#to see what its all about if nothing else

[stillfightingdragons]

been seeing this a bunch and everyone's joking about how it'd just explode you all of the way (if somebody has responded more seriously ily but I'm also not scrolling through every reblog ever of this just to post)

its not *totally* fucked. it does make a little sense. the reason gunpowder works for making the thing happen in a gun is bc it burns rapidly and releases a lot of gases really fast

this makes the explosive effect bc of the chamber and the projectile forming an enclosed space. the gasses want to expand but there's no room for it, so instead it pushes out against the walls, including the bullet. and pushes it out real fucking fast, as well as pushing back against the inside of the slide or bolt, allowing the action to cycle and load another bullet if it's any variant of automatic.

outside of the chamber, if you were to just pull the bullet out of the casing and pour it out and lit it in isolation, it'd burn up real fast and release a lot of gas, but it wouldn't make that gunshot sound. there's no pressure buildup and release, which is what makes it sound like that. so it wouldn't *explode* you, it'd just burn really fast.

cant speak to the medical side of things, and as everyone else said, we have far fucking better ways of dealing with wounds now. but if for some reason you are bleeding out in a perfectly empty void with nothing at hand other than a lighter and a loaded gun, you could crack a cartridge open and make things probably less bad. probably.

I call this the create a new problem technique

[flawseer]

Hi! I’m a big fan of your art and work over all

I’ve been wondering, since I’ve seen you give your thoughts on some other dragons, what are your thoughts on Clay?

On Clay...

Clay. I’ve talked about him for a bit in a previous post somewhere. He is the first protagonist in the entire series and thus serves as our introduction into this world. While he enters the story with his own emotional baggage, he pretty much resolves all of that within the first book and mellows out from then on, fading into the background as a quiet support character.

Because of that it is maybe easy to dismiss Clay as that big guy who talks about food a lot and doesn’t do much else. But I do think he’s a bit more complex than that and is a well-rounded character with things going on in his own right.

CW: Discussion of physical abuse.

Formative Years

Clays early years were molded heavily by his belief that he almost killed Tsunami while she was hatching. He believed this because his guardians, mostly Kestrel, insisted this is what happened. Of course at the end of the first book we learn that this wasn’t the case and that they were just misinformed about how Mudwings work.

To us, this may all seem absolutely ridiculous. We look at Clay and see this obvious gentle giant without a malicious bone in his body angsting about being a blood-crazed monster. But for Clay himself, this was a very real, very horrifying situation. Suspend your disbelief for a moment. His entire childhood was marred by the crushing guilt of almost having murdered his surrogate sister at birth, and he couldn’t remember why he did it. He understood nothing about this situation, and didn’t know if this secret violent side could even resurface one day. Basic things like going to sleep would become terrifying; he may have laid awake, wondering whether his body might act on its own as soon as he fell unconscious. Just like back then, when it acted before he could even form coherent thoughts. The fear of losing control to the monster and waking up on top of a loved one’s mangled body was always there.

This perception of himself as a violent killer was at odds with his social nature as a Mudwing. He loved his surrogate siblings with the same intensity that any Mudwing would love their own, and thus he hated the part of himself that threatened them. As a direct response to this dissonant view, Clay developed a desire to protect them. If he willed himself to shield them from getting hurt with all of his strength, he would never be able to harm them again. This was his way of coping with the fear.

It is pretty apparent from the text that at least Kestrel was physically abusive towards them. Dune was possibly too, Webs I don’t think so, but he also didn’t do anything to stop it. As Clay grew older I think he began to recognize the patterns. He would start deliberately acting in ways so that most of Kestrel’s ire would be redirected towards himself instead of the others. This is why all the Dragonets of Destiny have such deep respect for Clay; they remember him always standing between them and Kestrel, even as he ended up with more and more scars for it.

Luckily, he is able to reconnect with his Mudwing heritage at the end of book 1 and learns that he never was that blood-crazed murderer the guardians insisted he was. But even so, the scars and memories would never fully fade, and he’d never lose sight of the need to protect his loved ones.

Personality and Interests

Clay’s love of food and eating is well-established, to the point where it sometimes seems like it is his only character trait from book 2 onwards. This is normal; he’s got a big body and I assume the self-regenerative properties inherent to Mudwings burn a lot of calories, so he needs to eat a lot to refuel them. I think there’s a bit more to him still though.

Clay is at his happiest when he can either prevent someone else’s pain, or take it away. Conversely he becomes distressed when he sees someone suffering. I believe he is incredibly earnest and built close to water. He cries easily, though never in response to his own pain or suffering. He feels positive emotions very strongly and can get overwhelmed that way, especially when he sees his loved ones happy. When he cries, he does so openly and without shame. It is very unsatisfying to tease him because he will usually just take what people say to him at face value and thus make them feel bad.

He’s also very physically affectionate and huggy.

People who meet Clay often get the impression that he is book dumb, or just stupid in general. This is not the case, as Clay does have a capacity for learning even complex subject matter. I just think he struggles with subjects he can’t see a practical application for, or aren’t relevant to things he wants to do. He has little interest in memorizing ancient figures or learning how to measure the sides of a triangle

When Glory fights Deathbringer in book 3, she makes mention of a “dragon anatomy class” which I assume was taught by Webs. Clay, as much as he struggled with history and numbers, excelled at this particular class because its insight could be used to keep people safe. As such, whenever the need for it arises, Clay is usually quick to act as the group’s primary healer/medical advisor.

(Excerpts from WoF graphic novels 2 and 3, censored for blood.)

This notion is further supported by the fact that, once they all become teachers at the Jade Mountain Academy, Clay is the one to lead an anatomy class, just like the one he attended before.

In conclusion

Clay is pretty much everyone’s big brother. While he isn’t as eccentric and colorful as the people he is surrounded by, his earnestness and general benevolence make him the backbone of the Dragonets of Destiny. Whenever anyone has a deeply-rooted, serious problem they are hesitant to bring up with others, Clay will usually be the first person considered as a confidant. Tsunami and Starflight know he would never judge or shame them no matter how ridiculous the thing they approach him with. Glory trusts him with her emotions whenever her stoic facade cracks. And Sunny has an incredibly strong bond with him.

I think that makes him pretty cool, even if he doesn’t really have much to do anymore once he overcomes his personal demons. I’m happy that he gets to be happy in the end.

[zorostitties]

Aurora; 12 (m)

⤕ Your existence had been an endless night, where shadows whispered long forgotten secrets. Trapped in a golden cage, your fragile mind and shattered memories were chains that kept you from dreaming of freedom. Then, he appeared with the first light of dawn, like a gentle sun warming your cold skin. In his gaze, the promise of a new beginning; in his presence, the sunrise your soul had longed for.

In which Alucard saves you from Erzsebet.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: angst, romance, slow burn, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, mental health issues, grief, physical abuse.

rating: 18+

word count: 8k

A/N: HELLO WORLD!! PHEW. It's been a while. I know I'm posting it at a random hour but I needed to get this chapter off my chest. I explained on tumblr why it took me so long to update. To be honest my cat is still in a bad shape and I'm still absurdly worried about her… but oh well, I needed to post this chapter to think of something else for a while, at least. So it'd be very kind of you to leave a comment to help me not freak out about my cat :)

⤕  Masterlist  ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Playlist

You’re tired of fighting.

Your limbs are heavy, your throat burns, bruises cover your skin. Still, you try to run.

It’s useless. The two women dragging you inside the tomb are way stronger – unnaturally stronger than a human being should be. You growl like an animal, you kick and try to punch and claw anything on your reach. It’s still useless. The piece of cloth tightly wrapped around your mouth prevents you from speaking anything coherent.

The corridor opens to a big hall. The place is ancient, it is brightly illuminated by many torches. Strange paintings cover the walls and tall columns. There is a platform and something that looks like an altar ahead of you. On their sides, there are tall ceramic vases, five on each side. Sitting at the right side of the altar, there is a statue: the body of a female, the head of a lion, wielding a spear.

There is a woman standing on top of the platform.

A violent shiver runs down your spine. You know that woman… she was the first thing you saw when you woke up. If she didn’t exude cruelty and malice, maybe you would’ve thought she is beautiful: her tall stature, her long curly dark brown hair, her full lips and pink irises… but you know better. There is nothing good about that woman except her appearance.

She wears a similar white tunic as the other women in the hall, but is the only one wearing a golden headpiece, a thick necklace and many bracelets. Her expression isn’t cruel and mocking at the moment like you’ve seen her before. She just looks serious.

And there’s that other thing on the altar, too.

It… it resembles a woman, but you’re not sure: as pale as a cadaver, contrasting with the warmer skin tones of all the other women inside the tomb; its hair is long, straight and red, resembling a lion’s mane. The creature is… strangely tall, its arms and legs are disproportional to the rest of the body. It’s completely naked – you see the rags of what probably was its clothes scattered around the altar.

And it looks sick.

It’s way too skinny. Its ribs are very clearly outlined on the skin. Its cheeks are profound; its red eyes have heavy dark circles around them. Its whole body is trembling, its breathing is irregular. It drools like a sick dog.

And they are pulling you towards it.

After the initial shock, you begin to kick and scream again, but it’s still useless. You don’t want to be anywhere near that thing. It smells awful, it’s uncanny and scary and violently unnatural…

The other woman – who appears to be some sort of leader – grips you by the arm and drags you closer to that creature. She is even stronger than the other two who held you previously. She says something in a language you don’t understand.

You scream again. You try to pull your arm back, you try to claw her–

She squeezes your arm.

An agonizing yell erupts from your throat. Tears well up your eyes. Your legs fail.

You could hear the sound of your bones cracking under her grip.

That creature holds you this time. It pants like an animal. Even through the pain, you try to push it away – but it is useless.

Its long fingers entangle around the hair at the back of your head; it pushes it, forcing your head back and exposing your neck. It open its mouth wide, its horrible fangs approaching…

When it bites your neck, you can’t scream anymore; its jaws completely block your trachea. You gag, your eyes pop wide. There’s a suction noise… it is sucking your blood, you realize with horror. Your good hand still tries to pull its hair, but once again, it is useless… extreme weakness roams your body. The world twirls as every bit of strength disappears. Your head hurts as if someone had just hammered it.

Finally, it lets you go. You fall flat on the floor.

Your vision is blurred and darkening. You can’t move anymore. Your arm and your neck hurt so, so bad. And yet, you have time to see something before completely blacking out.

The creature doesn’t look like a creature anymore… its cheeks are not hollow, its limbs are no longer disproportional, body fat and muscles are visible again.

It is indeed a woman, not a thing.

She sighs contently and stretches her arms.

The world fades away.

Notre Dame’s high vaulted ceiling was indeed impressive.

How long did it take to build such a magnificent structure? How many workers were necessary? Who must’ve planned the building? How did they know that something so big wouldn’t crumble? Who must’ve crafted the beautiful stained glasses that colored the walls as sunshine touched them?

You had no idea.

You didn’t know why you were staring at it, either.

Your senses came back rather slowly. Voices… steps… everything echoed within the cathedral. The place you were laid at was uncomfortable… a wooden bench. One of the many you’d seen previously. Now that the place was properly lit by sunlight, it didn’t look as eerie as before.

Finally, you decided to sit up.

The great hall was full. The benches weren’t perfectly lined as before, which made you remember that Jules and the monks had used them to barricade the doors. You quickly realized that the injured in battle were brought inside the cathedral, where women priestesses wearing black tunics that covered their heads helped them (you heard two distinctive words: sister and nun. Was that the name of their position?). You saw them running from side to side, holding bloody pieces of cloth and water basins. Other civilian women were helping with medical aid as well.

No known face in sight.

Immediate nervousness set in your guts. Where was everybody? Why were you laying there?

This nervousness vanished in two seconds, however, when a familiar voice called.

You turned your head to see Charles, Jules and Henri rushing to where you were. You almost sighed in relief; Jules didn’t look seriously injured and Henri’s right shoulder was properly bandaged, though he still looked way too pale and tired. All of them looked worn out, in fact, with their uniforms ragged in some spots and blood stains here and there.

“Mademoiselle! You’re–“

“You’re awake! How are you feeling?”

“I’ll call for help! Sister! Please–“

You immediately raised your palm in Charle’s direction. “No, please. I am fine. I don’t need medical aid, thank you.”

The three boys sat down. They silently battled to see who would take their place by your side – Henri ended up winning. The other two sat on the bench in front of you, frowning at the ginger boy.

“What happened? Where is Alucard?” You asked.

“You passed out, Miss Ruby.” Charles explained. Jules elbowed him and angry whispered don’t call her by her name, you’re not her close friend!. “Mr. Alucard brought you down. After he checked that you weren’t hurt, he let you rest and left to care for the troops… he told us to take care of you–“

“He told me to take care of you.” Jules hissed again.

“He didn’t address you, we were all present at that moment…”

But their incessant arguing didn’t catch your attention, because you remembered someone and it immediately made your heart race.

“Mizrak!” You looked around, searching for his familiar face between the injured. “Where is Mizrak?!”

They eyed each other hesitantly.

“The monk, isn’t it?” Jules asked. You nodded. “He… he disappeared, Mademoiselle. He just weren’t there when we opened the doors again.”

“He might’ve crawled somewhere else,” Charles tried to calm you down. “There are other points in the city were the injured are being taken care of.”

“He’s a strong man, isn’t he? I-I’m sure he’s alright, somewhere…” Henri didn’t sound confident at all, however.

You instinctively gripped the fabric of your skirt. How could he just have disappeared? No one simply disappears. His wound was beyond serious, it needed immediate medical assistance. What if a vampire had dragged him away, fed from his corpse? What if he died because of you?

Which made you remember something else, for some reason. Your eyes popped wide once again.

“My scepter? Where is it?” Once again, you looked at your sides.

“My” scepter. Why did you claim it as yours so instinctively?

It just… felt right to do so.

“It’s under the bench, mademoiselle,” Henri pointed. You rushed to grab it, almost sighing in relief. Something so shiny would definitely attract thieves if you weren’t careful.

The three boys were engaged in some conversation. They were asking you questions, in fact, about what happened exactly at the top of the bell tower, where did that light come from, but you weren’t paying attention, focusing your eyes on the golden artifact instead.

You had already noticed it before – but the staff had a very subtle cone format. It got a bit thinner on the other end.

You brushed your fingers around it. The scepter… it didn’t look that unfamiliar anymore.

There was a small spot on the base of it, near the sun symbol. You pressed your thumb over it.

And then – the staff retracted.

It emitted a soft metallic sound as the entire length of the staff fit into itself. Now, you just held a disk – the sun symbol – that was a little larger than your hand, with ninety percent of the staff reduced to a small handle.

The four of you went immediately silent in shock.

“Wow.” Jules exclaimed. “How did you do this?”

“I don’t know.”

“It retracted perfectly,” Henri said in awe. “It’s an engineering masterpiece!”

They began to discuss between themselves again, and as much as you didn’t really mind their company, they were starting to bring you headaches. They reminded you a bit of a pack of turkeys – if one made a noise, all the others repeated.

“Gentlemen,” your voice immediately stopped their incessant talking. They looked at your with attention. You held the sun disk with both hands and rested them over your lap. “I didn’t have the opportunity to properly thank you all yet. Without your efforts, I would’ve never arrived here… and I don’t want to imagine what would’ve happened if I didn’t. All of you saved uncountable lives today.” You managed to open a small smile while passing your eyes by each of the three. “Thank you so much.”

They got speechless for once.

You watched as their lips curved up into grins. Jules massaged the back of his neck sheepishly, Charles stuffed his chest like a bird, Henri got redder than a tomato. It was funny how these three were only big in size; in your eyes, they weren’t much far from the other three little boys you met in Paris.

You were also a bit surprised at your own speech. A week ago, you would’ve never even imagined yourself speaking with quiet confidence like that… you didn’t stutter once, which honestly felt great.

Finally, you stood up, being followed by them.

“Do you know where Alucard and the others are?”

Of course they knew. Of course they wouldn’t let you make your way there on your own.

The three guided you outside of the cathedral once again talking incessantly. You resigned yourself to replying with short sentences anytime a question was asked, way too focused on analyzing the destruction of the city. There was blood everywhere. The area around Notre Dame specifically was full of night creature carcasses; volunteers worked on grabbing them to throw them in a bonfire nearby. The streets were crowded as citizens helped clean the city, bring down the rubble barricades, measure the damage, or simply went back to their homes and establishments.

It was strange to see everything under the sunshine… and to think that just one or two hours ago, you were running around these streets, trying to survive vampire attacks, feeling the deepest fear you’ve ever felt – and trying to brush it aside. You had managed to, somehow… something unthinkable for the person you were a week ago.

...Had you really changed this much in a few days, or you were simply allowed to be yourself for the first time in your life?

“...What I’m trying to say, Mademoiselle,” Henri’s nervous voice caught your attention for the first time. He sent an angry glance towards the other two before looking at you with expectation. “D-Do you have a house in Paris?”

“No.”

“Great! I-I mean–“ he cleaned his throat and put his hand over his chest. “If you need a place to stay – to spend the night, perhaps – you are more than welcome in my house. It’s not far from here. We have enough rooms and food for you. A-And Mr. Alucard, of course,” he giggled nervously.

You half expected the other two to offer their homes as well, but they didn’t, to your surprise. They just looked at him with what looked like jealousy.

Before you could answer, you arrived at a great square – and you forgot about the three.

“Excuse me,” you said before rushing towards Annette.

The square had many people walking from here to there, dragging rubble or just watching – but you didn’t care. Annette is alive! More than that, she looked fine. The dark haired girl spotted you as well and rushed, meeting you halfway.

“Are you okay? Did you get hurt? Where is Richter?” You blurted out, immediately searching for injuries with your eyes. Annette chuckled and held your arms delicately.

“I’m fine. We’re both fine. What about you?” She quirked one eyebrow up. “I heard you unleashed some terrifying magic.”

She lowered her eyes to the sun disk you held. You immediately avoided her gaze, feeling sheepish. “Well, I… I don’t really know how to explain what happened.”

Annette shrugged. “Neither do I.”

“Where’s Richter?” You repeated and started to turn around. Annette, for some reason, widened her eyes and was about to hold you back again…

“Wait–“

She tried, but it was already too late.

The first thing you saw was Alucard, standing at a good distance.

He was eyeing you intently. Juste Belmont was by his side – how and when did he arrive in Paris? – wearing an elegant long red coat.

When your eyes crossed his, your entire body froze.

What happened at the bell tower…

It felt as if your entire face was on fire. Heavens, you hugged him – you actually hugged him, you entangled your arms around his neck and cried like a child. You certainly were not in your right mind to do something so… so… so…!

But then, you looked at something else – the thing Annette was worried that you’d see – and all the other thoughts ceased.

Your stomach dropped.

A big bonfire was being formed by civilians bringing rubble; it was more than two meters tall, perhaps. In between the pieces of wood, there were corpses – the vampires that didn’t turn to ashes during the flash of sunlight.

And the biggest corpse of them all…

You instinctively stepped back.

Erzsebet Bathory.

She didn’t look like herself anymore. She was even taller than what you remembered, her red hair longer, her face distorted in animalistic traits… one arm had been chopped off. She had many bruises and injuries. Her cheeks were hollow, her mouth wide open in a perpetual expression of shock and pain.

Erzsebet Bathory was dead.

No mistakes this time, Alucard had said.

The sight of her destroyed, lifeless corpse made your stomach twirl. And once again, you hated the effect this woman had upon you even in death, even with you looking at her in that state. It felt like she would suddenly screech and launch herself at you like so many times before. You could almost feel her claws gnawing your skin, her fangs sinking in your neck…

She is dead. She is dead. She can’t hurt me anymore. She is dead.

Annette’s soft touch on your shoulder brought you back to reality. She looked at you with worry.

“Do you remember what I told you?” She asked quietly.

And when we defeat Erzsebet, justice will be done.

You closed your eyes for a moment and sighed.

“Yes. I’ll… I’ll be fine.” You reassured her. You weren’t fine at that moment, but you would be.

Finally, you spotted Richter walking towards you both. He looked very injured – he had multiple burns on both arms, the sleeves of his blue jacket had been ripped. He was limping and looked very tired, yet still managed to open a small smile to you.

He carried a long piece of wood. The tip had been draped with pieces of cloth.

His small smile vanished. He looked down at you with solemnity.

“You arrived at the right time, Ruby.” Richter looked down at the wood he held. “We believe… you deserve to be the one to do it.”

You finally understood.

That was a torch.

You gulped, your body got tense. Even so, you nodded accordingly. You wouldn’t be able to speak even if you tried.

Richter summoned a ball of blue fire in his hand and ignited the torch. You shoved the sun disk inside your vest and held the torch with both hands.

You took a deep breath before approaching the pyre.

The square stopped to watch the scene.

Erzsebet’s corpse was horrendous, disgusting. You decided to not avoid your gaze from it. You bent slightly, making the tip of the torch touch the wood at the base of the pyre. The fire spread rapidly.

You stepped away and watched.

The people at the square cheered at the sight of the so-called Vampire Messiah burning. Your world, however, was quiet. All you could hear were the sounds of the wood cackling, the flames increasing and consuming everything in the pyre. You watched with attention as the fire consumed Erzsebet’s corpse; it burned her skin, her hair, muscles and bones. And a part of you was grateful to be left alone – Alucard, Annette, Richter and the three boys decided to stand away.

Erzsebet was dead. Definitely.

She used to be your world merely a week ago. Everything revolved around her: your fear, your hopelessness, your hatred, your self-loathing, your confusion. You were just a shadow of a person, an empty fragile shell on the verge of breaking apart. She was your world – and your world was dark, cold, bloody and lonely.

Things were slowly changing now.

You learned that the real world also had place for colors. For kindness, friendship, perseverance and freedom. The real world was not a perfect place, but it was vast; and its vastness for sure should have a place for you somewhere – a place were you wouldn’t be hurt anymore.

At that moment, you decided that you would never cry for her again.

You had already cried enough. She had forced you to dedicate your entire existence for her. You knew that your wounds were way too deep to be forgotten, you knew that the scars that would come from them would be ugly and impossible to ignore. You knew that it wouldn’t be fast and easy to overcome your fears and all the disgusting memories she dug into your soul.

But even so, you decided not to cry.

She had taken enough from you.

When her skeleton was visible, you turned your back to the pyre.

Richter was leaning on Annette for support, his arm resting over her shoulders while she hugged him from the side. You approached them hesitantly.

Annette still looked worried.

“How are you feeling?” She asked.

You looked down at your bloody sleeve.

“Disgusting. I need a bath.” Finally, you lifted your gaze again. “A friend of mine can help us out.”

You quickly found out why the other two boys didn’t offer their houses as well.

Henri was the son of a judge, who was apparently intimately tied to the leaderships of the Revolutionaries. His house was far from being as luxurious as the chateau in Machecoul (you figured that if Henri’s father had a house like that, he’d be next in the guillotine line), but it was still bigger and more comfortable than the average home anyway, located at the heart of Paris.

Henri had offered you (and Alucard as an afterthought) a shelter… but you figured he wouldn’t mind if you brought other visitors as well.

Right?

Well, his father certainly didn’t mind. The middle-aged man thanked Alucard over a hundred times, his eyes gleaming as if he stood in front of a golden statue, babbling how he was thankful for his help. Alucard listened patiently, but you were around him for long enough to start noticing his very subtle expression changes.

You remembered his opinion about the leaders of the Revolutionaries…

Well.

The rest of the group was more than happy to have a place to stay for a while, so there wasn’t really what to argue here.

“Stay for as long as you like!” Henri’s father repeated for the hundredth time while guiding everyone inside. “We have enough bedrooms, enough food… well, perhaps not enough clothes, but I’ll figure it out in no time! Tell me whatever you need and I’ll have it ready. All I have to offer is little compared to what you did to save our nation today!”

Alucard resigned himself to offer him a nod.

Before the white-haired vampire could focus on you, you immediately accepted a maid’s offer to get upstairs and have a bath.

...You didn’t know why you were avoiding him. Not exactly. Perhaps embarrassment? You’d never been deliberately touchy with anyone like that before. Well, you weren’t in your right mind at that moment for whatever reason. Maybe you crossed a boundary? Maybe you went too far? Alucard didn’t push you away, however – but he wasn’t one to be rude anyway… at the same time, it’s not like Alucard wasn’t someone that didn’t know how to establish boundaries. The fact that he didn’t push you away had to mean something, right?

He hugged you back, in fact.

He rested his face on your shoulder and didn’t move.

You felt his hot breath on your neck and his large hand softly caressing your back.

For the second time, he held you until you fell asleep.

Your face was burning hot.

Suddenly, for unknown reasons, you felt as if you were exposed again, as if there was a crowd watching you with scrutiny even though there was no one else besides the maid in the room. You felt burning embarrassment crawl over your skin and it burnt almost as much as the strange magic of the scepter. For the first time in your life, you dismissed a maid’s offer to help you bathe and decided to do it yourself.

And then you were alone in the bedroom, but you still felt strange and exposed and oh heavens you were disgusting. Sweaty, dried blood covered your skin. You got rid of those layers of clothes and sat inside the wooden bathtub – it was smaller than what you were used to, the water wasn’t as warm, there weren’t bath salts, only a bar of soap.

Erzsebet chose the bath salts you’d bathe in. She liked flowery fragrances.

And then you remembered that you still smelled of her, that her disgustingly sweet smell was mixed with the smell of blood and sweat, and then you were scrubbing yourself with the sponge and soap vehemently.

You scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, watching the foam spread over your skin. You scrubbed your arms and chest and legs and stomach and feet. But the smell wouldn’t go away, so you scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. You scrubbed until your skin started to hurt. That pain made you remember the sight of Erzsebet burning in the pyre, the sight of her skin boiling and melting from her bones – which, for some reason, made you scrub harder. You weren’t planning to, but you ended up untying your hair and washing it too, scratching your scalp with soap in frenetic movements because that bad smell was probably in your hair, too.

You scrubbed your own body until you were tired, until the water became actually cold, until your arms hurt from the repetitive movements. You stood inside the tub with water on your knees, the naked upper part of your body shaking in cold, and watched as blood dripped from the scratches you had inflicted on your own thighs. Perhaps… perhaps too much scrubbing. How did that even happen?

You sniffed your hair. Your skin. It didn’t smell of flowers anymore.

Just soap.

So you finally got out of the tub and wrapped yourself in a towel.

When the maid entered the bedroom with a fresh change of clothes, you avoided eye contact with her. She explained that the dress was Henri’s sister’s and perhaps it wouldn’t fit, but she already had a box of threads and needles to make adjustments. It wasn’t an intricate ball gown, but it wasn’t a simple dress either. It had cream and light green tones with pink flowers peppered around the corset and skirt. The dress was light and comfortable. It didn’t require many adjustments.

The maid offered herself to brush and style your hair, to which you politely declined. She probably wouldn’t be aggressive the way you were used to, but… no. Not right now.

When the maid left, you sat in front of the dressing table… and stayed there for a while. Disheveled damp hair fell over your shoulders. It was probably wetting the back of the dress. You didn’t care.

You stared at your own reflection for the first time in days.

The morning Alucard appeared in your life, you were doing just that – watching your reflection. Scrutinizing yourself. You didn’t look different. But, at the same time, there was something different about you – and you couldn’t tell exactly what.

You still had no past or family or name… but you weren’t just a bird in a cage anymore either, nor a lamb obediently walking to its slaughter night after night.

You were free.

It was scary.

What were you going to do from now on? You were actually alone. You owned nothing, and it was pretty clear that in order to survive in this world, you’d need some gold or coins or… whatever the currency was. You couldn’t assume Henri would let you live under his shelter forever and you weren’t innocent enough to not understand what it meant to stay.

You were nobody.

The others? They accepted you because you were a link to Erzsebet’s powers, an upper hand. Now their enemies were dead. They had no responsibility over you… you shouldn’t assume that they would take care of you like you were a child.

As humiliating as it might be, you felt like a child.

What would be your place in this world? Was something expected of you? Would they expect you to get married and have children? Should you find some sort of work? Should you perform some sort of role?

The reflection in the mirror frowned back at you slowly.

A… role?

...

You learned that your blood was valuable to her.

...

“But I am no vampire.”

“No. However, you heal like one. And Erzsebet drank from your blood for a long time, apparently.”

Annette looked at Alucard. “Do you think this was also somehow empowering her?”

The vampire took some moments to answer. “Maybe. We can’t be sure.”

…

That creature doesn’t look like a creature anymore… its cheeks are not hollow, its limbs are no longer disproportional, body fat and muscles are visible again.

It is indeed a woman, not a thing.

…

It took you a long time to realize that there was someone knocking on the door. You got up in a jump and rushed towards it with your thoughts rushing faster than the currents of a river.

It was Henri. He had also taken a proper bath, changed his clothes, and blushed furiously when his eyes fell on your figure. Maybe because your hair was damp and not presentable? Not very lady-like. Perhaps inappropriate. But you didn’t care, the same way you didn’t really pay attention to anything he was saying; his words seemed muffled and distant within the cacophony of your own thoughts.

The bandages on his left shoulder were peeking from under his blouse.

“Henri, would you do something for me?” you interrupted whatever he was babbling before. “But you have to trust me.”

His eyes widened. “O-Of course! Anything for you, Mademoiselle.”

You opened the door wide and stepped aside, pointing towards the bed. “Please, have a seat.”

His face got even redder, if that was possible.

“B-B-But Mademoiselle– it would be inappropriate to enter your room like that, when we’re alone–“

“Please.”

“Of course!”

He rushed in awkwardly as if that wasn’t his own house. You didn’t bother to close the door again – if the idea of being alone with you made him so uncomfortable, it was best to leave it open. Henri sat on the edge of the bed while blinking rapidly for some reason. His breathing also looked irregular. Was he feeling unwell?

“Can you show me your wound?” You asked. Henri widened his eyes again.

“Mademoiselle… hm…”

“Trust me.” You were running impatient.

Henri hesitated, but ended up taking off his coat and pushing his blouse to expose the bandages. You turned around to take something from the dressing table. When you turned around holding a pair of scissors, Henri got pale.

He was a bit of a chameleon.

Henri was about to protest again, but the look you sent him made him gulp and go quiet. You stood in front of him to carefully cut the bandages away and expose the gashes on his shoulder. They were properly cleaned and stitched up, but even so you could still see how horribly that vampire hurt him. If Henri’s head was centimeters closer to the vampire’s claws… he wouldn’t be here right now to change colors anymore.

Henri gasped when you brought the blade of the scissors and cut your own palm.

“Mademoiselle–!”

“Shh.”

He swallowed his words.

You hoped to be right. That had to work.

Carefully, you pressed your bleeding palm over his wounds.

Henri hissed. Your hand moved slowly to spread the blood over the entire surface of the gashes. The sight was unpleasant, to say the least… but it was less disgusting than making him drink your blood.

Please, work. Please, work.

Nothing changed at first.

But then, Henri gasped – and you gasped, too.

Your palm pressed over his wounds – your blood started to glow faintly. It took a strange golden color, as if it became melted gold.

Both of you watched in awe as Henri’s wounds started to heal right in front of your eyes.

He seemed out of breath. He frowned and hissed and you knew he was probably hurting because you knew that feeling. You stood upright and stepped away from him in slight shock.

The threads that were used to stitch the gashes fell over his lap.

Henri touched his own shoulder hesitantly. He pressed his fingers over it, massaged it. There was no sign that it was previously hurt… not even a scar.

You learned that your blood was valuable to her.

Why keep you around? Why keep you locked with guards holding you at all times? Why drag you along anywhere she went?

That was the answer to one of the questions that plagued your existence.

Henri was healed.

Finally, he rose his amazed eyes towards you.

“Miss Ruby… h-how did…?”

Then, he looked at something behind you and got pale again.

You turned around.

Alucard stood by the door, watching the scene with an astonished expression.

You locked eyes. With that simple gaze, you saw that he understood the situation completely.

One piece of the puzzle that hid your mysterious past was solved.

“...Why is he talking funny?” You whispered in Annette’s ear.

She quirked one eyebrow up and looked towards Juste, who stood not far from where you were sitting.

A smirk crept up her lips. “He’s drunk.”

Juste Belmont, Richter’s grandfather who you only saw briefly at his destroyed cottage, swayed slightly as if he stood on water, though the ground at the sides of the Seinne were clearly cobblestones. His eyes were half lidded, his speech slower and a bit difficult to understand. He held a wooden cup full of beer and talked to some unknown men who seemed to be in a similar state as him.

At your obvious confusion, Annette frowned. “Have you never been drunk?”

“I don’t know what that is, I’m afraid.”

Annette looked more confused than you. She eyed the bottle of the (not very good) wine you’d been sharing for the past hour or so. “Well, I’m surprised… given how much you’ve been drinking. You don’t feel anything strange at all? A certain dizziness? A sudden happiness?”

You put your hand over your own stomach and frowned. “No. Was I supposed to?”

She rested her face on her palm. “A normal person would be supposed to… but I guess your healing ability doesn’t even let you get drunk.” A small chuckle went past her lips. “It’s what happens when someone drinks too much of an alcoholic beverage. They lose their senses, get dizzy, sometimes end up saying or doing things they wouldn’t do when they’re sane…”

“Oh.” Funnily enough, you knew how that felt – but it didn’t have anything to do with alcohol… just extreme levels of “sun magic”, apparently. “I didn’t know wine has alcohol. It doesn’t feel much different than juice to me.” You quirked one eyebrow up. “Does juice have alcohol?”

“No. Hopefully no.” She shook her head. It seemed that Annette thought your confusion over some things amused her, much like Alucard. She looked ahead again. “Getting drunk is not always bad, you know. Sometimes it helps you lift your spirits.”

You looked ahead too, back to where Juste and his new friends laughed at the top of their lungs at something you didn’t hear, and silently wished you could get drunk if it’d make you laugh like that.

It was… strange, to say the least, how the night in Paris was so lively. Streets were crowded and well lit, laughter and music filled the air as citizens celebrated. Men, women, young or old – the entire city decided to go outside and have a huge party. It didn’t even seem that a literal war broke out only a few hours ago. Most of the rubble hadn’t even been collected.

It was like no one cared. Which, in your opinion, was a bit heartless, given how many lives were lost. But it seems they were just happy that the person who threatened their freedom was dead.

Well. You should be happy too. More than anyone.

Why weren’t you celebrating with them?

You craved freedom for as long as you could remember. More than that… you craved relief. But turns out, deep down, you never thought that day would actually come, and now that it did, you just didn’t know how to react. So your body and feelings just decided to freeze in this strange state.

The others seemed happy – well, maybe except for Maria, the blonde girl in pink. She talked a bit with Annette and Juste, but resigned herself to be quiet most of the time with perpetual melancholy over her features. From what you knew, Maria had lost her mother the day you met Alucard, so her actions were understandable.

Richter bounced back between talking to Juste and Annette. The black haired girl still seemed a bit apprehensive about something, but other than that, she was much more relaxed than what you’d known of her. And Alucard… he was somewhere. He left the house with everyone, but quickly got caught up in conversation with some generals you’d seen before.

So there you were. Sitting on a bench with Annette by your side, watching Paris celebrate the death of the Vampire Messiah, while you felt that you couldn’t even move.

It was overwhelming. And a bit uncomfortable.

Turns out you hadn’t really gotten used to crowds… it seems it’s not something that would change over just a few days. Many men you met the day before came to greet you with wide smiles in their faces (now that Annette had explained, you figured most of them were probably drunk too). Of course, you were happy anytime you recognized a face – one more soldier that hadn’t fallen. But at at some point… you didn’t want to talk anymore, or force smiles, or try to pay attention to whatever they were trying to say.

So you decided to sit with Annette for a while in this somehow hidden spot. It seemed she didn’t want to mix with the people as well. You wondered if it had anything to do with what Alucard explained about her past and her homeland…

Which made you remember something else – something you’d been hesitating to ask.

You straightened your back and cleaned your throat. “Hm, Annette… can I ask you something?” She looked at you and nodded. “Do you remember what you said or did while… well… while Sekhmet possessed you?”

She narrowed her eyes and looked down, touching her temples with her fingertips. “Not exactly. I remember what happened while I was in the spirit world… but even these memories are a bit vague in some parts. Like the memories of a dream.” She rested her hand back over her lap. “It’s always like that when I wander there.”

“So you weren’t really here while Sekhmet had your body?” Annette shook her head. Your shoulders dropped in disappointment. “Oh. I understand.”

She tilted her head. “Why you ask?”

“Sekhmet said something strange about me.” You avoided her eyes. Although they shared the same face, Annette had nothing to do with Sekhmet and the feral glare she sent you at that moment. “She said I should not be close to her.”

“What? Why?”

“She didn’t explain. That’s why I hoped maybe you’d have a hint… since you shared a body.”

Annette held her chin in a pensive expression. “...I have no idea, I’m sorry. But if I remember something relevant from when I was in the spirit world, I’ll tell you right away.”

You thanked her quietly and looked ahead again. You couldn’t blame her. Annette had asked how that flash of sunlight happened, how the scepter worked – and similarly to her, you had no answers.

Richter was, once again, approaching with a smile on his face. Perhaps that was the little push you needed to move. Whenever he came around, you felt that you were… interrupting. It wasn’t the first time you felt like that around them, but the situation became a little bit more intense. Maybe you really were interrupting, maybe they wanted some time for themselves but didn’t want to be rude.

So you finally decided to get up.

“I’m tired... I’ll head back now.”

Annette seemed a bit worried. “Do you want me to walk back with you?”

Again, you couldn’t blame her for being worried, not after all she had seen of you – acting like a frightened little mouse all the time. You shook your head and managed to open a small (fake) smile. “No, thank you. The house is just two streets away… I promise to not get lost.”

Annette hesitated… but it seems she understood you wanted to be left alone.

“Okay. Take care.”

You nodded and turned around, not waiting to greet Richter. It also made you feel a bit like that frightened little mouse again, but there was another reason why you felt confident enough to walk these two streets alone. The red string around your right wrist. You decided to keep it there, the same way you decided to take the red disk – scepter – with you wherever you went. The idea of it being taken from you was enough to keep you on your toes at all times.

You walked past couples, families, friends, children – talking, drinking, dancing, running around. You wished you wouldn’t feel this disconnected from their reality. No… it was a bit more complicated than that. You wished you had a family, a real past, more good memories than bad ones. Perhaps if you had these things… you wouldn’t feel so distant or lost or empty.

As much as you’d been avoiding to sleep, you assumed that sleeping right now would ease your feelings a bit.

That was when something very subtle tingled on your wrist.

You looked down in time to see the red string untying itself and falling.

Frowning, you crouched and took it from the floor again. Had you accidentally brushed on someone–?

If anything happens, anything at all, untie this string. Mine will untie, too, and I will rush to you.

Your eyes widened.

You looked around frantically.

Finally – you found him.

Alucard stood alone on one of the many bridges over the Seinne not very far from where you were. He was difficult to find at first, but as soon as your eyes locked on him, everyone else became blurred. He leaned both forearms over the stone railing in a relaxed position; his face held the serenity you were already used to. It’s like he was deep in thought. The soft night breeze played with his white hair. He looked down at the river.

His red string swayed with the wind, too. Untied. He held it between his fingers.

Your heart stopped beating for a second.

You stood there, unable to move, as if your body finally remembered how to feel something, how to not be distant. You gulped, gripped the sun disk a little tighter.

Mine will untie, too, and I will rush to you.

Alucard noticed you were avoiding him. Well, it was quite impossible not to notice. He didn’t make any attempts to approach you (you quite literally ran away from him earlier after the new discovery about your blood). But that… that was a very clear message.

A quiet invitation.

So you took a deep breath, trying to calm your stupid racing heart. Why were you scared? That was Alucard. You knew Alucard. He was never mean to you, never made you feel bad intentionally. You had faced a city full of vampires earlier that day… talking to him was nothing compared to that.

To be truly freed is to not be afraid.

You walked towards him.

You didn’t rush. You held the disk tightly, keeping it close to your stomach, the red string tangled around your palm. It seemed that your heart thundered louder on your ears with every step. It was like the world got blurrier and blurrier except for him.

After what seemed like an eternity, you stood by his side.

Two steps away. You looked down at the river, too.

Silence.

You weren’t brave enough to look at him. Alucard didn’t move, didn’t say anything. But… just like before, his quiet serenity enveloped you, made the celebration noises a bit distant.

It didn’t calm your raging heart this time.

It took you a while to understand that Alucard was waiting for you to speak up first. But he called me here. Doesn’t he have anything to say? Why should I be the one to speak first?!

To be truly freed is to not be afraid.

You gulped.

“I…” Your voice cracked a bit. You felt the urge to jump in the river and drown. “I don’t know how they have the energy to celebrate. It… doesn’t feel appropriate.”

Alucard sighed.

“The grieving families for sure aren’t out here.” Goosebumps roamed your skin when his calm husky voice reached your ears. “France is far from reaching real peace in the next few years… let them celebrate for now.”

You nodded, keeping your eyes glued to the river down there. It reflected the golden lights of the lanterns on the margins beautifully.

Come on, don’t be scared. Don’t be embarrassed. Come on. Come on. Come on.

You took what you had kept inside the sleeve of your dress hesitantly.

“A-Actually, I… I wanted to give you this.”

You turned to Alucard for the first time. He was already looking at you.

He looked down at the carefully folded handkerchief you offered him with both hands.

His expressions changed subtly. At first, confusion; then, surprise.

Then… a small smile.

You cleared your throat. “G-Give it back, actually. Since I ruined yours… I don’t know if it’s the same fabric, but it looks similar to the one you had.”

Alucard chuckled and took the handkerchief with care. When his fingers brushed yours, you felt more goosebumps.

“There was no need… but thank you. It is very thoughtful.”

You managed to smile, but turned to the river again before your face started burning.

With the corner of your eyes, you saw him put the handkerchief inside his coat and lean over the railing again. He was not wearing his cape. There was something different about him… perhaps because immediate danger wasn’t lurking anymore, Alucard felt comfortable enough to actually relax, and it reflected on his body and face.

You taped your pointer finger over the sun disk nervously. “How’s your wound?” You blurted out, desperate to not fall in an awkward silence.

Alucard instinctively touched his left shoulder. “Healed.” He looked at you again. “What about you?”

Oh fuck. He was addressing the elephant in the room – your strange state that made you weirder and braver than usual. Please do not mention the hug. Please please please please.

Once more, you avoided his gaze. “...Back to normal, I believe.” I hope is what you wanted to say, but perhaps it would’ve been a little rude.

“Do you have any idea of why that happened to you?”

You tightened your lips and frowned a bit.

You will burn from inside out.

It’s what the unknown female voice told you.

“I believe… I was doing something wrong at first.” You started hesitantly. “The magic. I was conjuring it in an incorrect way. I think my mistake harmed me. Burning me from inside out.”

Alucard hummed and held his chin.

“So it backfires. Magic so powerful should have its side effects.” Alucard seemed hesitant. “If it harms you… you should consider not doing it unless absolutely necessary.”

“No! It was just at first. I… figured it out later.” The thought made you tighten your grip around the sun disk by instinct. “Though, to be honest, I feel that that specific ritual shouldn’t be used in excess.”

Alucard’s eyes followed your grip. He quirked one eyebrow up slightly.

“I was meaning to ask you about this, too.” You handed him the sun disk right away, to which he took and raised to his eye level. “So the staff retracts. How did you figure it out?”

You shrugged. “It just felt right.”

Alucard grinned while handing it back to you. “It seems you’re remembering a lot of things.”

“...I’m not sure. It’s like I told you before… knowledge. Not memories.”

The white-haired vampire leaned on the railing again and looked into the distance. His expression got a bit more serious.

“I was thinking of what you told me. It reminded me of something.” Alucard seemed to hesitate. “...My parents were doctors. Both of them. My father, specifically, had a bit of a fascination for the mysteries of the human brain. He dedicated many studies and experiments to it. Wrote entire books.” Whenever Alucard mentioned anything about his father, it was like nothing else in the world mattered. You were completely focused. “From his many theses… he got to the conclusion that memories and abilities are stored in different areas of the brain. That could be why when someone suffers from memory loss, they still know how to speak, read, write… they know how to function.”

Your eyes widened at each word that left his mouth. “...Just like me.” Alucard nodded. You instinctively touched your own head. “So maybe this part of my brain is damaged?”

“Could be.”

“But why isn’t it healing back?”

Alucard hesitated.

“I believe we’ll figure it out soon.” You wanted to ask what the hell he meant by that, but Alucard decided to change topics drastically. “Talking about healing… did you tell anyone about what happened?”

Oh.

The absolute shocking news you discovered earlier that day, but that seemed pale at that moment in comparison with your nervousness to speak with him.

“No.” You shook your head. “But I was thinking… Richter’s burns are pretty bad. Maybe I could help him… or maybe if I knew where Mizrak is, I could save him...”

“Ruby.”

He put his hand over your shoulder – which made you swallow your words.

Quiet worry coated his features.

“I understand you want to help. But you should also understand that the properties of your blood are extremely rare and extremely valuable. It will put a target on your head again. So… the less people know about it, the better.” He dropped his hand from your shoulder. “Also… if in order to heal someone you end up getting hurt, I don’t see why you should do it.”

“But I always–“

“I know.” He interrupted you softly. “I know you do. That doesn’t mean you should hurt yourself willingly.” Alucard pressed his lips. “...Blood is life, Ruby. Don’t give your life away so easily.”

You sighed heavily and crossed your arms. “I guess you’re right. Henri knows about it, though.”

“He won’t tell anyone.” Alucard sounded way too certain about that.

It was your turn to lean on the stone railing, You looked down at the river. The pacific sound of the non-stopping flowing waters muffled the other noises – uncountable voices and music. You wondered if Alucard attracted you here on purpose… a place where you could focus on a single calming sound.

And perhaps that calmness gave you courage to ask the question you wanted to ask the most.

“What are you going to do now, Alucard?” Your voice was hesitant. Fragile, even… “Erzsebet and Drolta are dead. Your five year mission is over…”

Of course, you knew he and the others had no responsibility over you. You were well aware. And yet, the simple thought of being left alone frightened you. The idea that Alucard would wake up tomorrow and simply go away, and the others would go back to Machecoul, and Annette would cross the ocean back to Saint-Domingue… all of that was frightening.

You wanted to be free, not alone.

And the thought that you might never see Alucard again was even more frightening.

Should you have been attached to him so easily after just a few days? Was that correct or normal? You had no idea. What you knew was that Alucard was the first person to offer kindness and protection and understanding, and you didn’t want him out of your life so soon.

But that was not up to you.

So all you could do was ask.

Alucard leaned on the railing too. He was closer this time. Just one step away, not two.

“I think I should be making this question.” He said softly. “What are you going to do now that you’re free?”

A dry, humorless chuckle escaped past your lips. That wasn’t funny, however.

“I don’t have a family. Or a past, or a name. I don’t know where I came from or where should I go next. I don’t know why my blood heals, why I can read this language, where did this scepter come from… I don’t know anything.” You hated how fragile and bitter your voice sounded, but that couldn’t be helped. “...Is this even freedom at all?”

Alucard kept silent for long, respectful moments.

Then, he sighed deeply.

“There is only one place in the world where we could decode this language.” He pointed towards the sun disk.

You looked at him with a frown.

“There is only one place in the world where we might find out why you heal… and where does your strange magic comes from.”

Expectation bubbled within your chest.

“What place is it?”

Alucard closed his eyes for a moment. It was just a glimpse, but you had the impression that he didn’t really like what he was about to say.

But then, he opened his eyes to look at you – and his golden irises had nothing but kindness and quiet care, and the lanterns cast a soft glow over his features and white hair, and truly – he was so beautiful that it was almost painful to look at.

“My home.” He tilted his head to the sides. “...What used to be my home, at least.” Alucard straightened his back. “I’m making you an invitation, Ruby.”

Your heart raced. Your mouth got dry. Your eyes widened slowly.

“Do you want to… help me?” You, for some reason, sounded amazed. Why is it? Has anyone been more willing to help you than Alucard?

Alucard smiled and nodded – and, at that moment, with that simple motion, he seemed to ease all the worries of your soul.

“I do. I will. Let’s find out who you really are, Ruby.” Alucard rested his hand over yours… and once again, it didn’t burn.

It warmed.

“Let’s go to Dracula’s castle.”

[roselockwood]

Teasing

Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Wc: 2.6k

Warnings: pure smut, mommy kink, scissoring, let me know if i should add more

Summary: Agatha was teasing you relentlessly for weeks, what happens when it affects her too??

A/N: this was made a looong time ago when i was drunk so sorry for any mistakes, and its all because i couldnt stop thinking about Agatha after reading LCM @lunargrrrl 🙂‍↕️...

Anyways enjoy this and pls dont be mad i disappeared for god knows how long from tumblr

You thought Agatha was joking at first. That it's just some stupid words. But the stupid words turned into weeks of her teasing you, without her needy hands fucking you. Oh my sweet baby, you tested my limits today. Let's see if you will still act this way if i don't touch you at all. Her words bounced around your head, echoing endlessly.

At the time you've thought that it was just empty promises, nothing more than a simple tease. Oh you were so, so wrong. You haven't caught the serious tone, or the glint of her eyes when she uttered these words. Agatha was keen on making her words come true.

It's close to three weeks since she have fucked you. Maybe bratting out to her wasn't a good idea after all. You've spent three grueling weeks without her touch, without her mouth on your body and it started to bother you. It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for the fact that Agatha has been teasing you relentlessly everyday. The torturing varied depending on her mood. Sometimes it was her hand lingering for longer than it should when she moved past you in the kitchen, the other time it was her playfully slapping your ass when you were standing in the bathroom brushing your teeth. Either way it is too much for you to handle, your skin burning with her every touch.

But it started to affect her too. She was getting more handsy with each passing day. You could see it was breaking her as much as it did you. During the three weeks you had to endure, you could sometimes hear her ragged breath as she was muttering your name, touching herself to the thought of you. It was pure torture, listening to her, yet you knew that touching her was off limits as Agatha was set on making you as miserable as possible.

The witch was doing alright until one day, Agatha just snapped. She found you in your shared living room, playing games and talking with friends. She tugged your headset off and looked at you with a dangerous sparkle in your eyes.

“Hi sweetheart, are you busy?”

“Yes Aggie, sorry I'm playing with my friends.”

This should've been enough to keep her away, right? Turns out it was not nearly enough. She slowly came around the couch that you were sitting on. Her smirk widening as she sank to her knees before you.

“I think you should be busy with something else baby.”

If you weren't paying much attention to Agatha, then now you were. Her nimble fingers were undoing your jeans and her eyes were fixated on your centre. Agatha's every move was calculated, almost as if she was planning this all along.

“You think you can focus on your game while i fuck you sweetheart?”

You held your breath when you heard the words that left her mouth. She was eyeing you up and down, her gaze wandering all over your body and concentrating on what she wanted the most.

While you were busy cursing at the game, Agatha took off your pants gently, kissing on the now uncovered expanse of your thighs. You muted yourself to talk to the witch.

“Agatha, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I've decided that it's enough. I wanna fuck you. Hard.”

“No Agatha. I'm busy.”

The witch raised her brows in surprise. You were denying her?

“I know my love, but don't you want this too?”

The question hung in the air for a while, until you were ready to respond to her. She was eagerly waiting for your answer. Expecting a simple yes or a nod. But you haven't done any of that. Instead you focused on your game, craving for the victory royale you were so close to.

As her question lingered, it remained unanswered. Agatha started to nudge your bare thighs, kissing every now and then to grab your attention. But it didn't work on you. Your eyes were completely fixated on the screen of your shared TV not daring to look away for even a second.

“Baby, please… I want you so bad right now. Won't you do mommy a favour?”

Your cheeks flushed pink at the honorific that came out of Agatha's mouth, but you were still unwilling to succumb to her. She tried everything she could think of, kissing your thighs, playing with your biceps and yet it failed.

Annoyed you looked at witch's desperate state

“You went without touching me for almost three weeks. I’m sure you can go a few hours longer.”

If looks could kill, then you would be a dead man. Agatha stared daggers at you, but you didn't spare her even a glance. Annoyed at your antics she decided to take matters into her own hands. With your pants already off, Agatha took pleasure in touching you through your, now soaked, underwear.

“C'mon baby I know you want it as much as I do, hmm?”

Just as she thought that her pleas went unheard, you put your headset aside and leaned down to whisper.

“You've been teasing me for too long, you gotta beg for it now sugar”

Agatha's smirk was immediately wiped off of her face. Her eyes now full of yearning.

Witch’s hands trembled beside your body. Her mind was fighting the urge to beg you to give into her needs. It was a long battle that she lost. Her voice slightly trembled when she asked you.

“Please baby, I just wanna taste you. Wanna taste your pretty cunt.”

“Agatha I'm still playing-”

She cuts you off with a kiss, not letting you finish your sentence, kissing your lips with a newfound fire. You furiously drop your headset on the table in front of you. Agatha's hands are now wandering all over your body, as if she has never touched you before. You push her away quickly, shutting your console off, your gaze now solely focused on the mess of a girlfriend you had on your knees in front of you. Feeling annoyed at her actions, you grab her chin and force her to look at you.

“I thought all of the agonising teasing was just to break me… did you snap too Agatha?”

Agatha's voice faltered, unable to produce any coherent sound. Her mind was wilding with all the possibilities this interaction unlocked. You were never dominant in bed with her. Maybe, once in a blue moon, you made some demands. But you were never acting like that. It awoke something in the witch's mind. And she needed to get more of that.

“Oh my, did the all mighty Agatha Harkness go all submissive on me? Tell me baby, does this turn you on?”

Agatha was dumbfounded, reeling in the feeling of you being so dominant with her. Every fiber of her being radiated with a sudden urge to submit to you. To beg for your touch. Yet she didn't say anything.

You let go of her face and started to slowly undress yourself. As your pants were long gone, you started to unbutton your shirt slowly. The witch was having none of it, your buttons went flying as the older woman practically tore your shirt off.

“You're so eager, Aggie. Beg for it baby, beg for what you want so bad.”

Agatha's eyes sparkled wildly as she raked her brain for any sensible response. She tried hard, yet her only response was a low whine with a few words.

“Please baby, I fucking need you.”

“You have to do better than that to make me forgive you for all the teasing.”

Her mind blanked and suddenly all she could say was please, please, please.

“Fuck baby I need you, please-”

Agatha moved closer to you, her cunt covered by her attire started to grind on your boot. She was now mindlessly searching for pleasure, yet you moved yourself away from her.

“You beg so pretty for me, I think you deserve a treat, don't you think?”

“Yes- yes baby, yes I do.”

With that you pulled her in closer, her cunt already against your foot, rutting feverishly, chasing her high. You let her enjoy the moment but then you pulled her up, sitting her on your lap.

“Will you be a good girl for your baby and do what I say?”

The witch was so lost in it that she could only nod. After getting that response from her you started to undress her. Clothes went flying all across the living room. Poor woman's panties landed on the coffee table while the rest was discarded on the floor.

“You got so worked up from teasing me that you couldn't wait. You even let me take control, that's so brave of you honey”

You helped move on your lap, grinding her hard just how she likes it. The whimpers that came out of her mouth were like honey to your ears.

“Stop fucking playing with me and fuck me already…”

Agatha was impatient now. Her clit against your thigh was nothing compared to what your fingers could do. She imagined herself bent over the couch with you slamming your digits inside her, without giving her a single break.

“I'm done playing- a-ah- the submissive o-one. Fuck mommy properly. Put your fingers i-in me-”

And who were you to deny her? You enjoyed the switch of the dynamic. Usually you were the one begging, but now, seeing Agatha on your lap, grinding sloppily, fueled something inside you. Now you were as desperate as the woman in front of you. Flipping your position, you put her underneath you, her face pressed into the beige pillows that adorned your couch.

Your hands traveled on the expanse of her bare back, making Agatha shiver against your touch. She was unusually quiet, but that was until your fingers grazed the entrance of her needy hole that was now dripping with need.

“Fuck- Put it in me- now”

You tease her cunt for a little bit, gathering her wetness, when you entered her without warning. The moan that got stuck in her throat made you painfully aware of the wetness that was slowly seeping through your underwear. Instead of putting your other hand on your girlfriend's body you slipped it inside your purple underwear.

“A-ah- sweetheart- more. I need more-”

Attacking her neck you entered another finger into her, stretching Agatha out. She was now bouncing on your hand. You left purple bruises along her neck and her back. The witch was now moaning under you, getting what she wanted. The fingers were not feeling good enough on your cunt, so you urged your girlfriend off of the couch.

“Get off right now- I need you to eat me out.”

“And I thought I was the needy one”

Quickly you shut her up with a kiss. It was a clash of teeth and tongues, swallowing eachothers moans. You broke it off and pushed Agatha down to her knees. She obeyed without protest and with a swipe of your panties to the side, she started to eat you out.

Her tongue felt hot on your cunt. Licking and reaching all the good spots. After the weeks of teasing and celibate, you already felt like cumming.

“Mommy- fuck- your mouth feels so good on me-”

“You taste so good sweetheart, I could stay between your thighs forever.”

You only nodded, pulling Agatha closer, practically suffocating her. But she didn't mind. For all she cared she could pass out and still be happy that she made you feel good.

Agatha's orgasm was long forgotten as she focused solely on you. She frantically grabbed your thighs, desperate to make you come undone on her face. The slight tremble in your legs gave away what's about to happen. You were close. Painfully so.

“Agatha please- I'm close-”

“Come on baby give it to me… Soak my face.”

And that's what you did. Your orgasm ripped through you, making you shake uncontrollably. Agatha's smirk widened between your thighs. Her hands left your body to wipe the remnants of her juices from her face.

“Fuck- Agatha..”

You throw your head back, closing your eyes for a second.

“It was supposed to be the other way around. Come here it's your turn now”

“You don't have t-”

“Oh but I do, you were so close, weren't you Aggie?”

You mumbled the words near her ear as you put her back on the couch. The older woman wanted to protest, putting her hand on your shoulders in a last attempt to change your mind. It didn't work. You swiftly put the witch's hands above her head and got to work your way down her body.

“Sorry for being so selfish earlier-”

You said between kisses that you were now leaving on her neck

“-but it was not my fault that I was so worked up.”

Agatha's arousal was ever apparent, her juices leaking onto the couch. She was squirming, itching for more. So you delivered. You moved your feverish kisses down to her breasts, paying your utmost attention to her pebbled nipples.

“A-ah- baby they are sensitive-”

Agatha whined and it only earned a feral smirk from you. Every sound she made under your ministrations spurred you on further. She looked so ethereal underneath you. Wild hair splayed on the cushions, pale skin glowing with sweat and remnants of your own orgasm. It's truly a sight to see.

You got stuck in your own head, never stopping the sucking and biting on Agatha's boobs. You snapped out of it after one particularly hard suck made your girlfriend moan loudly.

“Fucking touch me properly or I'm going to explode-”

Agatha was getting impatient. Her hips rutted upwards looking for any type of friction to get herself off, with no effect.

You didn't say anything, instead you pressed your pussy against hers. The older woman's eyes rolled back into her skull, the pleasure taking over her senses.

“Is this enough for you mommy? Or do I need to continue playing with your tits too?”

Agatha was at loss for words. Every coherent thought left her body a long time ago. Now the only thing she could focus on is how good you felt on top of her. She was never one to come quickly, but with your pussy on hers and your mouth working miracles on her chest, she was sure she wouldn't last long.

You on the other hand weren't that far from another orgasm. Even if you just came down from one, the overwhelming feeling of Agatha's body made the coil in your abdomen tighten again, threatening to snap.

“You feel so good Aggie… wanna come with you.”

“Yes- fuck yes- I wanna come with you too-”

With that you rutted your hips into her with newfound power. Your juices mixing together, the movements making squelching sounds that echoed through the room making you hungry for her release.

Agatha's thighs started to twitch, she was getting so close. And so were you, your hips stuttering, losing their rhythm as both of your orgasms approached quickly.

“Fuck- Aggie- come with me, please-”

Your girlfriend didn't respond, instead she let out a near pornographic moan as she came, pushing you over the edge. You collapsed on top of her, snuggling into her and leaving small kisses on her neck.

“Honey- Shit- that was so good. I don't think I've ever came this hard”

Agatha says, chuckling a little bit.

“If I knew that teasing you would bring results like that I would've started earlier.”

You playfully hit her on her shoulder as Agatha is laughing, her voice full of amusement. Nuzzling even closer to her, you muttered near her ear.

“Don't you EVER tease me like that ever again or I'll fuck the shit out of you befor that even happens.”

“Oh don't threaten me with a good time, baby.”

Defeated, you don't say anything else to your girlfriend. Closing your eyes, you dozed off, while Agatha mindlessly drew patterns in your lower back.

[onbearfeet]

I once spent a summer cleaning movie-theater bathrooms.

I wasn't told up front that it would be my job, personally, to clean the women's bathroom every 15 minutes for 8 hours a day. But the theater advertised its clean restrooms, and they required male cleaners for the gents' and female cleaners for the ladies' ... and because they hired as few women and girls as possible, this meant in practice that every shift was 5 to 7 teenage boys taking turns and one teenage girl who spent at least half her time cleaning the same giant bathroom over and over. (Another girl had the other half of the megaplex.) You wouldn't think a bathroom could get seriously messy in 10 to 15 minutes, but if you've ever set foot on the mysteriously sticky floor of an American movie theater, you have some idea of what eldritch forces are at work there.

I have many disgusting stories about my summer of shit, but one of the few I can tell in public was that a shocking number of people just don't bother, or perhaps don't remember, to flush. Other people then see a toilet full of human waste, assume it's clogged, and use another toilet. Some of THEM will forget to flush, and the feedback loop intensifies. The more this happens, the fewer toilets are in use, the more the line backs up, the more accidents happen ... you get the idea. So a big part of my job was walking from stall to stall, flushing toilets, usually with a plunger in hand in case the thing actually WAS plugged. (I was not supposed to have a plunger. I stole it from the facilities guys.)

98% of the time, the toilet flushed fine, so I developed the habit of just walking up to full toilets in public restrooms and flushing them as a matter of course. Over 20 years later, I still do this.

Because I have this habit, I have become The Flusher among my friends. When we're out somewhere and the toilet situation is dire, they call me over to flush a few and make room. There's nothing stopping them from doing exactly the same thing, of course; it's just that I spent 3 months desensitizing myself to the sight of floating shit, so I can do it without puking. (I wash my hands thoroughly afterwards.)

I've often thought about why so many toilets go unflushed. I'm sure some people just forget, or don't care. Others perhaps can't flush for themselves--little kids who can't budge the lever, people with disabilities that make twisting hard, etc. But on a practical level, the flush has to happen at some point, or we're all going to get cholera. Someone must flush, regardless of why the flush hasn't happened already.

So why are we so shitty (pun intended) to the goddamn heroes who save us from our own crap? I've made volunteer flush patrols in crowded convention centers and community theaters that probably prevented actual health hazards. I no longer do it for a job, but I see it as a responsibility that comes with the world's dumbest superpower. And it's always struck me as ridiculous to describe jobs like that as "degrading" and therefore jobs that no one should do.

You don't actually mean degrading. You mean icky. Poop gives you the ick, and you don't want to go near strangers' shit. Fine! You shouldn't have to--not as long as someone else does. I only developed my stupid superpower because of sexist hiring practices that forced me to get over the ick, but if someone tried to convince me that my dumb superpower was a reason to pay me less or exclude me from union membership, I'd punch them in the throat. (And then wash my hands, because that's MY ick.) Why the hell should my ability to do something that lots of people physically can't make me LESS valuable as a worker?

The toilets need flushing. If you luck into someone who'll do it all day, pay them like the treasured specialist they are. If you don't, hire enough people (of all genders) that no one HAS to flush all day.

And don't call necessary work "degrading". The only one degrading people here is you.

When the health food store unionized, something wild happened that I thought was just a goofy one-off, but makes more sense now.

There was a big push to eliminate "degrading jobs" but the strategy was to eliminate the position, then create a new position outside of the bargaining unit to do the work. So like, we wouldn't have dishwashers, but we'd have people who washed dishes that weren't eligible to be in the union.

I was like A) what the actual fuck? Dish washing isn't "degrading", it's fucking vital. B) What the actual fuck? You want to create a union just to exploit different people?

There were enough of us to be like "Absolutely the fuck not," and put a stop to it, but I was absolutely flummoxed that people involved in a union would say that out loud. Working with more leftists now, it makes sense.

[stilljuststardust]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Persistence, not perfection

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Conviction is not the absence of fear, doubt, and negative emotions. Conviction is standing in the face of that and saying you have it anyway, because nothing other than what you decide matters.

Stop thinking that you've failed to make an assumption just because your heart is still racing and your stomach still hurts. Your emotions and your body are not god. You can be terrified and shaking in your boots but still standing ten toes down in your assumption

Where I think many people go wrong is the pursuit of perfection. It's the trap of "good enough". When will I be enough? When is what I'm doing good enough to manifest my fucking desire already?? You decide what's good enough, and no one else.

This idea that you have to feel good to manifest, or that you don't have control over when it manifests, the constant song and dance of "doing it right". Law of attraction still has its dirty little fingers digging around inside our hearts

Right and wrong are up to you. There isn't a secret code that unlocks the door, there's no invisible gatekeeper to please, there is only yourself. Have you decided you have it? Have you decided your efforts are good enough or are you constantly punishing yourself.

It is so easy to get lost in what you "should do". Should I be convincing myself or just deciding? Is it ok if I use this affirmation? There is no should.

Do not let shame and guilt destroy you. You should never blame yourself for what is in your reality. You should however recognize you alone have the power to change it.

Stop trying to "fix" everything and ending up spiralling over minor feelings that you can't get to go away. You don't need it to go away. You can literally just decide to keep with the assumption even if you had a stray thought or a flood of emotion. You don't have to hammer down everything that isn't exactly perfectly perfect, because it's yours. Accept that it's yours anyway. Yes I feel like shit, it's still mine. Yes I have doubts, still fucking mine. No I don't understand the "how", it's still mine.

Stop being the observer, hovering over your own shoulder to chastise yourself over every little mistake. You do not need to be perfect to be persistent.

You don't need to "figure out" anything, you don't need to convince yourself or overthink. Manifestation is when you leave all that shit alone and say "no, fuck all of that, I have it".

Trying to micromanage yourself is the easiest loa mistake to make. You end up spiralling for thirty minutes because you had one bump in the road you're trying to force down instead of just saying "sucks, still have it though".

Who cares about belief, who cares about feeling, you are god. Its up to you. I don't care if you feel convinced when you say that you have it, and neither does your subconscious mind.

I'm an insomniac who doesn't drink enough water. If I just go by how I feel I'm gonna think the world is ending. So much of our emotions get falsely attributed to "oh it must not be working" when really, you haven't your body is literally just begging you to go outside or take care of yourself and you're over here like "the universe is against me". No you haven't failed, you're just grumpy and need a nap.

The constant return to "how do I fix it" "how do I manifest" IS living from the old assumption. Deciding that you have already manifested it, regardless of how you feel, is what you need to be doing instead.

Trusting yourself is not this overwhelming influx of dopamine nor is it the complete lack of fear. Having trust is doing the damn method anyway.Having trust is saying, I may not believe it, I may not see it, but it's fucking working. Having trust is getting out of your own way and letting yourself do it without constant double checking.

Conclusion, literally say "nuh-uh!"

"Ok but I don't believe it-" nuh-uh still have it.

"But the 3D-" nuh uh, mine

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

[k-aemi]

blue lock ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ cute/funny moments with the blue lock boys !

itoshi sae ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ he sucks at cooking

sae growing up only knew how to play football. he never paid attention to class or even bothered to learn anything else since he was too focused on football. really, that was his only weakness, but surely his cooking skills cant be that bad right?

you always cooked for him, well since it was a natural thing for you to...you didnt mind cooking for him and you, even if you got off work. you just felt as if it was your job to do so.

sae doesnt express it much, but he appreciates the work you put into your work and the house. you clean, cook, and do the laundry, he couldnt have asked for better.

you had overtime today since saes birthday was coming up, you wanted to surprise him with lots and lots of gifts! (even though hes a rich man).

you 6:34pm overtime today. might come home late! sae 6:57pm alright.

sae didnt come home to dinner, or to your kisses you gave him when he entered in. just welcomed with the darkness that engulfed the room. he put away his things and began to change out of his clothes to more comfortable ones.

he didnt have anything else to do. so why not try to cook up a meal for you since you always took care of it for him. he might as well just repay the times youve cooked.

luckily you were glad it wasnt that long of overtime, you could just go home and quickly cook up a meal for sae!

not even inside of the house yet, you smell something burning...? very concerning you quickly grabbed your keys and open the door to smoke everywhere.

"ah-what the..!" you rush to the kitchen and see sae...

"sae what the hell did you do?!" you grabbed a nearby book, swaying it around to get the smoke out of your way.

sae only clicks his tongue in annoyance. "it said to boil two cups of water." raising his phone up. you walk up to the stove and to your literal horror, theres actually two cups on the stove.

"it meant the measurement!" you grabbed your mittens and grabbed the cubs that melted onto the stove already. your beautiful cups were ruined....

you curl up the book in your hand and hit sae with it on his head.

"youre not allowed in the kitchen anymore."

nagi seishiro ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ he hurt you on accident

it was yours and nagis day off meaning you guys can spend time together! though he was a lazy bum so really all you guys would ever do was just cuddle up with each other in his bed.

he saw it as comfortable silence as he played his game on his phone while you laid on his chest, either napping or just waiting for him to get off to watch a movie or something.

"almost done?" you poke at his chest.

"one more." he glanced at you before returning his gaze to his game. you pout but laid your head against his chest again, at least hearing his heartbeat was calming enough to let it slide for a bit.

you ended up kind of napping, but you can hear the faint sounds of his shooting game and him talking to himself.

you grumble, shifting into a bit more comfortable position, accidentally hitting his arm and that made him lose his balance with his phone. dropping it on your forehead.

"ah-" nagi looks at mid air before slowing shifting his gaze down.

a loud thud was heard when his phone made contact with your head and the room was filled was silence.

nagi blinks a bit for turning his head to the side, as if he did nothing.

"sei." you spoke, not moving an inch from where you were.

"what." he rest his hand on his head to soothe your forehead, like he wasnt the one who did that.

"im taking your phone." you grip his phone a little too tight a crack was heard.

kaiser michael˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ brushing his hair

theres not a single night where you guys wouldnt sleep with each other, other than him leaving the country for football tournaments or so. but when you guys were together, its a must to sleep together.

and knowing kaiser for a long time now, you know how crazy his bed hair gets and he gets really grumpy about it its kind of funny.

waking up earlier than kaiser, youre set on preparing breakfast before he starts his daily training with ness and his other members.

humming random songs that come to your mind while cooking, you can hear faint footstep approaching the kitchen.

shifting your attention to the side, you can see your boyfriend, who still looks half-asleep with his hair that looks like he had a bad hair day.

you giggled to yourself, setting the spoon aside. "good there misha?" walking up to him to give your morning kisses.

he can only grumble, returning the kiss back.

"hurry up and brush my hair." he scratches his head.

"how does it always get this bad?" you laughed at him before dragging him to your vanity. settling him down, grabbing the hair brush to carefully handle his hair.

kaiser loved when you brushed his hair, it was always so calming for him and felt relaxing. its like he can only focus on you and him.

"let me know if i accidentally hurt you okay?" you shift to the side to look at him thru the mirror, his eyes were closed and he only lets out a low hum.

this was his moment of peace, just you brushing his hair while he relaxed under the comforts of your presence.

itoshi rin ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ playing horror games

rin had a hobby of either watching or playing horror games. he had asked you if you wanted to give it a try, after a few nos, he finally convinced you.

"rin! where do i go im scared!" you walked up the trail while looking at your surroundings. you were in the forest, and it was just you and your flashlight.

"just keep walking." rin watched from the side, his hand on your shoulder while his other hand rested on the desk. he had already played this game prior but wanted to see you do it.

"no theres going to be a jumpscare i know it!" you stopped and shivered in the chair.

"there isnt i promise." he guided your hand on the keyboard to keep on going. he was lying, he knew all the jumpscares and ques, he just thought itd be funny to see you scared.

you grumble under your breath before continuing to walk, there was a corner you had to turn and you got scared. pressing the "w" key every one second, step by step, scared there was a jumpscare.

"whats with the intense music?!" you took a couple steps forward while your body was leaned back in case of the scare. you finally made the turn and there was nothing. you let out a sigh of relief before looking at rin.

"see?" rin leaned closer.

"yeah whatever." you turned around and there was an unexpected jumpscare, which was ridiculously loud and you jumped from your seat with a yelp, the headset hit rins chin and he let out a groan.

he rubbed his chin with a sigh and you eyed at him. "you said there wasnt any you liar!" you took off the headset.

"thats the fun of it."

isagi yoichi ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ his hair is so fluffy

at blue lock, isagi never really mind, but also never understood why almost everyone patted his head. its because his hair is so fluffy, he doesnt even know it!

whenever he laid on his bed, youd laid on top of him, just to touch that hair of his, seriously it was like fur but better! plus that v shape ahoge was cute to touch when it always just reverted back to the shape.

"not you too [name]..." he sighed and you giggled.

"but your hair is so soft!" both of your hands massaged his hair. he didnt mind it, it actually felt quiet good.

"is it..?" he raised an eyebrow at you. he never even noticed if that was the reason why people tend to touch his hair a lot. but that could explain a lot then.

"yeah its like fur!" you laid your head on top of his hair, rubbing it against your cheek, inhaling the blueberry scent shampoo he always used.

isagi laughs, he thinks its cute you find his hair soft, hes blushing like he still has the biggest crush on you. your yoichi is so adorable <3

mikage reo˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ can you get out prank

together for two years already and you guys are super comfortable with each other! reo was always a serious man but you wondered how he react to your silly pranks on him.

"babe?" you come towards him with a dress. it was a pretty peach color and very flowy.

"hm?" he looked up from his phone, eyeing at you.

"can you get out?"

"for what?"

"so i can change." and there reo looked confused. hes seen you naked before, so what difference does that make? maybe you just wanted to surprise him.

"you gonna surprise me with the dress?" he raised an eyebrow while rubbing his nape.

"no i just dont want to change in front of you." and thats when he becomes really confuse. he tilts his head and his lips formed a straight line.

"woman i fucked y-" he suddenly blurted out and you jumped on the bed shushing him. did he really have to say it like that?!

"i was just kidding, dont say it like that!" reo realizes that you were joking and laughed, patting your head.

hiii just something quick before i start writing again! please be patient im so sorry for the lack of postsss T^T

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ summer slasher!pazzi: the finale.

best friends to lovers!pazzi. men & minors dni.

🫀⋆ you're at the end. turn back .ᐟ .ᐟ

cw: high gore (final showdown), blood, violence, typical horror disturbances, misplaced sexual tension, psyopathic behavior, morally ambiguous!p, morally ambiguous!a, the power of lesbians vs a mass murderer, unhealthy relationships bc it's a horror au, codependence, obsession.

notes: i genuinely thought you guys would bury me alive if i didn't post this, so here you go. i hope you enjoy. for all the threats i was getting, i better see some reactions in my inbox tonight! in all seriousness though, thank you for being here.

love you.

it turns out that even if your best friend is a killer, it will destroy you when she dies. it seems people you love are still people you love, even at their worst.

azzi doesn’t realize how much she has seen paige as infallible until now. her hands shake as she runs them over paige’s blonde hair, the blood soaking it so dark that the strands appear white. paige’s eyes are so blue, so bright in the cold call of the sun as she stares into nothing. there is so much blood, so much fluid leaving her from the neat slashes beneath her sternum.

her ribs peek through, the white bone arcing gracefully like dancers’ legs, curved in a reverent kneel around the pulp of her heart.

azzi doesn’t know where they are. when she looks up, eyes wild and wide, she can only see an aching, open forest. it was as if the two of them had been on a private anabasis, marching inland to something she was unsure of now. her throat burns as if she has been screaming, but when she lifts a hand to her mouth, she doesn’t find it open—she only feels the plump, even line of their closure.

her hands are shaking and covered in red. she reaches down and picks up paige’s head, which lolls like a broken doll. azzi’s grip keeps slipping, the crimson spray of blood across paige’s shirt and the base of her neck making it impossible to hold on.

finally, a sound leaves her.

it’s a horrible rattle, a combination of death and grief. azzi chokes it out, her back snapping outward as she leans over paige’s body and keens. she is nothing but an animal now—nothing but a pit of loss and rage. with a hand still on paige’s cheek, azzi glances up. she’s searching.

ashlynn must be here. she must be.

 who else would be the killer?

as she turns to look in a new direction, something flashes—a hot arc of light. azzi stumbles to her feet and is surprised to feel the earth beneath them. when she peers down, she sees they are bare, her brown skin pressed into the rotting, maggotted soil. she doesn’t have any more energy to be horrified.

she pushes through the thrush and works toward that bouncing sphere of light. every step away from the woman on the forest floor behind her, away from the woman she loves, feels like glass cutting through her skin.

it is salt in the wound to leave her behind. it is a slow-burning; it’s an unforgivable evil.

but she reaches her destination, despite the pain. she is not clear about what she expected to find. maybe ashlynn—her knife siphoning the light like the leech she is, her weapon an extension of her parasitic life.

but it’s not.

azzi finds nothing but a mirror.

 its body is long. its surface ripples like skin beneath a pulse.

she stares into it, desperate for answers. nothing is there except for herself: bloodied, bruised, and broken. she grits her teeth and tucks a shrill shriek of rage behind them.

she swallows down her terror. swallows down her mindless hatred. tries to taste only the love—the drive of paige’s death—tries to make it sweet.

and then, she sees something rise behind her.

a horrible, dark figure rises silently from the ground. she knows what it is. the knowledge snakes deep into her chest and coils in her stomach. this is paige’s killer. the creature that took her without remorse.

she has nothing to fight with except her bare hands. but still, azzi turns to face it. to face her.

she is hot-blooded. ripened by her anguish.

and then—she goes cold. because—

 azzi is staring at herself.

behind her, the mirror stills. it has given her her answer.

𓇼

azzi jerks awake.

no scream. no gasp. just the sudden, animal twitch of her limbs like something’s been severed inside her.

she lies there for a second, disoriented. the air is too still. her chest heaves once, twice, but no sound escapes her. she’s soaked in sweat, the sheets clinging to her ribs, the echo of a scream trapped in her throat like a swallowed bullet.

she turns. slowly. like her body has a gravity it hadn’t before. she shifts beneath the blankets, knee brushing warm skin, and then she sees her.

paige.

on her back, sleeping deep, with one arm thrown above her head. her hair is a mess across the pillow. her face is soft, the tension of living drained from it in sleep. there’s a damp spot just at her collarbone where azzi must’ve cried into her in the night without knowing.

azzi stares. her own hands are trembling. there’s no blood on them now, no forest rot under her nails, but she still feels it. she still sees the wet gleam of paige’s ribs and the arc of bone cradling the red, weeping muscle.

she shifts forward, almost timidly, and crawls on top of her. her weight settles gently on paige’s hips, and she leans down, hands smoothing back the loose blonde strands. one at a time. every strand is a prayer. out of the two of them, paige is the religious one, but azzi still tucks paige’s name behind her teeth for protection. 

she thinks about paige’s connection to god more often since discovering that paige could kill people without a hitch in her breath. she wonders if the avowed faith is more about penance than true belief. maybe there is room for both. 

(paige understood that god was real when azzi saw the monster of her and did not scream. only unearthly hands could have made such a kind, forgiving heart.)

she presses her face into paige’s neck. breathes her in. the iron tang of her skin. the faint, dry vanilla sweetness of her shampoo. the heat of her pulse just beneath the surface.

paige stirs, brow furrowing slightly before her arms lift and fold around azzi’s waist. “you okay, mama?” she asks, voice sleep-rough and soft.

azzi doesn’t answer right away. she wants to. she opens her mouth. closes it again.

the dream still clings to her ribs like ivy. she can feel it in her gut, in the space behind her eyes, in the echo of her name shouted from far away. she can feel the end of something. like a bell that’s been ringing long before she heard it.

finally, she lifts her head and looks down at paige. her lips part, and this time the words come, low and fragile.

“this is going to change me.”

paige is quiet. just blinks at her for a long moment. then she reaches up, slides her hand into azzi’s hair, and cradles her.

“shh, baby,” she says. “just sleep.”

but azzi knows she won’t.

something in her has already broken loose.

𓇼 jana’s asleep on the couch. curled up in one of paige’s hoodies, headphones half-falling off, arms wrapped around her stomach like she is forcing her spirit to live inside of herself. azzi tucks the blanket up over her shoulder, gently, and when she picks up jana’s phone to place it on the charger, she sees that the younger girl is listening to morgan’s sleep playlist. she feels the familiar prick of tears, the sickly reawakening of grief in her legs and chest.

𓇼 she leaves a cup of tea on the table beside her. koshary shai, with a twist of mint. just how jana likes it.

𓇼 in the kitchen, the quiet is almost too loud. paige is on the floor with blueprints and maps, and two empty mugs already. her hair’s tied up. she looks like she hasn’t slept despite them pressing together last night. azzi doesn’t ask—she wasn’t able to sleep well after either.

𓇼 “she shouldn’t be here,” paige says, not looking up.

𓇼 “i know.” azzi’s voice is low, rocking with something she’s trying to keep under control. “but she has nowhere else. and i—i don’t want her anywhere else.”

𓇼 paige sighs. folds up a map like she’s trying not to rip it in half. “we should’ve told her. she deserves to know.”

𓇼 “and then what? she dies too?” azzi snaps, and then closes her eyes. quieter now: “i can’t let her be part of this. not again. she’s already struggling to live with…it.” she still can’t talk about morgan. 

𓇼 paige watches her for a moment, something unreadable flickering across her face. then: “you were planning on going alone.”

𓇼 azzi doesn’t answer.

𓇼 “azzi,” paige says. and it sounds like she’s saying, please don’t die. azzi crouches beside her, takes paige’s face in both hands. her thumbs press softly beneath her eyes. “i keep having dreams of you dying, p. not like nightmares. more like… soft prophecies. i’m not psychic, but it has to mean something, right?”

𓇼 paige looks at her and then says, “it’s probably a manifestation of your trauma, az. i’ll be fine.” 

𓇼 silence. outside, the wind shifts. azzi lets her go and walks away. she turns on the nespresso machine, which sits on the countertop, gleaming black in the weak sunlight, and brings it to life with a press of a button. “i don’t want to take the chance.”

𓇼 “azzi,” paige finally says. “i was willing to kill for you. i did kill for you. do you really think you’d make it out of this apartment without me right behind you? you’re smarter than that, ma.”

𓇼 moments like this one remind azzi that paige is—still—incredibly dangerous. she’s only barely tamed the beast inside her, has only trained it to heel beneath azzi’s hand. 

𓇼 in the other room, jana stirs. her tea goes cold.

but of course, ashlynn is always one step ahead. azzi has to hand it to the bitch: she’s evil with a true purpose.

the basketball court is eerily beautiful at night. quiet and sacred. the polished hardwood catches slivers of moonlight filtering through the high windows, creating long, creeping shadows that stretch across the floor like abstract fingers.

it’s easy to slip in and be alone inside of it. everyone else left after morgan died, and those who stayed wouldn’t have left their rooms even if offered a million dollars. 

paige had insisted they come. i need to clear my head, she'd said, and azzi had, like always, understood. basketball is paige's ritual, her form of meditation. the steady rhythm of the ball hitting the floor grounds her in ways little else could.

azzi watches from the lowest bleacher, small and still. paige runs drills like she's trying to outpace death. dribble. step. shoot. each motion lands with ghostlike precision. the ball arcs clean, kisses the net with a sound softer than breath.

“you’re still favoring your right,” azzi calls out, voice too light for what she’s carrying.

paige catches the rebound, pauses. gives a half-smile that doesn’t touch her eyes. “old habits.”

die hard, azzi finishes in her head. she doesn't smile back.

overhead, the fluorescents hum like dying bees, casting everything in a bleak, clinical glow. the emptiness of the gym amplifies every sound: the squeak of paige's shoes against hardwood, the hollow tremble of the rim as the ball beat against it. their words hang strangely, echoing back warped.

azzi checks her phone. no new messages. no calls. no blue dot from jana. her stomach knots. she’d made the girl promise, promise, to stay in, to lock everything. the girl had argued—of course she had—but eventually relented when azzi's voice cracked with a shrill squeak of desperation.

"she'll be fine, baby," paige says, reading the emotions off her body like a book.  "she's smart."

"she's coping," azzi counters sharply. "there's a difference."

paige nods, slow. you aren’t yourself when you deal with grief.  it makes a beast out of your nerves. it is easy to act out, to slip into a version of yourself warped grossly by your loss. jana is capable of anything during this time, plagued by a deep, miserable irrationality. 

they all are. 

the ball balances on paige’s long fingertips for a moment before she sends it spinning up toward the basket again. swish.

that's when azzi feels it. not a sound, not a sight. just a pressure. like the gym is inhaling. her spine prickles. her body knows before she does. she's developed a sixth sense for danger these past months, an animal awareness that prickles along her blood. her gaze darts to the shadows that gather in the corners of the gym, the observation deck above, and the corridor leading to the locker rooms.

“p,” she says. barely.

paige stills mid-dribble. doesn't turn. doesn't ask. but azzi sees the shift in her shoulders. she felt it too.

“paige, we need to go.” azzi stands. her hands won’t stop shaking.

the lights flicker once. twice. then plunge them into darkness.

azzi doesn’t think. she only moves instinctively toward where she last saw paige. her arms cut through the dark.  her body is pulsing with an unnamed energy. she’s not calling out. sound feels like a risk now. her fingers graze skin, and paige catches her fast.

their fingers connect and tangle, hold. paige pulls her closer, their bodies pressing together in the dark.  azzi’s body, ever uncontrollable, warms slowly as it registers their proximity. azzi exhales against the curve of paige’s neck, breath hot with fear. her lips brush bare skin, sweat-slicked. paige’s hands find her waist, urgent, grounding.

“emergency exit,” paige whispers, her mouth against azzi’s ear. “we’re gonna move slow, okay, mama?”

they begin.

one step. two. it’s as if they’re dancing.

the dark feels alive. the court groans under them.

ten steps. maybe more. time is liquid here. the silence crushes.

then, a sound. metal screeching against metal.

a lock clicks into place.

then another.

another.

“she’s sealing us in,” azzi moans. paige’s body is so tense it could be stone. they stop their migration, unsure now.

and then,

“i always hated that stupid bracelet.”

the voice sings through the dark like a near bullet.

azzi stiffens. paige turns, shielding azzi instinctively.

“such a pathetic little charm. all that sentiment for something mass-produced.” the voice drips honey and venom. amused. almost tender. “you kept it, though. of course you did. you probably felt so good thinking you had it all figured out. god, i hate arrogance.”

silence.

then footsteps. slow. deliberate. from the direction of the locker rooms. the echo carries strangely in the dark gym, like the space itself is struggling to breathe. it does not want to release her. 

they switch: azzi steps in front of paige because she’s the one closer to the heat of ashlynn’s evil. her body is trembling, but her hands are fists.

“ash,” she says into the dark, hoping to coax some memory of their history with the nickname. “you don’t have to do this.” 

ashlynn laughs mockingly. the sound is so soft, so broken at the edges. “ash. god, you’re still so romantic. you still think this is about choice?”

the lights snap on. all at once. blinding white. 

and there she is. standing near the half-court line, hands at her sides, head tilted like a question.

she looks wrong.

thinner than she was. more angular. her limbs are too long for her body, or maybe it’s just the way ashlynn holds herself, like a doll that’s been overextended at the joints. her skirt sways with every shift of weight: white, cheap pleats, bloodless. a cropped uconn jersey is taut over her ribs, the fabric faded and curling at the hem. there’s blush smeared along her cheekbones, or at least azzi prays it's blush. she doesn’t know how deep the violence runs in the other woman. 

ashlynn’s lip gloss is smudged pink and sweet. she’s dressed up, azzi realizes with mounting horror.

ashlynn’s eyes are too wide. unblinking. like she’s seeing a vision none of them can.

“there was never a choice,” she says, voice now deadly quiet. “there was always only this.”

wings. it’s a match to the bracelet azzi found missing.

ashlynn notices her staring.

“oh,” she says, tilting her head further, mock-embarrassed. “you like it? it was a set. my mom got them for me. one for the wrist. one for the throat.” she touches the charm gently, like it’s precious. “guess she didn’t want me to forget how easily things can break.”

azzi’s throat tightens. the gym feels colder now.

“you killed her,” she whispers. “you killed morgan.”

ashlynn doesn’t flinch. she only sighs. patient. as if disappointed in a child.

“yes, that. god, that was awful, wasn’t it? it was supposed to be jana or, well, you.” azzi’s blood runs cold at the mention of jana. ashlynn watches her, her lips twitching. “morgan was an outlier. an unfortunate name added accidentally to the list. but despite whatever you’re thinking, i swear this is all for a very good reason.”

azzi feels paige’s hand on the small of her back, right in the middle. she tries to focus on it. ashlynn saunters closer. both girls step back. 

 “all they ever did was hog the light,” ashlynn says, walking forward steadily, slow and calm. it’s as if she's giving a lecture. “gold medals. scouts. scholarships. even in their failure, they were praised for being brave. strong. legendary. but there’s no room to grow in soil that’s already choked.”

she steps closer. her charm swings gently. again, the girls step back. ashlynn pauses, her eye twitching almost imperceptibly. 

“someone had to rip out the roots.”

ashlynn finally stops, now a few feet away. looks directly at azzi. her eyes shine sickly. azzi can feel her words, her disregard for every life she’s spilled into an early grave, settle slow, stringy, and sticky inside of her. it clings to the ribs.

“you—you were supposed to be different,” she says. “a signal that things could change. that we didn’t have to keep worshipping the same ten girls forever. but azzi, you stayed small.”

her tone shifts again. silk-wrapped. almost pitying. she tilts her head, seems to smell azzi's disgust.  

“i’m not a monster, azzi.” a soft shrug. “i’m only a gardener.”

and something in her smile twists like she believes it. like it wasn’t pain she inflicted on real people, only a kind of pruning. 

only love, in its most warped, most desperate form.

azzi suddenly becomes aware of how much her body is showing. she’d only thrown on an oversized, black zip-up hoodie over an unforgiving sports bra and low-rise cotton shorts. they were from adidas, vintage soccer style ones that ashlynn had gifted her just last year. i thought you’d look so good in these, she’d said. 

azzi wonders if she’d thought of her dying in them, too. 

ashlynn paces closer. her voice is still lilting, syrup-sweet.

 “you know, you should’ve thanked me. i carved a space for you. you could’ve led.”

 azzi’s voice is steady, but there's a tremble at the edges. “you didn’t make space. you made graves.”

a beat.  ashlynn’s smile flickers. falters. that wasn’t the response she wanted. that wasn’t in the script.

then, paige steps forward. she easily maneuvers azzi to the side. she can see the coil of ashlynn’s body, that same killer’s rise that she houses in her own.

“bullshit,” she says coldly. “you’re a fucking coward. you don’t have the talent, so you’re cutting the real players up? come on, ash, that’s pathetic.”

ashlynn closes her eyes and cracks her neck. she speaks with her eyes still shut. “and you. god, we could’ve been great together. then, you had to go and get all moral about it. ‘nah, azzi is off limits.’” the impression of paige drips with derision. ashlynn’s eyes open. “why do you always have to be the fucking hero, bueckers?”

paige doesn’t flinch. “i didn't say all that. i know what i am. i’m not that deluded.”

ashlynn lunges—not for azzi, but for paige. swift as death.

but paige is ready. she ducks, somehow shoves azzi away, and ashlynn back, hard. azzi feels the air get knocked out of her as she falls to the floor, paige’s strength much more than she ever could have anticipated. her side hurts from where she’s hit the court, and she realizes just how softly paige has always treated her. even when she was being mean. 

when she gathers enough strength to look back at where ashlynn is, she sees paige is managing to hold her own. there’s a moment where she even has her—back foot planted, adrenaline surging. she almost wins.

until ashlynn shifts direction, sharp and serpentine, like a dancer who missed a cue and made it part of the choreography. she feints toward where azzi sits stupidly on the ground and, of course, paige moves to intercept—too late.

ashlynn smiles, and azzi feels a horrible twisting ribbon of dread around her neck at the sight. she watches in slow motion as ashlynn whips back around and drives the blade in.

right under the ribs. the blood that follows is deep and red.

azzi screams.

the sound tears out of her like a rupture, and then there is only blood. blood, ruby and leaking, and the echo of metal. there is only paige, crumpling like the world stopped holding her up. azzi was a fool to think violence couldn’t reach her.

azzi scrambles forward, knees slamming the ground, hands skidding through something warm. she falls, slips as she pushes herself back up. her vision is thin and hot and wrong. she can’t hear anything except the pulse between her ears and paige gasping, trying to say her name through lips turning white at the corners. paige is still trying to be strong, her teeth grinding together as she lets out a pained groan. 

azzi is going to kill her. she’s going to kill that fucking cunt. 

“fuck,” azzi chokes. “okay. it’s okay.  i’ve got you.”

she shrugs off her hoodie, blood on the sleeves already, and presses it hard against the wound. paige hisses, jaw clenched, but doesn’t pull away. azzi makes her hold it there.

“fuck, this shit hurts,” paige whispers. azzi lets out a weak laugh. “ah, shit.”

her blue-eyed gaze flickers over azzi’s shoulder. she reaches out, her free hand cupping azzi’s chin.

“look at me. azzi, look at me.”

azzi struggles to look away from the way her hoodie is becoming more and more soaked. her eyes are wide and glazed over. paige takes her hand away, slaps her. azzi gasps. not from the sting, but from the grief of it. 

paige has never hit her before. not even once.

“sorry. ‘m so sorry, baby. but i need you to listen to me. you need to run.” she pushes past azzi’s strangled protest. “she wants to finish me off. it’ll keep her distracted, and it gives you a good chance.”

“p—” azzi begins, but paige cuts her off.

“you knew what this was, mama. i said the point was protecting you.” her gaze is hard. “this is it.”

azzi doesn’t answer. she’s somewhere else now. something else. her hands are soaked, sticky. her breath goes in sharp, shallow. paige’s blood is on her neck, her chest, her mouth maybe. it doesn’t matter.

“azzi, if you don’t fucking move, she’ll kill you too.”

azzi meets her eyes. 

“she already tried.”

paige’s brow furrowed. azzi pressed her forehead against it. her lips parted, and the words ghosted out like smoke.

“do you remember seventh grade?”

𓇼 they were thirteen.

𓇼 paige never cried. not really. at least not when people could see her. she was the kind of girl who moved through the world like it owed her something sweet. so self-assured in a way that didn’t feel fair. 

𓇼 she was perfectly coded. she knew exactly how to flick her ponytail and land a beautiful free throw. azzi had always watched her sideways, had memorized the slope of her smile and perfect nose.

𓇼 so when she found her behind the concession stand after practice one afternoon, sitting with her knees pulled up and her face red and wrecked, azzi had gone still.

𓇼 she knelt down. touched her. paige flinched.

𓇼 “it’s nothing,” paige said, laughing in that fake, strained way. “it’s stupid. that girl—whatever, man. it’s just words.” but there was a mark on her neck. a little welt like a thumb had pressed there, too hard.

𓇼 azzi didn’t ask. she just stood up and walked back toward the gym. past the vending machines, around the corner where the field shadows stretched long. she knew exactly who it was, who had done this. who kept doing this.

𓇼 amerie. eighth-grade cheerleader. lip gloss always too fucking pink. always looking at paige like she was—like she was something she could ruin. a small piece of meat that wouldn’t put up a fight between her teeth. 

𓇼 she was behind the school alone, talking on the phone. azzi didn’t say a word. she grabbed her by the hair first.

𓇼 the phone went flying. amerie screamed once, short and stupid. then azzi slammed her to the ground—knees scraping, elbows cracking. she sat on her chest, legs pinned on either side, weight down hard like she wanted to be inside her ribcage.

𓇼 “you think you’re tough?” azzi said, breathing fast, too fast. amerie was clawing at her arms, crying now. “get off of me, you freak. what the hell—”

𓇼 azzi punched her. then again. then she dug her fingers into her cheeks, thumbs pushing up hard until amerie’s mouth split open at the corner.

𓇼“you like to call girls dykes?” she hissed. “you want to call paige that? huh? hurt her? make yourself feel big, bad, and strong?”

𓇼 the girl sobbed. azzi spit. she wasn’t sure if it was blood or bile or lip gloss on her tongue. azzi touched her own mouth, smearing whatever was there. then grabbed amerie’s chin and smeared it across her lips.

𓇼 “now you’re one too.”

𓇼 she leaned in close. maybe kissed her. maybe just hovered. she wanted her to remember this. her smell, her taste, the fear.

𓇼 “i’ll come back if you say her name again. and i swear to god, amerie, you’ll never forget mine.”

𓇼 and with that azzi stood, wiped her hands on her shorts. left the other girl curled on the asphalt, pink glitter gloss mingling with blood. she glanced down at her hands, saw the smear of dirt and glitter and blood. 

𓇼 she sucked it off.

paige looked at her, her face pale from blood loss and now twisted in a mixture of surprise and something azzi couldn’t place. then, paige let out a long breath, and azzi understood.

 it was desire.

“i never knew you did that. i just thought she’d finally fucked off.”

azzi smiled and leaned down, pressing a sloppy kiss to paige’s mouth. paige moaned into it, and azzi felt a rush of pleasure at the idea that paige was called more to her than the shadow of death at her door. she almost lost her sense of the present, but then ashlynn shifted from where she was watching with an almost detached boredom, and the floor creaked.

azzi grew cold.

“stay down,” azzi murmured. her voice was glacial. “you always take it. let me do it this time. please. just stay.”

she pressed her cheek to paige’s temple. felt her nod.

she rose.

azzi’s eyes are wide, unfocused. her body was already wrecked, always had been. but something sharp is crawling back up through her. 

she remembers the feel of skin giving beneath her knuckles. the split of a lip. what it feels like to mark someone and walk away.

that’s what ashlynn doesn’t understand.

azzi hasn’t survived because she’s strong. she’s survived because she’s mean when it counts. love has never softened her. in fact, love, and paige, were her triggers. she doesn’t feel the blood trailing down her own leg until she sees it, shiny against her thigh, a relic from paige's wound that she hadn’t registered. 

her hoodie is a makeshift bandage, and she’s left in her sports bra, which clings to her ribs, soaked through with sweat. her shorts hang low. her whole body hums like a struck wire. carefully, azzi turns to look at ashlynn. azzi—bleeding, breath stuttering, heart thudding like a war drum—laughs. 

ashlynn’s face contorts. 

she hates being humiliated. 

“you’re such a piece of shit, ash,” azzi says. “on and off the court. you want me, but you can’t even make the proper effort to kill me. there’s always somebody else you go for.”

“tread carefully, az,” ashylynn says, her voice deceptively easy.

“or what?” azzi asks, head falling to the side like a dog. “you’re going to kill me? stab me? go ahead. at least then you’d finally fucking do something to me.”

ashlynn’s mouth twists into a sneer, and her hand tightens its grip around her blade. she wipes the strip of metal on the white of her skirt, the contrast jarring. azzi steps back, feet still slick. she moves toward the locker room. 

“and here i was, trying to be nice and give the two of you a chance at saying goodbye,” ashlynn hisses. she’s moving away from paige. “this could’ve been sacred, azzi. you ruined it. again. but hey, at least you’ll be together in the end.”

azzi slides into a crouch, her body keyed up. she locks their gazes together, calls to the beast.

“eat shit, bitch.”

she turns and runs.

azzi knows she isn’t a fighter. but she also knows she wants a kill.

the lights flicker, buzzing and half-dead. steam coats the mirrors, and the floor is slick with water, blood, and shattered glass from a kicked-in fixture. she skidded into it when she burst into the room. somewhere, a towel drips blood into a puddle.

azzi is crouched low between lockers, her breath stuttering. she’s bleeding from her thigh, her side, her shoulder—flesh opened like peeled fruit. her hands are slick and shaking as she pulls another shard of glass from her side. it’s long and jagged, and her tattered skin flutters as she tugs it out like fleshy butterflies.

her shorts hang low on her hips, threatening to fall right off. her v-line is soaked. her sports bra clings to her chest, black and wet and shining in the low light. from outside the door: a thud. then another. footsteps.

azzi’s vision narrows to a tunnel. the fluorescent lights above flicker like a dying star, casting fractured shadows across the locker room tile, smeared with blood. hers, probably paige’s, maybe even someone else’s. who knows how long ashlynn has been here?

the air reeks of sweat and iron. her eyes are burning. her bare feet slip slightly as she takes one step forward, then another. she carefully snags the towel on the floor, wrapping it around the bottom of the piece of glass she just pulled from her side. she stands there with her makeshift blade trembling in her hand.

ashlynn moves like a ghost. calm. confident. as if none of this matters.

“she told you to run,” ashlynn calls out, her voice syrup-slow, tilting her head like a curious predator. “you should’ve listened.”

azzi doesn’t answer. she can’t. every word lodges in her throat behind a scream that hasn’t broken free. she pauses, closes her eyes, licks her lips, and tries to place ashlynn’s location.

she takes a leap and lunges. she’s off.

the blade barely grazes ashlynn’s thigh. just enough to tear fabric. just enough to draw a bead of blood. enough to enrage her.

they crash into each other: teeth gritted, knees hammering into ribs, fingernails clawing through sweat-slick skin. ashlynn’s knife goes spinning across the tiles. gone. azzi doesn’t care.

she slams her shoulder into ashlynn’s sternum. the pain is immediate and electric, sharp enough to make her vision go white for a split second, but she doesn’t stop. doesn’t stop when her elbow cracks against the corner of a bench. doesn’t stop when ashlynn swings the bat—where the absolute fuck did that come from?—and beats it against her forearm. doesn’t stop when the bone splits like a breaking tree branch.

azzi keeps going.

not because she thinks she’s primed to win. but because she refuses to lose.

they end up near the showers, and ashlynn uses azzi’s weight against her, slams her hard into a wall of mirrors and porcelain sinks. azzi feels an army of glass go into her, and she shrieks. ashlynn’s smile nearly overtakes her face. her teeth are pink with her lip gloss.

blood slicks the floor. they fall into it. slide in it. roll.

ashlynn is strong. but azzi is meaner.

azzi headbutts her. a sickening crunch. blood gushes from ashlynn’s nose. she rears back, and azzi strikes again. ashlynn catches her this time, pushes her back, and kicks her hard in the ribs. glass pushes in. azzi lets loose a horrible wail of pain.

god, she hopes paige can’t hear her.

“you’re not like her,” ashlynn hisses as she pins azzi to the floor, their limbs tangled in blood and water and broken tile. “you’re soft. paige is out there, gurgling like a pitiful little insect. she’s killed for you. and you? you can’t even protect yourself.”

azzi meets her eyes. something dead and ancient opens in her chest.

“you’re right,” she says, her voice flat. “i’m not like her. i’m not even like you.”

her eyes slide down to her thigh, to where a jagged chunk of mirror is protruding at a grotesque angle. her hand closes around it. she screams, raw and loud, as she drags it out.

the world tilts.

azzi grits her teeth, sobbing through the pain as she finally frees the shard and slashes it across ashlynn’s neck.

the sound ashlynn makes isn’t human. it’s not like she was one.

“i’m worse,” azzi finishes, her voice monotonous. she’s an animal now.

blood sprays across the wall. ashlynn gurgles. falls back. grabs her throat. tries to stand. but azzi tackles her. ashlynn worms her way out, still desperate to keep going.

azzi is so fucking tired of her.

somehow, the fight spills into the gym. azzi barely registers her surroundings anymore. it’s all just shapes and echoes and blood. the bat has been dropped. the wood shines red and begging.

azzi picks it up with her broken arm, pain lighting up her nerves like fireworks. doesn’t matter. she spits blood from her mouth, tilting her head back to breathe.

ashlynn is up. she’s stumbling. gasping.

rage floods azzi. she pushes herself forward, steps slow and heavy. she is aware of paige just off to the side, her body writhing to life as she sees the ways in which azzi is destroyed. the gym lights are strobing, or maybe that’s just azzi’s vision going in and out.

ashlynn is swaying. still moving. still swinging. so determined not to die.

azzi follows. she is her harbinger.

she hefts the bat. cocks her shoulder back and raises it high. her shadow elongates past ashlynn’s bloody, burbling body.

here they are—framed center court. azzi stands, slick with gore and sweat, chest heaving. her body is shaking, the bat trembling in the air. she’s frozen for only a moment. not with fear, but with the aftershocks of violence, like a bell still ringing long after the strike.

she looks savage. beautiful.

her shorts ride low on her hips, exposing more bruises than skin. patches of raw flesh bloom across her thighs and abdomen; a cruel constellation of survival. her stomach rises and falls sharply. blood traces the curve of her spine.

her mouth parts, lips raw, a streak of crimson trailing down her jawline like war paint. her eyes are half-wild, rimmed with salt and pain.

she is radiant.

she is herself, finally.

behind her, paige coughs, wet and broken. azzi doesn’t turn. she’s focused, but she can feel her. she knows paige is still on the ground because she made her promise to stay down. to let her fight. to let her win.

ashlynn turns, her knees beginning to buckle. her eyes widen. there’s a flicker of fear. azzi’s face twists into a snarl. her teeth flash, and she swings.

the first strike lands in the ribs. the crack is beautiful. next swing: the side of the head. then the shoulder.

the bat rises and falls. again.

and again.

and again.

she beats ashlynn down with everything she has.

azzi is screaming now. she doesn’t remember starting. the raw, bestial sound claws out of her chest. she drops the bat mid-roar and keeps going. keeps wailing like her body has become a speaker for everything she ever buried.

her grief. her love. her shame. her fear. her rage. it all comes up at once, ripping through her like a second spine.

she screams until her throat gives out. until she vomits. she falls to her knees, hands holding her up as the bile falls. she looks up, remnants dripping from her mouth.

ashlynn is unmoving. she’s finally stayed down.

azzi looks away and blinks blood from her lashes.

behind her, paige lets out a rattle. it’s moist and weak.

azzi turns. her injuries scream. agony spears through her. still, she crawls over.

paige is alive, but barely. azzi begins to cry.

the doors crash open. the police—late as always. she wonders what finally clued them in.

sirens scream outside. floodlights streak in through broken windows, blue and red flashing against the blood-slicked floor. a crowd is gathered just inside the gym entrance: cops, students, and jana, stunned and silent.

azzi stands, heaving.

she steps forward, bare feet flexing, each move unsteady but deliberate, like her body weighs more now. her breath drags out in short, shattered exhales.

“mmm,” she moans, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from fainting.

she places herself in front of paige.

one step. then another. she turns to the crowd.

her eyes lock with theirs. someone is sobbing. someone else whispers her name like they barely recognize her. in azzi’s face: no remorse. no apology. only choice.

the bat glints on the floor next to what used to be ashlynn, still wet.

azzi raises her hands, palms open. blood pools in the creases. her arms shake.

she’s drawn the line. they can think what they want.

azzi’s already decided.

paige is trying to sit up, always trying to take the fall for her. but azzi is different now.

but she doesn’t mind. 

she will do anything to keep paige alive. to keep them both alive.

final girl stands alone. one killer behind her. one in front. she loves the one behind. their instincts are twinned. the other is gone. final girl has survived. but there is no peace inside her. only the hum of violence, like rabid bees. there is an aftertaste. almost holy. final girl with her blood-stained hands in the sudden silence. final girl declares: i did this. i would do it again. i had to choose, and i will always choose her. final girl stands cut open. many things bleed out. from her: a red river of love, but no peace.

𓇼 the hospital is quiet at 3 a.m. everything is bleached and humming.

𓇼 paige has a private room. no visitors allowed for now. but rules don’t apply to girls who almost died for each other.

𓇼 azzi’s got six stitches along her ribs, butterfly bandages blooming down her forearms where glass sliced her open. her body is stiff as she rises. a nurse tried to stop her from leaving her bed. azzi didn’t stop walking.

𓇼 she finds paige propped up in bed, pale but awake, one arm bandaged tightly against her body. the stab wound missed anything fatal by an inch. azzi has replayed that inch in her head a thousand times.

𓇼 paige blinks as if to check if she’s dreaming when azzi shuffles inside. “hey, princess,” she says. soft, so soft.

𓇼 azzi doesn’t speak. she just crawls in beside her, every joint aching. she presses her face into paige’s shoulder, careful not to touch the dressing, and exhales for what feels like the first time in days.

𓇼 paige tips her chin, kisses azzi’s hair. “i’m so proud of you, mama,” she whispers. “thank you for saving my life.”

𓇼 azzi barely breathes. paige pretends not to notice her hospital gown growing wet. “you’d do the same for me.” it’s quiet. not solemn. bone-deep.

𓇼 then paige mutters, “she got me early. she knew i’d shut that shit down.” azzi huffs, a crooked little laugh. “i am so gonna fuck you when we get out of here.”

𓇼 paige blinks, surprised, then breaks into a smile. “yo, chill,” she grins, hand curling into azzi’s. azzi smiles too, but paige can see through it. this is all bravado.

𓇼 they lie there a long time, and eventually paige falls asleep. azzi listens to the monitor beep steadily in the dark.

𓇼 she brings a hand up to her neck, where the sleek gold evil eye jana got them both for protection glints against her collarbone.

whether it’s that—or paige’s lips dragging across her throat—that’s the only line azzi wants drawn across her neck.

© hcneymooners.

[vinnyvamppp]

Dearie, I am obsessed with your writing! Can I request some gn superhero reader x sinister mark? Reader became a hero because what else are their powers good for (you can imagine whatever their powers are)? They were taught by society by obviously what’s right and wrong, about how they SHOULD act, but there’s always been something cruel and dangerous, glinting beneath the surface. Something that shivered with excitement at destruction, that made their hands quiver and ache to grip something (or someone) until it was destroyed. They know how to act the image of a just hero. Maybe they tried fooling themselves into this hero business, that if they could fool themselves long enough, that they’d believe this lie of a heroic persona they’ve made up. Mark sees what festers beneath the surface. It’s gorgeous and deranged, and he wants to be the one that frees reader of this delusion they’ve foolishly attempted to tell themselves.

Where Saints Are Buried

Note: Honey… you basically wrote the story for me lmao. Let me see if I can elaborate a little further.

Warnings: None aside from mentions of violence.

Synopsis: To be loved as a lie, or wanted as a weapon— choose. This is not a love story, it’s a recognition. You were born righteous and powerful, but there’s always been a tremble in your hands, an ache to ruin. He sees it— Mark sees all of it. And he’s not afraid. He’s enthralled.

Sinister Mark x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1,848

No one ever asked what it cost you to stay kind. You were supposed to be the good one. That’s what they told you, over and over again, until the words wrapped around your spine like chains. You were the miracle, the blessed one, the glowing future on two legs. A child of light.

It wasn’t born in a lab. It wasn’t given. It was carved. Forged into you by something older than the stars—older than reason itself. When it woke inside you, it wasn’t loud. It was still. A stillness that made the world hold its breath. The kind of silence that hums with pressure. Like the moment right before lightning splits the sky. The kind that people cannot name. So they dressed you in gold and white and hoped it would make you smaller

It didn’t manifest in colors or capes. It came in gravity shifts and fractures in space that shouldn’t be possible. In the way time seemed to bend around your anger. In the way your hands could pull apart things reality claimed were solid.

Your power wasn’t designed for saving people. It was made to undo. Undo structures. Undo flesh. Undo fate. Some days, when you used it, you swore you could feel something watching— Not a god. Not a person. Something deeper. Something waiting. And it liked when you let go.

The first time your powers manifested, you were twelve. There was a fire. A scream. A snap of instinct and suddenly— You were burning, but untouched. Everything else? Gone.

They told you, you’d saved lives. That you were destined for more.

And maybe that’s where it started. The lie.

And for a while, you believed it.

Because it was easier than asking why your hands shook after battle—not from fear, but from the electric hunger that hummed in your bones when the dust settled. Why your lungs expanded too eagerly in smoke and ruin. Why you sometimes looked into the eyes of a man begging for mercy and felt…  Nothing. You let them paint you as the symbol. The protector. The golden child with powers that could rewrite physics and ripple through dimensions. You stood on podiums. You learned how to smile for cameras. You memorized what to say. You wore righteousness like armor, but it always fit too tight—cutting, pinching, reminding you that you were built for war, not worship. They called it justice. You always called it endurance. And now, its a lie that’s left rotting beneath your skin. Because, if this is what truth feels like—bare, bloodied, burning—then maybe you were never meant to wear white in the first place. Perhaps you were never pure. The fibs that etched themselves into your memory pondered the grandeur of breaking the world into pieces rather than rebuilding what was meant to starve.

But still, you tried. You told yourself it was nothing, perhaps a glitch in your humanity. A leftover survival instinct. You buried it beneath mission reports, beneath clean costumes, beneath the applause. You trained. You smiled. You learned the cadence of interviews, how to hold your head up just enough to look hopeful, humble. You knew how to win a fight and still look clean afterward.

You gave them what they wanted: a god who looked like salvation.

But beneath the surface?

There was always something else. 

It wasn’t rage. Not really. Rage is loud. Blunt. This thing inside you—it was quiet. Slow. Patient. It coiled around your heart like smoke, whispering,  “Let it break. Let it all fall.”

You buried it under good deeds. You buried it under smiling teeth and controlled punches and speeches about “hope.” When the line between stopping and breaking blurred, and you didn’t stop yourself. You were a hero. That’s what they called you. So you kept smiling. Kept posing for the cameras. Kept lying.

And no one ever saw it.

Until him. Sinister Mark didn’t need to see it. He already knew.

From the very first time your eyes met, he looked at you not like a threat—not like a rival— but like something he recognized. Like he’d been waiting for you. He didn’t monologue. He didn’t sneer. He didn’t make a show of being your opposite. He just… smiled. A smile that held a blanketed warmth unforeseen before. That calm, infuriating, terrifying smile that told you— “I know what you are. You can’t lie to me.”

And when you struck him? When you gave in, even for a moment, to that creeping thing inside you?  He laughed. A real laugh. Like you were art. Like you were finally becoming something worth watching. Observing that sliver of chaos you spent years trying to hide. That crack in your moral armor. That hunger you dared not name. You told yourself you hated him.

Told yourself he was evil. A monster. That his interest in you was twisted, predatory, vile. That he doesn't beg you to stop. He begs you to admit that you like it like an addict. But when you lay awake at night, soaked in sweat and silence, it wasn’t his cruelty that haunted you— It was the way he looked at you like you weren’t a lie. Like he didn’t need you to be good to find you beautiful. Like the part of you, you’ve hated most was the one he admired. Finally having someone who didn’t require you to lie about the instincts crawling beneath your flesh. You crafted yourself from applause and duty, but the mirror only shows blood and breath and eyes that don’t blink when they should. What do you do when the thing you’ve always feared becoming looks more honest than anything you’ve been? Somewhere within, the hero is still trying to stand up. you just aren’t sure if you want them to anymore. Tonight, something in you breaks.

You’re not on a rooftop for some dramatic aesthetic. You’re here because you can’t face a mirror. There was another mission. Another “victory.” Another moment where your powers overwhelmed the intention behind them. They said you saved people. You stopped the threat. You did your job.

But you know what you felt when you held that last man by the throat, when he clawed at your wrist— Relief. Satisfaction. And worse…  Joy. What would happen if you let go? If you stopped playing the part the world wrote for you, and stepped into the role that fit like a second skin. Not a villain. Not a monster. Just you. Unfiltered and unleashed. Who would… retaliate?

He found you before you found him. Your hands are still shaking when you hear the soft impact of boots on concrete behind you. You don’t look, you already know it is. His presence moves like gravity. A slow, dark pull that you pretend doesn’t drag at your ribs. He doesn’t speak, not at first anyway. Just stands beside you, the space between you buzzing like a live wire.

“I hurt them,” you say, your voice cracking, but quiet. “Too much. They said I did the right thing.”

Mark tilts his head, like he’s studying the shape of your guilt.  “You did. You stopped them.”

“They weren’t supposed to die.”

He hums. “But part of you liked that they did.”

Your breath shudders, your flesh stings as your chest suddenly drags with the weight of the earth. Your body lurches forward, “Then why do I feel like I can’t breathe?”

He stepped closer. Just near enough that you felt the heat off his skin. “Because you’re suffocating in the skin they gave you.” And then, softer—almost reverent:  “I see what you are. And it’s beautiful.” And still—you don’t deny it. Because he doesn’t need you to. Because you’re so, so tired of pretending and he’s finally offering you an out. 

He takes a step closer. “You’ve been trying to wear a mask so long you forgot what your own face looks like.” His voice is low, almost gentle. Not mocking.  Not this time. He leans in, barely touching, his breath brushing your ear like a secret. “Let it crack.” The tension felt like romantic horror—close, coiled, always on the verge of consuming each other. His voice reaches places that your conscience won’t. His words cause a greedily warmth to dust your skin, craving to be seen. 

Because for the first time, someone wasn’t praising your perfection. He was worshipping your ruin. He did not crave your kindness—he craved the monster you hide. The one made of fire and fault lines and a smile sharp enough to split a man. And gods help you— You liked it. He was like a shadow clawing at your back, whispering truths you didn’t want to hear. You kept fighting him. That’s what heroes do. 

You turn to him. Your eyes—wild and vulnerable. “Why do you care?” It’s not accusation. It’s confusion, desperation even. It’s you, standing at the edge of yourself. And he answers like it’s obvious, like it’s something you should know.

“Because I’ve seen gods destroy worlds for less than what lives inside you.”  He steps forward, one hand lifting to your cheek—not touching, but close.  “And I want to be here when you finally stop lying to yourself.” 

You could break now. You could fall apart. But for once, maybe that’s not the worst thing.  Maybe being seen—truly seen—isn’t damnation.  Maybe it’s the first real breath you’ve ever taken. And for the first time in your life… You let it show. And he smiles like he’s witnessing a gorgeous storm splitting the dam that is your restraint. Like you’re the most beautiful disaster he’s ever known.

He had seen galaxies collapse and stars choke on their own fire, but none of it compares to the moment you stopped pretending to be good. This is what gods must look like, just before they fall. Just before they experience the precipice of a world rightfully theirs.

He truly saw potential. What lied in wake for him to inspire. You were not born of mercy but of aftermath; a cathedral built from the bones of your restraint. The gods must’ve carved you from the ash of their regrets and whispered, ‘Go. Finish what we couldn’t.’ ... yes, that’s what he believed. He would be the one to set you free. The elegant bird trapped in a cage of their own suffering. You were not redemption or wrath, you were his and if wanting you damned him then let Hell open its gates and take notes.

So he stepped closer, slow, deliberate, like he was approaching a creature more divine than dangerous. And when his mouth met yours, it wasn’t gentle—it was a reckoning. A desperate, trembling kind of hunger, like he was kissing the end of the world and begging it to stay just a second longer. He kissed as if knowing you'd cause ruin, like he'd forgiven your naivety in rejecting who you truly are, and pleased to watch you do so through shaking hands and wet eyes.

Because to be ugly is to be loved. And to be seen is to stand naked before him and still be held.

A/N: Chat, did we cook? (This was so scrumptious to write.) we love creative anons, UGH!

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[exbotmallow]

tr!bad feels SOO safe with tr!water. he reads tr!bad like a children's book. he doesn't question tr!bad's intentions, and has a much more similar mindset to him than any of the others surrounding his domain.

in fact.... tr!bad feels SO safe with tr!water....

that he accidentally just told him that tr!ros asked to be killed.

[tr!bbh centric, long(ish) post]

tr!bad has never sounded this frantic before. not even when tr!zam and tr!sneeg popped his one-shot protection yesterday. he is tripping over all his words, and fumbling every bit of information where he even sounded confident in things he was unsure about. tr!bad tried to jump through hoops and say he fumbled his words and was getting mixed up, but the whole reason he even felt safe with tr!water in the first place is that she understood him. and boy, does she understand that he is a liar, and a bad one, too.

tr!water has, generously, offered to play tr!bad's game of pretending she believes him. but regardless of their little game, tr!bad said what he said, and tr!water knows what she heard. this is good for tr!bad, who i assume trusts her to not tell anyone since its clear he didnt want to share with anyone.

this begs the question- is the deal broken? tr!ros told tr!bad not to tell anyone anything as a part of the deal, and tr!bad let it spill as easy as telling an old friend you found a quarter on the sidewalk. however, he tried to back track, and even if he said it, he said he misspoke. but then again... tr!water believes him 0%. so what now?

if the integrity of the deal is that tr!bad can slip around accidentally saying it by implying whatever he said was a mistake, then perhaps nothing. its over and done because he never said anything he meant and hasmt said otherwise. but...

if the integrity of the deal lies in the fact that tr!water clearly doesnt believe that tr!bad lied about what he said, then perhaps we will see the consequences of breaking one of his deals for the first time. hes so strict about it- clearly he knows what happens, right? he is so strict about not breaking his deals, it was believed that he physically couldnt. but now? whatever's holding him back from breaking his deals seems like it could be closer to fear.

regardless of whether tr!bad will see the consequences of his actions, someone knows now. someone knows that tr!ros asked to be killed. even if tr!bad is lying to himself and everyone else. and it must feel so freeing, even if frankly, frightening with impending doom about the consequences, to finally have someone know that tr!bad didnt just kill tr!ros for nothing.

she asked. he didnt want to.

but what is death if not merciful to those he cares about? especially when he already knows he is in sight.

[julien-sorel]

The way I understand it (from people I know IRL who are in that world), most modern art is either

A) technical wankery trying to distill some aspect or trait of an artwork to its platonic ideal (often the case with earlier works when modern art was just becoming a thing), similar to, say, a very niche experimental perfume. The nerds are really into it. There's similar stuff in 20th c classical composition and I gotta say you do start to get it if you're like deep into the rabbithole of whatever the artist is trying to do. It's less about providing a full aesthetic experience and more about sort of training your senses to discern subtle changes in X and what they evoke by presenting them in isolation from everything else as much as you can physically manage. Like a scientific experiment where you isolate variable x and then subtly, well, vary it. The goal is less to make something broadly appealing and more to help the artist train to achieve that precision of expression (and then serve as a showcase of it).

Or

B) literal shitposting. As in, there are trends and ongoing conversations and memes of sorts and a lot of the more acclaimed modern art isn't meant to be consumed as a separate and complete aesthetic experience that you can get something out of as a total rando who walked into a gallery to see something that has a visually pleasing effect or evokes some sort of emotion, but rather as something with the exact nature of a low effort Tumblr shitpost that makes zero sense to people outside of Tumblr but that Tumblrinas love because it picks just the right words and hits just the right spot in subverting/mocking/questioning/referencing the current memes/trends (and sometimes has stuff that's there just for shock value).

So saying that it takes no creativity or skill isn't true - some people just can't Post to save their life (see Elon Musk), and some are naturals. I'd say the aesthetic skill of picking the right words/elements is a minor part of it and the conversational/debate skill of perceiving the flow of the general conversation and knowing exactly when and what to reply is the larger part. Still, like with anything that's a conversation the social networks and clout of the participants determine how far each addition to the conversation will spread and how it will be received. A zinger by toskarin will be experienced differently from a zinger by a rando with three followers. (And a five-year-old could feasibly reproduce a popular Tumblr shitpost or create something similar but they're not participating in the conversation in the same way and we know their understanding of the conversation wouldn't be the same.)

And when the clout and the social network depend on years of expensive art schools and expensive networking events that few can afford long-term... yeah. What OP said ends up largely being true. Unless you're very rich and well-connected you're the guy with two followers whose post might go viral because it hits just the right zeitgeisty sweet spot, but if it does it's 99% luck in having it spotted/shared by the right person and 1% anything you did.

Plus when anything like this gains societal prestige (as anything adopted by the rich and ~refined will) you also get the hangers on who want to be into it because it's cool/intellectual and not because they really get it (but they HAVE to like it because it's cool and critically acclaimed and all the trendy kids etc. etc. You don't GET it, Rothko is good because his paintings are LARGE, that's why I want one in my house!). I get both sides to an extent, I get stuff like Rothko or atonal composition to a point because I'm well-versed enough in what they're trying to do, but, say, most experimental/arthouse cinema just does nothing for me and looks like an obnoxious, pretentious mess, when I imagine it works in a similar way to folk who are in the know.

The highbrow art types are largely aware of all this, which is why you rarely see them, say, foaming at the mouth about AI the way more "artisanal" artists and illustrators (which the high art types will often argue are different from artists) do. They know art hasn't been about "effort" and "skill" and "self-expression" and "soul" for decades, if it ever has been.

In fact they're more likely to use genAI to make whatever the high art equivalent of the Gay Sex Cats image is and make the insiders laugh when they spot the meme-y easter egg.

"ugh, my five-year-old could make that!"

"so why don't you?"

"because in my view this part of the art world is not about talent or the work itself, but about who you know and a large amount of random chance, and i'm not an insider so anything I make will be viewed as worthless."

"oh."

[mametchiii]

Strange to Hear:

Y. Jeonghan x Reader [ 1.3k ]

cw: angst, angry confessions, idiots in love, alcohol

The bar is buzzing with people, and Jeonghan’s mind is a blur, yet you somehow remain the focal point amidst everything. With each pump of his heart, more alcohol circulates to cloud his head – Jeonghan’s blood alcohol is at an all time high, triggering a resurgence of past memories and old versions of you.

Nothing new – you’ve seen Jeonghan drunk before, but the last time you’ve actually witnessed it was in your adolescence.

Now, you’re both pushing thirty, but neither of you feel it yet. Because when you’re with Jeonghan, you’re twenty-one and in love again.

You’re not exactly how sure it started, but what does it matter? Nine years in the making – raw, unabated love – a love story that yearns for its ending, unsure whether Jeonghan even feels the same way about you.

Jeonghan has been on several dates over the years that you’ve known him, entered a number of short-lived relationships. And so your initial fiery feelings have settled into a somewhat quiet smolder, convinced that all you can do is admire from afar. Nine years later, you still question whether or not you actually love him anymore – though you really mean to ask if it’s still worth pursuing.

But your heart betrays your conscience time and time again; because you know deep down that you want it to be him in the end, because you’re sure that if it was anybody else, you’d be gone by now.

He hardly notices that you’ve long stopped talking, hell, even the way that he’s looking at you tonight. You definitely notice it though, something different about him; Behind his featherlight, innocent gaze, something about it feels somewhat unchaste, and you’re not sure how to feel about it.

You’ve grown to hate his annoying wisecracks, his steely but tender gaze, how he has you completely wrapped around his finger – you absolutely loathe him for the vice that he is.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you say bluntly, immediately snapping him out of his daze.

His eyeline shifts from your face to your eyes, and he lets out a small smile. He fakes a pained hiss, before looking at you with a confused pout on his face.

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

You sigh.

You’re flustered and feel the familiar flutter in your stomach, but truthfully sick and tired of playing the same game over and over again; running the same laps you’ve been the past few years. And Jeonghan sees your frustration all too well. He knows you’re not up for your usual banter, but tonight he doesn’t concede.

He leans back against the booth, crossing his arms, “alright, alright, I’m sorry.”

However, he still looks at you with that familiar gaze, his head cocked to the side as he watches you take another sip of your what, fourth? Fifth? Beer of the night.

“But I hope I’m not leading you on, though.”

You freeze, and everything around you stops too. The chatter dies down, and the throng of people seem to slowly take their leave.

You take that like a shot to the heart. Does he even know what he’s saying? You can blame the alcohol drowning out all forms of rationality, but the urge to fight him pulls at your heart violently.

Sure, Jeonghan has a gentle soul and harbours the sensitivity one would only imagine a mother to have, but god does he know how to get under your skin. He knows just the right amount of venom to inject his delivery with to piss you off, but still conveys the lightheartedness of the sentence.

That’s what twelve years of friendship does to someone, doesn’t it? It gives you privy to each others’ feelings, and apparently comes with a chokehold on the other’s heart — though that is yet to be discovered by Jeonghan.

You slam your glass down a little harder than intended, your feelings overtaking you. You look at him through bloodshot eyes, speaking with an alcohol-addled conscience unable to filter out unnecessary emotions.

“The fuck are you saying? What kind of sick joke do you think you’re making?”

That nearly sobers up Jeonghan entirely, feeling the weight of his words fall back on him.

“Joke? I meant every word I said Y/N.”

“It’s not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny.”

“Then just stop talking.”

Jeonghan hears you begin to choke up, and notices that your bloodshot eyes are more than just the product of the alcohol in your body.

You can’t bear to look at him anymore, and can’t stop the words from tumbling out:

“Nothing is funny. This,” you gesture grandly between the two of you, “isn’t funny.”

You let out a shaky exhale, feeling all the suppressed emotions begin to bubble up at the surface — all those nights spent crying over what you hoped was a fleeting crush, the pain of watching him run off with another girl, the pain of feeling walked over by Jeonghan every time you two spoke.

“I don’t know why you get off of tormenting me every single time we’re together. Stop talking to me like I’m beneath you, because you know damn well that it’s true.”

You look up at the ceiling in a vain attempt to stop the tears from flowing out.

“Do you know how it feels? To have what you so painfully want repeatedly ripped away from you even though you know you’ve never had a chance to begin with? Maybe you don’t, I wouldn’t know. But I do, and I hate it so, so much.”

A painful silence ensues between you both. You can’t look in Jeonghan’s general direction, but he can’t stop looking at you.

“I hate you so much, Yoon Jeonghan,” you breathe out barely loud enough for him to catch.

And you feel the first tear drop, then the next, and you know there’s no stopping now.

Jeonghan looks at you, expression unreadable. Though if you were actually looking at him, you could easily tell that he’s dumbfounded. His mind draws a blank, and he’s not sure what to say next.

Jeonghan never knew you felt this way about him — that your heart feels trampled over, that he’d taken a bite out of it and left it for dead. He’s well aware of his undeniable feelings for you that blossomed the very moment he laid eyes on you. But one question continues to linger in his mind — why did he wait so long? Perhaps he was waiting for the right time to confess — somewhere scenic, cliche, and a little bit cheesy to stand a chance at winning you over.

Ironic isn’t it, that Jeonghan was unaware of your feelings all this while?

He wants so badly to grab you by the shoulders and shake your brain back into sobriety, tell you that all the other girls meant nothing to him. That he was only looking for a distraction, that everything was short-lived only because none of them were you.

Jeonghan has done enough running to last a lifetime, and he’s made an oath to waste no time finding you in the next. He’s not sure why he waited nine years too long, but Jeonghan is done with denying himself the pleasure of your love.

You choke out another pained sob before standing up to leave the establishment, embarrassed of the entire ordeal. If you couldn’t run from your feelings, the least you could do for yourself was to save face and evade the scene.

Hot on your heels, Jeonghan gets up immediately and sprints out of the building like his life depends on it — because well, technically it does.

Jeonghan’s regret is immense, but his love is stronger; he can’t let you run away, not until he tells you how he feels. Jeonghan can’t imagine a life without you, and he can’t believe that he’s been so blind to everything all this while.

So he will do anything and everything to finally get your galaxies to collide. He’s wanted nothing more than to join you in your orbit, and he wasn’t letting you go until he got exactly what he wanted.

a/n: honestly i dont really like this piece tbh, so unsure if ill even make a pt2 lolol

[lumosinlove]

Vaincre

Finals part ii

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 11:00 PM

There was a roar in Logan’s ears. He didn’t know where to turn first, numb and frozen and disbelieving. He didn’t know anything, and he knew it all. He wondered how it had happened, and he’d seen the entire thing. His cheek throbbed and he tried to look around, anywhere, tried to find them, even though he knew they wouldn’t be here. They’d be in the stands. They’d be waiting for him. Logan dropped to a knee and let out his first real breath all game.

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 4:30 PM

Logan adjusted the bill of his hat where Luke had knocked it askew down against the back of his neck to try and keep him from seeing the soccer ball they were kicking around in one of the clearer parts of the inner arena.

“D’accord,” Logan said, hand over his head. “That’s cheating.”

“You just tripped me,” Luke countered. “Which, by the way, if Coach saw you do that—”

“So, what did she say?” Logan interrupted. He looked pointedly to Percy as the soccer ball came his way. Luke rolled his eyes.

“What?” Percy asked, but he was grinning.

“Fuck off, you know what,” Luke said.

“When you finally asked Cassie out.”

Percy’s sigh was long and drawn out even as he laughed softly. Logan could see him doing that in OKN’s kitchen, on the road, in the various drab dining rooms of different hotels, and on long midnight bus rides. It was the same sound, the same laugh, the same face. His strawberry-blond hair and its usual tighter curls had been turned fluffy by his post-practice shower.

“Ah…” Percy said slowly. “I haven’t exactly asked her yet.”

“Marsh,” Alex shouted. “Jesus, dude, she likes you.”

“I am just a man,” Percy shouted back, still laughing. “You try looking at someone like her and asking her to spend time with you.” He held up a hand and began ticking off things he said by lowering a finger. “Cassie Baker, Cas-sie Ba-ker is smart, and gorgeous, and accomplished, and funny. And she always has been, since the moment I met her.” He pointed at Logan. “And before you freak out, you emotional French Canadian human, yes, it is fine that you dated her. But back to my original point: I am just a man who is fairly accomplished with sticks and ice cubes.”

“My God,” Alex said. “We should be better friends.”

“Please,” Percy replied. “Sir, come on.”

“Why haven’t you asked her?” Logan said. “She’s so—She’s so…”

He was met with multiple sets of raised eyebrows.

Logan didn’t know if it was really a lack of words, or English, or just that time had gone by that kept him from being able to properly describe Cassie Baker. She had been there, desiring him, through the start of a new part of his life. She’d kept him from feeling like a failure after a bad class, or a bad game—even, without her knowing, after a bad night spent wondering why he kept thinking about the freckles over Finn’s arms, and the moment earlier that day he’d wrapped one of those arms around his waist. She’d loosened his tense, guarded ways. She might, now that Logan was thinking about it, have been the reason he felt like he could kiss Finn in the dark back bedroom, that very first time. Might have been the reason he had been bold enough—when he was bold in nothing else—to guide their hips together and get Finn off.

“Hello?” Percy said. “Why do you have your Finn face on all of a sudden? What were you gonna say?”

“I…” Logan shook his head, dazed. “I mean—she’s fucking kind. She’s the best. Ask her, Perc.”

“He’s scared,” Saint said. He wasn’t kicking the soccer ball around with them. He never did. Wouldn’t touch the thing. He hung out and stretched close by though, usually near Luke’s side of their circle.

Percy scoffed. “Wow. Way to call me out, Saint.”

Saint shrugged, reaching back for an ankle to stretch towards the back of his thigh. “People as loud as you usually are.”

“She’s not scary,” Logan said.

“Girls are definitely scary,” Alex said. “But, like, it a good way.” He gave a mock little shiver and grinned. “In like a, what the hell’s gonna happen next way.”

Percy let out a soft ha. He kept his eyes on the soccer ball, which he balanced on the flat laces of his sneaker. “I—yeah. But. I mean, she could definitely say no. And I would rather be her friend than have her say no.”

“She could also say yes,” Logan pointed out.

“Yeah, well…” Percy gave the ball a little boost with a flick of his toe and kicked it in a gentle arc to Logan, who caught it on his sneaker likewise. “Saint’s right. I’m a chicken, Tremblay.” He adjusted his hat over his curls. “This chicken is now going to run a few laps.”

Logan frowned, watching him go. Percy Marshall was a lot of things. Afraid wasn’t something that would have made Logan’s list.

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 11:00 PM

Luke could hardly hear the crowd—or maybe it was all he could hear. Someone put a tight arm around his shoulder, then released him. Sweat dripped off his hair and down his neck. He was soaked through, overheated, wanted water so badly he was sure he could drink the entire tank of Gatorade the staff kept for them. But he wasn’t tired. He was a live wire with dangerous sparks at its end, trying to piece those last moments back together in his mind.

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 5:30 PM

Alex leaned his back against the doorframe to the lounge, using its solid edge to dig into a particularly sore spot on his shoulder while he waited for Natalie or Kasey to notice him. For now, he was content watching the way Natalie talked with her hands. He didn’t have all the time in the world, but he wanted to see the families milling around. There were his own parents, along with Finn and Leo, talking to Logan’s. Logan’s mother and Leo had their arms around each other’s waists and were laughing heartily about something with glasses of wine in their hands. Percy’s parents had been caught up by Will’s family it seemed, and they were showing something to each other on their phones and miming their hands in a way that made Alex think they must be talking about food. Maybe where they’d get dinner another day this week.

Alex crossed his arms and looked back to his two. Kasey was already looking at him.

“Kasey Winter,” Alex mouthed, and unwound one of his arms to crook his finger, telling Kasey to come to him.

Kasey bit the inside of his cheek against one of his hidden smiles and excuse himself from the conversation. Alex watched him walk over. He pulled a last sip from the ice of his drink before setting it down.

“Your face gets sexy when you’re chewing ice,” Alex said by way of hello.

“I took too much,” Kasey said around the sound of crunching. “It’s cold.”

“Root Beer?” Alex asked.

“The most underrated drink,” Kasey said. “Saving my more celebratory drinks for later.”

Alex slugged him in the shoulder. “I can’t believe you just fucking said that.”

Kasey just smiled. He leaned forward, hesitated for only a moment to look at Alex’s face, and then ducked slightly to give him a quick kiss. A zing of a kiss. Chilled from the ice. Alex felt ten times more awake.

“Feel ready?” Kasey asked.

Alex raised a brow. “Do you feel ready?”

“No, I feel like I’m already on pins and needles.”

Alex laughed. “Well, I like to keep you on your toes. It’s a goal in life.”

“Don’t we know it.” Natalie slid against his side and put her hand out. “Look.”

Alex gently took her hand in his to better see her red and blue nails. “Very pretty. All for me?”

“I like dressing up for games, what can I say?”

Alex glanced at Kasey as he ducked to press a kiss to Natalie’s temple. Her hair was swept back into a high ponytail and curled. “Just for games?”

“For you, Alexander,” Natalie said, putting a hand behind his neck. “Feel ready?”

Kasey laughed. “I already asked him.”

“Uh-huh, and he probably didn’t answer.”

Kasey made an exaggerated hm noise. “Come to think of it, he didn’t.”

“I’m ready, I’m ready.” Alex pressed a quick kiss to Natalie’s mouth. “And I gotta go, baby.” He leaned forward to to wrap a tight arm around Kasey’s shoulders and turned his mouth close to his ear. “You should watch me now, then watch me and Nat later.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kasey laughed softly. But then he pressed his hand low on Alex’s back.

Alex grinned. He gave Natalie’s blond hair a gentle tug as he passed, and felt alone in the hallway, like he always did when he left them.

He only made it a few steps before he heard footsteps behind him, jogging to catch up. When he turned, expecting Kasey by the lack of heels clicking against the floor, he found his little brother.

“Ah, goldfish cracker,” Alex said. When Finn just looked at him, frown in place, he put a hand on his shoulder. “Hi, you good, or—”

“These games,” Finn said softly. “They get rough. Tonight especially. It’s all on the line, Al.”

“You’re telling me.”

Finn rolled his eyes. “Alex.”

“I know,” Alex said. Some days, some mornings, he woke up unable to rest until he knew that Finn was all right. Sometimes he’d had a dream about the concussion. Some days he just needed to know. “I know.”

“Just be careful,” Finn said.

“You gonna celebrate with me tonight? No matter what?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Not gonna let Logan hog you?”

“Well—no promises. He’s very convincing.”

“You mean you wouldn’t be able to resist him if he…” Alex sighed. “I can’t even think of anything he could do.”

“Sounds right,” Finn said. He put both hands on Alex’s shoulders. “Hey. Love you. Kick their ass, all right? For our seven year old selves.”

Alex laughed as he watched Finn back up to return to the lounge. “Sure thing, Fish.”

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 5:30 PM

Logan was on the stationary bike when his phone lit up. Leo.

Finn is with his parents but I’m just around locker room corner—kiss? xx

Logan nearly tripped getting off the bike. He stumbled on the pedals and hopped on one foot before catching himself on the handlebars of Luke’s.

“What the fuck just happened to you?” Luke asked.

“Be right back,” Logan called, already headed towards the door.

Cooing, he typed back to Leo, then cursed and tried to type correctly as he jogged out of the gym. Coming

Rounding the corner to see Leo leaning against the wall was more than Logan could have hoped for. He wore a blue sweater, one of the soft, thin cashmere ones he’d allowed himself to spend more money on than usual. Look, Lo, he’d said in the store. Feel how soft.

Logan had made him blush when he’d pushed the sleeve up and ran his fingers along Leo’s skin instead.

“Hi,” Leo smiled when he saw him. Logan reached out for him and Leo walked right into his arms, leaning down to press their cheeks together.

“Salut,” Logan said. “Thanks for coming all the way down here. Everyone in the box?”

“Just about.” Leo nosed at his jaw. “Thought maybe I could shut your brain off for a couple minutes.”

“That sounds good,” Logan said.

Leo’s kiss was playful. Logan let himself be pressed back against the wall by Leo’s tall form. The shadow he cast was like shade on a warm day. Logan felt like he never had to move again, especially when Leo ducked down further, deepened the kiss, and brushed his tongue into his mouth. Logan caught his hips, tucking his hands right under that soft sweater just like he had that day in the store.

Leo was true to his word. Logan’s mind hummed into quiet. The only pressure was Leo’s body against his. He wanted him closer. He withdrew his hands to press up on his toes and put his arms around Leo’s neck, carding his fingers through his hair as he sucked gently on Leo’s lower lip before letting Leo kiss him properly again.

“I—“ Logan broke off in a laugh. “I’m, maybe—Mm…” Logan held Leo closer, arching up into another one of his kisses that threatened to fold him right up. “Merde—Le—je t’aime, wait, je t’aime…”

Heat had begun to course through him, and if he didn’t stop Leo now, he never would.

Leo just smiled against his mouth. “They keep showing locker room shots on the broadcast they’re playing in the lounge.” Leo’s voice sounded shaky, like he was just as wound up as Logan. “And I’m standing there trying to talk to all these parents while you’re behind them on TV with your shirt off…” He brought one of Logan’s hands to his mouth and kissed his wrist, then his palm. “Taping a stick with these hands…Fuck, Lo.”

Logan leaned up and kissed him again. He tasted like tequila and lime. He must have had something with it at dinner, or in the lounge.

Leo broke the kiss with a reluctant sound and pressed a softer one to Logan’s overheated cheek.

“You’re right,” he whispered. “Sorry, I’m just suddenly…” He ran a knuckle along the collar of Logan’s t-shirt. “It’s strange, to see you ready to play when we’re not.” His hand traveled down Logan’s chest, over the Rangers logo on his sweatshirt, under the hem, where his thumb tucked just barely below the spandex shorts Logan wore beneath his sweatpants. “Though watching is not without its perks.”

Logan flatted Leo’s warm hand against his stomach and held it there.

“How was dinner?” Logan asked. He didn’t like being left behind from dinner with his and Finn’s families, but he knew he had a game to prepare for. He had received a photograph of Finn and Leo being hugged by all of his sisters. Noelle had sent him another of her and Leo cheering glasses, and another of Finn kissing her cheek. He didn’t know which one to make the lock screen of his phone.

“It was really fun. I love your sisters so much. And your mom.” Leo ran a hand through Logan’s hair. “She kept rubbing my back of brushing Finn’s hair back, or Noelle’s or something. I’m not even sure she knew she was doing it.” He put his hand back where Logan had placed it, running it up to his chest. “No wonder you like being touched so much.”

Logan sank a little more into his side. “I think I like being touched by you a little differently.”

Leo leaned down to rest their foreheads together. “I think so, too.”

They both took a few breaths, hands still clasped, Leo’s thumb ran soothing strokes over Logan’s skin.

“Feeling good?” he asked.

“Mm,” Logan nodded, not enough to part them, and closed his eyes. He did feel good. Endorphins raced through him. Even the nagging burn of Leo’s pleasure wasn’t uncomfortable. It was like a little push.

“Got something for you,” Leo whispered.

Logan opened his eyes, interested. “A present?”

Leo laughed, reaching into his shirt. “It’s not really a present. Though I expect you’ll get a few later tonight.”

He withdrew the fleur-de-lis from around his own neck and slipped it over Logan’s head.

“Meant to give it to you earlier,” Leo said. He kissed the pendant before letting it rest over Logan’s chest. “Good luck, okay? Be safe. You know where we’re sitting?”

“Ouais,” Logan said. When Leo folded him into his arms, Logan inhaled deeply and let every muscle in his body relax. “I’ll find you.”

When he was back in the locker room, he savored the feeling of the pendant dropping against his bare chest as he pulled his sweatshirt and shirt over his head to dress for the game. It was still warm from Leo’s skin. In his stall, his phone lit up again, this time from Finn.

It was a photograph of a television, where he saw his own back.

Hi, Finn wrote. I find you so hot, I don’t know what to do with myself.

Logan looked over his shoulder, found the camera, and grinned.

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 6:30 PM

Luke had a bit of a plan. Maybe he wouldn’t exactly call it a plan, but he had something he wanted. He kept an eye on the clock, on Saint getting dressed, buckling his pads. He listened as the rest of the boys got louder, more riled, as their walk down the tunnel to the ice got closer. Logan was laughing hard at something Alex was saying. Luke pushed his helmet down over his head, adjusting the tightness. It didn’t matter how hard his heart was pounding. Saint would lead them out tonight. And there would be no catching him alone after that.

He accidentally caught Logan’s eye as he made his way towards Saint’s stall. There must have been something in his face, because Logan put a hand out for him to clasp.

“Good?” Logan asked.

“Yeah,” Luke said, bringing their palms together and squeezing briefly. “See you in a bit.”

Saint had his mask perched on his head. He was examining his blocker, streaked with black from the rubber of the puck. He only glanced up when Luke stopped in front of him.

“Tweedle,” Saint said in a soft voice. “We’re all dressed up.”

Luke put a hand on the stall divider and leaned down until Saint looked up at him.

“Come with me,” Luke said.

Saint didn’t look up from his blocker. He only switched to checking the netting of his glove. “All right.”

Saint put his mask over his head and brought his stick, as if Luke was merely going to speak with him for a moment. Well, what Luke had to say would take a moment, but Saint didn’t need his mask for it.

He checked to make sure Saint was behind him. He lumbered a bit in his gear, but kept up.

“Are you okay?” Saint asked through the bars of his cage.

“You didn’t need your mask for this,” Luke said once they were alone.

Saint’s eyes flicked up. “You’re wearing your helmet.”

“Well—” Luke began, then cut off. He cleared his throat, looking between Saint’s brown-gold eyes. “What was all that with Percy earlier?”

“What happened with Percy earlier?”

Luke huffed. He was messing with him.

“‘People as loud as you usually are,’” Luke repeated his words back at him. “Scared.”

Saint tilted his head. “What did I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I…” Saint opened his mouth, then closed it. “Nothing bad. You think he’s angry with me, I’m guessing.”

“No,” Luke said. “No, I don’t think he was angry, I’m just asking…What about the quiet ones?”

“What about them?”

Luke smiled slightly, giving his head a shake. This was Saint in full force. Driving him insane. He could drive him insane right back.

“I’m not loud.” Luke took his helmet off, letting it drop to the floor. “And I’m scared. Or I was, for a long time. Terrified the first time I saw you. The first time you kissed me.”

Saint’s eyes tracked the motion, resting on the helmet by Luke’s feet. “You’re…a special case.”

“Why?”

“You just are.” Saint looked back at him. “You were scared?”

“I want something.”

Behind his mask, confusion bloomed all over Saint’s face. He glanced in the direction of the locker room. “Tw—Luke…What?”

Luke shook his head once. “I mean, I want to say something.”

“I said what I said to Percy. It’s not a rule, I just…” Saint began, looking almost frustrated. “It was true. It’s hard enough to get what you want in life without people not even trying. It’s hard to…” Saint nearly rolled his eyes. “You are quiet. You’re also very difficult.”

“I know I am. So are you.”

Saint looked at his mouth, and Luke swore he leaned in, just a little.

“The thing about you is…” Luke pressed his lips together in an unsure motion. “I have no idea if you’re quiet, or if you’re loud.”

Saint said nothing.

“You don’t talk that much. And then when you do, you’re kind of brutal about it, but I don’t think that’s because you’re afraid at all, I think it’s because you’re not.” Slowly, Luke put his hands on either side of Saint’s mask. It was a new one, made from the deep blue color of the Rangers, Saint’s name written across the front below the cage. “Quiet, loud, I don’t care. You just have to look at me and it’s the loudest thing in the room. In the world.”

Luke was fairly certain Saint was no longer breathing. His shoulder pads were still.

“Seb…” Luke whispered. He put his thumb over Saint’s name. He began to lift the mask from his face. “I—”

Saint’s hand flew up and stopped Luke’s with a tight grip on his wrist. His eyes were wide. Bright. Something close to tears, but he wasn’t crying. Something close to fear, but not quite.

“You choose right now, when we’re about to go down that tunnel to the most important game of our lives to…”

He trailed off, but his voice wavered at the end.

“Yeah, I do,” Luke said.

Slowly, enjoying the way Saint watched him, Luke leaned forward and kissed the mask. The cage’s bars were cold against his lips. Saint’s tawny eyes had not moved away from his.

“I choose right now,” Luke said softly. “But I’ll chose later, too, if that’s what you want.”

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 8:30 PM

“What does my Finn face look like?”

There was six minutes left in the second period, and Logan wasn’t sure he was even going to be able to catch a break during a two minute TV break. Both sides were playing like hell, and Madison Square Garden, the New York crowd, was like wildfire.

Percy swished water around in his mouth and spit it back on the ice. “Like someone either just smacked you really hard or gave you a million dollars. Or like someone just smacked you really hard with a million dollars.” Percy considered. “Come to think of it, you actually have been both smacked really hard and probably earned a million dollars in the last few minutes. So I should think of a new metaphor.”

Logan smiled and looked up towards the crowd. A sea of blue. Will slid onto the bench beside them. Logan bumped their shoulders together. Will had a fresh cut over his nose, courtesy of one of Colorado’s defensemen.

“What’s up?” Logan asked.

Will’s mouthguard hung halfway out of his mouth and he chewed on it idly. “I’m thinking that your O’Hara mind-reading applies to extended family. And we should use it.”

They went back out onto the ice with a plan—a plan Logan had used so many times it was practically muscle memory. Luckily, he still only had to glimpse the edges of red hair from his peripheral vision. Logan told Alex what to do, covering his mouth with his glove, and Alex nodded.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

It almost worked. Logan had the puck on his tape, ready to drop it back to Alex when the next thing he knew he was being slammed into the boards.

He felt the cool waft of the ice near his neck as he landed on his back. He groaned and pushed himself up, righting his helmet on his head as he chased after 54, who had done it.

As soon as he touched the puck, Logan threw his shoulder forward, dug his skate into the ice, and sent 54 sprawling.

“Tremz!” Alex shouted, and Logan scooped up the puck and shot it across the ice. Then it went to Percy, then Alex, as they pushed back up the ice. Alex nearly missed Percy’s arrow of a pass, and then a Colorado defensemen only just managed to intercept the puck. He didn’t knock it free of it’s path, though. It ricochetted, and Logan lost sight of its path for only a moment before the red light in Colorado’s goal lit up.

The New York crowd roared, but it was muted just as quickly when the whistle blew. Logan’s smile slowly melted from his face as the referee pointed to the Colorado bench.

“What?” Logan shouted to the referee, skating up beside him. “Fucking what?”

“Language, Tremblay,” the referee said. “Coach’s challenge. And you know what else—that bullet of a hit of yours.”

Logan rolled his eyes and took his mouth guard out. “Oh, come on. He was in my numbers, too, everyone is tonight, I’m allowed.”

But the referee only waved him off, already talking into his headset. Logan scowled after him, but skated back towards his own bench.

“Colorado’s challenging the goal,” Luke said. “Said Marshy kicked it in.”

“Bullshit,” Percy scoffed. “It just hit my foot. It’s not my fault my foot was there.”

“And they’re thinking about giving me two because of my hit,” Logan hissed. “It was clean.”

“It was,” Luke said.

“He started it.”

“Calm down,” Luke laughed.

“What Dev said.” Percy shook his head. “Ya fucking fireball. Gotta douse you with one of those metal hats—those things, you know?”

Luke squirted water into his mouth. “A snuffer.”

Percy shook his head. “That’s what you clean floors with.”

“Swiffer.”

“It was a clean hit,” Logan said again, just as the referee pushed back out to center ice.

“The call on the ice stands,” he boomed over his microphone, and he put his arms out, though the crowd was already roaring. “We have a good goal.”

They left the second period ahead of Colorado, but a two goal lead was the fragilest thing in the world, and Logan didn’t feel anything other than urgency as they left the ice. He’d also left with a fresh, blooming bruise. His cheek throbbed, his knee, but all he saw was those twenty minutes more.

“Logan,” one of the assistant coaches said. “Intermission interview.”

Logan looked down the hallway, breathing hard, to where Cassie was discussing something with her camera crew.

“Take Percy,” he said, taking his helmet off.

Through the tunnel, Logan broke away from the team and the cameras, and was about to take the three steps up towards the PT room, only then someone grabbed his arm. He found his back set gently against the wall, and then he was being kissed. It was a kiss that he knew in his bones.

Finn Finn FinnFinnFinn.

“Nice,” Finn said in a low, happy voice. He glanced sideways towards a passing aid, who was politely keeping her eyes ahead and fighting back a smile. “Being able to do that.”

“Do it again,” Logan said.

Finn laughed. He brushed another kiss over Logan’s mouth. “I love when you follow the ref. Love when you get all like that. Love it…”

“He started it,” Logan mumbled, more interested in the flush on Finn’s cheeks—his ears.

“You okay?” Finn thumbed lightly over the fresh cut over Logan’s cheek. “You look good out there. That was a clean hit, I don’t care what the refs say. It was a solid play, your play, just like always. Can’t stand watching you get hit, makes me want to—”

“It was our play.” Logan turned his chin down into Finn’s palm. “You know?”

Finn gave him a lopsided smile. “Baby…”

“You know it was ours. You saw?”

“I saw.” Finn shook his head, still smiling. He kissed the corner of Logan’s mouth. “Of course I saw.”

Logan was nearly his height with his skates on, but he stepped halfway up the three stairs so he was taller and wrapped Finn up in his arms. He didn’t care if he was sweaty or had snow on him from the ice. He kissed the side of Finn’s temple and felt Finn touch where his necklace had come out of the neck of his jersey.

“Le?” Finn questioned.

“Yeah, Le.”

Finn rested his forehead against Logan’s jaw.

“You got this,” Finn whispered. When Logan looked down, he saw Finn had his eyes closed. Peaceful. “I can see it. All that fire you got in you.”

Logan smiled, letting his eyes slip closed, too. “Perc and Luke say it’s too much.”

Finn’s reply, whispered against the sweat cooling on his neck, drew a pleasant chill over Logan’s skin.

“I like it.”

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 8:45 PM

“I don’t know about you,” Percy said. “But I think they paired us up again because they want to hear the rest of the story.”

Cassie laughed. She had a small compact mirror out and was carefully adjusting the wing of her eyeliner, but snapped it shut and turned to him. “I guess they’ll have to live in suspense.”

Percy knew he certainly did. Snowy nights and street lamps showing blizzard flakes and wheels spinning on ice.

“Did you see my goal?” he asked instead.

“We’re going to be live in ten seconds.”

“Yeah, but were you watching?”

Cassie had a ready smile in place, eyes towards the camera. “Of course I was, that’s my job.”

“Did you think it was pretty?”

“It went off your foot and they reviewed it for a kicking motion.”

“But I didn’t kick. I would know.”

“No, you didn’t kick.”

“So, say it was pretty cause it was.”

“Thanks, guys,” Cassie said brightly to the voice in her earpiece. “I’m here with Percy Marshall who scored the goal to tie it up at the end of the second. Pretty tense moment, there, Percy, what do you think you guys have to do to keep your lead in the third?”

“I think we have to keep doing what we’re doing. We’re a team with a lot of strengths, very star-studded, with O’Hara, Tremblay, Montague… We have a lot of options, and we’re using every single one of them.”

Cassie directed the microphone back to herself. “I noticed you didn’t include yourself there among the stars.”

The microphone came back to him. Percy swallowed, and let his usual smile pass over his face easily.

“I’m no star. I’m what they call blood and guts.” He let his eyes flick down to her mouth, just for a moment. “At least when it comes to hockey.”

Cassie stared up at him for a moment, smile still in place, but softer. More for him. “I—thank you, Percy.”

Percy flashed the camera a smile. “Uh-huh.”

“And off,” said the woman waiting behind the camera. She flashed Cassie a thumbs up and then shuffled off with the camera man somewhere. It left them alone, if only briefly, and Percy’s heart kicked into drive.

Why, why had he been so much better at this in college?

Cassie was looking at him. He looked back

“It wasn’t a pretty goal,” she said. “But last game. The one you scored in the second…that was pretty.”

“Thanks,” Percy said. Then a question came tumbling out of him. “Is it weird being around us again?”

“Weird?”

“Will, Logan…” Me.

Wouldn’t be the first time I saved you, though, would it?

He’d meant to make her laugh. He hadn’t saved her, and now he felt stupid for saying it, saying it on television. It had been a snow storm, it had been a drive home, it had been—

They both looked away.

“No,” Cassie said. She was scuffing the heel of her boot lightly against the floor. She’d always done that. Percy could suddenly see her in those tight little dresses she used to love, one toe pointed up, heel down, tapping against a beer-sticky floor while she talked to Logan.

“It’s nice,” she continued. “You guys were always so wonderful. And I regretted when Logan and I—you know, when we broke it off. I mean, I get what was going on now, and I don’t—I’m not mad or anything.” She looked up at him. “Did you know? Finn and Logan.”

Percy leaned back against the wall, blowing out a breath. “That’s a very loaded question. Know-know? No. But…I mean, yeah, I knew they…”

He thought of Logan tearing out of the house after Finn left. Finn’s car skidding back into the driveway, his red eyes, tear-streaked cheeks. Nothing. I just thought I forgot something.

“It’s okay,” Cassie said, shaking her head. “It’s not my business, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no,” Percy said. “You were caught up in them just like the rest of us. It’s all right. Happy ending, right?”

Cassie smiled, eyes flitting to his, then away. “Yeah.”

Percy glanced down the hallway where he could see the coaching staff heading into the locker room.

“Well, I gotta…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cassie laughed, then cleared her throat. “Okay. Good luck. Do something pretty out there.”

Percy’s laugh came out a little high-pitched, even to himself. “Yeah, I—I’ll try. Thanks.”

He made it half way to the locker room doors before he heard her voice.

“Hey, Marshall.”

Percy looked over his shoulder. Cassie was biting at the inside of her cheek, idly tapping her microphone against her thigh.

“Hey, Baker,” Percy said softly.

Cassie smiled at the old routine. Old jokes and unfinished business, that’s what Percy thought they were.

“I don’t know if I would exactly call it you saving my life,” she said. “But I do remember.”

Percy’s insides were melting. He knew no one else knew what they were talking about, but he’d felt such elation, such guilt that night, that he swore the memories had rolled out in scrolls at his feet.

“Do you?” Cassie shifted back a step, twisting one heel of her boot against the rubber they set down over the floor for their skates. “Remember?”

“Cassie Baker,” Percy sighed, settling his helmet back on his head. “If I ever forget a single thing about you, you can tell the world to go ahead and say I’ve lost my mind.”

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6 : Saturday, 10:45 PM

Logan burned. His lungs. His thighs. His knuckles. It had been a short, swing of a fight with a number 34, and when the guy had tried to put Logan on his back after taking his helmet off with a hard swing, Logan thought of Finn’s head, gorgeous and fragile, and he had seen red. Logan sent 34 to his knees with a rough shove to his shoulder. He’d caught some of his breath back in the two minutes he spent in the box, ice on his wrist, and now he was breathing hard waiting to take the face-off.

He waved off the beckons back to the bench. He breathed deep through his nose. He put his mouth guard back in.

He tried to pretend the only reason he was working this hard was to win a Cup.

He wished his boys were on the ice with him, not in the stands. He wanted Finn, tall and lean in his skates, talking fast in his ear, and Leo at his back in the net.

Home.

He needed this to get him home, and he needed it not to go to overtime. He needed this finished.

5-5 in the third with the clock winding down. Five goals: Alex, Percy, Logan, Logan, Alex.

Three times to show he meant it, that’s what he needed.

He gave his stick a flick of a twirl in his loose gloves and bent for the face-off.

There was nothing faster than play-off hockey. Sometimes, Logan thought he’d been born for it. He flexed his fingers in his gloves and imagined himself on the lake near his parents’ home. It’s where he put the pressure away. He sank into memory. He reached for something to set his blood roaring and found the image of how Jack Archer looked at Leo there waiting. His heart thundered. He dug his skate edges into the ice harder, ready to take off at a moment’s notice.

“I know you’re counting the seconds, boys. It’s nothing at all and it’s an eternity,” the referee said as he held out the puck. “But let’s play nice now. If you win it, you want to win it fair.”

Neither player replied. Maybe 45 was fast, but Logan stole the puck right out from the dot when the referee dropped it. He didn’t have to think, not in moments like these. Not when he could feel Will behind him, catching Logan’s win, hear Percy tapping the ice for his pass.

Colorado intercepted. Logan skated hard and drove his shoulder into the pick-pocket’s side right at the blue line. It let Alex get the puck. The crowd shrieked.

Alex hit the post. Logan swore the pinging sound echoed through the entire team. It made him gasp as he skated for the bench. He fell down beside Luke, breathing so hard he had to lean over and cough.

Luke slapped his back. “Atta boy, Tremz.”

The whistle blew as Colorado sent the puck dinging off the glass and into the crowd.

“Fuck me,” Alex shouted as he came to the bench, slamming the door after him hard.

“It was a good shot,” Logan said.

Alex’s laugh was breathless and he stole Logan’s water. “It was an almost shot.”

Five minutes.

It was nothing at all, and an eternity. Logan looked up, looked for red and gold.

It was impossible to see them, but he imagined he could. He found that his pendant had come out of his jersey and, eyes still raised, brought it to his lips and kissed it before tucking it away again.

Home. It was irrational, it wasn’t true, likely, but he still felt that if he did this, if he helped pull the Rangers into victory, he could ask for anything he wanted. He’d served his purpose. Home.

“You have 29,” Logan said to Luke. “I’m going to go around.”

“I know,” Luke said. “I’m with you.”

But the referees were calling nothing at this late stage. At three minutes, Logan found himself going shoulder first into the boards, pain flaring. He ignored it. He got up, there was no time. He made to hit his stick against the ice, calling for the puck again, but found the blade half snapped off. The bench was hollering at him as Logan skated hard towards it. He barely looked as he threw the broken stick towards the equipment manager and snatched the fresh one.

Luke had the puck, his eyes went to Logan. Every part of the stadium seemed to hush, but Logan knew that was only because the place was so loud. Logan could picture Finn with his hands in his hair, Leo gripping his arm. He could imagine his sisters screaming.

A defenseman tried to block Luke’s pass, but Luke lifted the puck just enough so it warbled through the air. Logan was afraid, for a moment, that he wasn’t going to be able to catch it like that. He needed to steady it somehow, he needed to undo its momentum.

Logan dug his skate into the ice, tracking as the puck found his tape, and immediately pulled himself into a fast turn. The puck steadied on his tape and Logan knew he was out of time. He could feel the screams, they rumbled his feet, the ice, but he couldn’t hear them. Only his heart.

Logan steadied his blade on the ice and, half-blind, shot.

Luke was there, ready to pick up a rebound. Alex was there, arms wide against a defenseman. The goaltender reached, glove wide.

But the puck hit home, the net rippling.

Logan shouted, or at least he thought he did. The sound tore out of his throat. He threw his stick, his gloves. It was all he had time for before Luke and Alex were slamming into him. He felt himself stumbling, held up by his teammates, still shouting. He clutched at their jerseys, felt Alex’s visor press against his. The arena shook, and he gasped, straining his head back to see. When the cameras caught this moment, he wanted the world to see who he looked for first.

•

NYR vs. COL Game 6: Saturday, 10:50 PM

Dog pile.

Luke stumbled over thrown equipment, hardly able to move with how tightly his team was pressed together. He clutched Logan’s shoulders. He allowed himself one more second of holding his best friend before he turned, looking wildly, trying to find—

And he was there. Shoving to the core of their huddle, glove, blocker, helmet somewhere left behind, his curls free. Saint reached for Luke. Jostled as they were by the other boys around them, Saint held onto Luke’s jersey, keeping them together.

“Seb,” Luke shouted, laughing. “You were amazing, you—Fuck, you were so—”

“You terrify me,” Saint shouted over the stadium’s roar. He was still breathing hard, sweat dripping in his eyes in a way that probably stung.

Luke thought his heart had already been pounding. He thought there had already been a few tears on his cheeks. But now…

“You do.” Saint cupped a hand around the back of Luke’s neck, the other pressing to his chest. “And I—love you. I love you.”

Luke did cry then. He hadn’t expected it, the first sob hiccuped out of him, then it was a laugh. He leaned down in the only half-hidden, joyful huddle of their team and brought their mouths together. Kissing Saint was hotter than the adrenaline fire in his blood.

Someone, Percy, Luke thought, hit him in the shoulder happily. When the parted, Saint was smiling at him. It was a grin Luke had seen all of once. So thoroughly unguarded. No masks, no performances.

“Well,” Saint said.

“I love you,” Luke could hardly speak. Hardly breathe. “Seb—”

Saint pushed into his arms, and then someone else hugged him, too. When Luke opened his eyes, Logan was there at their sides, grinning at him.

•

Someone had shoved a champion hat in his hands and Logan pushed back his sweaty hair and put it on, backwards.

“Where,” he mumbled to himself. He saw families. Will’s wife, his son, his parents, all embracing. He saw Percy’s parents. Natalie and Kasey. “Where…”

“Lolo,” Logan heard from behind him.

He grinned, barely had time to turn, before Noelle was in his arms. He held her force and clutched back.

“Lo,” Noelle said shakily in his ear. “Logan, you did—you fucking did it again, that was beautiful, Lo, that goal, fucking hat trick, that was so beautiful.”

She broke off, laughing, speechless.

Logan tucked his face into her neck. There were cameras on them, capturing the moment, and mics hanging like fruit above their lenses. Words pushed at him, words he wouldn’t say to Leo or Finn, in case they made him sound too hopeful—or not hopeful enough.

But to Noelle. To Noelle, he could say anything.

“Maybe I can go home now,” Logan said.

“Oh, Bear,” Noelle said softly. Her arms tighten around him. “I know. I know…”

“Where—”

“Right behind me.” Noelle released him, crying, grinning, and turned.

Finally, there they were.

They didn’t have to push their way through. The crowd parted around them. Everyone knew they were his, that they were coming for him.

Alex was closer, and Logan knew Finn wasn’t about to pass by his brother. Two identical grins, running at each other one moment, then hugging tightly the next.

Logan only had eyes for Leo. Logan put a hand on Noelle’s shoulder and squeezed, then skated hard through the crowd. Leo put his hands up as he ran gingerly on the ice, then scooped Logan right off his feet, skates and all, and held him tightly before setting him down again and pressing his smile to his cheek. It probably should have made Logan feel every single one of his injuries, being lifted like that, but he felt unbearably light.

“That goal,” Leo shouted. “Jesus, Lo, oh my God, your hands. The spin, the lift you got, I don’t even know how you did that—”

Logan kissed him, but he might as well have plunged them both underwater. His hearing went muffled. Leo felt so good in his hands, strong and kissing him back. Salt leaked in, Leo’s tears, Leo being kissed on the ice by him.

“I can’t believe…” Leo mumbled, but the words dissolved and he gripped Logan’s jersey, drawing it taught over his shoulder pads.

Logan broke the kiss only so he could see his face. His lips were parted, red, his blue eyes bright. Speechless. His gaze darted behind Logan, around them, and he began to shake his head, began to laugh.

“I can believe it,” Logan said. “‘Cause it’s you.”

Leo brought his fingertips to Logan’s mouth, then the cut on his cheek. Smiling. Pure and bright. He touched his own lips, as if he could feel what had just happened.

“We…”

Logan threw his arms around Leo’s neck. He kissed him again, this one short and easy like they’d kissed on the ice a million times. “So happy you’re here. Merci, soleil. I know this is—after everything—” 

But Leo shook his head, grinning. “Oh, I love you. Of course we’re here, how could I miss that spin, and your face and—Lo, Harz and I just shouted our fucking lungs out. Lo, we just…” Leo leaned down and kissed him again. “God, lots of microphones around, I got a lot to say, but where—” He turned to look over his shoulder, clutching Logan to him as he searched—

And there was Finn, walking towards them, brown eyes already shining.

Leo released him only so Finn could take Logan gently in his arms.

“Look at him,” Leo said. “Look at him, Harz, look how happy.”

“God,” Finn’s voice broke, and he laughed, sniffling. “Are you hurt? Does that hurt?”

“Non,” Logan said, though he probably was, somewhere. “Non, I mean, can’t feel it.” Logan wanted Finn to hold him like this all the time. Hard, grasping, large palm warming the entirety of his flushed left cheek and jaw. And they were surrounded by people, Logan was wearing his uniform, on the ice, about to be handed the Stanley Cup for the second time in just two years, and Finn O’Hara was about to kiss him.

Finn didn’t say anything. He was probably thinking exactly what was going through Logan’s mind. He laughed, though, tears beginning to escape, and looked around, then back to Logan.

“If someone had tried to tell me, at nineteen…” Finn began. At the sound of how thick the tears were in his voice, Logan choked up, too. “My Lo.” He looked at Leo. “Le…I am the luckiest—”

Logan put his hands around Finn’s shoulders, leaned up, and kissed him. Finn’s tears were salty like Leo’s, and Logan was surprised to find that he himself wasn’t crying. He was so happy that he ached.

When he wrapped his arms around both of them, Finn tilted his head back and let out a loud, long whoop.

Leo’s answering smile was radiant and Logan hoped someone was taking photographs, anyone, of this. Of what was finally his.

“Now, I’ve won,” Logan said, clutching to them, and their answering laughs were a silver finer than anything. “We did it.”

Finn gripped Logan’s face, careful of the bruise, and made a low, growling sound that Logan supposed was him not knowing what to do with his happiness, how to contain his smile. He took Logan’s hat off, pushed his hand through his sweat-soaked hair, and settled it back on his head before using the bill to jostle Logan a little.

“God, Tremblay,” he said softly. “Love you forever.”

Leo’s mouth was close to his ear when he whispered, “MVP. At least in my book.”

Logan let himself close his eyes. He needed—and wanted—to see his family, but he just wanted to rest here for a moment. He wanted to feel Finn kiss his temple twice and Leo take his weight without question. Just the few moments had some of his adrenaline draining away, and Logan wanted them to take him somewhere and sleep for a year.

“None of that yet,” Leo said. “You got some heavy lifting to do still.”

~

“Alex,” Cassie Baker said. “How does it feel to be named the most valuable player to your team in this play-off run?”

Alex still felt like he could barely breathe, but he laughed, using the hem of his jersey to wipe champagne off his brow. “Got a shiny trophy and everything, huh?”

Cassie smiled at him. “Two trophies!”

“True, true. No, for real though, it’s—it’s a honor, but I’m nothing without these boys.” He motioned vaguely, but looked for a moment, trying to find familiar faces among the families in the crowded locker room. He could still feel the heft of the Cup as Percy had handed it off to him and he lifted it above his head. He could still see Logan’s grin as Alex had handed it off to him, then Logan to Luke, Luke to Saint. He found Finn, standing with his arms around Noelle and Aubrey, watching Logan being interviewed by another network. The floor was sticky, Alex’s entire face and hair was soaked with sweat and champagne and beer, but he was reluctant to take a shower. Natalie had jumped and locked her legs around his waist. Kasey was wearing his champion hat. Alex wouldn’t soon forget his grin as he took a swig from his own champagne bottle. Should I jump next?

“I can’t say enough about them,” Alex said. ���And I won’t say this was an easy season. New faces, old friends, old faces, new friends. This team has become so close, but it was…” Alex laughed a little. “I don’t know, forge with fire, or whatever that saying is. Lots of wins feeling as rough as loses.”

Alex looked up to see that Finn was closer now, standing off camera, but listening. Cassie followed his gaze and smiled, too, but said nothing. Alex felt another hand thump him on the back. He didn’t see who it was, a teammate, a coach, a parent, but it felt good all the same.

“The thing with trades is you come to love people who might be your teammate one day and your opponent the next, and it’s difficult. But it’s lucky. There is so much…I’m just grateful to have everyone in this room in my life. On the ice, it’s a different world, we’re fighting so hard and—and it means everything when you’re on solid ground again to look around and find that there are twenty people waiting to celebrate with you.”

“You bring up trades, which you yourself went through this season, along with your old friend, Logan Tremblay. You both share a very tight connection with Gryffindor, who you knocked out of the playoffs this season. You’re being very modest, but I bet anything he would be able to give me ten reasons why you deserved this tonight. What was it like getting to be line mates with him?”

“Oh, Tremz is my—” Alex laughed as his eyes found Finn’s. Shouts went up and Alex caught a glimpse of the Cup being raised up, foaming beer sloshing out of it. Finn was smiling hard, rubbing at his jaw. “I don’t even know where to begin with that kid, he’s like a brother to me. We’ve shared good times, we’ve shared bad times, we…” Alex shook his head. “He makes my baby brother very happy, and so he makes me happy. And don’t even get me started on his game, he did things tonight I don’t think anyone can repeat, don’t even get me started, we’ll be here all night.”

Cassie laughed. “Final question, Alex, and then I’ll let you get back to celebrating. I just made eye contact with your brother you just mentioned, Finn, who plays for the Lions. There were a lot of Lions in the house today, including your old teammate Kasey Winter who you began your NHL career with here in New York. What did it mean to have him in the crowd?”

“Oh.” Alex heard his own voice break, and he laughed again, but felt it tremble. “You know, it’s…” Kasey was standing with Leo across the room, and both of their hands were out like they were discussing the goaltending of the game. Alex thought of that first locker room. Those brown eyes and big paw of a hand—he hadn’t quite grown into himself yet back then—stretching out to shake Alex’s pale one. That speeding drive, going faster than he’d ever admit, to reach the airport security check in time. Kase. Kase. Fucking, stop, Winter, wait—

“Oh,” Alex said again. “It’s—” He felt a sudden surge of protection over all of those stories, even against Cassie Baker’s kind eyes. “I’ll say this for now. It’s a big thing coming into this league. Bliz helped me settle into this life…” Alex swallowed. “Into myself. He retired this year, you know, that’s a big change for anyone. I just…I’ve never been so excited to be a part of someone’s next chapter, their daily life. I’ve never been someone’s…”

Suddenly Natalie was standing next to Finn. He didn’t know if Finn had waved her over, or how long she’d been standing there. She’d let her hair down, gold flowing over her shoulders. She had her arm looped through Finn’s, but she was only looking at him.

“There are beginnings, middles, and ends of everything,” Alex said, then smiled down at Cassie. “Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get the full ride.”

[prettycalla]

|| adversus ||

Pairing: Caracalla/Reader

Summary: Caracalla discovers that you bleed. He is fascinated by it.

Word count: 799

Tags and warnings: Light smut, reader has a period, Caracalla is a little freak about it (big surprise) but it's all consensual, reader and Caracalla are soft for each other, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(This GIF (the whole scene, really) is to blame for me writing this and I'm not apologising for it. I could have gotten a Lot nastier with this, honestly, but I'm always so embarrassed writing smut, so here we are!)

Caracalla understands the importance of rules and tradition, but he does not see why he, as the Emperor of Rome, should have to adhere to any of it if he does not wish to. He flourishes in chaos, relishes in doing the opposite of what is expected of him.

It is no great secret that he carries a fascination for blood. It is something you are very aware of, and as a result, have done everything in your power to keep this one little thing as far from his eyes as you are able.

It is only a matter of time before he finds out.

You awaken one morning to find the sheets stained with blood. Fear takes hold of you. You must have miscalculated the days. Caracalla is still asleep by your side, and you desperately pray to Somnus that he will remain so until you are able to hide the evidence of what has happened.

The Fates are against you as Caracalla stirs, reaching for you even as he is between waking and dreaming.

"Come back to me," he mumbles drowsily, his sleep-warm fingers grasping at your wrist.

"I will return in a moment, I promise," you say, trying to pry yourself from his surprisingly strong grasp.

Caracalla moves to sit up, rubbing at his face with his free hand.

"You will-" he begins to say, when he falters.

His eyes widen as he sees the blood, tracing its path to your skin.

"You are bleeding," he says, his voice a mixture of concern and something else.

Something darker.

"It is nothing to concern yourself with," you tell him as he moves closer to you. "It is my mensis. It happens at the turn of the moon."

Caracalla does not answer, instead reaching out to trail his fingers across your thigh. Something in you wishes to stop him, but something else - something far stronger - wishes to urge him on.

He looks at the blood on his fingertips, his lips parted and pupils dilated.

"So much, and yet still you live?" he asks, his voice rough with arousal.

He looks up at you, his eyes narrowing. It is a look you know all too well. The very same one he always has in the midst of the gladiatorial games. The same one he has levelled on you, time and time again.

Lust.

"Does it hurt?" he asks as he leans closer to you.

"It will pass," you tell him. "As it always does."

You can feel his breath, shallow and warm, against your skin. You should feel embarrassment, or shame perhaps, but right now, all you can feel is the desire emanating from Caracalla in waves.

It is overwhelming. You do not wish for it to stop.

"You can help me," you tell him softly, surprised at the boldness of your words.

Caracalla suddenly looks ravenous.

"Show me what I must do," he replies in a rushed breath.

How you adore him like this. So ardent, so eager to please.

You take his hand and slowly drag it up along your thighs. He keeps your gaze the entire time, teeth worrying at his bottom lip until his fingers press against you, exactly where you need them.

A soft sigh escapes you at his touch. Encouraged, he keeps it up, finding the rhythm he knows you like best. Quick little gasps escape you as you begin to unravel. He should not be as good at this as he is.

You reach up to the back of his neck, pulling him into a bruising kiss. He is not to be deterred from what he has started, his fingers quickening their pace as his teeth nip at your lower lip.

You cannot last at this pace, and you tell him as much in a shaky breath.

"Let me see you fall apart," he murmurs against your lips. "Please."

The urgency in his touch and the desperation in his voice are too much for you all at once, and you feel yourself tip over the edge at last, wave after wave of pleasure thrumming through you.

Only when you push him away does Caracalla finally stop, his hand coming to rest once more on your thigh.

"Pulchra," Caracalla says softly with a wide smile that has your pulse stuttering more than it already is.

Your rest your forehead against his for a moment, before the discomfort begins to build once more.

"I must clean myself up," you tell him reluctantly.

Caracalla presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. "The baths," he replies. "I will accompany you."

You know exactly what allowing him to do so will lead to, but you do not mind in the slightest.

Caracalla finds himself impatiently awaiting the next turn of the moon from then on.

(banners by @ cafekitsune)

[luigilore]

having a crush on gymrat!luigi. u guys both go to the same gym and you've always paid attention to the way his biceps flex when hes weight lifting or when hes on the pull up bar and u see a hint of his v-line and happy trail and it has u blushing and looking away immediately. you always thought it was a silly crush and wouldn't go anywhere but on one of ur upper body days u decide to try the pull up bar since clearly its been working wonders on mr curly head. the bar is pretty high up so you look around for an unoccupied box or something to use as leverage when suddenly theres a tap on your shoulder. "need help getting up?" he says. "yeah.. i think--" you begin and are quickly cut off when you feel two big hands on either side of your waist. suddenly you're off the ground and the bar is right in front of you. you learn to quickly snap out of whatever just happened and grab the bar before you make a fool of yourself. "got it?" he asks from below, hands still firmly in place. "yes, thank you!" you stammer. good thing he was behind you and couldn't see how red you were. you start doing your reps when you hear "chin up... use your back instead of your arms..." from below you. you apply his feedback and correct your form like he says. "there you go... atta girl." he says. you almost fall right then and there from the way his words caused an unexpected heat to pool in your lower region but manage to stay in the set for a bit longer. eventually you stop and lower yourself. "that was great!" he says as he gives you a high-five. "thank you...." "luigi." he finishes ur sentence. "thank you luigi, i appreciate it." you smile at him. soon enough, you're seeing luigi everyday. he helps you learn so many new techniques, and you start seeing your results come in much faster. luigi becomes your almost sort of gym buddy and you guys end up coordinating your workouts a few times. after a few months, he finally asks, "hey y/n, this new restaurant opened up down the street. i'd love to go visit." he stares at you after you two finish a cardio set. "yeah i heard about that one, let me know how the food tastes so i can know what to order when i visit." you say, taking a sip out of your water bottle. "well why don't you just find out yourself.... i'm asking you to go with me dummy. like a date." he laughs. "oh wow. really? me?" you say, genuinely shocked. no way did you think luigi reciprocated the same feelings you had towards him. "you're not the only one whos had a little crush this whole time... i just hid it better than you." he teases.

OMG hello this was so so good i think abt gym rat lu a lot

ugh you guys always end up coming around the same time in the evenings but you never talk to him; but sneak little glances in the mirror at the way he wipes his face with the edge of his shirt sometimes and you see a glimpse of his v line and happy trail oh my fuck but you just accept he's ur silly little gym crush and nothing else

until the day that he helps you up on the pull up bar, you silently note how big his hands are... and how you need to lock in and not embarrass urself in front of him .... but its really hard when his low voice is giving u advice, gripping ur hips, saying ATTA GIRL? anon ur killing me in the best possible way bc he SO would say that and be genuinely impressed/excited w his little high five lolol

now whenever you see him you, you always talk for a few minutes and catch up... and you now u realize you walk through the door and the first thing u do is scan the gym for luigi :') like all ur friends know about luigi from the gym... u give him song recs other than his shitty edm, he talks about research he's done on hiit workouts or new recipes and he tells you offhandedly after finishing a set all sweaty, adrenaline flowing, "you're like, my motivation." and that sends u spiraling!

omfg when he finally asks you out and you genuinely don't pick up on it... stop i love that... also you'd be so embarrassed that he knew u had a crush on him like you thought you were being stealth this whole time.. ugh and like the insaneee chemistry you guys would have after you finally get together .... the post gym shower sex would be so good omfg

[bonniesbluee]

stanford!art except he's a bit crazy...inlove with you!

who...sneaks out of his dorm to sneak into yours. thankfully you got a dorm to yourself, so he can come in and out as much as he wants. his head resting against yours in his sleep has become a routine for him he's never getting tired of. and it also helps him make sure you arent with someone else at night.

who...is a bit friendly with other girls. he doesn't mean to! obviously. he's just naturally friendly, he didnt find it a problem until you mentioned how he let a girl in his class lean on him. he saw the way your usual bubbly persona turned into almost an insecure one. from that day on he beraly talks to other girls that arent you, and if he does, is because you're around. he cant risk losing you after all.

who...hates whenever he makes you upset. constantly asking you if you're okay, to the point where it kind of gets on your nerves but when you see his big blue eyes staring into yours, you cant help but smile. and sometimes if you're feeling needy, you shake your head just so he can coddle you more. and he loves that, loves that you think you're lying to him when instead he was waiting for you to do that. everything he does is for a reason, after all.

who...loves spoiling you! regardless if its snacks or expensive snacks, he loves gifting you stuff. specially since sometimes he feels like you arent satisfied with the way he treats you, he, in the most innocent pure way (hopefully), tries to buy your love.

who...hates whenever you talk to other boys. he always has his eyes on you, and when you talk to other boys he feels strong urge to drag you away. he doesn't know where it comes from, he has always been a territorial person, specially with patrick. but being with you, those thoughts and urges have spiked to the max.

who...gets irrationally mad when you go out without him. he doesn't get mad at you if you wear something revealing. if anything, he encourages. loves seeing you so confident and loves to brag about you. but when he isnt around he feels completely helpless. specially after you post a photo of the party, taking hours analyzing each picture to see if there's something/somebody that isnt supposed to be around you.

who...wants nothing but the best for you! he really does. he just...hates whenever you go out without him. the people that hangout with you? they dont know the real you. then dont know you the way he knows you. he knows whats best for you. or that's just what he tells you all the time he inside of you.

who...whispers sweet nothings in your ear while he'a fucking you. well kinda. from "i love yous" being shared between you two to "no one else gets to see you this way. no way. me and only me." you are too busy enjoying yourself to realize how he really does mean those words. how he's completely serious.

who...will never let you go now that he has you. he doesn't care what he has to do, threaten to kill himself? force you? he wouldn't think twice if it meant keeping you with him. but thankfully you love him too, obviously not in a creepy way like he does, but he has you hooked. and you have him hooked. its meant to be!