#wanted to draw something different so here's some uncharacteristic drawings

[whosname]

[Id. three alcohol marker drawings. 1. Wanderer Ginsan hugging Takasugi from the back. Takasugi looks like he's ranting about something annoying while Gin's grinning. 2. A happy Sakamoto hugging a surprised Ginsan. 3. Zura hugging Gin from the back. He looks kind of worried, Gin looks calmed. End id.]

[lalunanymph]

BLACKMAIL KISS — h. ran

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ─── a single night of rebellion against your husband, the mayor of Tokyo, in an underground Roppongi club, traps you right in Haitani Ran's web of blackmail and deceit—where every move you make could potentially be your last one.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ─── a bonten!haitani ran miniseries inspired by hametsu no itte

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ─── bonten timeline, fem!reader, wife!reader, reader is feminine coded (wears dresses, heels, makeup), heavy tones of cheating/infidelity, DARK CONTENT, blackmail, political drama, non-con recording, drugging, mentions of cigarettes, mentions of alcohol & drugs, edging training, tease and denial, orgasm control, phone sex, petnames (princess, good girl, whore, slut), coercion, reader is forced to take nudes, HEAVY TOPICS PROCEED WITH CAUTION

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ─── bittersweet blackmail with this playlist

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ─── masterlist

#1: i made another mistake

As a child, growing up with any lack of good direction or faith gave Haitani Ran an almost scary sixth sense when a person was completely foreign to his world of sin and greed. 

Ran liked to think it was also his entire adult life spent in Kanto Manji, and now, Bonten which helped him discern the different types of brokenness in this messed up world. 

It was a game he played with himself; observing the way some of them walked—an errant glance away or a quirk which would draw his sleepy-sharp lilac eyes to their floundering presence. He could almost always tell which girls in his club were the runaways. The druggies. The ones with abusive boyfriends. Sometimes, he liked to make a bet with his brother, Rindou, and see which one of them could get close enough—fast enough—to fuck the truth out of these crummy girls. 

But, in all fairness, Ran’s game must be growing weak because the woman who had just entered his club was a complete enigma. 

The taste of Hennesy was strong on his tongue; his hand clawing the warming glass with an uncharacteristic tension. Mikey had just expressed his suspicions of a mole in the organisation this afternoon, and Ran was on edge from figuring out which of the newly onboarded goons seemed the most suspicious. 

In his heightened state of paranoia, he couldn’t be faulted for immediately spotting you from his perch in the VIP room the very second you stepped in. 

Neatly styled hair, with press on nails clutching a small Balenciaga bag to your chest. A dress which fitted you perfectly and looked to be cut from a designer’s hand. 

You definitely weren't the usual type of girl who swam with the sharks in these tanks. And so, the infamous older Haitani brother called over one of his men, nodding in your direction. “Keep an eye on the prissy one. She doesn’t look like she belongs here.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

His bodyguard bowed, exiting down to keep an eye on this suspicious young woman who had caught his underboss’ attention. Ran lit up a cigarette, wishing he had something stronger with him besides menthol sticks when he noticed you crossing paths with someone in the middle of the dance floor. His eyes were quick to catch it. 

A cordial nod. Something passed in a tiny ziplock bag into your hand. 

Your smile which fractured a bouncing neon light across your surprisingly white teeth.  

Ran immediately stood up, cigarette clenched between his teeth. Maybe this kind of attitude would cut it in other territories, but the King of Roppongi would never allow such an offence right under his nose. The people of this neonscape should only be taking meth from his supplies and his supplies only. 

This could result in a potential gang war once word leaks out. 

Ran took matters into his own hands, stubbing out his cigarette, beckoning another guard to him. 

“Bring her up,” he pointed towards you. “And tell her the boss of the club wants to meet her up here for drinks. But, don’t scare her. I don’t want too much trouble tonight.” 

The goon nodded, marching out of the room. Ran pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging it firmly. Already, he could hear your protests coming up the stairs, and mentally braced himself to thoroughly search you. This was going to be a long night. 

“—I’m innocent!” 

“He just wants to have drinks with you, miss.”

“But, I can order it downstairs—” 

“—just for a minute, miss—”

“I have a husband—” 

Feisty. Ran was intrigued by your fire. Without warning, he stood up and pried the VIP door open, stumbling you into a halt mid-tirade. After years of honing his charisma and working on his natural good looks, Ran sensed more than knew when a woman was succumbing to his charms. Their wide eyes would inevitably look him up and down, like you did, lingering on his broad chest, the slicked-back lilac hair. The piercing purple gaze and the sharp, handsome lines of his face.

He plastered on his most charming smile. “You must be the woman who has captured my attention. Please—join me for a drink.” His presence was dazzling, like a Venus Flytrap opening up boldly and brightly to seduce its bug-eyed prey before devouring them. 

You were taken by the hand, deep into the heart of Roppongi’s most notorious club. Like entering a lion’s den, you didn’t know where to look first—the seedy velvet couches, the lines of white still dotting the glass tables, or the sight of empty gun holsters upturned carelessly on the cushion seats. 

Ran sensed your increasing panic and slung a long arm around your shoulder, drawing you deeper into his side. “Don’t be afraid,” he grinned, all sharp knives for teeth and false promises. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you here. I promise.” You looked like you didn’t believe him, not for one second, and Ran rushed forward to introduce himself, playing the part of the flustered club owner who was enamoured by you. 

“My name is Haitani. Ran Haitani. I couldn’t help but notice someone like you entering my club and I just had to know you.” 

“Why?” you were sceptical. Disbelieving. 

Ran hummed. From the corner of his eye, his bodyguard was tapping away on his screen, pretending to look bored when everyone in the room knew he had the most important job of all. It wasn’t hard to coax you into the velvet seat—you looked like you would bolt at any second, but at the mention of gin on the house, you visibly relaxed. 

There was a look to you that was familiar, Ran decided. You had a face someone would’ve seen somewhere in magazines. Pretty, but not pretentious. Just conventionally attractive enough to hold his eye but not to indulge in it. Someone like a Chief of Justice’s wife, or a President’s mistress. Maybe he shouldn’t think so lowly of your position just because you were here—you could’ve been a CEO of your own company, except most girl bosses he knew would be asleep at this time of the night to prepare for another day in their obnoxious offices. 

You sipped on a glass, careful to keep a distance from him. Ran noticed your lips never fully touched the glass rim, like you had practised all of your life to not leave a mark anywhere you went. 

Most definitely someone related to a politician. His mind was racing, sifting through the sudden wickedness arising in his putrid thoughts.

A daddy’s girl turned rebellious. A trust fund granddaughter looking to blow off steam. 

Something about you was familiar. And, you had mentioned a husband. 

Ran pursed his lips, and he was about to straight up ask you who you were, when his bodyguard passed him the phone he had been casually typing on. Those sleepy lilac eyes widened infinitesimally, his breathing stuttering.

He had seen your name before—it rang in the recesses of his memory.

But, that would mean…

Tsunake. Tsunake Y/N. 

It seemed like fate decided to extend a kind hand the years he spent trying to avenge his one and only best friend. 

Ran’s grin became predatory—tinged with a hint of excitement. 

“So… what’s the mayor’s wife doing in this part of the town?” 

Having blown your cover off, Ran was left with your comically alarmed expression. You nervously set your glass down, tittering through tight, red lips. “What makes you think I have a reason to be here?” 

Without warning, he slung his arm around your waist. It happened too fast—fading into a blur. One second, you thought he was going to force himself on you, and before you could even scream, this mysterious man had managed to flip open your purse and pry out the ziplock pouch of drugs. 

“H-hey—!”

“Ecstasy,” Ran pried open the bag, taking one sniff of the contents. “Mixed with a little bit of molly. Are you looking to have a cardiac arrest tonight, Princess?” 

You bristled, baring your teeth. Despite being filled with two glasses of gin, you were surprisingly still sprightly on your feet. “Give that back,” you muttered hotly, glaring daggers into his skull. “It’s none of your fucking business what I take—you have no right to search me like that.” 

“Oh, but I do.” Standing to his full height, Ran resisted smirking when you flinched and took a step back, bowed by his sheer size that towered over you. “I’m the owner of this club, sweetheart, and thanks to your stupidity, I now have you recorded through CCTVs picking up a trade on the dancefloor. I’m sure your husband—the Mayor of Tokyo—would hate to see pictures of his sweet wife blowing up in the tabloids in the middle of a buyoff, would he?” 

The fire in your eyes dimmed, and if it was possible, even your diamond earrings dangling from your lobes lost their lustre. “You… how did you know?” 

Ran shrugged. “I know a lot of things.” 

A snarl decorated your blush red lips. “Are you blackmailing me?” 

This time, Ran couldn’t help but grin. “You catch on fast.” 

Shifting your weight from one foot to another, your withering gaze alternated between faux contempt and dread. Your mind worked quickly, Ran observed. Those pretty eyes darted back and forth, between the languid stances of his men trained to lunge at your throat in a moment’s notice, to the gangly, smug man who held your reputation in his depraved hands. 

“What do you need me to do?” 

You expected him to list off money and favours, not to snort and say, “What do you think I would want?” 

“If it’s money you’re looking for, you won’t find it with me. My husband is not the generous kind,” you argued back hotly. 

“Pass. Not what I had in mind.”

You wracked your brain. “I don’t have many connections outside of my home. I can’t give you political leverage and my husband doesn’t listen to me.” Your hands were beginning to sweat, hoping with all your might he bought your shoddy lie. Ran appeared like he didn’t.

“Come on. A husband who doesn't listen to his wife? Impossible.” 

Sauntering towards you, his grin was a cocky curve standing out from the garish neon lights. Those half-mast eyes held a surprising gleam of reprehensible intent when they bore straight into your wide ones. “You’re lying to me. I bet you had to sneak out of your own castle to get here, Princess.” 

He wasn’t wrong. You bit down on your tongue to avoid blurting out those incriminating words. “I told you. I don’t have the kind of power and influence you’re looking for.” 

“Well,” Ran tilted his head to the side. “Seems like we’re at an impasse here. But, no matter. I’ve learned a lot in this life, Princess. And one thing that I can’t deny? How someone’s hand can move their own fate if they tried hard enough… or, they’re given a big enough shitstorm to wade through.”

You almost asked him what he meant when he pressed a hand onto your bare waist. The cold from his silver rings seeped into your skin, and you would’ve jerked backwards into the wall if it wasn’t for his grip tightening around you. 

“Easy,” Ran murmured, pinning those heavy eyes onto you. He looked like he would’ve nodded off to sleep if you hadn’t felt the steel in his grip—how easily he could overpower you. “I’m not here to hurt you. I want you to trust me.” 

Trust him? You almost spat back how stupid that idea was when he was steering you back to the velvet couches. Passing you a drink, he pressed it firmly into your hand with more force than necessary, and you sensed that you had no choice in refusing his offer. 

Ran tipped his glass to clink yours, downing his gin and tonic in one go. You tentatively sipped on yours, wincing at the alcohol burn when it went down. The music changed, and without much reason why, the room felt more at ease. Those guards went back to their corners, playing poker, talking loudly, laughing rowdily. None of them were paying you two any attention, and even the lights felt warmer somehow. More welcoming. 

You felt pleasantly sleepy, and Ran took your glass before it could spill onto the carpeted ground. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Mhm, tired,” you slurred, slumping forward to rest your head on his shoulder. He smelled nice—like warmed vanilla bourbon on a rainy day. “I dunno why. I think I need to… to close my eyes…” 

You had no idea how you ended up in his lap. Why his lips were on yours, tongue slowly tangling with yours in the deepest kiss of your life. You tasted the gin he downed, skin and something musky which reminded you of sweaty bodies writhing together. It made you wet; made you gasp into his mouth which heatedly spilled hoarse praises right down your throat. You were gripping his hair, his shoulders, his jacket. Trying to find an anchor to the sensations threatening to drag you under. 

Ran kissed down your neck, sucking and mouthing on the skin hard enough that you could feel throbbing marks left behind.

“Can I touch you?” he breathed into the shell of your ear. You had no idea what compelled you to nod, but the second you did, his hand was between your legs, prying the seat of your thong aside.

He cursed under his breath when he felt how slick you were; how your folds were all glistening and ready just for him. 

You started to rock your hips needily, little whimpers trickling past your clenched teeth. “Ran… Ran…” 

His name sounded like a chime—a mantra you repeated over and over again as your thighs shook and your head lolled back. His slender, nimble fingers were too good. They were made for edging a girl right to a cresting orgasm; those cold rings touching your heated flesh left goosebumps at their wake, the contrasting sensations enough to make you even dizzier.

“Ran—” you cried out, back arching and clutching his hair in your death grip. He kissed the rise of your chest, sticky and glittering with sweat.

“Cum for me,” he murmured, hooking his finger against a tender spot inside of you which made your hips twitch—a minute tick signalling your desperation. “Let go for me, Princess.” 

Every fibre of your being held no resistance; falling for his silky command. You remembered the searing heat, the tears beading on your lash line, how your hips were rocking to his mesmerising fingers which bullied more pleasure into your wrecked body. 

Ran kissed you deeply while you came all over his fingers, your sobs and gasps reverberating around the strangely still room. 

The last thing you heard was his voice in your ear, asking if he should call you a cab, and the next, your eyelids fluttered shut, the entire world going black. 

You felt more than heard someone coming into a room. 

Blinking your eyes awake, a weight settled at the foot of a soft bed, shirtless except for a pair of boxers clinging around his narrow hips. Silvery pale moonlight brushed strokes of pearlescent streaks on his inked torso, and slowly, the half-body of a dragon was coming into focus. Rushing to your senses, you gasped, sitting up, patting every inch of your body only to find you were still in your sparkly dress from last night.

“Morning, sunshine,” Ran mused, turning towards you with a cheeky grin on his handsome face. In your throes of deciphering the tattoos on his torso, you hadn’t noticed the ink at the base of his throat—a geometrical design which looked familiar, but you couldn’t quite remember where you had seen it before. 

“Where am I?” your hoarse voice sounded crass even to your own ears. You cleared your throat, and he passed you a glass of water by his bedside table. 

“My penthouse,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious answer. “I took you home after you passed out on top of me.”  

Blinking, you set the glass down. A crawling sensation was growing in the back of your throat, slithering down your belly and settling right in the base of your body frozen to this bed. You glanced at the doors, windows and crevices of this room, looking for a place to hide—to run. 

You had no idea what this man could want with you, but you sensed it was nothing good. 

As if he could read your uneasy thoughts, Ran chuckled. “I’m not here to hurt you. After all, I already got what I wanted from you.” 

Before you could prod deeper, Ran pulled up his phone, tapping on the screen. A grainy video of you straddling his lap while he kissed you with feverish lust came up, and you watched, struck with horror as your entire body fell apart for him, crying out his name with your toes curled in the periphery and back arched. All while you were already married to another man.

“No—” you swiped at the phone and he held it back, standing up tall and dangling it over your head. 

Tears streaked down your face, joined with snot and a cacophony of your bitter protests. “Please, don’t do this!” 

Your bleats barely phased him; after all, Ran Haitani was a man who had many begging at his feet to spare them or give them their sanity back. “No.”

The word devastated you, and you swore you felt your soul break into two. If word of this ever reached back to your husband…

District elections were just around the corner and your husband’s record had to be spotless. Any word of your actions tonight in the club, or even a whiff of your involvement with a man such as Ran, would ruin the airtight politically perfect reputation he had. 

I have to protect him. You tried to make a grab for the phone again, but Ran jerked it away, shark-like grin growing wider, amused by this little game you two were playing. 

“Ran, please—”

“I won’t tell him,” the bastard promised, a purple cowlick falling against his smooth forehead. Those neatly plucked brows furrowed together, and you could sense a ‘but’ somewhere behind his false reassurances. “But—I want you to do something for me.”

Here it was. In your mind, you pictured bribes. judging from his gang tattoo—shipments of drugs. A place to hide dead bodies. 

You never expected what he would’ve said next. 

“I want you to try and stop your husband from raiding our warehouses.” 

Stupefied, your shoulders slumped forward. Tears beaded in your lash line. “How do you expect me to do that? I told you, he doesn’t listen to me—”

“Mayor Tsunake is a reasonable man,” Ran eyed you down the length of his nose. “Don’t you think so, Mrs. Tsunake?” 

The sound of your married name coming from his rancid lips made you want to hurtle a fist right into his smug face. But, you sensed more than knew that Ran was a fucked up man in a position of high power—any sign of your rebellion will be met with consequences you couldn’t begin to fathom. 

You eyed the tattoo on his neck again. “I can’t make that promise. I’m sorry,” you added, hoping he would let you go and forget about this entire night. All you wanted to do was head back home, ransack your alcohol supply and drink the memories of this horrible meeting away. Maybe you were locked in a dream—tucked safely in your Queen-sized bed while your imagination presented you with your worst nightmare. 

But, this was more than just a figment of your nighttime terrors. Ran was real. This shitstorm you were in was real. 

And it was waiting for you to step into its eye. 

You swallowed. “What else do you want?” 

Ran’s smirk tightened around the edges. “Good girl. I knew you would see reason.” Putting his phone down on the bed, he patted the edge, asking you without words to sit next to him. The mattress sank under both of your weight, and you kept a distance from him, jaw tight and fists balled on your lap.

One heavily ringed hand reached towards you, and you tried not to flinch when he gently patted your cheek. 

“I want you to make yourself available to me. I’ve slept with plenty of women before, but never a mayor’s wife. It’s thrilling—this joy of trying not to get caught.” Those nimble fingers formed a loose cage around your throat, flexing them as if he were taken by a sudden, raunchy memory. “You were such a little slut in the club,” he crooned. “I want to push you harder—see what you’re capable of. All while you don’t let Mr. Mayor himself hear a peep from our little agreement, hmm?” 

Heat soused down your spine, dusting your cheeks. I’m dreaming. You were in a complete daze. I must be dreaming because this isn’t real. 

“Why are you doing this?” was all you could whisper, trying not to lapse into a tearful rage; your roaring emotions held behind a glass wall. You felt like the entire world could smell your shame—judge your stupidity. 

Ran moved his hand down the column of your throat, skimming just above the rise of your left breast. He palmed it without a single word, satisfied how you squirmed in distress but didn’t make a move to stop his groping. Fondling the plump flesh, he squeezed it, flickering those lackadaisical lilac eyes to your mortified expression.

“Why?” He asked nonchalantly, slowly playing with your stiffening nipple underneath the flimsy silk and lace. The sharp edge of his thumb nail dragged along the perky bud, and he flicked it once, as if reprimanding your instant arousal. You flinched, soft gasp echoing around the spacious room, and his grin widened.

“Well, why not?” 

Waking up alone in your large mansion, your entire body felt too heavy. 

After the events of last night, you had stumbled back home, tiptoeing past the maids’ rooms, careful to not wake anyone before you succumbed to your deluge of raging sobs.

You must’ve fallen asleep sometime in the middle of your temper tantrum. 

The space beside you was empty, and Makko must’ve still been out with his entire PR team, strategizing his winning message to blaze through campaign season. You barely noticed his absence last night—who would’ve thought a single excursion out to relieve your tension of being the perfect political wife resulted in your ensnaring tanglement with a dangerous, dark man.

Picking up your phone, you squinted at the sudden bright light on the screen, finding an unknown message. 

It was an attachment, and you dread pooled deep in your belly when you read the text.

Until next time — H.R 

Tapping open the picture, you nearly choked on your spit when you noticed your thong peeking through his clenched fist which was casually resting on the half of his inked chest. Your eyes burned as they scanned through the dips and divots of his muscles, and your throat ran dry, remembering how he had moved your body in ways you hadn’t expected a stranger could.

It was like he knew you—knew what you liked and what you wanted.

Without warning, his next text chimed in. 

Are you awake? 

He was waiting for an answer.

Heart in your throat, you texted back. 

Yes, I am. 

His reply came a second later. Good. Take off your clothes if you’re wearing any and lay back in bed. 

Glancing at your modest cotton nightgown, you felt a shiver run down your spine which had nothing to do with the wind-free AC humming above you. 

Why?

His answer was instantaneous.

Why not? Or did you forget our agreement? 

The video. He was dangling it over your head like your deepest scarlet letter—goading you to deny him so he could make your marriage and husband’s career burn. It was with this single note of love towards the man whose ring was on your finger that you followed his instructions. 

Once you were naked and lying back on your bed, you texted him a terse: 

I did what you asked. 

Send a picture. 

The humiliation could’ve skinned you alive, but you complied. Angling your phone high up so your face was cut off, you snapped a picture of your bare body and sent it to another man who wasn’t your husband as you were perched right on your marital bed, fighting back the urge to find that bastard and kick him right in the balls. 

Ran replied a second later.

Good girl. I’m going to call you now.

Without another second to spare, your phone vibrated.

You quickly grabbed your wireless buds, slotting them into your ears and pressed answer. 

“Those sheets look comfortable,” he hummed, as a way of greeting. Your sour silence made him laugh. “Oh, lighten up. At least look a little happy. I did give you a huge orgasm last night.” 

Ran was shirtless, the dips of his collarbones gleaming in the low light of what appeared to be his bedroom—the tattoo on his throat strikingly dark and haunting. His duvet was a downy white colour, the pillows under his head plush and inviting. 

You spared a glance at your locked door before flitting your gaze back to his half-mast purple eyes. “What do you want?” 

Ran hummed. “Is your husband there?” 

Your brow furrowed, and he had his answer. 

“Angle the camera to your pussy. Show me how you touch yourself.” Your minute hesitation earned you a hard glare. “Now, Y/N. Or, yesterday night’s video will be in the mayor’s inbox in less than 5 minutes.” 

The tattoo gleaming from his throat made you shiver, and you hastened to follow his orders. Lifting your phone and balancing it on your sternum, you aimed the camera right between your legs, thighs still chastely clasped together. 

“Good girl,” he purred. “Now, spread your folds. Touch yourself.”

You obeyed him, like a puppet to a demented master—you touched yourself for Haitani Ran to enjoy, your forced submission a feast which he devoured upon. Ran’s breathing grew heavier from the other end of the line, and you heard the hitch in his groan when you parted your slick folds, showing off the strands of arousal webbing in between your middle and index fingers.

“Taste yourself.” 

Your cheeks burned, and humiliation once again trampled all over your common sense to put a stop to this. In a sick, twisted way, the pain of not having control over your own body—your own reactions—was downright heady. 

A blissful buzz hummed in your mind, and you barely gave another lucid thought before your fingers were stuck down your throat, lapping at your own sweet and salty nectar. Ran couldn’t see you deepthroating your own digits, but he heard the soft squelch of your tongue and mouth. 

“Fuck—touch yourself again.” 

His command was met with little resistance. You rubbed your clit, mouth falling open, your soft pants filling the space of this luscious bedroom. 

“Are you close?” Ran’s husky voice filled your ears, and you suddenly came to the realisation of how pleasant his voice sounded. Not too brash or low. Just the right amount of husky and baritone.

“Mhm,” you murmured. So far, you hadn’t moaned or mewled—too stubborn to let yourself admit to your body’s baser needs and how Ran was adeptly pleasuring you, even when he was far away. You kept your teeth clamped onto your lower lip, only allowing yourself a few trembling breaths.

“I can see your hips twitching.” His voice was going to drive you insane. “Look at how hard those nipples are. They’re so aroused.” You glanced down at the buds straining in the cool air, and something about his casual observations on your body made your walls clench—sucking in your fingers deeper.

Without warning, a soft moan slipped past your clenched teeth.

Ran was quick to react—to swallow down on your shame. “What was that? Is the little slut getting turned on from this? That’s pathetic. I’m not even touching you.” He continued with his parade of casual cruelty, making you feel both small and desirable. “Come on. Moan for me again. You can show me you’re a whore again, yeah?”

What is wrong with me? It was like you had zero control over yourself; your body was responding to such blatant degradation—nipples circling and hips twitching. You could taste your orgasm in the back of your throat. 

“Mhm!” you cried out, glad he wasn’t here to see your mouth falling further open, or the saliva pooling down the corner of your lips. “S-Shit…” 

Your hips had a life of their own; they swirled, twitched and pushed against your furious fingers, pumping to try and take you down your high. You’ve never squirmed this badly for a man—never shamelessly moaned for him to release you from ecstasy’s hostage. 

“Please,” you gasped out. Ran chuckled softly. “I-I need—”

“No,” his voice, silky smooth, was deceptively drenched with pity. “You can’t come, baby. You know I won’t give you that so easily. Stop touching.” 

Your fingers couldn't seem to cooperate. Your whine was saturated with absolute need. “Wh-why? Please…” 

“No. Stop right now or I’ll release the video.” 

That threat was enough to throw cold water on your arousal, and you immediately ripped your hand away from your thighs, crying out softly in protest and embarrassment. Ran was quiet as your pants turned into ragged breaths, your thighs twitching like someone was running aftershocks through your veins.

“Turn the camera back to your face.”

You knew better than to disobey him. The second the front camera switched on, you almost flinched in shock. Your eyes were red-rimmed, like you had been crying—they were wide and glossy, not a hint of defensiveness in them. It was like Ran had stripped you free of your prickliness, leaving you in a ball of your own vulnerability. The shame and hormones coasting in your system left your cheeks flushed and mouth wet with spit.

You looked like a woman who had been purely ravaged, all desperate and teary.

Ran, in contrast, barely had a hair out of place. He still wore that same easy smirk, though the apples of his cheeks were a bit pinker than you recalled. 

“Go and take a picture of yourself and send it to me. I’ll be waiting, Y/N.” He didn’t give you a chance to protest, clicking the call off and leaving you stewing in your thoughts.

Your mind was on overdrive, the tips of your fingers tingling. Ran must’ve given you a choice to send in the picture when he left you alone to your devices; as a way for him to gauge how serious you took his threat. 

The burning shame pooled in the back of your eyelids, and you let your head fall back into the pillows, exhaling a hitched breath that sounded almost like a sob.

Why is he doing this? What does he want? 

Ran had taken your body through the wringer; testing both your patience and determination to protect your husband’s reputation at the expense of your sanity. 

But, was it worth it? 

The ticking clock on your wall counted down your minutes of procrastination. Ran had never mentioned when he expected you to send in the picture—did he want it now? A spike of anxiety clobbered your chest. Oh god, what if he had been expecting it a few minutes ago and was already about to send the video of you grinding on his fingers to your poor, loyal husband? 

Quickly, you sprang to your feet, ignoring the throb of neglect between your thighs to pose in front of the mirror. The morning sun splayed itself across your bare stomach, speckling across your chest and arms. In this angle, you were an erotic painting come to life; the spark of desire you felt had dimmed after all these years of being the steadfast, politically stable wife was flickering back up into a small flame, deep within your chest.

What is happening to me? Your thoughts were in a spiral as you angled your body, showing off your shapeliness and the feminine submissiveness dripping down your thighs. Am I going insane? 

You snapped one photo. Then two, for good measure. You kept your face hidden by your phone, smartly avoiding any chance of recognition. 

Tapping on the screen, you sent the photos to his number, praying he wouldn’t ask you for more—to push yourself further for his sick, pervasive delight. But, your hopes were dashed when he replied a second later, with a string of terse instructions. 

I want your face in them, Y/N. Kneel on the bed and spread your thighs. Take a higher angled photo so your face is in it. Do not disappoint me again. 

Unbidden, you felt like shards of glass were stabbing your soul.

Do not disappoint me again.

If your shame could be seen, it would be curling its shoulders into itself—whether out of self-preservation or despondency, you dared not uncover. 

But, you followed his instructions clearly. The photo came out better than you hoped for. Your flushed folds were the centre of attention, your fleshy clit fully out in the open as a reminder of your denied orgasm pulsing through you. 

Your expression, however, was the one which took you completely by surprise. There was open want in the curve of your brow, how your lips parted to reveal a glossy ring of spit. Shame and desperation shone from your eyes, giving you a coquette look which you hadn’t expected to see from a woman of your age. 

You wanted to touch yourself—hoped he would be kind enough to give you your release when he saw that you were trying. You were trying to be good for Ran; you were trying to follow his orders the best you could.

His response came a second later.

Good girl. I want you to repeat this again tomorrow. And again the day after. Deny yourself for me, and take a picture for me every time you do. Don’t cum until I give you permission to. 

Dread coursed through your veins, heady and pure. Did he expect you to never experience pleasure? What about if your husband fucked you and you accidentally came? The horror solidified in your stomach like a cold, festering fist. It was impossible to do this to you—to control you so harshly when your life was never his to own in the first place. 

Anger came next—coarse and bitter. Who did Haitani Ran think he was to blackmail and push you around? You were the mayor’s wife. You could get a cop on his ass faster than anyone in the district could. If you wanted to destroy his life, all you could do was lift a finger and it would be done.

But, as if he could read your mind, his response came in, timely and concise. 

I would advise you to not let anyone know you’re fucking a Bonten executive. It won’t look good for your husband’s records. 

Bonten. The fear crested, taking you down under. You dropped your phone onto the bed, slapping a palm to your mouth. 

Bonten. No wonder the tattoo under his neck was familiar—you had seen it before in your husband’s civil report, under the tab Illegal establishments: Yakuzas. 

Bonten. 

Japan’s most feared organised crime syndicate. 

A ruthless band of unknown men who controlled the vast underworld with a tight, iron fist. This is bad, you started to heave, the panic clamping down on your throat. This is really, really bad. 

Before you could spiral into your mind and start panicking, your screen flashed with another message, this one solidifying how utterly fucked your situation was; how you had unwittingly ruined your own life in one single, careless night. 

Don’t forget that your orgasms belong to me now, slut. This is our little secret now. 

Shit. 

Shit. 

Just what exactly had you gotten yourself into? 

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy the concept, sentence structures and scenes without prior permission from the creator.

[miserymet]

Tragedy - Reploid Bass AU

Was digging through my old WIPs and found this bad boy. It’s technically unfinished (because I didn’t know how to end it) but it gets the main point across and establishes the where the plot is at post MMX7. Thought it might be interesting to those who want more details on the AU.

(quick timeline context; Bass gets his memories back post mmx6, disappears off the face of the earth and shows back up again halfway through mmx7)

Summary: Zero and Bass talk about one of Bass’ many regrets. In the process, Zero tries to connect the brother he knew as Forte to the stranger wearing his face.

“I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

The words are quiet. Not soft, as nothing Zero’s brother does is soft anymore, but they lack the usual bite. It’s enough to draw Zero’s attention to where Bass now sits. 

The chair holding him is old, a mundane relic of the furniture that was commonplace over a hundred years ago. It’s a miracle that it hasn’t crumbled under the weight of its occupant, but Bass had mentioned that the entire base was designed around its mechanical residents. Perhaps its creator imagined one of his robots might need to use a chair. Even if there’s not much of a difference between sitting and standing for them.

Zero’s surprised to see that Bass has his back turned to him. His brother isn’t too keen on letting Zero out of his sight nowadays, but his gaze is firmly fixed upon the screen in front of him now. Another uncharacteristic behavior. Zero sets aside the spare parts he was examining, all interest gone, and approaches the screen that has his brother so transfixed. It casts a dim light even in the darkness of the base, but the image is clear enough.

It’s an old contact log. A few lines of text sit at the bottom of the screen and for some reason, Zero feels the need to read them aloud.

“Bass. I made a mistake. I created something that I can’t control. You’re the only robot strong enough to stop it. Please help me.” He furrows his brow as he speaks the final line. “I’m sorry.”

“Six lines. Twenty six words. A hundred and fifteen characters.” Bass mutters.

“What does it mean?” 

It’s a genuine question, and maybe that’s why Bass laughs as though it’s the stupidest thing he could have asked. Zero waits with bitter patience for his brother to finish. This is typical of Bass’ new personality. Brash, abrasive, rude, all of these words and more fit the new image Zero’s brother has made for himself. Even his name is new. “Bass.” It’s been a bit of an adjustment to say the least.

Eventually, Bass manages to pull himself out of his laughing fit. His next words are the last thing Zero expects to hear.

“These are the words that killed me.”

“…I thought I did that.” Is all Zero can say to that. Bass laughs, much quieter this time.

“In the end, yeah.” His brother leans back in his seat. “But fighting you wasn’t-, I didn’t…”

“You ‘weren’t supposed’ to?” Zero volunteers.

“…I shouldn’t have.”

Bass goes quiet, lost in whatever old memories are haunting him today. Zero can’t help but feel frustrated. He used to know what to do when Bass…when Forte was upset. Whether it was about his lost memories, his weakness, his outdated code, Zero could always help. It’s different now.

Everything’s different now.

“Do you remember what I told you about our creator? How we didn’t really get along?” Bass starts, gaze still stuck on that old log.

“Because of your penchant for rebellion, yes.”

“That was only half of it. Yeah, I disobeyed him whenever I felt like it, but he wasn’t some doting father.” His brother turns to glare at him. “He was the most selfish, stubborn, stupid old man I ever met. Full of himself, too. You would have hated him.”

“That sounds a lot like you.” Zero can’t help the bite to his words. Maybe X was right. Maybe all this is getting to him. “Where are you going with this?”

“I was loyal at first. The old man had a lot of expectations for me, and I was determined to meet them. I didn’t. No matter how hard I tried, how strong I was, it was never going to be good enough if I couldn’t beat-,”

He stops abruptly, almost letting something slip. Something important. Bass is always vague about his old memories. He’s hiding something, but Zero can’t tell if it’s because it’s too risky or because he’s hoarding all that’s left of his past. It could really be either one. Zero isn’t sure he knows Bass all that well anymore.

“The point is, I was a failure to him. So he tried to move on. Build something else.” Bass shakes his head. “I couldn’t accept that. We fought. First it was just arguments, but it escalated. Before I knew it we were trying to kill each other.”

“What did you do?” Zero asks, though he’s not sure he wants to hear the answer.

“I left.”

Oh. Zero wasn’t expecting that.

“It sounds obvious, right?” His brother rests his head against his hand, expression flat. “But I wasn’t a reploid. I didn’t have the programming X or Axl did. It wasn’t as simple as changing my career. I was leaving my creator.”

“Bass…”

He doesn’t let Zero get a word in. “I agonized over it for days. What was I if not his robot? What could I even do without him? I was practically one foot out the door already, but I couldn’t move the other one. I…cared about him.”

Zero tries to imagine it. Bass, in his original body, standing beside a vague figure. His gaze sweeps across the room and Zero sees Bass sitting on a table full of junk, swinging his legs as he speaks to his creator. What did his face look like? Was it flat and cold, speaking in an even tone about plans or progress or whatever a man like that saw fit to discuss with his creation? Or was he annoyed, brow furrowed with one dipping lower than the other and mouth pulled into a small pout? Maybe it was a face Zero had never seen before, a soft smile, a wry grin that so clearly spelled out his amusement. 

He can only imagine. When he turns back to his brother, Bass wears the grimace he’s grown so used to.

“That was how I convinced myself to leave, in the end.” He breathes an empty sigh. “If I stayed, I might have hurt him. Might have let my anger take me to far and…”

His hands move in front of him, digits curled tightly around an invisible enemy. They hang in the air for a moment and shake. Then they fall. Bass lets his head follow them.

“You came back.” Zero speaks softly, trying for a gentleness he’s never been good at. “Why?”

Bass doesn’t pick up his head. “Same reason. I cared.”

“He made a robot, couldn’t control it and called you for help.” It feels both more and less real when he says it aloud. “He called you to your death.”

“And I came. I came because I am a fucking idiot.”

Zero blinks at the harsh language. Bass is far from the composed brother he knew, but even he didn’t use that language regularly. It feels strange. Forte would never, but Bass…it fits him a little more.

“He didn’t even have to apologize. The moment he came to me for help, the moment he called me strong-,” Bass grips his head in his hands. “All my conviction disappeared. I walked into that lab, this lab-!” He throws out his hands, nearly hitting Zero, “and I died for the man that tried to kill me!”

Zero doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? This is something he’s just learned, a grief he can only imagine. Bass has lived with this knowledge since the day he got his memories back. How did he feel, waking up and knowing that he lost everything to a man long gone? How do you live with that burden? How do you keep fighting?

Bass shoots up from his chair, gaze now fixed on Zero. There’s so much behind his eyes that Zero can’t see. A world no one alive has any hope of understanding.

“I was so close to being happy! To having something other than a worthless creator who only tolerated me as long as he could use me!”

His brother takes a step forward, the light of the screen illuminating every tear that falls from his face.

“And he took that from me! You took that from me!”

“I’m sorry-“

Zero sees the punch coming. He almost dodges. It’s what every self-preservation program in him begs him to do. He doesn’t. He takes it. The punch is hard, snapping his head to the side quite painfully. He doesn’t flinch. Not even when Bass’ fist splits the synthetic skin of his cheek. All he does is look back at his brother.

Bass stands there, eyes wide and mouth open. His arm hangs in the air. He can see the grime left on his hands. Can see the tension in every part of his body. Then, it shifts. Bass drops his hand and closes his mouth. That glare returns, fierce as ever.

“Don’t pity me. It’s too late for that.”

Zero tries to find his words. “I don’t-,”

“That hit only landed because you let it.” Bass casts his gaze to the side. “Everything I do to you is because you let me. Even in this body, I’m not strong enough.”

[darksigns-exe]

be my angel | three - september 1991

warnings: swearing

word count: 3.6k

masterlist | series masterlist | taglist sign-up

Standing in front of the Bell Tower, Teddie suddenly feels awfully nervous. She hasn’t spent a lot of time with Nick alone and now that she thinks about it more, asking him to help with the photos feels like a dumb idea. Nick had been the one who had brought it up – asking about how and where she gets her films developed. And now – a few days later – Teddie isn’t so sure what had convinced her to tell him to join her in the darkroom if he wanted to.

She can’t quite see into the bar, but she can hear the music they’re playing. It’s loud and harsh, and Ted feels a little overwhelmed with it. She gives herself another moment, before she makes her way inside. The sound hits her like a brick wall, and she has to reorient herself before she feels good enough to really enter the bar. She can’t immediately spot Nick, and she stands idly in the middle of the bar for a good minute. Ted considers her options, but before she can decide on a course of action, Nick emerges from a door behind the bar. 

“You’re early.” he states blankly, setting down the tray of clean glasses he’d been carrying. 

“It’s four.” Ted offers, suddenly unsure if that was actually the time they had agreed on. 

His face falls a little when he rushes to check the watch on his wrist. The quiet swear that falls from him almost disappears under the still thundering music. 

“Give me five minutes. Sit, do you want something to drink?” the words come uncharacteristically rushed. 

Nick tosses a small back of chips her way before he vanishes into the back of the bar once again. 

Teddie feels like a child waiting for her parent. She doesn’t belong here and without Nick - or Noah - to ground her in this place, she feels more and more like an intruder with every minute that passes. But the bag of chips sustains her until Nick returns, stuffing a set of keys into the front pocket of his jeans. 

“Alright,” Nick announces as he comes to stand in front of her, “Lead the way.” 

Her fear that the walk would be quiet and uncomfortable seems to be unfounded. Nick is surprisingly easy to make conversation with, even without Noah being present to bridge the gap between them. And while it’s light and surface-level, Ted learns a few new things about him. Nick also grants her a few more entries on the seemingly never-ending list of music she wants to catch up on. Contrary to Noah, he doesn’t make a big scene when she doesn’t recognise a title he tells her about. Not that Noah's upset was ever meant seriously, but sometimes his antics do get to her. 

By the time they reach the building that houses the photo studio and dark room, Ted’s list has grown by a good few items. And while she isn’t entirely sure what Nick is gaining from this, she can’t deny that she is at least a little excited to spend more time with him. 

Nick walks a few steps behind her when they enter the building, and Ted can’t decide if it’s because he doesn’t know where he’s going or because he too feels a little out of place. She leads him up the winding stairs of the stairwell that’ll take them to the darkroom quickest. 

“Are you here a lot?” Nick asks as they make another turn through the unchanging hallways. 

“Not that often. The drawing rooms are in a different building, I only come here for the dark room and the printer.” Ted explains. 

Nick asks about what she actually studies, claiming that Noah hadn’t really made a lot of sense. Teddie can’t exactly blame him because she knows that Noah is prone to jumbling facts around, and who really knows what Noah actually told him. 

Through a little bit of sweet-talking, she had managed to convince the guy who usually hands out the keys to the non-photography students to let her keep one of the keys, allowing her to come and go whenever she pleased. Teddie doesn’t like that she can charm her way around people like that, but with how easily some people placed stones in her way, it’s only fair that she also plays the game. 

Nick quietly follows her into the antechamber. He remains by the door while she takes off her jacket and tosses it over one of the chairs. 

“You can leave anything you don’t need in here. The door doesn’t open from the outside.” she explains, pulling her hair out of her face with the little red and white plaid seersucker hair tie her mother had made for her some months before she had left. 

Nick shrugs off his denim jacket, hanging it over the back of the same chair hers is lying on. 

“Anything I need to know?”

“Room has to stay dark, or your photos are gone. Don’t touch anything and don’t taste anything? Noah tried to dip his finger into the fixer one time when I took him. I would not recommend that.”

From the way Nick shakes his head, she gathers that he isn’t exactly surprised. 

“Got it.” he replies, still quietly laughing to himself. 

Nick follows her into the actual dark room.

She goes about her usual preparations, getting all of the solutions and developers out of the shelves. Nick looks a little out of place, but putting him to work is turning out to be a little trickier than she had expected. 

“Can you get the scales? Should be in the cupboard on the right.” she points vaguely towards where they should be. 

After a little rummaging, Nick places the digital scales on the workbench next to her. 

“Do you have to measure all of this?” She nods, “Ratios need to be right or else we’ll end up with something indistinguishable. And you only really get one shot with this.” 

Teddie doesn’t know how much Nick actually cares about any of this, but she explains the process anyway. Noah’s disinterest had been much more obvious. 

“The longest part is the drying. I have three rolls, but it shouldn’t take much longer than an hour or so – clean up included.” “I thought this would take at least half a day.” Nick sounds a little surprised, “But then again, I don’t know anything about this.” 

Ted gives a chuckle in reply.

Nick hovers behind her while she continues to prepare the rolls of him. She manages to sneak a glance at him. In the harsh red light, his features look much more exaggerated. Ted briefly wonders if he’d let her take more pictures. 

The actual developing goes smoothly. Nick hovers a little, but she hadn’t expected anything else from him. He’d come to help and there wasn’t a whole lot he could do except hanging lengths of film up to dry while Teddie continues to work on the next batch. At least he’s more helpful than Noah had been the last time she’d brought him. Working with Nick like this feels surprisingly easy. It’s almost as if they’ve done this a thousand times already. He asks a few clarifying questions, but for the most part, he seems to have figured out what she needs him to do fairly quickly. And while they work in silence for the most part, Ted does enjoy the brief exchanges they have. 

“How long have you been here now?” Nick asks after a while. 

“Little over a year.”

Ted just sees him shaking his head as he laughs, “I could have sworn that Noah said you just moved here.”

“Feels a little like it.” Ted admits quietly, “I haven’t really felt like I’ve arrived here before I moved in with him.” 

“Where did you live before?” 

“Dorm. The people I lived with were new too, and it was all a little – sedentary. I think living with Noah has been good for me. I get out a lot more.”

He gives a knowing nod in response, “Noah’s good for that. That boy knows just about everyone that you need to know. He’s a little – oblivious, I guess – sometimes, but he means well.” 

Ted hands him the last section of film to hang up. She thinks that she knows what Nick means. Noah has an interesting way of thinking about finances sometimes. She’s sure that he doesn’t make enough at the record store to finance the place they live in. Even with the additional money she brings in, it should be impossible to for them to afford the loft. The portion Ted gives to the rent cannot be large enough to cover the rest.

“It’s hard to hide that you come from money when most of the people you hang out with have at some point questioned how they’ll buy groceries.” Nick finally adds, “He’s trying, but sometimes it’s just very obvious that he’s never really had to worry about a thing.”

The way Nick talks about him makes it sound as if Ted should be aware of Noah’s upbringing. But whenever they’d talked about their families so far, he had been quick to dismiss the conversation. Noah had told her more than once that his relationship with his family just wasn’t good, and Teddie had never thought to dig much deeper. 

“Where did you say you’re from again?” Nick asks then, as he hands her one of the bowls they’d used. 

“Place called Brevard. North Carolina.” 

“You’re a long way from home, huh? How’d you end up here?”

And so Ted tells him about how she’d always seen New York on the TV and thought that it was the best place for an artist to go. Another girl from her street had gone to New York to become a writer, and when she’d come back she’d told them all how great it had been there. 

Nick’s amused look tells her that he’s heard this tale a thousand times before. 

“I thought that the best place for a guy who wants to be in a band was the Bay, so I get it.” There's an awfully sentimental – and almost sad – look on his face then, “Sometimes it works out, and sometimes you have to crawl back home with your tail tucked between your legs.”

Ted wonders if she should dig deeper, but with Nick, it’s always so hard to know. She watches as his front teeth dig into his lip for a moment. 

“But you like what you’re doing here? Fine arts.” 

The little accent he puts on makes Teddie laugh out loud. 

“I do. It’s nice.”

Nick fixes her with a curious look, but ultimately doesn’t push further. 

It does feel a little like a lie. 

It’s not like Ted doesn’t enjoy the program she is in right now, but she also can’t deny that she loves taking pictures. Swapping programs just like that feels a little daunting, though. She’s never been one to just give up on something, just because it feels a little tricky at the moment. 

“When will you know if you’ve won this contest?” Ted asks, instead of dwelling on the matter for much longer. 

“End of October.” Nick replies, “We have a friend who’s getting the zine for us before it officially releases, so we should know before the end of the day on the 31st.”

“Have you played over there before?”

Nick shakes his head, “We’ve been around the states a few times, but that’s it. It’s been a little slow.”

“So what I’m hearing is no pressure at all.” 

Nick laughs in response, shaking his head. 

“Whatever happens, happens. If we win that’ll be great and if we don’t – at least a few more people will know about us.”

“Assuming you win, what happens then?” 

“Ideally, we figure out a way to get to Europe, play a bunch of festivals, make some money and new fans, see some new things.” he explains, “Don’t get me wrong. The album is selling so much better than expected, but Europe would change everything. I didn’t think that we’d sell more than a hundred units at all, and now they’ve told us that we might have the bestselling debut on that label. I don’t even want to think about how many more it could be if things go ideal with this contest and the festival.”

Nick looks as if the excitement about this all is bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin, but he’s not quite allowing himself to feel it properly. She can see the beginnings of a smile twitching at the corners of his lips, but it never becomes more, and Ted wonders if he doesn’t show it because he doesn’t know her well enough or if he actually won’t allow himself to be excited about this. Judging from how reserved he usually is, she’s inclined to believe that the latter is true. 

The tomato shaped timer rings. 

The blaring noise of it tears through the momentary silence that had spread between them. 

Ted quickly moves towards where they’d hung up the strips of film, to check if the first ones had already dried. 

She picks one of the dried strips up, holding it up in front of her face. She brings the strip over to the enlarger, sliding it under the lens. Ted fiddles with dials for a moment. And once the image has cleared up, and she’s faced with the test image she’d taken of Noah just before they had left or the show, she steps away from the device again.

“Do you want to have a look?” 

Nick steps forward, mimicking what Ted had done a moment ago. Ted starts to move the film toward showing the remaining photos on this strip. He remains stoically silent the entire time, almost making Ted believe that he doesn’t like a single one of the pictures.

When she’s reached the end of the strip, Nick steps away from the enlarger again. 

“Ted.” he says after a long moment of silence, “I don’t know what to say.” 

Ted wrings her hands together, nervously awaiting Nick’s judgement. Somehow, this more nerve-wracking than she had expected. She understands now how much actually rides on these pictures, and she really does not want to be the thing that ruins their chances at winning this contest. 

“If the rest are anything like this, we’re practically in Europe already.” 

And this time she sees a little bit more of a smile on his face. 

“I’m sorry that we doubted you like that.” he sounds so very sincere in his apology, “These are incredible, Ted. I think we stand a real chance now.” 

They have made a preliminary choice to take back to the rest of the band. Nick understandably doesn’t want to make this decision on his own.

Ted thinks that the batch that they’ve marked for printing is really good. She’s proud of how the pictures have turned out, especially considering that she’d never taken pictures of a concert before that. And hearing how impressed Nick had been with the pictures had lifted her mood even further. 

“Have you ever thought about doing this? Like full-time?” Nick asks as they’re putting their jackets back on, “I know a couple of people that could need a photographer – and they’d probably be able to pay you in real money and not store credit for a Blockbuster and stale sandwiches.” 

“I don’t know, Nick.” 

“I mean it. Half of the pictures in magazines look the same, but you could add a breath of fresh air. Show some old dudes how it’s supposed to be done.” 

The trace of excitement in his voice is almost infectious. 

Ted can’t deny that she had thought about it before, but her parents had always insisted that she needed stability. She had seen first-hand what could happen if someone loses their job. During the brief period when her father had been out of work in 1985, they had only managed to come by because her mother had decided to work again. Fortunately, they’d only had a few months when things had looked truly dire, but other families in the community hadn’t been that lucky. 

The experience had left her with a lingering fear, though. 

And now that she is living somewhat on her own, she doesn’t want to risk losing the little bit of income she has. Crawling back home because she can’t afford to live here anymore sounds like the last thing she wants. Just the idea of having to admit defeat to her brothers is enough to make her want to stay in her lane. 

“How about this, next time you come around the Bell Tower I’ll introduce you to a couple of people. And if you feel like you can, you do the show. No one says that you have to jump into the deep end of the pool and go full-time immediately. I’ve been in bands for years, and I still have to take multiple jobs in between tours to keep myself over water.”

Ted tries to find a fault in his reasoning, but his logic seems sound. 

By the time they’re back at the apartment, Ted as agreed to his offer. 

If Nick was willing to extend her grace and trust with something as important as these pictures, she should be able to do the same. 

Ted hadn’t realised just how much time they’d spent in the darkroom until they step back out onto the street. The sun is already significantly lower in the sky. 

Their conversation continues on the way home, and while Ted still feels as if he’s holding her at an arm’s length, she thinks that she’s starting to get a little bit of a better picture of who Nick is. 

The route he shows her back to the apartment is quite a bit shorter than the one she’s been taking so far, and Ted tries her best to memorise it.  

They’re greeted by music and laughter as the elevator door slides open. Ted unlocks the grate, letting them into the main space of the apartment. The music is too old to be something Noah has picked, so she assumes that Jesse has come home with him after work. Ted doesn’t mind it at all. Jesse feels like a little piece of home in this big city. 

“There you are.” Noah exclaims as he exits his room, “I was starting to get a little worried.” 

“Just a little?” Nick asks as he throws his jacket over the back of the sofa. 

“Between you two, you’d be fine.” he shrugs, “You’re just in time, though. I guilted Jesse into cooking.”

Ted hangs her jacket up on the little rack next to their door, before she does the same with Nick’s. 

“What’s he making?” she asks, as she toes off her shoes. 

“You’ll have to ask him. All he said is that you’d be happy about it.” Noah replies. 

Nick shakes his head, and Ted is sure that Jesse had told him what he’d be making. It wouldn’t be the first time that Noah just stopped listening to a conversation. 

Ted pushes past him into the kitchen. 

As soon as the smell hits her, she finds herself back in her grandmas' kitchen. 

“Chicken and dumplings. Thought you could use a little bit of home.” Jesse says, without turning away from the stove, “I know I did.”

Ted comes to stand next to him, trying to get a peak into the pot.

“You’re an angel.”

She can’t stop herself from wrapping Jesse up in the tightest hug. Jesse gives a chuckle in return. He pats her back softly. 

“Almost done. You wanna get some plates out?” 

Maybe she’d tried a little too hard to remove herself from home in the attempt to feel less homesick. But even after being here for a little over a year, she still feels herself longing for the comfort of her mother's kitchen. 

The conversation around the table is comfortable. Noah’s account of the guy who tried to scam them with counterfeit Queen tapes makes all of them laugh — Nick included. 

Once dinner is cleaned up, and Noah is done complaining that he had to help with the dishes, the four of them reconvene in the living room. Before Ted even has the time to say something, Noah is digging through her bag for the photos. 

Ted is glad that Nick convinced her to get all of the pictures printed instead of just the ones they’d use for the contest. Getting this moment of looking back at that night together makes her feel a little more grounded in the group. When she’d taken the pictures, she was fully convinced that Nick would never speak more than a few words to her. 

“If you don’t take this one, I’m throwing you out. Both of you.” Noah argues, waving a close-up of Nick in Ted’s face, “I’m not saying that this is the best one, but – Jesse, help me out here.” 

“I’m staying out of this debate —”

The conversation quickly escalates into a half-hearted argument with Noah and Ted on one side and Nick on the other, who is adamant that he doesn’t want to be the face of the band. Nick doesn’t yield though, but at the end of the day, Ted knows that she can always just slip the picture into the batch when he’s not looking. 

From their they eventually turn to lighter topics and Ted allows herself to sink into the background for a moment. 

She watches them talk and laugh and joke, and maybe it’s then that she realise that she feels as if she’s a part of this group. 

taglist: @deathblacksmoke @circle-with-me @sitkowski @ladyveronikawrites @baddestomens

@malice-ov-mercy @chels3a-smile @ferduttini @somebodyels3 @itsafullmoon

@shilohrosechicken @poisongirl616 @mysticdoodlez @agravemisstake @th4t-em0-k1d

@thisbicc @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @mrsnoahsebastian @blackveilomens @sorrowsofsilence

@fadingangelwisp @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @thisisntablogspost @tintadecirco

@rumoured-whispers @cheyyyyr @mathfairchild1 @thewrstinme @Follow-me-down-to-wonderland

[shortstrawberry]

I know, I know. It was Bela's b'day yesterday and I didn't post anything. However, I'm finally free now!

So here's a small sneak peak from my upcoming long oneshot. Bela has her heart back and she is trying to woo the dumbass oblivious MC.

Things have been quite... same ever since the whole debacle with Headmistress and the whole "get Bela's heart back" passed. Not that you were expecting anything earth shattering different to happen. Bela Dimitrescu is still the same draconian workaholic Student Council President who somehow manages to be a straight A grade student. You are still her Vice President, buried under the tons and tons of paperwork that gets passed along your way.

However, since past four months, from the day Bela received her heart back and fainted whispering "You have pretty eyes", certain events have happened that you cannot explain.

Exhibit A: Student Council President fussing after your sick self

"Acchhoooo!"

You loudly sneeze against the tissue paper, trying in vain to contain the droplets inside it. You are normally a shameless cretin who wouldn't hide your sneezing with tissue when alone, sick and dying in your room. But that's the thing. You are very much not alone.

A gorgeous blonde head popped out of your small kitchenette, looking at you with a reprimanding glare.

You shyly hide yourself underneath the blanket, knowing what your president is about to ask you.

"Did you use the nasal spray I brought you?"

You did not answer, still remaining hidden underneath your weighted blanket. You heard a soft beautiful sigh accompanied by approaching footsteps, and you just couldn't help but wonder how can a girl make sighing sound pretty.

The bedsheets were ripped off from you, and you found your answer to your question as you met the intense gaze of one Bela Dimitrescu.

Of course, if anyone can make breathing beautiful, it is this gorgeous blonde. You swear the song "Gorgeous" by Taylor Swift was written for her.

"cor meum, how will you become better if you don't take care of yourself?"

You gave your council president a petulant look, your mouth pouting against your will. You know you are being childish right now against someone who is only trying to take care of you. The said someone has taken out time from their packed schedule to cook some stew for you. But you are sick with fever and cold and you have a feeling the council president will give you a pass this one time.

"That spray stings my nose! I don't wanna use it!"

Bela's eyes immediately softened at your pouty voice, her eyebrows drawing close in focused attention. She tilted her head just slightly to the right, her pale pink lips rising in a amused and affectionate (?) smile.

"cor meum, you haven't taken your inhaler, have you? It will clear up your nose, and you will be able to breathe freely."

Of course you know all of that, but you choose to ignore it. Bela is being uncharacteristically lenient right now, even if she has been soft these days ever since she got her heart back. But today's Bela is still the softest you have ever witnessed.

For starters, she dragged you home from Council work and declared you are on leave until you get better. Then she made you take medicines and sleep while she worked besides you on her laptop. When you woke up, you had lunch waiting for you.

And now it is dinner time and Bela is still here. Not that you want her to go away. Your sleepy sick mind even wanted her to stay forever. Something your usual self won't even dream of.

Taking advantage of the boldness or rather foolishness your fever is giving you, you go ahead and ask what has forever been nagging you. Since the day certain someone got her heart back and started to look at you with strange, different emotion.

"You keep calling me that. What does it mean? What language is it even? Latin?"

The beautiful blonde looked at you carefully, before answering you back in a even more amused voice.

"Yes, and it means 'stupid heart'. Because you have a silly, moronic heart that makes you do careless things like walking back to your home when its raining a storm."

You pout, defending yourself immediately. Even if you remember that incident fondly.

"I had only one umbrella and you were staying back to work! What if you had to go back under rain? So I left the umbrella for you!"

Bela in answer looked away, a hint of pink creeping up her cheeks. She hurriedly draped the blanket on top of you, before settling down besides you and flicking your forehead.

It was a soft flick, clearly a affectionate gesture. Something Bela has been doing a lot lately. You stay up too late working? Sending you away to sleep and flick against forehead. You forget to eat breakfast? A croissant and flick against your forehead. You forget to text her that you have reached home? She will come to your home and flick your forehead.

Strangely enough, you have come to crave these flicks to your forehead. It shows that the once heartless girl...now cares for you.

Well, she had cared for you even when without a heart, as a similiar scene played from your memories. The scowling Student Council President demanding you have her homemade soup.

Now the only difference is that Bela is looking at you with the purest look of concern and offering to apply nasal spray on you herself.

"Here, give me the spray. I will do it myself because someone has become a helpless child."

You only grin cheekily, but let Bela do what she wants. You have troubled the poor blonde enough. And you have a feeling the dinner Bela is making will start burning soon if you keep her any longer.

With two whiffs of spray you were out like a light, sleep coming to you in minutes, You mumble a soft yes when Bela tucks you in, telling you that she would wake you up in time of dinner.

Unbeknownst to your peaceful sleeping self, the eldest Dimitrescu sister stayed besides you for few long minutes, gazing at you with the softest expression.

A soft, feathery kiss was laid on your forehead. Right where she flicks you all the time.

"It means my heart. You are my cor meum."

Cor meum means "my heart" in Latin according to Google Translate.

[shona22]

hiya hiya ♥️✨

I need some fresh sterek fic recommendations!

So, what are your go to reads that are a bit on the longer side??

Hi anon! Here are few fics from the top of my head. Please heed the tags.

Caged Humanity by Ember

[ E | 55k+ WC ]

The other factors sounded like complete bullshit. Like about Companions having certain dispositions for submission, and a personality built around wanting to please. Fuck that, Stiles was a strong independent man who didn’t need no wolf. Submitting was straight up taught in classes. Don’t talk back, try to reason not argue, never run away when your Mate was in heat. Mate? More like owner. There was a reason Companions were called pets. God Stiles hated it all, the hypocrisy. It was an honor? More like a life sentence.

An AU where werewolves are given humans as pets called Companions, and a very begrudging Stiles is taken in by Derek Hale, much to both their displeasure. And then pleasure. Very, very sexual pleasure.

Down By Contact series by standinginanicedress

[ E | first part is 100k+]

Lydia looks over her shoulder to look at Derek Hale again, then back to him. “He’s an asshole, you know.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Stiles is confused, furrowing his brow. “I’ve only spent the last ten years of my life fighting with him.”

“Yeah, but, I mean, he’s an asshole,” she draws the word out nice and long, as if it takes on a different meaning depending on exactly how she says it. “No one who has ever dated or hooked up with that guy has ever had anything nice to say about him after the fact.”

“What do I care about that?”

She looks at him. It’s that all-knowing, all-seeing gaze, like the eye of Mordor. Stiles feels tiny under its wrath, so he looks away and stares down at his beer can, traces the design with his thumb. “I know you, Stiles Stilinski.”

“Not really. We only dated for, like, five months.”

With a snort, totally uncharacteristic of her and something she would never do sober, she rolls her eyes. “Gee, I wonder why.”

You can also find the Tax evasion series and other works of SIAND in @christinesficrecs 's Dropbox.

The long way home series by Kwills91 [ E | 50k+]

Bruised Like Violets by Melpomene (Aconitehart)

[ E | 90k+]

Stiles stares at the ceiling, completely flabbergasted. Derek Hale wants him. For real. This isn’t another Lydia situation, where he needs to pine and slowly try to work his way in from the edges of someone’s life.

Derek likes him already. Derek is nice to him. Derek answers his questions and his texts and buys him magical things.

He presses a hand against the spot Derek bit and shivers. That action had felt kind of wolfy, like Derek forgot to pretend to be a human man. Maybe that’s it, then, for Derek. Stiles is someone he doesn’t have to pretend to be human with. Maybe after summer ends, after Boyd and Erica are safely corralled in Beacon Hills, Derek will go back to fucking women like Tina or whatever that chick’s name was.

Stiles isn’t complaining. He’ll take what he can get.

-

In which Derek is a magical werewolf boy and Stiles becomes his emissary.

[awriternamedart]

"You've improved immensely."

"You kicked my ass."

Gepard just chuckled, helping Luka up off the ground with a slight grunt. The cold wasn't awful today, so without any matches today and the Wardance behind them, Luka had taken the first tram up to the surface to get some solid practice in. He had learned alot, and what better way to show it off then to his secondary teacher?

Only he found himself getting absolutely bodied. Despite all that new experience, he still was no match for Gepard— something only shown when it had taken barely a few blows to floor him. All without even breaking face.

"C'mon, Mr Gepard— when are ya gonna stop pullin your punches?! Y'know I can handle it!!" Snagging the offered waterbottle and downing a gulp, Luka rolled his neck and plopped down on his shirt- it had long since been discarded for their spars. Even in Belobogs eternal chill you still work up a sweat!! "I know that arm of yours has some sickass power!"

"…With all due respect, Luka, you haven't won a single spar today." Faint amusement danced in blue eyes as he stretched out his arms. Scar after scar was etched in skin, drawing Luka's eye. His flesh arm, his shoulders and torso— throughout their spars, Luka had gotten to see many marks of Gepard's countless victories in battle. "I'd rather have to never use this arm's full power in a spar."

And Luka just blinked, before turning to his own, fidgetting with it.

The uncharacteristic silence caught Gepard's attention— normally, Luka would go headfirst into insistentence that he could handle it, that it was a good challenge. But here, he sat quietly, slowly clenching and unclenching his fist.

"What's on your mind?"

"… a lot of the fighters at the Wardance said something pretty similar, yknow. About it being for honor, there being no need to go all out— stuff like that. So many amazing- well- warriors!" He cast his gaze to the sky, falling back on his hands as Gepard sat next to him, an elbow resting on his knee. "You said I had a lot to learn about victory, and you were right. Some people weren't there to win at all- they just wanted some publicity or somethin. Represent somethin, earn somethin- guess I wasn't all that different- but everyone had their own goal as their victory."

"It just got me thinkin- bout Master Oleg, bout you, bout Seele- I always say your holdin back on me, but when I was at the Wardance, I figured out why- you fought for somethin else. You all fight to live."

Luka's voice dropped a little, turning his eyes back to his hand. Shiny and freshly serviced- he could see his own eyes looking back at him. He could still remember the hallucinations, remember each contestent just like him, each one that was different! Even among all the hellish confusion, the wild happenings— the thrill of the fight had remained the same, yet it was all the more different.

"The Wardance spars- I was tryin to figure out what was different about them, yknow? It felt like everyone was holding back on me all of a sudden. I thought they were underestimatin me, or looking down on me, but- I think I get it now."

Eager determination flashed in Luka's eyes— an all to familiar sight to Gepard. He had seen many a similar look before, and even now it warmed his heart to see that Belobog remained unbroken. They were going to recover, he knew it well.

Luka yelped when a large hand landed on his head, tousling his hair. Gepard just laughed as he stood up and flexed his hands, turning around with one extended.

"Show me, then. Prove you've learned."

Luka's eyes sparkled as he clasped Gepard's hand in his own, letting himself get tugged to his feet. Maybe this round would be different, maybe it would be a repeat of his ass-whooping. But either way, Luka didn't care anymore.

He knew what victory was to him.

-

Victory's Pedestal - awriternamedart

this is tied to this fic here !!

[offorestsongs]

heart-shaped locket

ship: oc x canon (Rook x Lysander)

summary: Lysander, anxious about their imminent separation, has an idea.

a/n: so. uh. this is something i briefly mentioned in their ship intro but i wanted to kind of expand on it so i wrote a small ficlet. enjoy, i guess

“Whatever’s the matter, mon coeur? You look uncharacteristically serious.”

Most people would have called Lysander serious, no matter the situation ― it was sweet that Rook could tell the difference between his usual lack of expression and an actual grave matter. It only made Lysander’s heart felt heavier.

“Oh― I―” Lysander was sure in his ideas when inviting Rook over, but now, seated on the old couch in the Ramshackle lounge, so close that their knees were touching, all the earlier confidence seemed to have fled his body.

He felt Rook’s hand on his cheek, warm and secure. He leaned into the familiar touch, more on instinct than anything else, but still refused to meet Rook's gaze.

“I so always want to hear what you have in mind.” Rook smiled. “So?”

Well. In that case, Lysander had no other choice. And besides, he knew well all of his doubts were unfounded. If anyone would like the idea, it was Rook.

“It's nothing bad or anything—” Lysander said, digging around in the pockets of his thick woolen cardigan. “It's just that… The summer holidays are almost here. And then you'll go on your internship afterwards and I'll stay here and…”

Finally, somewhere between a stray embroidery needle, some loose change, a button that he was meant to sew back to one of his blouses for forever and a crumpled note that Ace had passed him during class (a stickman drawing of Deuce half asleep on his desk), Lysander had fished out the exact thing that he was looking for.

“I just thought it would be nice to have something more, uh, physical to remember each other.”

On Lysander’s open, outstretched palm lay two identical heart-shaped necklaces. They were plain, silver in color, and clearly not bought first hand. Time had dulled the color, making it lose its shine. It was all Lysander could afford, yes, but truth be told, he liked the vintage, time-bitten aesthetic of it better. More romantic, he thought.

Rook had picked one of them up, already clearly delighted.

“Ah!” With a soft “click”, the heart locket popped open. “Now we can carry photographs of each other close to our chests. Marvellous! What a romantic idea, mon fleur!”

Lysander’s cheeks flushed pink. “Uh. Well. I mean. You can do that too if you want to but, uh, actually I had something different in mind.”

Suddenly, the dirty-gray fabric of the couch was the most interesting thing in the world to look at.

“Now you have me intrigued.”

Still not looking at Rook, from his other pocket Lysander took out his belowed pair of sewing scissors. They felt cold and heavy in his hand.

“I actually thought we could put there, uh, you know, our hair. I thought it would be sweet, to carry a part of you over my heart, no matter where I go. And… and to think that you're doing the same. That way, it's almost like we're not separated at all.”

Before Lysander ever had a chance to felt embarrassed by his words, Rook's lips were on his, kissing him breathless.

“Yes!” Rook said with all the enthusiasm only he could master. “Truly a beautiful idea, mon cheri! You really must share a part of my heart, to think of such things.”

Lysander smiled faintly. His heart was still beating like it was trying to escape his ribcage, but a sense of giddy happiness came over him. Of course his anxiety was all for nothing.

He put the scissors in Rook's hands. “Well then… you could cut mine and I could cut yours?”

[rezcowgirl]

December. Monday Morning. Okay.

Shiver and smile.

Be born in December. Riiiiight near the end, but not end enough that your parents get a free TV for having the Official New Years baby…Don’t worry about it. Dad will win a huge TV in a prize draw at Safeway. Eventually.  

There’s so much chocolate on sale, and I was born on this day! A month early, colicky as fuck, with a heart technically already broken. (<- Don't worry. Got that confirmed all cleared up when I had those other heart issues that I still have weird scars scars from because the electrodes made my skin melt. Need another 3 day thingy in February. Bleh.)

So, I’ll never be 34 again! Yay!

Once, my friend Unkyo pulled up for a Covid picnic on her bike, carrying 4 pounds of u-pick-it blueberries and an uncharacteristically sour expression. She was really aggravated. I had never seen it on her before. Apparently, she forgot her ID and the staff at a liquor store wouldn't let her buy anything. Her 18-year-old daughter was literally working at an ice-cream shop across the street from the park we were hunkered down in. I laughed and laughed, but she was genuinely annoyed. She was 45 at the time, and I thought it was cute and flattering. 

Obviously, we shared our wine with her. 

It’s fairly notable when I do not get ID’d buying alcohol. I almost always do. I know it’s not a huge flex given that I do not have an 18-year old daughter, but I DO have a fat baby face! I really don’t mind being ID’d - I like saying “I’m 35 :)”, and I wore a fake nose ring for the photo, so I like it.

I did NOT get ID’d on the most recent run. Aries said “Congrats - could it possibly be because there are not many 18 year olds that would be buying Moet & Chandon?”. And yeah. Probably helps. (It’s the ONLY champagne Aries likes…) I somewhat aspire to be ID’d at 45 like Unkyo, but Unkyo is an easy beauty, inside and out, and I am a rotten, crispy husk of a man, so I’m not going to worry too much about meeting this goal. My real goal is to make it to 45 and not die. So far so good!!!

I spent Friday with my old roommate and some other friends I don’t get to see very often and felt all gooey with love again. Wistful? Not quite nostalgic - she is better as a friend than a roommate. To be clear, I was the problem. I need a lot of alone time. It was hard. She forgives me my aforementioned rottenness, and she lives in New York now. I miss her so much, but we both don’t keep in touch because we suck at it. But it means a-lot-a-lot to be able to sit down and be like: “holy shit I love you tell me everything” and it’s not weird. She’s one of those rare always-sweet types, and I always want to protect it. She must not lose it. No no no. We’re having her and her husband over on the 5th, and I’m going to try really hard to NOT ask if they're going to move back to Vancouver...

Saturday we hopped around to different cocktail lounges, and I think we met some kind of trickster god. We were at our third stop, and we ended up being seated outside, which apparently most people turn down, but it was amazing. We had our own fire, we got complimentary cider, and we could converse without yelling. I wanted Aries to take some photos of us, so he did. But lurking nearby was this very friendly and relatively drunk guy, obviously also bar hopping and waiting to get in. He said “no, no, stop, you can sit down, I’ll take the photos from here”, so Aries handed my phone over and he took about 15 photos for us.

They’re basically all unsalvageable. In every single one, something is fucked up. Someone is mid-blink so their eyes are closed, but there’s still the ghost of a pupil overlaid over the eyelid, making it SUPER creepy. Or someone moved, so their face looks long. There’s one where Aries has one eye open and the other closed? There’s one photo of Ali that does not look like her at all?? It’s not like we’re all blurry in them. There’s just at least one person fucking up in each of them. I am perplexed and impressed, and now I have all these laughably terrible photos from my birthday pub crawl. But I love them anyway.

Here are the last pieces of 34. I found heart stickers on a walk. I'll stick one in my 2025 planner, and one on the wall of a goth night bathroom.

[hey-heigo]

Chapter 16

this is byakuya's no good very bad worst shit ass day of his life (so far)

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

just a note that i probably won't be updating chapter 17 until two weeks out (doctor stuff next week). apologies in advance for the cliffhanger

byakuya is kind of a shit defendant ngl. like buddy you have to get the jury to believe in you? if you dont want the guilty verdict??

makoto is doing his best here

@digitaldollsworld sjdfkdsjflkd

Content warning tags: not sure. but byakuya spirals into anguish if that's something you're not into, slight suicide mention?

< previous - from start - next >

Makoto’s voice echoes through the chamber, cracking through the air like a gunshot. It stuns Owada into silence; it draws all eyes to him.

Byakuya can’t even turn his own gaze away. Makoto has his fists clenched at his side, and stands tall and determined. Commanding the trial once more.

“Byakuya wouldn’t have killed Chihiro.” He says firmly. “And, Byakuya wouldn’t have been able to replicate Syo’s crime either.” He says it with such conviction that Byakuya can’t help to feel that irrational relief again, that comfort he could take in Makoto’s support.

“Can you explain?” Celeste asks, and Makoto nods stiffly.

“First…there’s the matter of location. It just doesn’t make sense, considering what we know.” He says his words steadily, carefully - laying out a careful foundation. “Me and Chihiro left the library at around noon, and went around the first floor, right? We found Hiro in the laundry room first.”

Hagakure nods, finger rasping along his chin. “Yeah, and we talked for…what, ten minutes? Maybe fifteen?”

“Right. And then we went looking for Mondo and Taka…we found them cleaning up in the trophy room.” Makoto's face turns to Owada and Ishimaru, seeking affirmation. “Chihiro wanted to talk to you guys one at a time, so Mondo, you came with us to the cafeteria, because you wanted to get something to eat.”

The only response that Owada gives is a grunt, but it’s not outright denial. So Makoto continues:

“I don’t remember exactly how long Chihiro spent there, but I know he left before one. We already knew where Taka was, and we knew that Chihiro wanted to go talk to him next. So there wouldn’t have been any reason for him to go to the second floor!”

“Ah, but.” Celeste cuts in. “What is the proof that Byakuya did not go downstairs? It’s hard to justify the library as the place of death, but is it not possible that Chihiro was killed on the first floor?”

“That would have been difficult. There were only so many places he could go where no one else would have noticed, or that he had access to.” Kyoko points out. “If Kiyotaka was in the trophy room, he would have had a direct line of sight of the stairs. Kiyotaka, did you notice Byakuya going downstairs at any time?”

She turns towards Ishimaru now. The Ultimate Moral Compass, their apparent de-facto leader and head of class, is dead silent. But his head turns in a slow shake-

“Don’t use my bro as an excuse!” Owada interrupts, again, and Byakuya finds himself with a mouthful of fresh blood, as he bites down on his inner cheek in frustration. “He’s injured, see? You expect him to give a testimony after he took a trophy to the head?”

Just how injured is he? Ishimaru seems to be standing steadily. In fact, other than his uncharacteristic silence and the bandage on his head, it was hard for Byakuya to discern if there was any difference in him at all. But there’s some slight awkward shuffling around him, as the others react with sympathy.

“...You okay, Taka?” Hagakure asks, gently. Ishimaru is still, before nodding once, jerkily. “Um. Okay, then…”

“E-even so!” Makoto’s stutters a bit, thrown off for a moment. “We can’t confirm that Byakuya did go downstairs at all!”

“But it’s not like we can confirm that he didn’t?” Yamada points out, adjusting his glasses. “I mean, I don’t mean any disrespect, Mister Togami - but I did take note of where everyone was around the time the body was discovered, and everyone else has alibis - so is there anyone who can vouch and say that you were in the library the whole time?”

Byakuya can only click his tongue sharply, turning away. Of all the people to want to get a dig at him, and suddenly try to be useful… ”Toko was with me. Twenty minutes before the body was found.”

He stares expectantly at Syo, who crosses her arms, tilts her head, and then shrugs. “Sorry, she’s really zonked out. Down for the count and all that, y’know?”

The one time he needed her! He scowls, but he can’t be bothered to waste time on her anymore. He turns back to Makoto. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking from here, but Byakuya can hear a soft tapping, the slight bounce of his leg against the floor. 

“Putting location aside, we also have to consider motive, right?” Makoto says. The confident edge in his voice is almost gone. “The interaction he had with Chihiro isn’t necessarily enough to implicate him. If anything, that would have made it harder for him to get Chihiro alone…he wasn’t exactly, um, nice when he said all that stuff…”

Byakuya almost rolls his eyes. He had been plenty nice at that time; but that was not important at the moment.

“It’s true, Chihiro was…kind of a scaredy-cat, right? I mean, before today!” Hagakure says hurriedly. “And no offense Togami, you’re kinda the loner type…except for with Makoto.”

“Shut up and make your point.” He growls, and Hagakure throws his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“I’m just saying you’re not the easiest guy to talk to, man!”

“I don’t try to be.” But Hagakure had brought up a good point. “I’m not interested in being friendly with any of you. That included Chihiro.” That wasn’t a lie, technically. Up until this point, his relations with Makoto and Chihiro were made out of necessity and mutual gain. “He did tell me his secret earlier, but Makoto was present during that time. Other than that, we have had no other interactions.” 

That was more of a lie. He was purposefully omitting mention of their conversation in the bathhouse the other night. But it was fine, since he doubted Makoto would betray him now, and the one person who was aware of it - Toko - was apparently too caught up in her own head to disprove it.

“And that was also when you told him to try confessing his secret to the rest of us?” Celeste asks.

Why was she doubting him? He scowls at her. He needs the rabble to leave him alone already. “Yes.”

“How interesting.” She has her hand pressed to her lips again, an action that reminds him oddly of a self-satisfied cat. “Pray tell, at what time did you speak with Chihiro today?”

By the sound of her voice alone, Byakuya has the distinct sense that he’s being toyed with. Being lured to a trap. Even without ever being able to see Celeste’s face, he had always been aware that she was someone to tread carefully around, simply by the way she used words alone. Like laying mines in a field.

But there’s no way for him to answer this question without drawing suspicion. Silence would be even more damning. “Why do you ask?” He replies, carefully. He can’t tell, but he thinks Celeste might be smiling.

“You said earlier that you and Chihiro had no other interactions,” She sounds almost amused, despite the gravity of the situation. “I have a confession of my own to make. Even though it violates our ten-PM rule, I sometimes like to take walks after hours. I quite like the ambiance of the reduced lighting, and the feeling of being entirely alone.”

The sudden tangent catches him off guard. Apparently, he’s not alone in that aspect. “Um…Celeste?” Makoto’s voice is hesitant, confused. “What does this have to do with the trial…?”

“Well, as it happens, there are certain things that get revealed in the night-time that are otherwise unseen during the day.” She tilts her head playfully, and he feels a sudden sense of foreboding. “And late last night, perhaps after midnight, I do happen to remember seeing Byakuya and Chihiro leave the bathhouse together.”

The reaction is instantaneous. All around him is a clamor of shock, but he can barely make out individual words. His own ears are ringing slightly, as he tries to parse what Celeste just said.

“T-t-t-together?!” Yamada gasps, almost comical in his surprise. “B-but, I thought, with Mister Naegi-!”

“Boy-on-boy?!” Syo shrieks, practically jumping at her stand. “How obscene!! And such an unexpected pairing-?!”

“Scandal? In my school?!” Monokuma wails, thumping at its head with its paws “Oh, I knew I should have pushed abstinence harder! Where did I go wrong?!”

“All of you, shut the fuck up!” Owada snaps. There’s a catch in his voice; he seems thrown-off too, his previous attitude shaken by the sudden reveal. “You bastard…you better have a good explanation!”

Byakuya stays silent. His head is a buzz of meaningless sound.

“Wait, wait! Stop!” Makoto is waving his arms, trying to settle the noise. “That - Celeste, do you have any proof to back this claim?”

And she, the Ultimate Gambler, hums in amusement. “What proof can I offer? I did not take a picture. And it’d be pointless to describe what they were wearing.”

The absurdity of that statement draws him out of his shock. “Then why mention it at all?!” He snaps, and she giggles, infuriatingly.

“The two of you seemed to be on friendly terms last night. Why do you assume that I am not trying to assist you?” There’s a soft clack as she sets her hand against the railing, her nails tapping against the wood. “I hope you will forgive me for accidentally eavesdropping, but I did hear you suggest to Chihiro some advice regarding strength, no? It was surprising at the time, but it’s reassuring to know that you have a heart of flesh.”

She sounds like she’s smiling at him. He can only glare. Queen of Liars, indeed - he’s underestimated her. It feels like he’d been misjudging many people recently.

“...When you say ‘advice’, do you mean that was when Byakuya told Chihiro to talk to us individually?” Ogami asks, and Celeste just nods.

“Then, he did that with the intention of killing Chihiro from the start!” Owada spits venomously. “When has that guy ever been nice? And why else would he lie about this to begin with!”

“Mondo, seriously! This is just circumstantial!” Makoto tries to say, but he’s lost his assertiveness. He’s overwhelmed quickly, as the others begin their own speculation.

“It’s…really hard to say it’s Syo, huh?” Asahina wonders aloud to herself, almost regretfully. “It’s also hard to say it’s Byakuya, but…”

Shut up. His head hurts. He needs to think. He presses the ball of his palm to his temple, and finds his hand slick with sweat.

“There’s no one else who seems suspicious,” Yamada agrees. “If we consider all the evidence, and the, ah, love triangle…maybe, it was a crime of desperation? To frame Miss Fukawa so she would leave him alone…?”

Shut up. It was loud. They were so loud. He needs to think, he can hardly hear himself, his own thoughts. He couldn’t rely on Makoto anymore, but without him he had nothing left but himself.

“Maybe we should just ask him directly!” Hagakure shouts with bravado, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Hey, Byakuya-”

“Shut up!” He screams back.

The room falls silent. All he can hear is his own breathing, labored and harsh. His head is pounding, ringing in time to his beating pulse; he keeps his gaze fixed on the wooden beam beneath his hands, a flat strip of brown. He’s not sure what looks they’re staring at them with, but he doesn’t want to know.

A few pieces of weak, awkward, circumstantial evidence, and a reputation of being unsocial - was that really all it took? Had he fallen so far that this was all it took?

“It’s not me,” His voice is distant and unfamiliar, shrill with fury. “I wasn’t the only one aware of Syo’s murders. I wasn’t the only one on the second floor. All the evidence is weak at best, and clearly placed to frame me. Are you all stupid? Or just suicidal?” He casts his gaze around at each of their faces, as blank and empty as ever. “Isn’t there one other person here without an alibi? One other person who would know about Syo, other than me?”

“Byakuya-” Makoto says, but it’s so soft he ignores it. He points at Kyoko, who doesn’t even flinch. A statue of lilac marble.

“When the body was found. You were there.” He sounds insane, even to himself. The last, desperate floundering of a doomed man. “ ‘It’s reminiscent of that serial killer,’ but how would you have known that? Explain yourself, Kyoko Kirigiri!”

Kyoko doesn’t move. He can’t tell if she’s shaken at all, or if his words have had any effect. “I read the case file for it in the library a while ago,” is all she says, simply. “As for my whereabouts during the time of the murder, I was also on the second floor. I was investigating the bathrooms.”

“Alone, I’m presuming? And do you have any proof?

“I have no alibi that can be supported by another person.” She admits easily, as if he weren’t accusing her of murder. “As I said earlier, at the time of death, I was investigating in the boy’s bathroom. The only one who might be able to confirm that I had ever been in that room at all, is Toko-”

“And me!” Syo interrupts, sounding genuinely offended. “Gloomy might’ve been the one who collapsed on you, but I was the one who woke up to your mug staring me in the face!”

“-Furthermore, Makoto investigated the bathroom separately.” She continues. “I will let him describe what was found there himself.”

Byakuya turns to Makoto. This was a prime opportunity - surely, Makoto had found something, anything at all - 

“...The sinks and taps in the second-floor bathrooms were all dry.” He starts, slowly, hesitantly. “And- there wasn’t anything that could have been the murder weapon. There was also a lot of dust, so it wasn’t a place that was recently cleaned, and considering the time period in which Chihiro could have died…it’s just not likely.”

And that was it. Byakuya clutches the railing to keep himself upright.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Owada’s direction. A breath of triumph, maybe, before he asks Monokuma to start the vote - or a gasp of surprise, at how easy it must have been. How defenseless Byakuya is, hardly amounting to anything.

The thought makes him lean a little more against the railing, his arms trembling. He thinks he might puke.

“But,” Makoto raises his voice again, and Byakuya clings to it, like a drowning man to a buoy. “There’s one more reason why it can’t be Byakuya. The way the word ‘bloodlust’ was written is…it’s too perfect. It matches up too much with Syo’s handwriting from previous cases.”

“It’s not that hard to copy someone’s handwriting?” Asahina starts to say, but Makoto shakes his head.

“It…it’s not something that Byakuya could have done.” He sounds…strained, somehow. Uneasy, hesitant - If Byakuya didn’t know better, he’d think that Makoto sounded guilty - “It’s impossible for him to have done this, because…he’s blind.”

< previous - from start - next >

[citrus-moonlight]

Hello friends and welcome! I wanted to finally put all my fics in one place since I now have over 50K 70K published (!!!), and also because I started out posting to one blog and then moved here to use as a separate writing/personal space.

At this point it's all Ulysses Klaue all the time, baby, but I do have a couple of WIPs started for Alfred Pennyworth (and perhaps a loose outline or two for a couple of other blorbos). I hope to get to them soon, but for now my dirty napkin of a man has me in a chokehold, so here we are!

All works have an Explicit rating | 18+ only | Warnings tagged in each work/series as well as individual chapters.

And remember: Writers are little goblins for feedback, you have no idea how much we appreciate every single comment and reblog!

Bringin' Home the Rain

Thank you to the wonderful @saradika for this gorgeous header!! 💕 Please check out her graphics blog @saradika-graphics!

"Let It Wash Us Both Away" (Part One) 5 Chapters | 25.4K | Ulysses Klaue x F! Reader | Complete!

You're no stranger to taking risks, in fact you prefer the unknown, however when you happen to cross paths with a certain black market arms dealer you find it uncharacteristically difficult to find your balance. (aka "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine.")

[ Read on AO3 ]

"Salvation is a Deep Dark Well" (Part Two) 3/6 Chapters | 30.6K | Ulysses Klaue x F! Reader | Active WIP! - Chapter 3

After the realization that you don't want your night with Klaue to be one-time thing - and as you start to understand that he doesn't either - that persistent hum of desire to seek out risk starts to feel different; enticingly unfamiliar and drawing you in a way that for the first time makes you long to relinquish control to something, or someone, outside of yourself.

[ Read on AO3 ]

"Find Me in the Air" (Part 3) Ulysses Klaue x F! Reader | Future WIP!

Planned final part!

Stories in the "Bringin' Home the Rain" universe

"Woven" 3.9K | Ulysses Klaue x F! Reader | A little bit of smutty holiday fluff! | Between chapters 3 and 4

As winter begins to settle in, the darkening days are unexpectedly brightened when you end up with the chance to spend a little more time with Ulysses Klaue.

[ Read on AO3 ]

"Close Your Eyes to See" 2.3K | Ulysses Klaue x F! Reader | A little bit of stolen time between visits | Between chapters 3 and 4

Even when he's at the compound you don't get to spend as much time with Klaue as you both want, so you're always pleased when he has a few minutes to give you some much needed attention.

[ Read on AO3 ]

"Away" 2.0K | Ulysses Klaue x F! Reader | A short drabble based on a sweet ask by @saradika 💕 | Unspecified in the timeline, but it's somewhere in part 3!

Going on vacation with Klaue is sweet and filthy, and gives you chance to learn a little more about one another.

✨ No AO3 link yet, but I am planning on brushing this up and will post it on there, soon!

"Think I Need a Devil to Help Me Get Things Right" 4.7K | Uysses Klaue x F! Flight Attendant Reader | Complete!

After a particularly rough flight you're suddenly having anxiety for the first time in all of your years in the air, but you end up finding help in an unexpected place when an enigmatic passenger offers you a distraction.

[AO3 Link]

"Danger Starts the Sharp Incline" 4.5K | Demon!Klaue x F! Scientist Reader AU | Complete!

At your scientific organization the study of demon energy output has become no less mundane than it would at any other research facility. That is until you find yourself trapped with the demon who has recently shifted in your thoughts from an idle curiosity to a distraction.

[AO3 Link]

A list of other WIPs and ideas on the go! I have a couple more to add so I will update this one shortly as well!

[gemharvest]

Might not be exactly what you asked for but PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE go into more depth about the bf and pico drawing with the kinto pet song lyrics 🙏🙏🙏🙏 it has haunted me in a good way and I will explode without more

UR MORE THAN FINE DWWW it's easier for me to ask for prompts but I LOVE ASKS IN GENERAL I like getting to ramble. Forever and always if you see me post something and you want me to elaborate on it/ have specific questions/ literally whatever PLEASE DON'T BE SCARED TO SEND AN ASK IN !!!

okay needed that out of the way first LOLLLLL

The like. Images I get in my head when I listen to this song drive me insane like this was just me putting it into one image but I could deadass do a full PMV if I had the time.

Obvi I prefer to draw in a more Funkin'-influenced style, but esp. with how Pico is drawn I hope it's clear I was leaning into the Pico's School side of things.

(continuing under a cut because I am about to Ramble)

I don't think I was consciously thinking abt it the other night BUT at least the first verse makes me think. Of the Love Conquers All version of Pico's School. An ideal ending; Cassandra is convinced not to carry out her plan, nobody dies, Pico certainly wouldn't be Going Through It. Maybe in this ideal ending they (Pico & BF) wouldn't have split. "In this world, we're friends forever".

I also imagine it as like.. basically how the art I did ended up being. They're just black lines on a white background. Faces obscured. Maybe with some visual effects that distort things too/ some pixelation whatever. I actually think I was planning to have some parts of that pixelated but forgot by the time I was home and could draw; might have been for the best but here's a version with a biit of what I'm talking abt.

They're in a void. Separate from the real world, but happy. Stuck in a loop of the happiest time of their lives (mostly thinking from Pico's perspective with that lol). Is that not better than having to continue on in a fucked reality?

Of course, that's not real. It's just an imaginary loop of "what if"s in Pico's mind. It's a world he built for Boyf.

In this world, Boyfriend is always following with Pico, always showing him kindness and always smiling. Pico's emotions are less readable; maybe in a proper PMV I'd give him his mouth too so he can show he is at least somewhat happy, but despite being the "leader" of the two, he is much more passive, reserved. They are always holding each other's hands.

Verse 2 would be the inverse (lol), signaled by the stronger beats kicking in. White lines on black background. It's no longer the ideal world, and instead the "real world". Real, but distorted by trauma. "Inside my code, you'll always be". The world Cass built for Pico.

The bit of instrumental between verses 2 & 3 would be the Real real world, going forward to when FNF would take place; Pico and Boyfriend reconnected, through less than ideal means, though reconnected nontheless.

We're back to black lines on white background, but everything's less distorted. There's more details too, the world not just being a hazy backdrop for Pico and Boyfriend to play around in, but real.

He's different from Pico's memories, obviously, drawn now in the FNF style fully. More confident, still stupid. He has Girlfriend now.

The first 2 lines of verse 3, his imagined worlds and the real world melt together. Mixed in ways that highlight a feeling of off-ness. Everything feels strange, distorted, unreal.

The last 2 lines it's just Pico and Boyfriend hanging out alone. "All that's left is me and you/Lots of fun that we can do". Boyfriend cheery as ever, while Pico is visibly nervous-- uncharacteristic for him but we don't see if Boyfriend notices.

The strong beat kicking in again sends us back to the imagined world. The good world. But things are wrong. The real world is slipping in, things are no longer stagnant; no longer perfect. Visual distortions/ glitches worsen.

Pico could delude himself when he hadn't known where Boyfriend was; now that he's back, his world warps. No longer under his control. He is not in the lead.

The first half of the outro Boyfriend is still mostly playing along, though still seems to be growing disinterested. Pico is noticably anxious, clearly seeing how the other is no longer like a puppy at his side. Boyfriend is pulling away. Why is he pulling away, when everything's "perfect"? Why is everything going wrong. "The world I built, designed for you".

The second half of the outro, Boyfriend is now actively pulling away. He no longer looks like the idealized, young Boyfriend. He's older, a stranger, he doesn't care for Pico anymore. Pico is older now too, desperately holding on to Boyfriend. Unwilling to let him go again, first in the real world and now in his mind. Boyfriend refuses to hold his hand but Pico still grips onto his arm. Their eyes finally become visible in the imagined world.

Pico's behavior mirrors Cassandra's involvement in the second verse, though unintentionally violent as opposed to her intentional violence. He's selfish, desperate to hold on to his world; to Boyfriend. He's hurting the imagined Boyfriend in the process, but that is second in his mind to him so desperately trying to avoid a second heartbreak. Anything to keep his world together, his peace. Without it, he just has the dark.

Beyond this screen, you cannot leave Inside my code, you'll always be Endless fun that we can do In a world I built for you

In the final instrumental and as the song fades out, Pico wakes up. He's shaken, disgusted by how he acted in his mind and feeling like he's nothing but an anchor to Boyfriend, holding him back. He can't keep clinging to this false reality, nor can he pretend he's doing any good by being in Boyfriend's life again. His mind is made up.

...

LOL I hope the way I summarized The Thoughts I get paints the picture I get in my mind. I've got terminal artist brain I am imagining AMVs to near everything I listen to I am not joking; had to take a break halfway through typing this to walk around a store and I was looping KATAMARI by femtanyl for like half of it imagining an edit in my head. I can imagine anything jpeg.

I wanna very much stress that all that above would have been filtered through Pico's mind. He's not actively hurting Boyfriend, but he's fucking terrified of doing so and he feels so fucking guilty for continuing to hold on to the past they had. I guess it wouldn't be apparent from what I described but he'd also feel guilty for still having feelings for him when the other has moved on and even has a girlfriend.

His world, once his perfect escape from the anguish of his reality, corrupts as he feels worse and worse over even entertaining the thoughts. Him deciding to forget his world and, in turn, go to cut off Boyfriend for the other's sake is not based on objective reality, but an act of self-sabotage that he convinces himself to be the best outcome for everybody.

^ Literally included him doing this shit in a part of that last fic I did you can tell this is something I find interesting exploring with him.

The tone of the song too just fucking.. it adds to the eeriness I'd want out of a proper PMV of this idea. The way it's clearly an homage to the IBM 7094 singing Daisy Bell; the voice and instrumentals just feel so unnerving. Sweet and innocent on the surface, but clearly holding bad intentions. Maybe not intentionally bad, maybe misguided good even, but they are not good nor sweet nor kind. I am talking about the song on it's own divorced from it being from KinitoPET what I describe here is just the feelings it gives me in regards to my favies.

Anyways uhhhh god I could go on for hours but I've been going off for long enough I'm sorry to anyone reading this who had to sit through my insanity. My head is now lighter with this information shared tho.. I guess in conclusion: I am definitely normal and neurotypical and can be trusted to listen to music and be into my games without creating the most devastating ideas known to man. xoxo

[mbti-notes]

Anon wrote: Hi! Hope you’re doing well. 23 year old, female INTJ here. I’m here to ask about my 8 year old brother. Actually, since there are ages between us, i sometimes feel like his mom. I take care of him mostly. We get along well. I know this would be early but i guess he uses ti or ne function. I’m not so sure.

The question is, when it comes to something slightly emotional, he’s acting weird. For example when he’s fall down and hurt his leg, i’m normally trying to ask if he’s okay ( kinda emotional way ) he starts yelling, screaming, or he says “You’re gonna make me cry!” in a real aggressive way. And stays away. Is it something normal? I’m afraid of if somebody would harm him he wouldn’t tell us. How should i approach to him? What should i do ? Should i just stay away?

He also hides many things. Normally, he is over critical, he is tend to see his teachers old headed, strict, even stupid unfortunatelly. But one day he came from school, it was obvious that he cried. Of course he didn’t told us what happened then i asked his teacher. He said, he argued with me, and we talked nothing else happened. If that’s the case that means he cried on the toilet or school bus all alone or something else happened and thinking about this makes me too sad or even angry.

To be honest, i want to know about his life, i want him to be clear and honest with us. Knowing he hides things sometimes makes me think we wouldn’t know if something really bad happens to him. Am i overrracting?

Thank you and take care.

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

I don't think you're overreacting. It's normal to feel protective of the people you love. This is especially the case for children because they aren't always equipped with all the psychological tools that are needed for handling life's problems or coping with stressful events.

Unfortunately, there isn't enough information for me to draw a firm conclusion about what's really going on with him, so I can only do some educated guessing and you'll have to investigate further.

(1) If you believe that Ti dom is quite possible, then it could be related to inferior Fe. Having an inferior F function generally tends to make a person very wary of emotional intensity. Fe also tends to be easily affected (in some cases "infected") by the emotions of others.

Using the hurt leg example, hurting oneself is already a very emotionally painful experience. When other people step in with all their fussing, worrying, and concern, what it actually does is increase the emotional temperature of the situation dramatically. Have you ever noticed that sometimes when toddlers fall down they are perfectly fine and then the parent comes fussing and only then the crying begins? We can say that the toddler was infected by the parent's anxiety.

Imagine that a person's capacity to contain emotions is like a coffee cup. Some people have a big and tall coffee cup that can hold a lot of emotion, while others have a teeny tiny espresso cup that easily overfills. People with poorly developed Fe and/or inferior Fe usually have a smaller sized cup.

Ti doms appear to be calm and cool most of the time but it's not because they are unaffected, rather, it's because they're good at ignoring or deflecting emotional content. However, there are situations in life when emotional content comes too quickly or too unexpectedly to be ignored, and then you will quickly see Ti doms start acting uncharacteristically pitiful.

The good news is that, once emotions pass and Ti is restored, they can easily get on with life. Ti doms are generally independent and self-sufficient from a young age. Although, note that ISTPs tend to be more resilient than INTPs due to Se vs Si differences. INTPs tend to dwell in negativity more. If you see dwelling happening, then you can give a little nudge or a push to open up about the problem, but don't push too hard or else you might get the opposite effect.

Being the elder sister, your authority is more limited than a parent. You can only push so hard before you get pushback and a "you're not my mom". It might be better for you to approach him as though you'd like to be his friend or confidant rather than an authority figure trying to get him to talk. If you are genuinely worried for his health or safety, then it should be the parents doing the pushing.

Unfortunately, inferior Fe also makes people wary of opening up about their feelings, so you might have more success by focusing primarily on the facts of what happened and help make logical sense of them, rather than try to soothe him emotionally. Save the worry or outrage and simply be a practical problem solver.

I'm reminded of my sister-in-law. Every time her boys (one of them is 8) get emotional about something, she continues to speak to them as though they're being perfectly calm and reasonable, because she is a very calm and reasonable person. (Meanwhile, I'm right in there with the kids expressing their feelings with them.) If the kids whine about being bored, she'll calmly say "Well, that's not my problem, so what are you going to do about it?" Or, if the kids tell her about some offensive thing they saw (and I'm just about to express my outrage), she'll say, "Hmm, what should we do about that?" It's quite hilarious to watch the kids instantly stop wailing and put their thinking caps on.

What can we learn from her? Not every bad thing that happens has to take us on an emotional roller coaster. And not everyone has to spend hours processing every little feeling and emotion they experience. She stops the crazy emotional ride by asking simple questions that get the kids (and me) to focus on the problem in the most practical terms. When someone is averse to confronting feelings and emotions head on, it might be a good idea to simply hop over the feelings and focus on investigation and problem solving.

(2) Being male, there's a good chance that he has been socialized to believe emotionality is a sign of weakness or embarrassment that he needs to be on constant guard against, in order to be "a real man". If that's the case, he might be more comfortable opening up to a man.

Certain elements of human experience are gendered and only a person of the same gender can fully understand and relate. For a man, opening up to a woman can feel threatening if he believes it will lead him directly onto the path he's trying to escape (e.g. softness or vulnerability). Oftentimes, men prefer or find it more effective to process their feelings/emotions physically rather than verbally. For example, if he seems tense, you could take him out for an enjoyable physical activity to blow off steam.

I'm not saying this is good or healthy or whatever; I'm merely describing facts. I'm certainly against gender stereotyping and I believe everybody has the capacity to learn how to verbalize their feelings and emotions. However, for a young boy dealing with strong peer or social pressures in a masculine environment, he might not be psychologically ready to learn the kind of emotional maturity that you want him to display.

What can you do? Provide encouragement but don't try to force. If he's Ti dom, it's important to speak to him in a matter-of-fact way, with as little drama or fuss as possible. Just make it very clear that you're always willing to help or listen (without judgment) if there's anything bothering him. Let him know that he doesn't always have to deal with problems alone and that it's okay to ask for help.

Sometimes it seems you speak and they don't listen, but kids always hear you, even when they don't respond the way you'd like. They are individuals and they have their own way of processing information that might be different from your way, but it doesn't mean they haven't quietly taken your words to heart. If you are able to maintain a close long-term relationship with a kid, your voice will be in their head, guiding them all the time. Therefore, it is your job to always say what you mean and mean what you say, and provide relatable and feasible advice.

Even though you're technically not the mom, you're still going to experience a lot of the feelings that moms get when you take on a caregiver role for a kid. As a parent, you basically never stop worrying about kids, and your instinct is to protect them from hurt. But you can't control everything in the world, so it is inevitable that kids get hurt on occasion.

Part of being a good parent is creating a stable, accepting, and trusting environment that allows kids to open up about their hurt, but also trusts kids to exercise their own intelligence in problem solving. Tell him that you trust him to handle small problems independently, but if he ever encounters a big problem, then it's smarter to get some help and tackle it faster together. However, this assumes that he believes you are capable of helping...

[towerartt]

Handsome Jack 8, 12 ❤️‼️

ouhhh so sorry this took me so long to answer...

8. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise?

I’ll tell you if you promise not to get mad at me💔

A big chunk of the fandom wrongly views him as the Capitalism Incarnated, while he is quite obviously simply a product of the psychopathy breeding system. Jack’s psychopathy is a reaction to a crime that is uniquely capitalistic. Angel’s kidnapping is a crime of greed. He is, as every Borderlands character, uniquely traumatised by the world he was born into. Borderlands shows what capitalism does to men. Jack is not much different from the psychos/bandits of Pandora. For both, the planet is a prison. Psychos choose to assimilate, and Jack chooses to destroy it. He is the universal threat; neither the poor Pandorians nor the elite are safe from him. 

But does the distinction matter? I believe so. This affects the narrative as a whole. 

We can choose to see Jack as Capitalism, and we get to kill him, and then we all go out for milkshakes. Simple and up-lifting, and very American. But to me, Borderlands is largely pessimistic. Honest people die, the leaders are either cowardly or evil, and the oppressed are often gross, stupid, and difficult to sympathise with. And we cannot kill capitalism, so we kill a scapegoat in its place. The world of Borderlands is fixed: Jack’s death does not affect the status quo; it only frees the tyrant spot for the new, yet-to-come aggressor. This is less satisfying, isn’t it.

(Possibly I am overanalysing a silly shooter game that isn't concerned with a critique of capitalism/colonialism deeper than a simple and straightforward “It is very bad.”)

And despise is a strong word. Interpret him however you want. What I truly despise is haters going "Why are you Jack's apologist?" because he activates my maternal instincts! Next question.

+ personal nitpick. The "Is he/is he not a tragic hero" debate. Girls NONE of you are using the same definition of neither hero nor tragic. I hope a huge asteroid takes out all of us.

12. What's a headcanon you have for this character?

I have soo many so I'll just drop a few here that I haven't talked about before mkay <3

Uncharacteristically (and unsurprisingly) squeamish about burnt flesh. Nisha once brought him a scorched hand after some village burning (it looked kinda funny she thought it would make him laugh how was she suppose to know he is so goddamn sensitive) and he started gagging when she dropped it on his desk. When she gets really mad at him, she dumps some burnt remains at his apartment (she loves him dearly btw)

He journals a lot. Partially because, in his opinion, it is a very Great Leader activity, but also because Angel cannot pry into what he has written down on the pages. He knows this deeply annoys her. She can see everything, and she knows everything except for her father's thoughts. Sometimes Jack makes Angel echo him and patiently wait while he finishes his entry to really rub it in. He sometimes draws her.

I hope this is comprehensible. Part of Jack’s mythos being that he only has scars on his front, kinda like Alexander the Great, because a real hero always bravely faces his enemies. But actually, his back is a mess of scars from childhood. Wouldn’t that be fucked up?? All his fanatics are like "Erm, Jack would never ever let anybody get him from behind because he is SUPER cool and smart, and he never runs away from a fight <33" I think this would add to his inferiority complex.

Thank you for this ask💕 Ouhhh I love talking about this guy

[blackjackkent]

(Touch Prompts)

Second prompt from @astreamofstars from this ask.

"Shadowheart/your choice - 12"

12. touch on a scar

-----

“Lady of Sorrows guide us,” Shadowheart says with a flicker of muted amusement. “Did you want something? Or am I just that fascinating to stare at?” 

Rakha has been sitting on the stool near her tent and looking at her, almost unblinkingly, for roughly five minutes. Shadowheart isn't usually put off by the big half-orc's behavior (even the darkest bits, which this certainly isn't), but one can only take such attention for so long before commenting on it. 

At Shadowheart's comment, Rakha stirs, then shakes her head as if waking from a dream. “Was I staring?” she asks. 

It's not sarcastic - Shadowheart isn't sure Rakha even knows how to be. “You were,” she says, a smile ghosting across her lips. “I know I'm a looker, but not to that degree.”

If Rakha registers the humor, she doesn't show it. “I was looking at your scar,” she says, in her gruff, blunt way, matter-of-fact. “On your hand. The magic around it. It… is different.”

Shadowheart flinches involuntarily. The mark on her hand is, she feels, a private thing - a holy thing, and it is disconcerting to hear Rakha describe it as nothing more than a curiosity. And yet, despite Rakha's capacity for ill-temper and violence, there is none of that here, no malicious intent. She is simply interested, and her interest has as little nuance as anything else about her. 

“Different how?” Shadowheart asks slowly. 

“Different.” Rakha's expression twists in sudden frustration. “It is… difficult to describe. It is a… hole.”

“In my skin?” 

“In the Weave. A conduit. Tether. Like Wyll's eye. We pull on the Weave to power spells. But something in you also pushes outward.”

Shadowheart chews the inside of her lower lip, trying to follow Rakha's phrasing. “It connects me to the Lady of Loss,” she says slowly. “It was a gift, a blessing.”

Rakha is silent a moment. Then she reaches out one hand, palm up. Shadowheart hesitates, then lifts her left hand and places it into Rakha’s. The other woman’s skin is surprisingly cool; given all the fireballs Rakha throws, Shadowheart half-expected it to feel like flame. 

With uncharacteristic gentleness and an odd air of intense focus, Rakha presses the fingertips of her free hand against the scar above Shadowheart's wrist. There's a sudden surge of energy that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up, and then for a moment Shadowheart can see a strange, undulating, prismatic texture resonating through the air around them. 

The Weave? she thinks. Too startled to be uncomfortable, she watches that manifestation of magic in fascination - and after a moment she sees what Rakha means. There is a line that penetrates through the overall pattern, barely distinguishable from the magic around it - a cord binding her hand, arcing outward and disappearing beyond sight. 

The vision only lasts a moment. Then it fades, and Rakha takes a sharp, shuddering breath as from some deep exertion. “I cannot channel it as Gale does,” she mutters. 

“What… was that?” Shadowheart says faintly.

Rakha shrugs. “If I ever knew a word for it, it is gone, like the rest,” she says. A pause. “That is why I was staring. It is different. Strange to look at. Like Wyll - you are bound outward. Connected. Watched.”

Before Shadowheart can formulate an answer to this, the mark sparks, the by-now-familiar surge of agony through her hand and up her arm. To her surprise, though, the energy also kicks outward into Rakha's fingertips; the half-orc hisses with pain and lets go, drawing back.

“Sorry,” Shadowheart mutters through clenched teeth, rubbing at the back of her hand as if it would make the pain fade faster. “The Dark Lady doesn't like your interest, I think.” 

She can see the ripple of rage pass through Rakha's eyes and for a moment she feels poised to bolt - but then it passes, and Rakha just nods, her expression going unreadable, withdrawing back into silence again. “I see.”

[cptn-m]

One Piece chapter 1121 review

I think there can be no doubt about it – this is the climax of Egghead and the finale of volume 110. There may technically be one last chapter to go at the start of the next volume as Emet makes his final play and Vegapunk signs off, but there’s no mistaking that the moment Oda wanted to build to is this.

First thing of note here is the title. People have been saying this since the spoilers dropped, so you’re probably not hearing it from me first, but the chapter’s title references part of Roger’s quote from the start of chapter 100. “Inherited will. A man’s dream. The tides of the eras.” Both previous parts, at least in Japanese, have also been chapter titles and the titles of the volumes containing those chapters (chapter 145/volume 16 and chapter 224/volume 24). The English releases, unfortunately, have not maintained the same consistency of wording between the original quote and their chapter/volume titles. I really don’t want to become the kind of content creator you come to for a simple review and have to skim over him pitching his side projects, so I won’t go on too long, but catching these kinds of things is exactly why I wanted to start my One Piece Rewrite Project for so long. This is such a powerful set of series-long connections to draw and a shame for English readers not to have, but also not something you can blame the older translators for because it would take more than 20 years of foresight to know how important it was meant to be.

The colour spread has a very pleasant, summery vibe to it with some really strong colour work. It’s the coldest, wettest part of winter here, so I appreciate the reminder of warmer weather. Off-hand, the idea of a giant Nami and a lot of ice cream sounds like its reusing the concept from chapter 1011’s spread, but in practice the two look and feel different. But having seen the prototype with the crew building a model Merry, yeah, I wish we’d gotten that instead. It would have been a much better fit to celebrate the anniversary as well. Can only hope Oda decides to take another shot at the idea at some point.

Finally moving onto the chapter proper, the first thing that stands out is Luffy’s choice to elevate Bonney. He’s winding up his own attack when he notices her feelings, and, even without knowing the backstory himself, encourages her to participate in the final blow. This shows both an emotional perceptiveness and a willingness to share the spotlight that might scan as uncharacteristic of Luffy. But it feels like character growth to me. We saw this behaviour develop through his relationship with Momo, and it seems to have stuck. And boy does that final punch feel good. Bonney’s bit about her loneliness and the family she wanted to have is tragic and moving. Saturn well and truly earned that hit, even if he’s almost definitely not dead yet.

But I can’t help thinking this might have had more impact if this had been the first time Bonney achieved the Nika transformation. Let it be the giants and/or Strawhats who team up with Luffy to throw Mars away and save Bonney for the battle that’s personal to her. But whatever. Maybe the mood would have been wrong to achieve a Nika transformation if Saturn was already on deck. He’s not exactly a figure who inspires joy.

It might also have been cool to see Kuma contribute, but that tiny little smile he offers after it’s done speaks volumes. His survival, combined with Bonney’s little fantasy spot of living with him and Ginny, feels like death for Bonney’s odds of joining the crew. She’s got a home to return to that she’s been missing. Her happiest ending is getting it.

Vegapunk sneaks a few final revelations into his closing remarks. Connections are drawn between the Lunarians, Buccaneers and Three-eyes as races oppressed in relation to the Void Century. The first two we knew about, but as much sense as it makes, what with the ability to read Poneglyphs, the Three-eyes are not something I’d thought about tying into that thread. It’s reiterated, also, that the World Government might have usurped the top of the Red Line from the Lunarians. I wonder if the oni/ogres will eventually fall into this category as well?

And of course, we have the kick-off of the final scramble for the One Piece. Given what’s been said, it makes sense for the Marines to finally consider prioritising it to keep a pirate or Revolutionary from claiming the power the decide the fate of the world.

I’m going all in on the last spread being the key figures of this last war. Maybe Law and Kid could struggle back as wildcards, but I think Oda’s telling us they’ve lost their shot at being major contenders. Plus, we’ve got an existing wildcard in the totally unknown silhouetted figure down there. People are maybe jumping the gun being so quick to call him Shanks-y with so little info, but I am personally a believer in the evil twin theory. What’s sticking in my mind though, is how many of the faces shown are obstinately on the same side presently. Blackbead and Kuzan; Sabo and Dragon; and Sakazuki and Koby, who themselves are subordinate to Imu and Garling. I wonder if the suggestion is that each of these figures has some kind of their own agenda and could end up at odds with any of the others. For some, the divide is obvious. Kuzan’s true loyalties have been the subject of debate for years. SWORD making a splinter group of good Marines is on every final arc bingo card. But Sabo embracing his new solo identity as the Flame Emperor and creating friction with Dragon could be an interesting twist.

So that’s it. The world has caught up to where the readers are and the race for the prize has been officially declared. Things can only get really crazy from here. I’m tempted to use the break week to reread Egghead in full, but I’d rather save it for when the island is definitively done with, Emet and all, rather than have to adjust opinions over a last few chapters like when rereading Wano during the mid-epilogue break month.