, a burning sensation going towards your fingertips, and your chest flushing with the wave of anger exploding inside of it. You immediately kneeled in front of him and sent your right hand flying against his left cheek.

His head swung to the side, stinging him from the blow, but he couldn’t be mad. In fact, he knew he deserved it, and he deserved it that night. He now understands how hard it must have been for you to go on all those dates after what you went through. He now understands how hard it was for you to open up your heart again. He now understands that despite it all, you do tell Robin stuff, pouring yourself out to her.

He now understands. He now respects you, completely, entirely.

Your tears ran down your cheeks as you took a deep breath in and swung your other hand towards his right cheek, making his head swing to the other side now. Your hands were burning and stinging from the blows, but it had helped. It helped so much because Eddie Munson didn’t look like someone who would let himself be hit or be disrespected without consequences, yet he was giving himself out to you for you to hurt him. 

To make him feel, how you felt whenever he said the word Worth.

Because that’s how you felt when it happened. Were you that worthless that they didn’t care about you? Were you not worthy enough to find love? Were you not worthy enough to find a family? Were you that worthless?

You were about to hit him again when realization hit you, your hand stopping mid air. But Robin… She loved you unconditionally, opened her arms for you despite you building walls around you. Jonathan had cared for you, even after rejecting him, and became a friend without any awkwardness between you two. Steve, Nancy and Argyle, they never once questioned you, never once left you aside or made you feel unwelcome.

They do that, despite your walls. 

Do you deserve that?

Eddie was looking at your expression, your eyes darting back and forth as thoughts processed in your head. He could feel your uneasiness, your sadness, your pain, your uncertainty, but there was one thing he could see in yourself right now, and he wasn’t going to let you think about it, not for a single second. 

“You’re not worthless.”

Your eyes widened and your head shot up to ask him how he could read your mind but then you were both thrown to the ground as the elevator started moving again, abruptly, shaking itself as it went up. Your hands had to grip his biceps for support and he had his own arms on your waist, pulling the both of you up from the ground. He held you until you could stabilize yourself and then pulled away from you. He clenched and unclenched his fists without much thought as he looked at you.

“You okay?” He asked and you looked up at him, seeing his reddened face because of your slaps and you couldn’t help but let out a laugh at the sight. He blinked as if you were insane and kept his eyes on you.

“I-I’m sorry, I just don’t know how we will explain our state to everyone else.” You say, knowing your makeup was running down your face, your nose was stuffed, your eyes were red from crying… He chuckles with you as the elevator dings that you both got into Nancy’s floor. He grabbed the bags, the same present, but from different people, and he handed one to you. 

“We’ll think of something, Peach.” 

As you stepped out of the elevator, you know something shifted at that step. It was as if you left something inside there, someone else, and it was time for it to go. Something has definitely changed, inside of you, and probably with the way you are with everyone else. And that’s when you came to a decision, because if you didn’t move on now, you never will.

Next thing tomorrow, you’ll tell Robin everything.

End of chapter 10

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A/N: As I mentioned, THIS STORY IS A NON TRADITIONAL OMEGAVERSE, most of the lore is created in my own head.

Taglist: @enam3l @katethetank @seatnights @oliskitten @bebe07011 @seventhlevelofhell @babez-a-licious @arsenicred @bl4ckt00thgr1n @harrysgothicbitch @emma77645 @fictionalcomforts @hellv1ra @sarcastically-defensive17 @lodeddiperrodrick @corrodedcoffincumslut @peea90 @sidthedollface2 @elegantkoalapaper @ghost-proofbaby @take-everything-you-can @lalisas2 @luciferiorbxtch

[bonzos-number-1-fan]

TMAGP 25 Thoughts: Tech Support

The fabled mukbang episode is upon us. This is probably the most TMA an episode has been too. Jonny wrote it so that's not a major surprise but it really does feel like the most seamless to slot into TMA of all the episodes so far. It was a great one too. Who doesn't love dinner and a show? No notes.

Spoilers for episode 25 below the cut.

Alice and Sam's interaction is interesting to me for entirely how uninteresting it is. I'm not sure if it's just me but I feel like there has been this run of episodes recently that are sort of coasting in terms of plot progression. That's not a bad thing but it does feel like we're in a bit of a trough between big things right now. Not that this episode doesn't have at least some progression in it. It's just not now, and not next.

The incident was a lot of fun IMO. Really evocative, a great format, a nice solid contained story where no one horrifically dies. Hard to complain about anything that happened here. Just some great Magnus-flavoured horror. Similarly to the last couple I don't know that this is going to have much bearing on later episodes. It doesn't feel like there is much in here we haven't seen before. Obviously the specifics are different but I couldn't point to anything metaphysically unique in this one. It is, of course, the most hunger related one of these we've had in a while. So the Hunger-not-Fear theorist are eating well I'm sure. I don't really buy that. Or, at least, I don't think it's actually all that different than TMA. I think the strongest name we have for them right now is Dread thanks to the capital D Dread from the transcript of Hard Reset. Although it's entirely possible there is more than one category of entity here. If we didn't have German to go off of I'd also say it would be a good theory for what DPHW might mean. Each letter representing an entity, or type of entity, and the influence they have upon any given incident. That's all unrelated to the incident, of course, but I did feel like I should talk about something here.

Poor poor Colin. Cursed by the plot to get institutionalised for being right. Well, for the hammer stuff but that's nearly like being right. What's probably the most tragic part about this is that the team is primed to believe him now. Had he laid out what he knows sans hammer he'd probably have won them over but paranoia is a cruel mistress indeed.

Lena caring more about rules than people is unfortunately attractive. It's incredibly funny to me that the OIAR offices are in such a disarray that the terminals are apparently right next to server racks. I'm going to be interested to see where this goes. Sam standing up to Lena and flatly declaring that things are fucked up in the office should have some sort of payoff but I do sort of worry it might not get mentioned. The compartmentalisation of the OIAR is clearly falling to bits but she didn't seem super worried in this exchange about that. Hopefully we'll get to see more of that in the future.

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

Incident/CAT#R#DPHW Master Sheet and Terminology Sheet

DPHW Theory: 2474 is about where I was expecting it to land. Not a whole lot to add there.

CAT# Theory: At CAT2 this is another one of those that reinforces my belief that if CAT is Person/Place/Object then CAT is a terrible way to grade anything. Obviously the restaurant is a place but there was also clearly someone in the place working with it in some way. That's entirely ignored by putting it in CAT2 and so is discarding information of merit for no real reason. If a team responds to this you'd expect them to want to know that there is a killer cook in the building too.

R# Theory: B seems a little high to me but I also can't really think of a good reason why it shouldn't be B.

Header talk: Food (Gorging) -/- Compulsion (Disgust) is pretty descriptive, so not much to say on that one.

[visenyaism]

at the start of my baldur’s gate playthrough a few months ago i remember seeing someone say that the companions you initially despise the most are probably the ones who are the most similar to you. and i said that’s corny🙄. anyways time to go cyberbully astarion for being a terminally annoying extrovert who thinks he’s sooo funny and is constantly performing even for an audience of none people and gale for being a huge fucking infodumping nerd. those dots might connect i fear

[colonelpancakes]

Watching The Dragon Prince Season Six Part Six! Moment of Truth. Under the cut as per the usual! This episode will reveal my habit of using more pet names for characters the more distressed I become!

I’d just like to say that every time the intro plays, I experience a few seconds of intense fear as I wait to see if it’s Callum again. They've done it twice now I am fully expecting them to do it again.

Oh dang, that is a beautiful opening shot of the sunrise. Absolutely stunning.

Ohh, Callum honey. I know the feeling, it sucks.

Aww, Raylaaaa. I love her trying to cheer Callum up with the crown, it's so sweet…

Ohh... poor Callum... Yeah, that would be a blow to anyone’s self esteem. Especially when we know from The Frozen Ship that Callum's been struggling with the idea that he had already permanently ruined himself by using dark magic.

(Also again, the voice acting is amazing.)

Oh, you know, that’s a good idea! Since they don’t really need to kill Aaravos they just need to stop him from being freed and the main threats to his status as imprisoned are Claudia finding the pearl or Callum getting possessed. If it’s in the Starscraper being guarded by Celestial Elves, then that’s both problems solved! Claudia doesn’t know where it is and it’d be pretty difficult for a possessed Callum to go get it, especially not before anyone could stop him. Good thinking Rayla!

OH GOD.

...On the one hand that’s really bad and a serious problem but on the other hand that is so fucking funny. The magic prison you've been carrying wrapped in an anti-magic blanket through the freezing cold is a giant M&M. Sorry. There is no good way to deliver the news, huh.

Oh, Callum… The way his voice shakes and he sounds so out of breath like he’s having a panic attack. Poor baby.... 🥺

Oh, Honey…

And of course it makes him feel worse because to him, if it really was Aaravos influencing Callum without him knowing, then it’s confirming that, not only is there the possibility that he could one day become a threat to his friends safety, he actively is a threat to them. And if it was simply an accident, at the very least, there’s something he can do to prevent another accident. If it's an accident, then it's something that he did and something that he can make an effort to not let it happen again in the future. Whereas if it’s Aaravos, there’s nothing he can do. The thing he could have done to prevent Aaravos possessing him is not use dark magic but that ship has sailed. He’d be entirely helpless and it’d be his own fault.

Also, it goes without saying but I’m going to say it anyways: Give Callum’s VA an award, the voice-acting is so good, the franticness, the hyperventilation. It’s so good.

Ooh, I love this style of flashback. I love the way that it’s the same artstyle as the credits and how it makes perfect sense since in-universe, Viren’s writing all this down on a piece of parchment. Also, I think that this is first time we’ve heard Lissa’s name in the actual show! I love how you can already see that Claudia got her hair-texture from Lissa while Soren got his from Viren.

Soren with his little dragon plushy!!!! I'm going to start crying...

Hmm. I know it’s probably just coincidence, but the fact that Soren seemingly had a terminal respiratory disease makes me wonder if maybe he had the same condition as Callum’s father, since Callum said that Damian had “some sort of terrible breathing sickness.”

THE QUOTE FROM HARROW!!!! OUGH! “Claudia and I are still searching for a creative solution." "Call it what it is. Dark magic." vs "I found a creative solution. I suppose I should call it what it is, dark magic." The growth.

Oh?? I’ve always been curious what it is about the staff that enhances dark magic since it doesn’t come from a specific primal source. Usually, it comes from taking the life force of living things, but how does a staff help with that? Hmm…

Okay, I’ve questioned this before but. What is up with Kpp’Ar’s arm? It’s clearly injured… Is he using his own blood for spells? It feels like such a random detail to add without explanation. I wonder if we’ll find out...

Ah, so Harrow isn’t king yet. Interesting… I guess that makes sense since Kpp’Ar doesn’t appear in any of the Magma Titan flashbacks.

I think I remember Kpp’Ar having given up dark magic from The Puzzle House (please forgive me if I'm wrong my memory is shit), but I wonder what could have happened to make him veer away from dark magic and the staff to the point where he won’t consider using them to save a child… The royal family doesn’t have Aaravos’s mirror yet so I don’t think it could be that. I am so curious about this man...

KPP’AR MAN, COME ON! I get that you’ve seen some things but you could at the bare minimum be a LITTLE more tactful than that! If there’s some reason that the staff can’t be used, you could, I don’t know, EXPLAIN IT to Viren? Instead of just leaving him sobbing in the room with no explanation as to why you are letting his son die? ...I see where Viren gets it from.

Sksfjalkjslkf  I forgot about the monochrome so when the scene switched back to the Starscraper I was like wait what the hell is happening?

Kosmo, man, I’m not sure this is helping, but also, Callum petting Sneezles for emotional support… I love themm…

Callum, honey… Ough... I am going to cry I love Callum so much. Sweetie…

Ssakljfsalkfj Rayla trying gently elbow Kosmo away from Callum.

Callum, honey, sweetie, darling, sweetheart, love… The fact that he’s just utterly given up on himself and on his ability to continue. That he thinks he’s just too far gone, that there’s nothing left so there’s no point in even trying… Ough. And the implications of refusing to get rid of Aaravos’s control considering the fact that he made Rayla promise to kill him if he ever got controlled again and she did. Oh, honey… Callum’s arc this season is repeatedly punching me directly in the stomach.

Plus the voice acting, again. The way he sounds so dead and empty and almost apathetic, like it’s already over, like there’s just no point to anything anymore. AHG.

Once a dumb sibling always a dumb sibling.

“Truth is everything. But before you give it to another, ask yourself, are you giving them clarity, light, and purpose? Or are you shifting a burden to someone who needs all their strength?” I really like Astrid and I like how they're not going the "lying is always bad, telling the truth is always good in every situation no matter the context" route and instead acknowledging that it requires more nuance! Also, I love how Astrid is animated here, her body language is very expressive and fun.

OH? Oh that explains why it was monotone I had been thinking that it was just like, a sudden style change to portray the emotions or something skjfaslkj. That make a lot more sense.

Also, I like the clarification of how the future-sight works! It seems kind of like Clearsight’s ability in Wings of Fire where she can see all of the possible futures that diverge from her decision. Kosmo can see the possibilities that arise from his decision of whether to tell the truth or not and then pick the best option once he’s seen the diverging paths. It’s probably my favorite form of “prophetic” ability and I especially appreciate it being used here since it lets Timeblind elves like Kosmo exist while still holding true to the themes in the show about the nonexistence of destiny and how the choices you make impact the future.

Okay, I still feel like being Timeblind would suck. I can only imagine Kosmo feeling super awkward repeating what he said in the vision and like. I don’t know but I feel like it’d be creepy to have the people around you constantly parrot what you’ve already heard them say like they’re reading from scripts and you know what they’re about to say and the exact tone they’ll say it in a second before the words come out of their mouths. That would entirely creep me out.

Self confidence restored!!

Continued in reblogs, curse the tumblr image limit

[okaybooner]

Have you ever considered for a moment, that you have been the main factor as to why your life is terrible?

And before you groan, stop reading and appeal to force and aim a gun at your terminal, finish reading this, and maybe you'll save your fucking miserable life before you do something stupid as hell or someone gets tired of you and get snuffed out for it like the Legionnaires and raiders you shot from your dinosaur tower.

Leigh had to coax you out of your shell to get anything done. You never do anything- never initiate something until someone practically begs you to do something.

You can't communicate, and nearly got yourself and your team killed in your rash decision to try to threaten to kill a pilot that likely wanted to know they weren't going to be thrown out like a used tissue.

Did you threaten them for the safety of the group? Or did you threaten them to save yourself, your team be damned.

I have the feeling it was the latter.

You're traumatized and depressed by the passing of your wife and Bitter Springs. Have you ever tried talking to Five? Ever tried talking to anyone that could provide therapeutic support?

And more specifically about Bitter Springs, did you ever consider you were shooting civilians? How they screamed in fear? How they tried saving their children? No.

Your bad thoughts, your depressive thoughts, and more are right.

You know you're a loser that has nothing except a hunting rifle, bullets and your precious Glock 17 Gen 4 with phosphor tritium sights, a pistol that isn't even from this reality.

Your thoughts are telling you to change. To accept that the past happened, but you sabotage yourself and immerse yourself in a personal fable like a teenager that believes nobody can understand them.

You surround yourself with alcohol, drugs, vices and more in a futile attempt to block out the thoughts. You threaten anyone that tries speaking to you, because you would rather believe you're broken and unfixable than try to put in any effort to change yourself.

And you're going to get killed for it. Maybe Five, Alice or anyone else's ungodly patience will run out and they will decide they're done with your pathetic crap and hand you over to the Legion, kill you in your sleep, Ides of March you or feed you a lethal dose of poison.

Maybe Vulpes will beat your brains out with the stock of your precious hunting rifle, and parade your corpse around the East on a crucifix until you begin to smell funny. Or Leigh will get tired of you not reciprocating and leave you to your own thoughts and your hunting rifle. Or you'll try charging the Strip in a confused mania and get reduced into ground human by a dozen field mortar shells for it.

The problem is not your thoughts. Not the Legion. Not the NCR. Not Carla. Not Vulpes or his sunburn from hell. Not Lucillus. Not Alice. Not Five. Not Galileo. Not Oliver, Caesar, Kimball or anyone you could consider blaming.

The problem is you. Get rid of your stupid nobody understands me attitude, commit to changing your life and kicking the bottle, and you'll become a much more likable person.

-anonymous

ok.