#whatever the hell THAT is supposed to mean

[epicbuddieficrecs]

Weekly Recap | January 27th-February 2nd 2025

Had the audacity to go on a daytrip over the border to the US and all I got was spending way too much money at Target and a cold :(

Complete

the sincerest form of flattery by canadadry (S8E3: Final Approach, Brad POV | 1,7K | Teen): “Your boy—Buck,” Brad says. “First marriage?” “Pardon?” “Well, your wife is—” Brad starts, stops. Remembers at least a third of the lecture he’s been given at least a dozen times by his publicist on the danger of making assumptions. “He calls your wife by her given name—I mean, does the same to you, but I’d reckon that has more to do with professionalism than personal grievances, given the fact that you clearly get on.” — in which Brad Torrence only almost passes out, and observes the aftermath.

The couch is a lawless place by paleredheadinascifi (Getting Together | 1,8K | Teen): Eddie had kissed him. He knows it happened, because the smudge of chocolate on his pants is still there, courtesy of the peanut butter cup he’d dropped when Eddie lent over and kissed him.

Call Ended (beep beep beep) by paleredheadinascifi (Wine Nights, Getting Together | 2K | Teen): Or, Buck wakes up to a series of increasingly horrifying calls from Eddie. He gets to the bottom of it.

Who you gonna call? by scarmaddiewrites (Post-S8A, Buck&Ravi | 1,7K | General): Buck has his first bad leg day since Eddie moved to Texas (Part 1 of The Chainsaw Gang)

Avoidance or Denial by scarmaddiewrites (Post-S8A, Getting Together | 4K | Not Rated): Eddie is back from texas and has some theories about Buck and Ravi....he's never been good at theories (Part 2 of The Chainsaw Gang)

and i'd do it over and over again by playinginthunderstorms/ @playinginthunderstorms (PWP, S8E6: Confessions | 4K | Explicit): Gun to his head, Buck honestly doesn't think he could say which one of them made the first move, but somewhere in between the six-pack he'd brought over and whatever was left of a dusty bottle of tequila in the back of a kitchen cupboard, Eddie—beautiful, radiant Eddie, with his pink shirt and tiny underwear—had ended up in his lap, thighs bracketing Buck's, gasping and grinding helplessly into Buck's hips, the most delicious whines spilling out of his mouth and straight onto Buck's tongue, white-hot pleasure spiking through him as potent as the lightning bolt, so he figures he'll at least die happy.

We’re Looking For Something Dumb To Do by scarmaddiewrites (Bachelor Party, Secret Marriage | 5K | Not Rated): “We should get married.” “What?” Buck chokes, his heart doing some weird fluttering thing in his chest. “Really?” “Yeah, I mean… I’m not a redhead or double your age, but maybe I still have a chance?” In the background, Buck hears someone chuckling—probably Ravi, whose drunk giggles have turned into full-on cackles. “Please, Eddie,” Buck says, his voice a mix of exasperation and something warmer, something fond. “Have you seen your ass? To hell with all the other requirements.” Or Buck and Eddie get married during the bachelor party and Ravi encourages it.

Your Life Was My Life's Best Part by saveyourblood/ @saveyourblood (S6E10: In A Flash | 5K | Mature): A neglected child. A soldier who saw people die. A veteran with PTSD. A first responder. A single father. A widower. Eddie Diaz became everything that was supposed to break him. What is he supposed to call this? What does he call the thing that may actually destroy him? - The one where Buck dies, then he doesn't, and their life flashes before Eddie's eyes.

lights will guide you. by dylaesthetics (Social Media, Eddie Sexuality Crisis | 6K | Mature): Am I (M33) comphet or an impostor???!!! For the record, I am straight. I think so, anyway. Or I did, all of six hours ago, before my coworkers introduced me to the term ‘comphet’. And now my entire world has kind of spun on its axis and I’m wondering if I’ve been secretly craving dick this whole time. - OR after breaking up with Tommy, Buck goes on a deep-dive on sexuality. He needs to tell someone about all he learns, of course, and Eddie seems like the best option.

Golden Morning Sunbeams by Buddiesmutslut (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Getting Together | 10K | General): Or: As Eddie is debating his move to Texas, a few texts from his son in the middle of the day set him on a course to getting everything he's been wanting.

🔥 An Angry Blade by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-8x05: Masks, Cursed Buck | 43K | Mature): Buck finds out that the curse of Billy Boils is VERY real, and far more complicated and dangerous than he could have expected.

🔥 oh brother, I see (you burn like me) by canadadry (Adriana & Maddie POV, Post-S7E10: All Fall Down | 47K | Mature): Adriana doesn’t tell their parents that she’s going to LA. She doesn’t tell Eddie, either—or ask, for that matter. She does ask Chris, and he thinks it’s a good idea—says as much, on the phone, and doesn’t say much else. “Buck will probably be hovering,” is what Chris does volunteer. It still surprises her when the man who opens the door is not Eddie. It’s—Captain America, is the thing that actually comes to mind—a man close to a foot taller than she is, if not more than that, with blond curls and broad shoulders, and he’s got a question in his very blue eyes that’s probably less friendly than the one he actually asks her. “Uh,” he says. “Can I help you?” — Or: Adriana arrives in LA. Maddie has been here the whole time.

🔥 Things We're All Too Young to Know by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon S1-S6, Divergent Post-S6 | 472K | Mature): This is a love story. Even if it doesn’t always look like it. Even if it doesn’t always feel like it. A look back on Eddie and Buck's lives up to now, and what led them to each other, interpreted from the current 9-1-1 canon.

WIP

🔥 Doe & a Drop of Golden Sun by ohstars/ @oh-stars (Canon Divergent, Dad Buck | 10/? | 45K | Teen): Buck doesn't mean to keep secrets from everyone, but he also can't talk about the pain he experiences on a day to day basis. With his nine-year-old living across the country and his custody limited to one monthly visit, Buck doesn't know how to share this part of himself. How does he tell his team of six years that he's had a kid this whole time? How does he tell his sister? How does he tell his Edd-- best friend? It's fine. The universe isn't going to give him a choice in the matter when the worst thing imaginable becomes his reality.

🔥[Podfic] Promising Light by cottagepodfics @cottagepodfics / fic by @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Time Travel | 80min | 2/3 | Mature): Buck and Eddie fall asleep drunk and in separate rooms after the night of Buck and Tommy's breakup. They wake up seven years later, in an unfamiliar future, only to find out that they're married.

[lovesickchoi]

PROMPTS -

“i have sex with you alot in my head.”

“don’t go on that date”

PAIRING - soobin x reader

GENRE - smut

WARNINGS - friends to lovers, riding, lowkey switch!reader and switch!soobin

WC - 1.2k

the passive aggression in soobin’s voice when you told him you had a date tonight was unmistakable.

“maybe this one won’t be a total failure,” he spoke, not giving you so much as a glance up from his phone.

your head craned to look at him next to you on the couch, his own eyes still trained on whatever he was doing on his phone. he wouldn’t dare look up at you, for he knew your ears must’ve been red with anger. but soobin didn’t care—at least he didn’t want you to think he did.

“what the hell is that supposed to mean?” no answer. “hello? earth to soobin?”

throwing his phone onto the coffee table, he slowly turns his body to face you like it was the most difficult task in the world. “what do you want me to say?” he says, shrugging with his hands.

“you act like this every time i tell you i’m going on a date. can’t you maybe, i don’t know, be a supportive roommate for once?”

soobin rolled his eyes at your words. it certainly wasn’t the first time you two have had this conversation. “don’t even start. i’m always supportive of you. all i’m trying to say is that you keep going on dates with shitty guys and they never turn out successful. why can’t you just focus on yourself for a while instead of always having to see someone?”

“you say that as if you don’t hook up with strangers every chance you get,” you spit back at him, furious with what he was saying.

“i know that! but at least i’m self aware.” soobin hated the way your eyes noticeably filled with tears when he spoke.

the truth was soobin did care. in fact, he cared so much that his feelings for you would often times blur the lines between best friends and something more. you were right about his abundant hookups—which you had to endure as soobin’s roommate—but what you didn’t know was that they were a mere distraction from the fact that you were always dating people who weren’t him. soobin longed for the day he could finally be the one taking you out.

soobin knew he must’ve struck a cord the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes anymore, choosing not to fight back. he hated himself for it. he hated the way he took his frustration out on you. it wasn’t your fault, he knew that, and yet he let to start walking away from him.

wiping a tear aggressively from your eye before it could drip down your cheek. you stood up and brushed your pants off, doing your best to keep your cool. “well if you’re done telling me how to live my life since you’re such a saint,” silence ensued. not a word from soobin. “i have to go get ready.”

you eventually vanished into your room, hesitating at the door frame momentarily. maybe a part of you had hoped soobin would have more to say deep down. but your shoulders dropped in disappointment seeing he hadn’t left his position from the living room.

this wasn’t even the first time you and soobin had it out like this. different dates and hookups coming in and out of you and soobin’s rather small shared space made it hard to keep your personal lives private. you’d begun to think it had become a competition of some sorts.

the two of you always too busy playing roommate with one another, you both ignored the obvious sentiment beneath your frustrations. it was truly agonizing for you both, yet somehow you’d convinced yourselves it was easier this way.

and so, with every last ounce of hope drained from you, you finished throwing yourself together for your date. perfect mini skirt and blouse, perfect makeup, perfect hair. everything perfect except the frown that stared back at you in the mirror.

you were praying that soobin had been hiding away in his room as you made your way through the apartment. grabbing your coat, your purse, and your keys, you believed you were in the clear opening the front door.

that was until an out of breath soobin seemingly out of nowhere slammed the door shut. his hand rested against the door above your head as he towered over you, chest heaving from his sudden movement. “don’t go on that date.”

you look up at him in disarray. “soobin i’m not having this conversation with you again.”

“no, you don’t understand. i dont want you to go on that date.” he looked more serious than he’d been before.

you crossed your arms over your chest. “and why shouldn’t i?”

soobin opted not to give you a verbal answer. instead, he hooked an arm around your waist, spinning you so your back was now flush against the door. his other hand protecting your head as his bent down to kiss you.

and he really kissed you. like this would be his one and only opportunity to do so. soobin’s eyebrows scrunched with emotion, savoring the feeling of your soft lips on his despite you not having kissed him back.

you didn’t believe this was actually happening. it felt like something out of a movie. and after so many terrible dates and relationships, you were starting to believe something so good wasn’t meant for you.

but feeling soobin beginning to second guess himself and pull away brought you too your senses. hell—this was everything you wanted and more.

feverishly, you dropped your purse and coat off your shoulders. reaching up to grab soobin’s face in both your hands, your forced his lips to stay on yours.

you could feel soobin relax against you, smiling into the kiss. in one quick movement his hands were underneath your thighs and lifting your legs around his waist. you finally allowed your lips to part, tongue meshing so needily with his. you wanted this just as bad as he did.

you wanted nothing more than to continue kissing his perfect lips, but something in you needed to hear his voice to ensure once again that this was real. gripping his hair, you pull his face away from yours. he groaned at the feeling which left you all too excited.

“and what the fuck is this exactly?” you mutter quietly, only half joking.

soobin chuckles, his boyish dimples making an appearance. “this… this is the reason you cant go on that date. i’m done playing pretend with you. i’m done acting like i’m not in love with you. i’m done watching you go on dates with these guys who won’t treat you half as good as i would.” he pauses, releasing his hold and letting you stand on your own now. “i’m done fucking random people and pretending that they’re you.”

you’re not exactly sure how you both got there, but before you know it soobin had you stripped down to nothing but your undergarments. you straddled him on the living room couch, only his boxers and your underwear separating you at this point.

soobin’s hands feverishly ran across your body. not an inch of your skin would go untouched by him. soobin sat back in disbelief watching you take total control. it was better than anything he’d imagined.

you hiss at every roll of your hips, feeling his length pressing hard against the soaked spot of your underwear. you pressed sloppy kissing across his neck, taking in his sweet scent. soobin didn’t think he could be anymore addicted to you as he traced his fingers across your skin.

“you know,” soobin speaks up. his words slurred as he could barely focus on anything other than the way your cleavage spilled out of your lacey bra, grazing against his bare chest with every roll of your hips. “i have sex with you alot in my head.” he smirked up at you, eyes so fucked out behind his tousled hair.

you could literally feel your ovaries twitching at his words. if only you or him had been bolder to make a move sooner. “well it’s about time you got it out of your head,” you whisper, pressing a last kiss to the base of his throat.

you stood up momentarily, urging soobin to lift his hips so you could pull his boxers down with his help. finally coming back down to straddle him again, you shiver feeling him pulling your underwear to the side. his fingers were slender and cold to the touch, and you wanted nothing more than to ride him right then.

soobin falters for a moment, hearing a slight buzzing coming from your purse. it was your phone ringing persistently. he couldn’t ignore it. soobin tried to catch your gaze, but you were too fixated on where your hips were about to meet his.

“i’m pretty sure that’s your date calling wondering where you’re-“ you didn’t soobin finish his words as you sat yourself all the way down on his dick without warning. “fuck!” he yelled, gripping your hips for support.

you wrapped your arms around his neck wasting no time to ride soobin at an even pace. “oh my god,” you whined out. “you’re so fucking big soobin.”

soobin let out a throaty groan hearing your words. he watched you bounce so effortlessly in both pleasure and disbelief. your lewd moans mixed with his filled the room—your shared apartment. the place where you’d both been dancing around what you truly desired. eachother.

some time went on with you both like this, and soobin enjoyed watching you get yourself off at his expense. but all the times he’d imagined finally getting to have you how he liked, this was not it.

he suddenly gripped your ass, halting your movement completely. “binnie please,” you whined out, trying desperately to fuck yourself against him some more. soobin twitched inside of you at the nickname and your neediness.

“fuck, princess.” he spoke lowly, wiping some of your sweat-matted hair from your forehead. it was a sweet gesture that made your heart race even more, if that were possible. “i’m sorry, but this is not what my first time fucking you looked like in my head.”

soobin left you no time to response before lifting you and placing your back gently on the couch where you could lay down. he eagerly laid on top of you, pressing your knees into your chest so your legs were now resting over his shoulders.

soobin glanced over your body in absolute awe. “been dying to see you all spread open like this for me,” soobin basically moaned his words. seeing your leaking folds so up close and how easily bendable you were for him. it was enough to make him lose it.

“finish the job, binne,” you tease him, running your own fingers over your clit. that was all it took for soobin to begin slamming into you repeatedly. this position allowed him to have total control over you, unlike before. he trapped your body beneath his weight, hitting the right spot just perfectly with each thrust.

he rested his lips against yours as he fucked you into the couch. profanities spilling from him the closer his was, naturally pulling you nearer to the edge yourself. “i’m gonna cum so fucking hard,” you moan, almost as a warning. soobin could tell by the moans escaping your lips and the way you clawed at his biceps, begging to come undone.

he went in and out of you at an electric pace. he was persistent, and wouldn’t let up until he knew you were satisfied. eventually, all at once, a white hot orgasm overtook every ounce of your being. your body shook against soobin’s, calling out his name in a string of whiney moans. this was enough for soobin to arrive shortly after you—the tears prodding at the corners of your eyes, the tinted pink of your cheeks, the way your mouth remained slighly open even after you came. slow, high pitched breaths leaving your lips from the overstimulation. how could he not cum after that sight?

pulling out, begrudgingly so, soobing finished on your stomach. he groaned feeling your hand reaching down to finish him off, helping him ride out his orgasm. he couldn’t help but think how perfect you were for eachother. he released your legs slowly, massaging your sore hips from being held up for so long.

“that was long overdue,” soobin is the first one to break the silence. he felt butterflies erupting in his stomach at the way you laughed at his joke.

“i couldn’t agree more.” you smiled, reaching up to kiss his lips softly this time. your stomach begins to growl at your sudden movement, and you realize how hungry you’d been this entire time. “you know,” you chuckle, playing with soobin’s hair. “i was technically supposed to be eating dinner like an hour ago.”

a huge smile makes its way across soobin’s face. “let’s get cleaned up. and go put something nice on. i’m taking you on a real first date.” he pecks your lips once more and pauses before saying, “also your last first date.”

[setmeatopthepyre]

WIP wednesday enabled/tagged-ish by @peapodbond & @geddyqueer <3 really felt like sharing this slice of antarct-fic. enjoy!

-

Katie slides the bottle towards him. “Drink up, kid. The rations don't carry over.”

Buck happily obliges. They drink in companionable quiet for a while, Katie occasionally providing commentary on the people coming and going or doing the rounds, telling Buck who they are, how long they've been coming to the Ice, pointing out the winterovers and the ones with interesting stories.

They're watching two pilots (“That's Hisham, helo pilot, third timer. Girlfriend's a kiwi, she's at Scott base. Other fella's one of the Canadians with Ken-Borek. Loïc, think it was. Fixed wing pilot. They tend not to get along.”) get into an argument that both men seem too tired to actually escalate, when Buck speaks up.

“Katie, have you ever been in love?”

She dangles her bottle from between her finger tips, eyes still on the argument unfolding. “Sure.”

He props his head up on his hand to look at her. “What happened?”

Katie levels her steely gaze at him but something she sees makes her soften a little. Shrugs. “She ran off to go study insular dwarfism in Madagascan chameleons. Left me behind.”

Buck's eyebrows raise along with the corners of his mouth. “Oh. S-so you're--”

She nods, taps her bottle against his. Leans in and mock-whispers, “There's more of us than y'think, kid. Even out here.” Considers it. “Perhaps especially out here. The Ice tends to attracts people like us.”

Buck watches her take a swig of her drink and lets the words sink in. “Wait, what do you mean, 'people like us?'”

Her pale eyebrows inch towards the edge of her bandana. “What do you think I mean, Buckley?” She gestures at herself. “The gays, the dykes, the-- whatever you are. You know. The queers.”

“Oh.” Something uncomfortable twists in his gut. “I-I'm not--”

Katie leans back, genuine surprise written across her face. “Well I'm sorry, kid. I could'a sworn last night you spent all of three beers waxing poetic about your helo guy.”

Buck makes a face. “W-well. He-- he's not my... but--”

“You're in love with this man, yeah?”

And he can't help the lovestruck smile that's tugging at the corners of his mouth, dips his head. “Yeah.”

“And you're a guy.”

“Uh, o-obviously.”

“So you're...” she gestures and Buck realizes he's supposed to finish the sentence. He shifts in his seat, discomfort gnawing at him.

“Yeah, I, uh. Yes, I-I guess that would make me...” he trails off, looks at her pleadingly, not sure if he wants her to give him all the answers or just drop the subject entirely.

“So, what, are you homophobic?”

Katie's raspy voice still carries, and Buck casts a panicked glance around the bar. Thankfully, no one seems to have heard her. Or they're really good at hiding it. “No! No. No, of-- of course not. I-I'm... I've always been an ally.”

She raises her eyebrows. “An ally who's in love with a man but can't even say out loud that he's... what? Gay? Bi?”

He gives her a desperate look from where he has his face practically pressed against the tabletop. “Right? I-I should know, shouldn't I? How-- How can I-I not know?”

He's whining. That was definitely a whine.

As if by some miracle, Katie looks less unimpressed with him than she usually does, which doesn't say a whole lot, especially considering the fact that she's not even looking at him right now. She's staring off into space as she takes a long swig from her bottle. When she speaks, her voice is uncharacteristically gentle.

“You came all the way out here to follow the guy you're in love with,” she says, slowly, as if trying to explain something to a particularly dense but, arguably, loved child. Then she sighs, puts a calloused hand on his. “Look, kid, you don't need to choose from a whole bunch of labels. Hell, the only labels I knew 'til well into my thirties was dykes and fags.” And Buck tries not to flinch, but she clocks him anyway if the roll of her eyes is anything to go by.

She pats his hand. “You don't need any labels at all if y'don't want them. God knows they probably never think about it.” She gestures at the other bar patrons with her bottle. “But there's not needing a label, and there's bein' ashamed of what that label means, and a lot of us older folk used the former as an excuse for the latter for a long time. Claiming that label means something to us. It doesn't have to, for you, but if your guy spent any time in the closet, it might mean a whole lot to him.”

Buck takes a moment for the words to sink in. “What, so he thinks I'm... ashamed of my feelings for him?”

She pats his hand twice more before removing hers and leaning back. “Hell if I know, I'm not a mind reader.”

-

no pressure tagging @ambernotember @sugarpenchant @geddyqueer @beanarie @epiphainie @leashybebes @iphyslitterator @rcmclachlan @trombonechurchill

[chvoswxtch]

It has been an expensive few weeks and despite being a very well educated scientist at a reputable institution, I make astoundingly little money. So I’d love to request a little action clip! I’m so taken with the idea of Frank just like casually stealing whatever money is lying around the place after he shoots up a mobsters joint and using it to help you with your bills 🤣

no bc why is living so expensive like where is the groupon for existing??

this one actually made me laugh bc I was thinking about in season 2 when he and amy go to that motel and he hands her that bloody wad of cash and she's like?? bitch what am I supposed to do with this??? and he's like???? pay for the motel dumbass

like he's so calm about it and truly does not give a fuck. he absolutely takes whatever money is lying around bc it's not like they're using it anymore 🤣 but ya know what, in this economy, vigilantism doesn't pay the bills (and neither does having a job apparently) so he's not wrong

blurb below the cut

the many saints of newark starring frank castle

The wad of cash that Frank pulled out and set on your dining table made your eyes widen. The faded green crumpled bills were speckled with what was undoubtedly blood. Staring up at Frank wide eyed, creases of confusion settled in your forehead.

“Where did you get this?”

“From someone that don’t need it no more.”

Frank shrugged off his jacket and walked over towards your kitchen, his heavy booted footsteps echoing on the worn wooden floor. You were still staring at him in incredulity. He’d just dropped what looked like a thousand dollars on your dining table with as much indifference as if he’d dropped a twenty dollar bill to cover take out for the two of you.

“Wha-, Frank, this is…what am I supposed to do with this?”

Frank turned his head to look at you over his shoulder, clearly perplexed by your question. Pursing his lips, he lightly scrunched up his nose and shrugged.

“Whatever you want. Get ahead on a few bills, buy some of that stuff that’s been sittin’ in your cart for weeks, save it, I don’t know. Your call.”

His casual behavior about the situation left you spiraling. You didn’t wanna know where this money had come from. You had an idea, but you didn’t need confirmation. 

“Frank…I can’t…shouldn’t we give this to the police?”

If he was perplexed before, he was full on confused now. He turned to face you fully, his expression twisted up like you’d just asked him the most ridiculous question.

“The hell would we do that for?”

“Well…because. It’s…I mean…isn’t it…like…”

“Sweetheart, it’s money. Money is money. Don’t matter where it came from or who had it. They ain’t got a use for it no more. Besides, better you have it and put it to good use than some crooked cop pocketin’ it, or it collectin’ dust in an evidence locker.”

Frank made a valid point. The logical part of your brain understood what he was saying. And it would definitely give you some breathing room, taking care of more than a few bills so that you could cut back a bit on how much you were working.

Sensing your confliction, Frank set the mug down on the counter and walked over towards you, lightly grasping your chin to get you to look at him.

“Look, only place that money is goin’ is in your bank account. Now either you can deposit it, or I’ll swipe your wallet and do it myself. But it ain’t goin’ nowhere else.”

You knew Frank wasn’t joking. And you knew you weren’t winning this argument. Letting out a quiet huff, you have him a pointed look.

“Yeah let me just stroll into my bank and hand them this bloody money. That won’t get me put on a watchlist.”

“For all they know the blood came from a papercut.”

Grabbing one of the bills and holding it up silently, as if to prove your point, you arched one of your brows. Frank glanced down at it, seeing the way crimson stained the faded green paper like confetti. Rolling his eyes, he swiped the bill and set it down on the table with the rest.

“For fucks sake, gimme your goddamn wallet.”

[dross-the-fish]

Love Never Dies- Thoughts and Reactions

This might end up being split into multiple parts but I am not finished talking about Love Never Dies. I did give it a rewatch to refresh myself and...oof. This play needs to be taken out back and shot because that is what it did to every single character in it. NO ONE looks good. Not even Christine. Let's start there. Let's talk about what this show does with Christine because we have completely reduced this character to nothing but her voice. What does Erik miss about Christine after ten years of pining? Her voice. He just wants her to sing for him one more time. The only thing he ever really mentions about Christine is her voice. Though I can't really fault him because if we're being serious about Christine's character...

What does she have outside of her voice? Nothing. Somehow LND Christine has even less personality than she did in the OG musical. She is a cardboard angel that other people pine over, try to control, or envy. She has almost no agency. I said before, I suspect that Andrew Lloyd Webber hates women and Christine does not come out of that unscathed. She spends pretty much all of the musical being bullied by Raoul, mothering Gustave, or being threatened by Erik when he and she aren't reminiscing about that one time they banged 10 years ago. Seriously what even the fuck was "Beneath a Moonless Sky?" For a song about how two characters couldn't resist each other neither of them seem particularly filled with desire. Christine is recoiling in horror and disbelief and Erik looks like a 15 year old who thinks sniffing his crush's hair is peak sensuality.

Mmmm....sexy. But whatever. Christine says at the end of the song she woke up to swear her love and was ready to dump Raoul but Erik had skedaddled so she ran back to Raoul. You read that right. Christine was going to pick Erik after they banged it out and he left and that is the only reason Christine is with Raoul. Seriously Andy? You're going to make her regret picking Raoul over Erik when she didn't even actually DO that? Erik made the choice for her?

*internal screaming* Erik, seriously, how are you going to be upset that she's moved on with Raoul if YOU left HER? Do you really think you have the right to coerce her to sing for you one more time when you were the one who broke it off? The hell is wrong with you? Of course when Christine resists he immediately goes to threatening her child.

When I say Erik is the WORST I mean it. He is reprehensible in this.

But this is about Christine. We'll get to Erik later. LND Erik deserves his own post.

There's honestly not much more to write about Christine. She spends a lot of time cowering from or trying to appease Raoul. She worries about her son and her death is honestly so unwarranted. When I say ALW's work has an undercurrent of meanspiritedness I mean shit like this. Christine hasn't really done anything wrong. I guess she cheated on Raoul 10 years ago? But well she was going to leave him and only stayed because her first option bailed on her? She didn't do anything to Meg. She's been living 10 years in an abusive marriage and her crazy ex who kidnapped her came back to threaten her kid and coerce her to sing his music one more time. Then she just...gets shot. She dies. It adds nothing to the story that she dies. It doesn't feel earned or justified in anyway. It just feels miserable for misery's sake. It's almost unceremonious the way they ax her off because it's not even intentional. Meg misfires the gun because Erik fucks up in trying to talk her down. Christine's death isn't even about Christine herself. It's about Meg and Erik. It's such a useless and stupid death to give this character. How old even is she? Supposedly she's around 18-20 in the original musical (we're ignoring the 2004 movie that puts her at 16) and this is 10 years later? She's barely 30 but she ends up a casualty to everyone else's vanity, jealousy, and selfishness. I feel like we're supposed to find it tragic but it doesn't hit. It's a meaningless and undignified end to a character that was given no agency over her own life or her death.

[howlingday]

Nora: Hey, it all worked out, didn't it? We just pay a fine and we're good~!

Jaune: Fine...

Papa Arc: (Bursts in) WHERE IS HE?! WHERE'S MY BOY?!

Jaune: Oh god, please, no...

Papa Arc: I'm sittin' at home, readin' a periodical, and this is the call I get?! My son, the hijacker?!

Jaune: Ack! Dad! Stop shaking me!

Papa Arc: Who put you up to this? (Points) Was it her?!

Nora: Pfft! You got it backwards, Mr. Arc~!

Papa Arc: I know my son; he's not smart enough to concoct such a clever scheme, certainly not on his own!

Nora: Yeah, no duh!

Papa Arc: And what the hell's that supposed to mean?

Nora: It means whatever the hell you want it to mean.

Papa Arc: ...YOU WANNA PIECE A ME?

Nora: I COULD DROP YOU LIKE A SACK OF DIRT~.

Jaune: ...

Papa Arc: You wanna piece a me? (Lunges) YOU GOT IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!

[witchyliterature]

thinking about isagi x cringe reader who is soooo MOIST.

and the first time they meet isagi is like “oh! alright then.” and makes a silent promise to avoid you bc it’s 8 in the morning, why are you talking to him about skibidi toilet?

and he cringes so much when you speak in class and he overhears you, like he really is shocked how you don’t have second hand embarrassment but is like “whatever i guess do you bro”

until, one day, you let go of your cringe exterior and you two have like a moment and it’s so romantic, you look so beautiful and he looks so star struck.

and his friend are looking at him and laughing bc he always complains about how cringy you were but the way you guys are speaking looks like a romance novel meet cute

then you have to go and ruin in

“well anyways, see you later dattabayo!” in a cringe overly western pronunciation.

“why are you so… cringe?” isagi has fully snapped out of his daze now

“to be cringe is to be free, with the power of my wifu’s i can overpower anything!” you respond and isagi just stares at you so wide eyed and shocked that you would say that openly.

keep in mind that you’re loud as hell and everyone is looking at the BOTH of you like crazy - to be fair their used to you but now isagi looks like an accomplice to your cringy mess

worst of all he can’t tell if you’re serious or not, until it’s late at night and you both are studying in the library for the upcoming finals and you’re tired and have no energy to be cringe and you both start speaking after taking a break

and you’re… normal? no cringy sayings, no weird cosplay poses, not even any weird niche references, you’re just being you.

and gosh does he fall in love with you

“you’re so much more better like this”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“just, you being you. not always trying to funny, i like being with y/n, not the discord moderator version of you.”

“sucks cus he really wants to come out”

“pack it in.”

[thelesbododo]

BSD SPOILERS!!!!!

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS? WHAT DO YOU MEAN????

Does this have to do with Dazai's connection to the book? Is it something else? Why does Atsushi look so shocked? Where are they? Id it Atsushi's mind? That dimensional plane that Fyodor was talking about? If that really is Dazai and not a figment of Atsushi's imagination, how does he know about who has died and who hasn't? Are Kyouka and Lucy the only ones still alive???? What about Ranpo and the others we haven't seen in recent chapters? Is this whole thing a setup for a switch back to Dazai and Chuuya at the prison? Is Sigma ever gonna wake tf up? If he does, what will we learn about Fyodor? Where is Nikolai? Is Verlaine going to show up? How the hell are we going to make it to the mafia exchange? Where is the book? Is whatever the fuck going on with Dazai going to effect Chuuya since they're supposed to be one soul stuck in two bodies? Does Chuuya know who Dazai really is? Does Mori? Did Oda? Who is he? Is he the author? Is he the owner? Does he have some other role? Is he even human? What is it about the situation that made Atsushi understand? WHO IS HE?????

I'm so normal about this.

(I know it's probably a hallucination like the orphanage director, but my brain doesn't work like that)

[cloversnstrawberries]

I really loved the platonic RE yandere you posted, would you mind writing a continuation of the Wesker part? xoxo

platonic!yandere!albert wesker & S.T.A.R.S!gn!reader [oneshot] ! !

masterlist ! [this is a continuation of this post !]

description; Honestly, why were you here? Why you? Why was it, out of everyone on the now defunct S.T.A.R.S team, you who caught his attention like you had? And why is he acting like this is normal?

additional notes; hello!!! i'm so glad you like it so much!! it was my first time doing multi-HCs, and i think it came out really well all things considered :)) i haven't really gotten the hang of HC format fully though, so i ended up doing a oneshot for this </3

but thank you so much for requesting a continuation!! i was more than happy to do it :)) i also tried a new style(?) of description, but i don't know if i'll stick with it or not </3

warnings; Drugging, hospital/medical setting, Wesker's god complex, mention of the other S.T.A.R.S members and their fates, imprisonment, captivity, general terror and confusion, Reader is very suspicious of Wesker's reasonings (he's not helping it at all), possessiveness, soft(ish) Albert Wesker, and if there's anymore i missed, please let me know!! :D my writing seems to leave my mind the moment i put it down...

w/c; 4.1k

How could it end like this? How could you let this happen?

You're trained. Maybe not as much as your other team members-- but you went through school for this, and you could've sworn you were just getting the hang of it all.

But then again, maybe there was nothing you could've done. Even if you were as experienced as everyone else-- hell, if you had more experience than everyone combined, it'd probably turn out the same regardless.

You trusted him-- they trusted him, just for him to lead them all like lambs to the slaughter;

He spared you, though. Why? What the hell is he up to?

That phone call you'd been eavesdropping on-- at the time, you couldn't make heads or tails of it. But now, oh... now you understand it perfectly.

S.T.A.R.S was never what it claimed to be, but out of everyone, only Wesker was aware of that. Not even Marini, because lord knows if he knew what was actually going on, he wouldn't have had any part in it.

Did any of them survive? Wesker made it sound like there was no chance anyone could've made it out alive. Apparently, he hadn't made it out alive--

He claims to have died, but to have come back better; reborn as something truer than what he had been.

God... how did you not see this coming? Again, you were trained! You... you were supposed to be able to spot these kinds of things. Maybe you'd been too blindly trusting, after all, he was your captain.

If you couldn't trust anyone else, you should've been able to trust him. That's how it's supposed to be. Only for him to turn around and stab you all in the back.

Even if he didn't send you out there. Even if you were the one exception, his companion (whatever that entailed), that couldn't mean much. Not to a man like him, who uses people as stepping stones. Who used your co-workers, your friends, as just rungs in a ladder; as he sought to achieve godhood.

He's different, now. He says he'd died-- and you don't quite doubt that fact. Maybe you should, but his... his eyes. His eyes gave you pause, as you tried to discredit his claim of being revived.

They were like a snakes-- no, a dragons, actually. You don't think snakes can have that sort of coloring naturally, the central heterochromatic yellow around his pupils, and the bright, jarring red the rest of his pupils held.

Sometimes, they almost glowed. The way he moved now wasn't human. Nothing about him was-- but not all of that could be attributed to his strange, unexplainable (from your point of view, at least) metamorphosis.

In theory, he was still so human. He had the same face-- his bone structure hadn't changed, god no. The only physical attribute that tangibly changed had been his eyes, and maybe his teeth and nails being a little sharper.

But something about him was monstrous, beyond those traits. Maybe it was the knowledge of what he'd done, or the fear spawned out of uncertainty. Uncertainty of what he has planned for you, that makes him seem so otherworldly beyond the obvious.

Why you? Why, out of everyone, did he spare you? It couldn't have anything to do with your age-- he'd mentioned no sort of exception made for Rebecca, who was only 18. Safe to say, he didn't have any qualms about leading a literal teenager to her untimely death,

And maybe you could argue that it was his higherups-- or whoever that Birkin he was seemingly talking to on the phone-- that forced his hand and made him 'euthanize' S.T.A.R.S.

He talked about them like they were animals, and not people with hopes, dreams-- families. Reasons to live outside of their jobs, reasons they were important.

Like they were lab rats, he'd indirectly referred to them as much during the phone call. So what did that make you?

When you were young, you had a neighbor who owned a snake. You don't remember what kind exactly, but it was a very sweet little thing. You wouldn't think a snake could be cuddly until you met that little sucker-- but in the end, it was still a snake.

It still needed to eat; most of the time, your neighbor would feed it frozen mice. But the snake would get bored, and if it got too bored then it'd refuse to eat until something caught it's fancy;

And in those cases, your neighbor would get live feeder mice. One of them, the runt of the litter-- had tugged on his heartstrings, one that seemed more intent on snuggling into his head more than trying to flee.

He kept it, and named it Sunflower. Sunny for short; and kept that little feeder mouse around as long as it could last-- and it even went past the expected age for a domesticated mouse. Much less a runt feeder.

Is that what you are? A feeder mouse that somehow managed to squeeze your way into whatever was left of Wesker's heart, one that snuggled up so sweetly-- that he couldn't help but to keep you, while he threw the rest of your brethren into the hungry snake’s enclosure.

Dinner and a show, your neighbor had dubbed it to try and make it seem less gruesome. If anything, it made the action worse in your little mind-- to add such an unassuming title to the practice.

You just can't wrap your head around it, how Wesker could give up so many people-- people he knew personally, that he'd actively sought out for their positions,

But that he seemed to draw the line when it came to you. That for some reason, he decided he wanted to keep you.

He visits you often, but not too much. You have no way of telling the time or date, or even an approximate of how long you've been here. You're set up in this strange sort of... half hospital room, half normal bedroom. It sort of looked like your bedroom back home-- your childhood one, but not to the point were you'd assume Wesker broke in and took a look around.

No, it just... looks like a normal bedroom, not necessarily childish, but not necessarily full adult. There was a dresser, a desk, nightstand, and a clothes rack-- an empty one, sure, but it was still there regardless.

That didn't make much sense to you, considering there seems to be a closet right next to the empty rack; but if you've learned one thing, it's hat you have no hope of trying to figure out why Wesker does the things he does.

And then, there was the bed. It was your average, run-of-the-mill hospital bed, complete with the ability to adjust the incline, bars at the side, and places for medical equipment to be threaded through or attached in some manner.

There was a stool next to your bed, and a metal rolling cart that Wesker usually pushed just out of your reach when he wasn't actively in the room. Like he was taunting you-- he probably was, actually. Just another thing to rub your own helplessness in your face.

Honestly, you wish you could explore the room. It wasn't large, but it wasn't small; you'd probably find very little, sure, but it'd still be something.

Instead, you were handcuffed to the metal bar of the hospital bed. As if you were a particularly high-risk patient, and not a completely healthy person that Wesker fucking kidnapped and hooked up to an IV, pumping god-knows-what in your system.

It didn't make you out of it, but you weren't exactly fully aware right now. Not physically, anyways-- you could hardly muster enough energy to turn onto your side, so safe to say that's the intention of whatever fluid is the IV bag hanging by your bedside.

And while it didn't necessarily make you out of it-- you could still think perfectly fine--, it did dull your senses a little bit. Made you more susceptible to being snuck up on,

"Good morning, dear heart." Honestly, it surprised you that you had enough energy to jolt a Wesker's sudden appearance-- you swung your head around so fast that your vision went bleary for a few seconds, before inexplicably clearing up.

"Is it really morning, or is it just another one of your lies?" This had become a routine of yours-- questioning every little thing he said. Everything he does, everything he says, could be (and most likely was) in an attempt to trip you up further.

Wesker has yet to be annoyed by this, and that worries you. It worries how... kind he's appearing to be. Yes, he's still stern, and grabs you a little too roughly when you try to resist whatever medication or food he's trying to give you--

But that's nothing compared to hell he put the rest of S.T.A.R.S through, from what you could piece together from little context clues here and there-- and the tiny tidbits of information he seems to let slip on accident.

He sat on the stool next to your bed, letting out a breathy laugh "Do you really think I'd lie about something soinconsequential?" You deadpanned, and immediately shot back with a monotone "Yes."

Again, he laughed. He always did this-- always had some sort of fondness held in his eyes, a softness to his smile that you didn't think he was capable of, especially now. He's acting as if this just another day, as if this is normal.

Like this is life or death for you, like you aren't in the den of a viper-- acting like a caring, nurturing figure to its prey. You know better, though. You know better than to believe it, that he won't turn around and eat you whole once you've served whatever hidden purpose he has for you.

"Well," He began, as he leaned over and pulled that metal rolling cart by his side. As he busied himself with preparing the blood pressure cuff (god knows why he's so insistent on doing this every visit-- like you were actually sick and in need of his care, and not like he was actively pumping drugs in your system to make you sluggish and lethargic for his own gain), he continued his thought.

"Despite what you seem to think, I don't particularly enjoy lying. Especially not to you, dear heart." You had half a mind to jerk your arm away when he reached out, but you knew from previous experience he just wouldn't care. He'd just grab you regardless-- be a little rougher with it. It didn't accomplish anything, fighting him like this.

...But it was the only conceivable way you could fight back right now, and that infuriates you. You like to think that, if you weren't cuffed to the bed with an IV stuck in your arm, you'd be able to take him down.

As if he took those precautions to protect himself from you, and not to protect you from yourself-- or keep you from trying to make a break for it the first chance you get. He knew you were clever, he'd said as much himself.

Oddly enough, Wesker had this strange habit of always complimenting you; usually, it was in relation to himself-- saying you were smart, but too kind for your own good. That your relation to him blinded you, made you overlook any and all red flags until it was too late to do anything about it.

But sometimes, he'd just... compliment you. No apparent backhandedness about it. Sometimes, he reminded you of a proud dad, welcoming home his kid after they got all A's in school.

It was disturbing, to say the very least.

After a few moments, you finally respond with a curt "Whatever helps you sleep at night.", Because you don't believe him for even a second. You wish you could yell at him, that you could berate him over everything he's done-- but with the drugs making you less articulate than before, and the fact that he could just kill you right then and there-- or at least cause you grievous bodily harm--, you decide against that.

For a moment, you could've sworn you saw genuine emotion cross his face-- but it was gone so fast, that you seriously question if your brain just made it up. That even after all he's done, your brain still tries to grasp at straws that he cares for you. That he cares for you as a person, and not what you can do for him.

...Whatever that might be, which has yet to be seen by anything but Wesker himself.

Wesker took a deep breath, a habit you used to think fondly of; because it meant he was actively putting an effort into not snapping at something, and he was downright terrifying when he got angry-- or even just irritated.

Now, it just makes your body tense. Back straight, muscles wound up-- like a hare ready to bolt. He seems to realize this, but doesn't seem to process what caused it. Instead of moving back, because it was so obviously him that was bringing out this primal sort of fear in you--

He just leaned closer. Thankfully, he didn't reach out to touch you or anything-- but he was still closer.

...Then you realize he was just opening a new bottle of disinfectant-- obviously, you hadn't gone down without a fight, no matter how futile it was. Maybe this was your brain trying to humanize the monster before you-- but if you didn't know any better, you'd say he felt guilty for causing your injuries.

Even if they weren't that serious; he treated them like they were the end of the world, when you knew you've sustained much worse from much less then a god-like being trying to capture you.

Hell, one time you got a concussion from falling off a spinning chair in high-school! (admittedly, that was not your best idea-- but it got the job done! you'd fixed the loose ceiling tile that'd been bugging for three weeks straight!) You'll be fine--!

But for some Godforsaken reason, Wesker seems to think your more fragile than a porcelain doll; and a not trained S.T.A.R.S operative (though, you weren't very experienced, that didn't negate the fact that you had the formal training, and passed all the tests).

For now, you let him play doctor. You tried your best to suppress a hard flinch when he leaned forward, and started tending to the cuts and scrapes littering your face and arms-- for some reason, he thought it'd been a good idea to toss you through a fucking window--

...Albeit, the window had been in the first floor lobby of your mediocre apartment-- and it did very well to slow you down from escaping, but still. Why would he do that? You were lucky to get away with what little injuries you had from the action--

Sometimes, a scary, downright existentsial fear inducing thought crossed you mind. That maybe, just maybe he genuinely hadn't meant to do that. He just didn't know his own strength-- didn't know how easy it was to toss your around like a ragdoll, now that he was... whatever he was now.

You didn't realize how quiet it'd gotten, only the faint whir of the medical equipment and occasional sound of shifting clothes or something being picked up-- until Wesker spoke again, startling you out of your downward spiral of thought.

"Is there anything you'd like?" That was... unexpected. Very out of the blue-- and at first, you thought it had to be some kind of test. Like he was trying to trick you.

Cautiously, you needled him for further explanation with a simple, straight-to-the-point "...What?"

Very well-spoken, you were-- but who could blame you, with whatever cocktail of sedatives and (entirely unnecessary, in your opinion) painkillers working through your system right now?

A faint, almost soft, smile graced his face-- as he, unhelpfully, just repeated what he'd said before. "Is there anything you'd like, dearheart?"

Your brows furrowed, as you searched his face for any clue on what the actual hell he was getting at.

Surprisingly, he let you think it through. Didn't rush you, and didn't seem to be getting impatient. You, however, did not want to push that limit, and ultimately just gave and asked "What do you mean? Like... meds?"

Predictably, Wesker laughed-- unpredictably, at least from your point of view, he leaned forward and fucking-- ruffled your hair?

Seriously, did his supposed death and rebirth cross some wires or what? What was going on??

"No, but I don't fault you for thinking that." You grimaced, his hand staying firmly on your head for a few more seconds, before he pulled back-- and you thanked whatever was out there for finally helping you out here, but that thankfulness was quickly dashed when he grabbed a hold of your hand.

It reminded you of when you caught pneumonia as a child, probably around 5 or 6. Your mom sat by your side the whole time, holding your hand just as Wesker was right now.

You wanted so badly to smack it away and yell at him, demand that he leave you alone and just stop acting like he cared--!

"Anything at all, a favorite food, a book, something to keep you busy,"

You should know better then to interrupt him, but you can't help it. It was a stupid idea, the whole thing-- but you had to try. That's all you can do right now, is try whatever you can--

"I want to be let go." Immediately, there was a very... noticeable shift in the energy of the room. No longer was it a tentative calm,

Now it was so stifling that it felt hard to breathe, as Wesker stared-- you're pretty sure, again, his eyes are covered as always-- you down, making you squirm.

His hold on your hand tightened, and you swore you could feel the bones in it creak and shift under the pressure of it.

Right before you were sure your hand would simply cave-- just give in under the pressure, Wesker loosened his grip.

Just enough where you were not longer worried about the immediate shattering of your bones-- it still wasn't comfortable, physically and emotionally speaking.

"There's nothing out there for you, dearheart." The strange sort of monotone aspect of his voice should've tipped you off, should've had the alarm bells in your head ringing louder than an emergency siren-- screaming at you to don't you dare try to push it! don't be dumb!

Evidently, you weren't paying any attention to that. It was like sleeping soundly through a tornado warning--

But hey, might as well start calling your Dorothy, huh?

"I don't care." Foolishly, you tried to pull your hand from his. Obviously, he didn't budge-- but it was a good sign that he didn't tighten his grip any further.

...Mostly because it would absolutely cause some serious damage if he did, and you're sure he was well aware of that fact.

"I don't want to be here anymore. I had a life outside of S.T.A.R.S, outside of you, and you can't just keep me in this room forever--!"

You don't think you've ever seen him so angry before. It caught you completely off guard, how open the emotion on his face was. How tensely he held himself,

"I wasn't planning on doing so! I'd let you roam once you're better, and I know you won't try anything stupid." There was... so much unbridled rage in his tone, that you felt like your heart might give out right then and there.

He'd never raised his voice at you before.

But you were too far in-- this was your chance, with him so worked up; you might be able to get some real answers out of him now.

"Why are you doing this?!" You sat up, trying in vain to yank your hand from his grip again-- surprisingly, he let you do so. But as you came to realize, it wasn't because of your efforts;

He stood, turning his back to you and headed over to the closet-- that was... unprecedented. You didn't know what was in there, and it only made you panic further.

Grasping at straws now, you tried to poke at his supposed admiration of you-- rushing out a quick "What's so special about me, huh? That you go through-- through all of--"

You didn't fault yourself for stumbling over the words, you were still drugged, and it was impressive as hell that you were able to be this coherent as it was.

That, to give credit where credit is due, got his attention. He was halfway through opening the closet-- and for a second there, when he stopped moving for just a second, you really thought he was going to answer you.

Shame on you, for thinking any part of this hellish experience would work in your favor-- because after that momentary pause, he went along his merry way without another hiccup.

Your heart was going a mile a minute, and you leaned over the side of the bed and strained your neck, trying to get a view inside the closet and--

Huh.

Despite your previous assumption, it wasn't so much a closet for clothes, as it was a... supply closet. Like ones you'd usually find in hallways, filled with cleaning supplies and miscellaneous home goods that didn't have anywhere else to go.

But instead of some strongly lemon scented spray cleaner and a dustpan-- there was some more medical supplies. Name bloodwork things, syringes, vials of god knows what;

And Wesker sure as hell wasn't reaching for the bloodwork stuff.

"Please, just-- just answer me!" Desperate saturated your tone, and you begged for a straight answer-- this was all so confusing. Why? Seriously, why you, why now-- why like this?

You couldn't see what he doing for a while, but when he turned, you realized the syringe was filled with something. While it didn't look particularly suspicious-- just a clear liquid in a run-of-the-mill syringe, you knew that not everything was as it seems.

In a last ditch effort of escaping whatever it was Wesker had planned, you threw the white hospital blanket off your legs and stood; you were cuffed, you knew very well you couldn't do jackshit--

But you weren't thinking very clearly, obviously.

To his credit, Wesker didn't really reprimand you for standing. Usually, he'd get a little 'worried' (thinly veiled annoyance, in your opinion) and get you to lay back down,

This time, he just grabbed you. Didn't try and get you back on the bed-- you struggled, God knows you struggled best you could;

In the end, it all amounted to nothing. Like you knew it would.

And yet, you still tried to fight the inevitable.

You felt a sharp pinch in your upper arm-- you looked down to realize he'd managed to inject you with whatever it was.

It took a few moments to register what had happened, and by then it was already taking effect. You stumbled, and managed to slur out a barely discernable "Wha.. was tha-at..."

"Just a sedative, no need to be worried." You wished you were in any condition to give him a glare that'd send any normal person running for the hills-- not that it'd do much beside amuse him, but it's the thought that counts in this situations--, but alas, you really weren't.

You weren't in any condition to give a coherent response either, or fight as he helped you back on the bed and placed the blanket back over your legs and torso, tucking you in like you would with a small child.

"And to answer your first question," Your mind had slowed down exponentially-- rendering you almost entirely unaware to the world around you,

But something about his words, even if you couldn't make sense or make any connections at the time, cut through that fog just enough where you vaguely processed it.

Wesker leaned down, giving you a little kiss on the forehead-- like a parent wishing their beloved child a good nights sleep, before he finally answered.

"It's because you're mine, dearheart. There's no deeper meaning, I simply wanted you safe and by my side. Like you always should've been."

At that point, you were mere seconds from passing the hell out-- the last thing you really registered was this smug sort of smile, like he knew you wouldn't remember a majority of that exchange come morning (or whenever you woke up).

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt behind the cut; "the one where Kon's soulmark is fake". I remembered that, like, SEVERAL of my older WIPs are just a hot mess at the starts of their tags and also realized that I had posted like, very little coherently-connected parts of specifically this one's beginning, for some reason? Despite the fact that I love hurting and being hurt?? Somehow???? TERRIBLE oversight on my part, gang, sorry, here y'all go, enjoyyyyy~ 💙 (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Kon is sort of fucked-up in a lot of ways, but he didn't deliberately get the tattoo. Like–he's not that fucked-up. Hell, even Black Zero wasn't that fucked-up. 

Black Zero's Westfield didn't even give him the tattoo, actually, so maybe that's part of why they had a better relationship than Kon did with his version of the guy. Kon would also have hated the asshole a lot less if not for the tattoo, probably. 

But his Westfield had made damn sure to give it to him.

Kon doesn't remember much before he got broken out of the cloning tube, but he does remember getting the tattoo. It'd taken a really long time, and it'd been the first time he'd ever felt pain. So like, it'd made an impression. 

He hadn't even known what it was for, then. Hadn't even known what it was supposed to be. A brand? A method of identification? Some kind of weird serial number analogue? 

Not so much, it'd turned out. 

Superman's soulmark is a gorgeous Kryptonian sunrise spread out across his chest, bold and bright and beautiful. It looks like the rising truth and the clarity of a new beginning and the very literal physical manifestation of hope. 

And Kon's tattoo looks exactly like it. 

Except for the part where it's obviously just a tattoo, of course. 

Tattoos don't pass for soulmarks, after all, which is the only reason Kon has the damn thing to begin with. Westfield hadn't wanted him to make the mistake of thinking that he was a real person, or to make the mistake of thinking that anyone was ever going to give a fuck about him as the person that he was. He was a clone, an experiment, a weapon, a thing. He didn't have a soul or a soulmate. Didn't have a mark. 

He got over that. Like, it sucks? It really sucks. And he still hates it. But he'd gotten over it. 

Or he'd thought he had, until he'd found out who Superman's soulmate was. 

"What?" Kon says, staring blankly. 

"Dad's my soulmate," Jon repeats, pointing at the Kryptonian sunrise spread out across his chest, brightly illuminated by the noontime sun as they stand on the dock at the edge of a little pond on the outskirts of Smallville. "Why, who's yours? Or don't you know yet? Like, has it not come in?" 

"Clones don't get soulmarks," Kon says, wanting very, very badly to just throw up and die. 

"Huh?" Jon says, looking actually surprised. Kon continues to want to throw up and die. Or maybe bury himself in magma in the center of the planet and stay there 'til he suffocates. "But I thought everybody got soulmarks!" 

"Naw," Kon says instead of fuck you, because the kid's ten and doesn't deserve that. 

"Why not?" Jon asks, because again, he's ten. Ten and apparently as emotionally intelligent as a pudding cup, but whatever. Not like Kon's never had this conversation before. 

Never with Clark's kid who is apparently so much his kid as to be his literal fucking soulmate, which no one ever thought to mention to the stupid shitty clone in the past like four months since Clark had finally admitted to the secret identity that Kon had long since figured out thanks to Hypertime bullshit, but whatever. He only even officially met Jon a couple months ago. 

Probably they all figured it just wasn't his business, he guesses. 

Which–it's not, really. It's not his business. It never has been. 

It's not. 

"I mean, I'm sentient or whatever, but I'm manufactured," Kon tells the kid with a shrug. "Therefore no soul, therefore no soulmate, therefore no soulmark. That's all." 

"You don't have a soul?" Jon asks in bewilderment. 

"Naw," Kon says again, with another shrug. "So like, we gonna swim or what?" 

"Oh, uh, yeah," Jon says, still looking bewildered. 

So they swim. 

Kon, obviously, doesn't take his shirt off for it. 

Jon, mercifully, doesn't ask why. 

It's fun, aside from being the worst afternoon of Kon's life. They fuck around for a couple hours, then fly back to the farm after and mostly dry off on the way, and Clark comes out to meet–well, not them, obviously, but Jon. Jon lights up at the sight of him and throws himself straight into his arms like he's never once had to question whether or not Clark would ever want him there, and Clark smiles down at him like he's the most important person in the world. 

Kon should just count himself lucky that Clark trusts him enough to leave him alone with his kid for more than thirty seconds and be grateful. 

What Kon actually is, of course, is jealous and angry and fucking heartbroken. 

Jon is ten. Kon was manufactured two years ago. Clark had a real kid long before Kon was even a theoretical spark in a scientist's eye. 

And Jon had Clark the whole time Superboy was just desperately hoping that Superman would decide he was worth his attention. Worth the "S". Worth . . . 

When Clark had offered him a name from his family–specifically a name from an adopted member of his family–Kon had been . . . stupid, a little, and thought that it might've been, like . . . another step. Like he'd hoped that Superman even letting his weird stupid clone wear the "S" to begin with might've been.  

He hadn't been a complete idiot or anything. He'd known Clark would never, like–want to keep him around or have him too close or anything. He'd just thought that maybe he'd . . . that someday he might've . . . 

Kon isn't a real person. Like–obviously he's not. It isn't subtle. Hell, he'd have known it even if Westfield hadn't bothered tattooing him with a copy of Clark's mark. And really, he guesses he should be grateful Westfield didn't tattoo his own soulmark on him, whatever it was. 

Just, like, of course he's not Clark's . . . family, or whatever. Of course he's just like that one weird kid from down the street that somebody occasionally invites over out of pity who only learns the family secrets by accident or through osmosis and isn't actually kept in the loop or anything. Kon knows that. 

But watching Jon beam up at his dad and Clark smile down at his son is still making him want to curl up and die right here and now. 

Kon does kind of wonder what it's like to be, like . . . loved, or whatever. 

Everybody always makes it sound really nice. 

"Dinner's about ready," Clark says. "You two mind setting the table?" 

"Sorry, I gotta get going," Kon says instead of admitting he has no idea how to set a fucking table, especially not to whatever Martha Kent's standards are. Cadmus did not actually see fit to educate him on typical household chores and he has very rarely ever sat down at any semblance of a normal family dinner. Like, in Hawaii they all just ate wherever and not even all together half the time, and Cadmus has a cafeteria, and Young Justice just dumps a pile of junk food or takeout on the nearest unoccupied surface and they all just go to town on it like the weird gaggle of semi-superpowered and usually-ravenous teenagers that they are. 

He could look it up on his phone, and he probably will later, but there's no way he's gonna run the risk of getting caught looking it up on his phone. Like–no. Never, thanks. Miss him with that particular little bit of "further proof of being a fake person" humiliation. 

So it's . . . whatever, he guesses. 

"Well, that's alright, we'll just have to catch you another time," Clark says with a polite smile that looks nothing like the one he was just wearing for Jon, and doesn't even fake like he's disappointed or like he's gonna miss him. Because like . . . why would he, after all? 

Kon misses him all the time, but Kon's the pathetic counterfeit of a person with a copy of said person's soulmark tattooed on him. 

"Yeah, sure," Kon says, thinking longingly of suffocating in the center of the planet. 

Sometimes he thinks about what's gonna happen when he finally gets his dumb ass killed and whoever, like, autopsies or embalms him or whatever sees the tattoo. Thinks about what they're gonna think, if they . . . 

Superman's soulmark isn't a secret or anything. Clark's gotten smashed around too often for the suit to have kept it covered all this time. So like, if someone ever saw the tattoo on Kon's chest and didn't know that Cadmus put it there . . . 

Like . . . well. The natural assumption would be that Kon got it on purpose, obviously. That Kon was actually, like, that fucking pathetic and disturbed of a person. 

He never wants anyone to see it. Never wants anyone to know. Never . . . just never. None of it. Ever. 

And Clark will never smile at him like he smiles at Jon, so maybe Clark will just never know about the tattoo either. Maybe that's a thing that Kon can manage. 

He's managed it so far, at least. 

Kon goes back to Cadmus and buries himself in his eternally unmade bed in his cramped little disaster of a room and desperately tries to not be the absolute fucking freak that he is. 

He definitely fails at not being the absolute fucking freak that he is. 

He cries about it for a little bit, like that's something he even has the fucking right to do, and tries so fucking hard to forget how Jon's very real soulmark had looked when he'd stripped his shirt off and bared it so unselfconsciously. Not even deliberately or proudly–just as a simple, inalienable fact. A thing that he knew. A thing he just had. 

Although Kon wouldn't even care about the stupid goddamn mark, if Clark would ever look at him even a little bit like the way he looks at Jon. 

He tries not to think about the way Clark would actually look at him, if he ever found out that Cadmus had tattooed his fucking kid's mark on him. 

Kon's never let himself think too much about Clark's mark, on account of not wanting to torment himself that bad. He'd just vaguely assumed that it was Lois at some point and then just shoved said assumption in a box and drowned it in concrete and made sure to never, ever take his shirt off in front of anyone else or any possible cameras or spy equipment or anything similar. Ever. 

He should've known it wasn't Lois. It's a Kryptonian sunrise. Why would it be Lois? 

If it were Lois, though, Kon wouldn't care this much. If it were Lois, it'd be a romantic mark, and Lois is straight-up gorgeous and a total fucking badass, yeah, but Kon doesn't, like, want her or anything. There's nothing to be jealous of there. 

So of course it's not Lois. Of course it's not romantic. 

It's Jon, and on top of that it's a mark that only actual Kryptonians would ever share. 

It's Clark's real kid. The one he had long before Kon was even a single strand of stolen DNA or a cell in a cloning tube or even a scribbled theoretical on a whiteboard or in somebody's notes. 

The one he actually wants. 

Not for the first time, Kon wishes that prick Westfield weren't too dead to punch. 

And while he's wishing for completely impossible shit that’s never gonna happen, he wishes he could've been able to stay in Smallville for that stupid dinner without fucking embarrassing himself, too.

[v4mp1r3viktor]

Quick talk about asexual headcanons for Jayce and Viktor:

A lot of people sexualize Jayce and viktors relationship like a CRAZY amount as well as their individual characters (I mean they’re queer characters and a queer relationship so of course people have to be gross about it), like people who treat Viktor like he’s a helpless little twink or jayce is like this himbo freak who wants to be constantly dominated and stuff which isn’t a problem I suppose as long as you’re not being ableist in terms of how you write Viktor than to each their own I guess, it’s not personally my cup of tea !! (Also to clarify I have nothing wrong at all with any nsfw headcanons or fics or works that people put out I’m just saying historically most queer people especially mlm or wlw relationships are sexualized the hell out of and it’s gross)

But I’ve seen some people talk Viktor or Jayce being asexual which I thought was really cool so I wanted to give my take on it !!

Viktor: in my head he either doesn’t really put much value in sex or thinks little of it, like if he wants to get with someone then he’ll have some random hookup or whatever just for the pleasure of it but it’s a single time and then it’s back to his normal life, and/or he’s demisexual/demiromantic and literally has no feelings about any of that stuff at all until he’s truly gotten to know the person (like jayce….HHENSJ) in my head I like to think Viktor is autistic but that could just be me project but a lot of people also think that and way too many people headcanon autistic people asexual because that’s the stereotype or whatever but I 100% agree with the experienced Viktor headcanon, but I do like the idea of him being demisexual because that makes the most sense for his character

Jayce: I would not be shocked if he was canonically asexual, and I know what you’re gonna say “the scene with him and Mel” LET ME FINISH. (like mel did…) ANYWAYS, I really see him being gray sexual because he just seems like he enjoys the romantic aspects of a relationship more than anything, he’ll have sex and he can enjoy it but it’s not a strong desire at all, if anything the majority of the reason he does it is to make the other person happy or feel good, like he makes think of that “put your clothes back on. I wanna show you my equation first.” LIKE DOES ANYONE GET WHAT I MEAN AHHHH but yeah those are my thoughts

THANKS FOR TUNING IN FOR ANOTHER ONE !! CATCH YOU ON THE FLIPPITY FLOP!

[harryspurpleloofah]

Bunny (H.S)

Summary: Harry is explaining the terms and conditions to a man who wants to borrow money from him when Y/N walks in after having dealt with a man who had the balls to lie to Harry. Soon all the men leave Harry and Y/N alone.

TW: Harry’s drinking and smoking a lot, no graphic detail but mentions of blood alluding to injury, swearing, smut, riding, safe sex ☂️ , bit of fluff at the end, he’s not the nicest guy but he’s not a bad guy.

The bar was quiet, soaked in low golden light, the scent of whiskey and cigar smoke thick in the air. Outside, rain painted streaks down the windows, but inside, the world belonged to Harry Styles.

He sat in his usual booth..private, secluded, untouchable. One arm rested along the back of the leather seat, his fingers idly tracing the rim of the whiskey glass in his other hand. Across from him, the man sat stiff and uneasy, shoulders curled inward like he was trying to make himself smaller.

"You want money," Harry murmured, not a question—just a fact. His voice was smooth, slow, deliberate. A man with all the time in the world. "And you came to me because the banks won’t touch you, and every other poor bastard you’ve begged from knows you’re not worth the risk." The man swallowed hard.

Harry finally lifted his gaze, green eyes locking onto the man like a predator sizing up its prey. "That’s what you are, yeah? A fucking risk." He tilted his head, tapping one ringed finger against his glass. "But me? I’m a generous man. I don’t turn people away. I help them."

Relief flickered across the man’s face, just for a second. Harry smirked. They always made that mistake.

"You’ll take what I give you," he continued, voice never rising, never wavering. "And in two weeks, you’ll return it to me, plus fifty percent." He took a slow sip of whiskey, savoring the burn before setting the glass down with a soft clink. "Fail to pay on time, and the interest doubles. Another week? Triples."

The man shifted in his seat, his breath hitching. His mind was working a mile a minute, clearly calculating, panicking. "But…what if something happens? What if I can’t come up with it?"

Harry leaned forward just a fraction, his eyes sharp as blades. "You don’t want to ask questions, mate. You want answers. And here they are." He looked the man over, letting the weight of his words settle in like heavy stones. "You will pay. One way or another. Because I don’t give second chances. I don’t give fuckin' excuses."

The man’s voice cracked. "What…What happens if I don’t? What really happens?"

Harry’s smirk never faltered, but something cold flashed in his gaze. "You still don’t get it, do you?" He took another sip of his drink, casually, as if the conversation didn’t matter at all. "If you can’t pay in cash, you’ll pay in other ways."

The man leaned in, desperate, his voice growing more frantic. "Other ways? What do you mean by that? What are you gonna take from me? I—I have nothing to give!"

Harry studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing as the man flinched at his own words. "You really think I care about what you have?" Harry chuckled softly, the sound low and cruel. "I’ll take what’s mine. If I want something, I’ll have it. Whether it’s your money, your time, your freedom—or something you care about even more."

The man’s face went pale. "Something I care about? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Harry leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper, laced with cold venom. "It means when you owe me, I own you. You’ll do whatever I say, whenever I say it. If you can’t pay me, then you’ll pay with your life. And I don’t mean that as a threat—I mean it as a promise."

The man froze. Sweat started to bead on his forehead, but his mouth was dry, speechless.

Harry’s gaze never left him. He was patient, almost too patient, watching the man’s face twist with fear, confusion, and then realization.

"So what’s it gonna be?" Harry asked, voice almost bored now, as if the man’s decision was the least interesting thing in the world. "You pay, and we move on. Or you don’t, and I come to collect." He flicked his fingers dismissively. "Your choice."

The man sputtered, his chest rising and falling rapidly as panic settled in. He reached for the pen with shaking hands, still questioning, still uncertain. "But…what if I can’t get it??"

Harry’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. "Then you’ll understand exactly what I meant."

He let the silence hang, the tension so thick it was suffocating. The man barely had time to blink before Harry continued.

"Either way, you’ll pay," he repeated, voice calm as ever. "And trust me, you’ll wish you paid sooner. You’ll wish you never asked me for a penny. But by then, it’ll be too late."

The man flinched at his name. His hand grabbed the pen with trembling fingers, the weight of the moment sinking in. His mind was racing, but his body had no choice but to obey.

Harry sat back, watching, eyes cold and unblinking, as the man scrawled his name on the paper. Harry’s gaze moved to the contract, then back up to the man, his lips curling into a small, satisfied smile.

"Good. We’re done here," Harry said, voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

The man stood up too quickly, still shaking. Harry didn’t move, not even a muscle, as the man backed away, his eyes locked on Harry, still wide with fear.

Harry’s voice followed him as he stumbled toward the door.

"I’ll be seeing you soon. And next time…don’t be late."

Soon, the door to the bar creaked open, the sharp click of heels against the hardwood floor cutting through the heavy atmosphere. The usual hum of low chatter and clinking glasses seemed to hush for a moment, as if the room recognized her presence before even her figure entered fully. A woman stepped inside—Y/N.

She was a vision. A black dress clung to her like it was made for her body, the fabric smooth and sleek, catching the dim light as she moved. It wasn’t overly flashy, but it fit her like a glove, with an effortless sophistication that said she owned whatever room she walked into. The kind of dress you could wear anywhere, but still make everyone turn their heads.

Her legs were encased in sleek black leather boots. The duffel bag slung over her shoulder gave her an air of casual chaos, the leather creased under the weight of whatever she had carried with her. Her ringed fingers, now smudged with a deep crimson, brushed absently through her hair.

The manicured nails, sharp and polished, seemed at odds with the mess she’d made of herself..yet it all added to her untouchable charm. One ring on her fourth finger, a perfect fit. But not just any ring. Her wedding ring.

She didn’t flinch at the looks thrown her way, nor the subtle tension in the air. Her eyes scanned the room for just a second, flicking over the unfamiliar faces, but it was Harry she was after. And Harry was already watching her, the faintest glint of a smile tugging at his lips as she approached.

Y/N’s walk was slow, almost languid, but every step was deliberate, purposeful. The man across from Harry still looked like he was about to cry watched her with wide, confused eyes. Harry’s presence, usually commanding enough to make most people tremble, suddenly seemed to pale in comparison to hers.

She slid into the booth beside Harry with the ease of someone who owned everything including him and knew it. The world moved around her, but she didn’t even flinch. Not when the man’s gaze followed her, not when the men glanced in her direction.

She didn’t speak at first, just reached for the cigarette hanging from Harry’s lips and pulled it from between them. A sharp inhale, deep and unbothered, as the smoke curled lazily from her mouth.

"I can see you’ve been busy," she said casually, her voice smooth but sharp like velvet. She didn’t need to ask; she already knew exactly what Harry had been doing, who he'd been speaking to, and the weight of the deal he'd just made. The power dynamic didn’t change for her. She'd been in this world far too long to be impressed by men like him or the way Harry ran his affairs.

Harry turned his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Not busy enough," he answered, his voice low, heavy with a layer of satisfaction. "But I’m happy now that you’re here..."

Y/N flicked the cigarette to the ashtray with a practiced motion, eyes never leaving his. "You finished with him?" She nodded toward the man, who was still frozen, looking as though he might explode from nerves.

Harry glanced over at the man and then back to her, his expression unreadable. "We’re done. He knows what happens if he doesn’t get it together."

Y/N didn’t need to hear the rest. She'd seen the power Harry wielded, and she'd felt it countless times before. The deal was done, and the man’s fate had been sealed long before the pen hit the paper.

She slouched comfortably in the booth, her duffel bag now resting by her side as her body language turned laid back, like she’d been here a thousand times before. She crossed her legs, the hem of her dress shifting as her black boots clicked softly against the wood beneath her, and leaned in slightly toward Harry. "Good," she purred, her fingers grazing over his hand with a casual touch. "I don’t like waiting."

Harry’s lips curved into a knowing smile, the air between them charged with a dangerous kind of intimacy. He wasn’t just the one in control of the room, she had his attention, just as she always did.

The man, still standing awkwardly by the table, cleared his throat. But before he could speak, Y/N raised an eyebrow, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Do yourself a favor, mate," she said, voice silk-smooth but dripping with warning. "And leave. Before we make you regret sticking around any longer."

He quickly turned and left, his footsteps loud in the otherwise silent room, but neither Harry nor Y/N paid him any mind.

“What have you been up to, bunny?”, Harry gently asked her, taking her hand in his.

“I was dealing with that misogynistic prick. Brad. You know the forty grand he borrowed from you, baby?”

Harry nods, lighting himself another cigarette as she continues, “he spent at least half of them gambling and he other paying his lawyer to defend him against his wife who he hasn’t paid child support to in fucking years.”

Harry rolled his eyes, “got the money, love?”

She gestured to the bag. One of his men picked it up to look inside before nodding at Harry and putting it down. She turns to him.

Harry didn’t acknowledge her right away. He took his time.

One slow drag of his cigarette, one long sip of whiskey, his gaze lingering on the bloodstained curve of her knuckles before flicking back to the amber liquid in his glass.

Y/N smirked, kicking off her heels beneath the table before shifting to press herself closer, one leg crossing over the other, the sleek fabric of her dress riding up just enough to catch his attention.

Still, he didn’t look. Not yet.

"Busy today?" she murmured, tilting her head slightly as her fingers ghosted over the sleeve of his jacket, light and teasing.

Harry exhaled slowly, smoke curling between them.

"Should be," he muttered.

Y/N hummed, leaning in just enough that her perfume wrapped around him, something sweet and heady and utterly distracting. "Then why aren’t you?"

Harry finally turned his head.

That knowing little smirk, the subtle gleam in her eyes, the kind that told him she was enjoying this. Enjoying the fact that she could sit there, still stained from the night’s work, and have his full fucking attention without even trying.

She reached forward, plucking the cigarette from his lips, taking a slow drag before exhaling..deliberately close to his mouth.

Harry’s jaw tightened.

"You’re playing with me, Bunny," he muttered.

Y/N smirked around the cigarette, tapping the ash into his ashtray before leaning in again….closer this time.

"You always say that," she whispered, her breath warm against his jaw.

Harry’s fingers twitched against the glass in his hand. His men were still watching. He could feel them, their presence lingering, their gazes sharp, their patience thinning. And so was his.

A voice broke the silence. "Boss, we should—"

Everything stopped. Harry didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.

But the air shifted. Something deep, impossibly lethal crept into his stillness, into the slow way he exhaled through his nose, like he was considering violence. His gaze flicked..just slightly.

One sharp, silent warning. The man froze. The others did, too. Because that look? They knew that look. That was the look a man gave right before he made an example out of someone. A thick, suffocating pause stretched between them.

"Out."

Not loud. Not a yell. Just low, cold, final.

The kind of command you didn’t hesitate to follow. And yet, one of them did. Just for a second. Just long enough for a flicker of hesitation to cross his face, for his weight to shift like he was thinking of saying something else. And then, he actually fucking spoke.

"Boss," the newbie said carefully, clearing his throat. "We should be focusing on business."

Silence.

Y/N raised a brow, but didn’t turn her head. She could feel Harry’s stillness beside her.

The newbie swallowed but kept going—fucking idiot.

"We've got clients to meet. Money to collect. Work to do." His voice had a hint of confidence now, like he actually thought he was making sense. "No offense, but...this isn’t important."

Y/N barely held back a smirk.

Not because he was right. But because he was about to learn something very important.

Harry finally turned his head..

"You new?"

The newbie shifted. "Y-yeah. I mean, I’ve been here a couple of months but—"

"Long enough to know how things work?"

"Of course, boss, I—"

"Good." Harry nodded once. "Then you should know better."

The confidence in the newbie’s face flickered. "I—I wasn’t trying to—"

"You were," Harry said smoothly, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray. "You thought I wasn’t paying attention. Thought you’d remind me of my responsibilities." He flicked his gaze back up, slow and sharp. "Thought you had something to say about my wife."

"You think I don’t know how to handle business?" His voice was smooth, almost amused. "Think I’ve forgotten how things run around here?"

The newbie hesitated. "I—I didn’t mean—"

Harry tapped the ash from his cigarette, barely sparing him a glance. "Let me remind you of something."

He leaned back, stretching his arm along the back of the booth, his other hand rolling the glass between his fingers. "I got married while running six schemes across three countries. While laundering more money than you’ll ever see. While dealing with eight clients, two shipments, and an overdue loan breathing down my fucking neck."

His gaze lifted finally locking onto the newbie.

"And all of them," he said slowly, "were handled. All of them were done and dusted. And every single one of them knew better than to call me the second my bedroom door closed."

"You wanna know why?" he murmured, swirling his drink. "Because they knew what was best for them."

Harry took another slow sip of whiskey before setting the glass down. "You got something else to say?"

The newbie shook his head. Hard.

Harry smirked, flicking his wrist toward the door. "Then get the fuck out." The door closed without a second more.

The door clicked shut behind Harry’s men, and the room fell into a thick, dangerous silence.

The second she saw they were gone, she swung her leg over his lap, straddling him with the same ease as a predator. No hesitation.

Harry didn’t blink. He didn’t move. He simply watched her, his hands resting at his sides, calm but ready.

Y/N took his cigarette from his lips without asking, the edges of her fingers grazing his skin as she crushed it in the tray beside them. Her gaze locked on his, playful, daring.

“It’s not good for you, baby,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness.

Harry’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t respond. His eyes, however, were dark with something that had her breath catching in her throat. He leaned forward just a fraction, lips curling as he licked them slowly.

“Neither are you, bunny,” he shot back, his voice low and rough.

Y/N smirked and took his glass from the table, bringing it to her lips. She sipped it slowly, her eyes never leaving his as she set it back down with a soft clink.

“Neither is that,” she teased, running her hand down his chest like she owned him, like she knew he was already on the edge of losing it.

His hands twitched at his sides, fingers flexing, but he didn’t speak yet.

“Thought they’d never leave,” she murmured, her voice shifting to more sultry. “Missed you.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, and he reached out, grabbing her wrist in one swift motion, pulling her closer until their bodies were flush, his lips brushing her ear.

“You missed me, huh?” His voice was laced with something dark. She unbuckled his belt and freed his cock from his boxers. She dug through her purse for a second, finding a condom and sliding it on before she looked back up at him.

“I’m not in the mood for foreplay ok?”

“Whatever you say, bunny.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, biting back a smile as she felt the heat building between them. Without another word, she moved, sliding herself down onto him. Slowly. Intentionally.

The second she sank down, she gasped, the feeling of him filling her sending a jolt of heat through her body. She was about to say something when his lips found her neck, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin, “what?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Harry muttered, his voice strained as he gripped her waist tighter, pushing her down on him. "I’m the one who’s been waiting all night for this."

His fingers dug into her skin, pulling her into him as he moved his lips to hers, kissing her with ferocious urgency. There was no softness, no gentle teasing. This was about power, about claiming. “Bunny, come on let me have my fun.”

“I don’t need you to remind me who’s in charge,” she whispered, a dark laugh in her voice. “I already know.”

Y/N didn’t wait. She rode him good, her nails raking over his chest.

She reached up, her fingers grazing his chest with a tease before making quick work of his shirt. Her hands pulled at the collar, unbuttoning it with slow movements. The anticipation was thick, like every button that came undone added a layer to the building tension between them.

She soon managed it and slipped it off his shoulders, leaving him almost glowing in the dim light of the booth, his tattoos visible.

His hand shot up to her hair, threading his fingers through the soft strands, his grip tightening as he pulled her closer to him. His other hand found her waist, pulling her against him. He ran his fingers through her hair again, this time a little rougher, as his lips crashed against hers with ferocity.

“Fuck, Y/N.”

A while passes. It was going great but she was getting tired.

She bit her lip, trying to keep her focus, but she couldn’t deny it—she was feeling the strain in her legs, the ache in her pelvis. Harry’s hands were still gripping her waist, guiding her movements with firm, but slow control, and it was starting to feel a bit too controlled for her liking. She wanted more. She needed more.

She gave one last slow roll of her hips before she stopped, leaning forward to rest her hands on his chest for support, breathing heavily.

“You’re starting to look a little tired, baby,” Harry teased, his lips curling into a smirk as his hands tightened around her waist. “Should I do all the work now?”

Y/N shot him a playful look, her chest rising and falling with her quick breaths, but she didn’t argue. She was too exhausted, her legs aching with the effort. She wanted him to take control, to make her feel like she couldn’t breathe without him.

Without warning, Harry’s hands gripped her hips and flipped her onto her back, his body covering hers in an instant. She gasped, startled by the sudden change in position, but her surprise was quickly replaced by anticipation. His eyes darkened with desire, a wicked smirk tugging at his lips.

“You wanted me to do all the work?” he growled, his voice thick with need. “Well, here we are.”

Before she could respond, Harry slammed into her, his pace hard and fast as he took control of the situation. His hands were on her hips, keeping her in place as he moved above her, each thrust deep and precise. Y/N’s body arched beneath him, her hands gripping the sheets as she tried to keep her composure.

“Tell me how it feels, Bunny,” he murmured in her ear, his lips brushing against her neck as he continued to thrust into her. “You wanted me to take over, didn’t you?”

She could only moan in response, her head falling back into the pillows as his pace quickened, the tension in her body building again. She reached up, trying to grip his arms, but he was too far gone, too deep inside her for her to do anything but just look at him.

Harry leaned down, his lips pressing against her ear as he thrust harder. “I told you, didn’t I? Don’t ever forget who’s in charge here.”

Y/N’s nails dug into his skin as she writhed beneath him, her moans filling the space between their heated breaths. She could feel the hard length of his cock driving into her, each thrust sending ripples of pleasure through her core. Her voice grew louder, her words slurred with desire.

“Harry…oh, Harry…” she pleaded, her hips rising to meet his as if in defiance of gravity, trying to match his fervor.

Harry’s own breathing grew ragged as he intensified his pace. His hands roamed her body, one gripping her hair as he pulled her head back for a deeper kiss, the other sliding over her curves, exploring every sensitive spot with expert precision. His eyes darkened as he whispered, “You’re mine, Bunny. Let me have you—completely.”

Every thrust built upon the last, a symphony of heat and desire, until soon both of them were lost in a haze of sensation. The room seemed to disappear around them, leaving only the raw, unfiltered need that surged between their entwined bodies. Their rhythm quickened, and the air grew thick with the scent of sweat and desire as they edged closer to the peak of their passion.

“Cum for me,” Harry rasped, his voice rough with command and need, as he pounded into her with all the force of his desire. “Cum for me, Bunny—let it all out.”

Y/N’s response was immediate and explosive. Her body tensed, every muscle contracting as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Her cries mingled with his as she surrendered to the overwhelming release, her hands clutching at the sheets as she came undone beneath him. Harry’s own high wasn’t far behind; his pace surged as he reached his breaking point, his own release joining hers in a torrential, shared moment of ecstasy.

They came together, every thrust, every kiss, every whispered command melding into one singular, unforgettable explosion of passion. For that one, electrified moment, nothing existed except the two of them.

When the storm finally subsided, they lay tangled together on the soft couch, their breaths gradually returning to normal. Harry’s hand still rested in Y/N’s hair, stroking it gently as if to remind her that, even in the aftermath of their intensity, he remained her unwavering, dominant force.

Y/N lay there, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with her breath, her body still trembling from the release. Harry’s eyes softened as he looked down at her, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair away from her sweaty forehead. He could see the flush still creeping along her skin, the way her lips were slightly parted as she caught her breath

“You alright?” he asked, his voice low and soft, the usual dominance replaced by concern. He ran a hand over her body, almost as if checking if she was still there, still whole after the intensity of it all. His thumb traced the curve of her waist, and then he leaned in to place a tender kiss on her temple.

Y/N smiled, still catching her breath, but the warmth in her eyes told him she was more than okay. She nodded, reaching up to touch his face. Her fingers grazed his jawline, tracing the roughness of his stubble. “I’m good,” she said, her voice still breathy but soft.

Later that night they were in their shared king bed. He took her hands, now perfectly clean and lathered with handcream but he remembered the blood, “bunny?”

“Mm?”

“Maybe…we should go back to me handling the physical side of things..”

She looked up, “what? But I love helping you. I love doing this, we never hurt anyone for no reason you know that.”

“I’m aware love, I’m the boss remember? But I’m worried about you not our morals. What if something happens to you?”

“Couldn’t I say the same for you?”

“Well…”

“I guess we both have to be careful from now on. For each other.”

“Fair enough I guess.”

“Deal?”

“Deal, bunny.”

“Maybe….

[audliminal]

It's Just a Game, Right? Pt 1 Redux

Masterpost

"It's like. Crazy, y'know?" Bernard's says, voice only a little tinny through Tim’s headset. "Like, when they started posting, I was kind of unimpressed, honestly. I figured it was worth watching the channel, in case the story was interesting, but it wasn’t really worth it for the sake of the actual puzzle-solving. I mean, the first video was just, like, a slideshow of pictures with a handful of Caesar ciphers and some creepy music. That’s practically the platonic ideal of Baby’s First ARG, but now? They're using literally everything! The current drop is like. The simplest part is the spectrogram! And I think it's intentional."

"Isn't it supposed to be intentional? I thought that was like, the whole point of an ARG." Tim smiles despite himself. He can always count on Bernard to distract him from the stress of work; in all the time they’ve known each other, his boyfriend has never been without some curious new obsession, and he’s always happy to ramble in Tim’s ear, while Tim works on whatever.

Right now, Tim is halfway through the tedious process of upgrading the processors in his cowl. The layers of casing and protection alone take forever to remove properly, and the actual components he’s working with are extremely small, so he has to be very careful not to damage or lose them as he works. This means he can’t exactly listen to anything that might fully distract him, but listening to Bernard explain the new ARG taking his internet communities by storm is more than welcome.

"No I mean, like. Yeah, obviously the clues are intentional,” Bernard explains. “But like, the way the difficulty curve is increasing? I don’t think that’s just a thing of convenience, and it’s happening too quickly to feel like it’s them learning about all this stuff. Hell, early on there were all these red herrings and stuff, and basically everybody just sort of wrote them off as a cheap way to increase the difficulty. But the further we get, the more their choices seem intentional. Which doesn’t exactly match with the idea of somebody who’s dropping red herrings to confuse and pull attention away from the actual plot."

"You think they aren’t actually red herrings?"

"What if they aren’t? That would tie in with the whole ‘dig deeper’ thing. Like, if I were making it, I’d be pretty annoyed if people just looked at the immediate surface level clues and ignored everything that didn’t immediately fit together."

"Yeah, telling you to dig deeper, sure makes it sound like they want you, maybe, dig deeper." Tim chuckles, carefully pulling a filter out of place, and adjusting wires, so he can start unscrewing the first processor.

“God, it’s driving me crazy!" Bernard’s voice cracks just a bit, and Tim pauses, gripping the screwdriver tightly. Getting stuck solving a riddle is always annoying, but Bernard sounds more frustrated than he usually is about these sorts of things. Mentally he rolls back over the last few weeks, quickly realizing that they really haven’t spent much time together lately. Both his day and night job have been pretty busy lately, and he knows Bernard gets it – he may not know about his night work, but he knows Tim has a lot on his hands, but Tim also knows Bernard has a bit of a tendency to get a little too into things. It’s one of the many things they have in common; one of the reasons they work so well together.

“Literally every fucking drop,” Bernard continues, oblivious to Tim’s running thoughts. “The same exact words are hidden somewhere in one of the layers! Like it’s low-key become an Easter-egg hunt on the forum! People keep joking about sending prizes to whoever can find it first, whenever anything new drops. Nobody really seems concerned by it, though. I think they all just assumed it was another sort of Red Herring, just one that’s more thematic than actually distracting. Meanwhile I'm literally on the verge of going back to the beginning of the whole thing and solving it from scratch, because I think we're missing a lot." Tim smiles, as Bernard finishes his rant with a huff. It’s not really anything they usually do, but if Bernard is frustrated enough to go back to the beginning, it presents Tim with a bit of an opportunity. And he did finally solve the Stone case the other day, so he actually could take some time away from the nightlife right now.

“Hey, what if we tried to solve it together?” Tim asks, before Bernard can wind up again.

“What, the ARG?”

“Yeah. We haven’t exactly had much time together lately, and I love a good mystery, so why not?”

“Dude,” Bernard says, voice dropping down a register. “Babe. Are you serious? Because I really need you to tell me now if you aren’t serious because I would fucking love to walk you through SARA.”

“Is... that the name of it?”

“Yeah. Actually that’s the other thing. Nobody’s been able to figure out why the channel is named that. And I think you can agree that it would be weird to have the actual name of your channel be irrelevant.”

“How does Friday sound?”

“It’s a fuckin’ date!”

[chibichibsterss]

Why I don't associate myself with the ranfren fandom

I love ranfren, i really do, i love the comic the art and the silly concept, but the fandom itself is so fucking insufferable. (EXCEPT FOR MY MOOTS ILY GUYS) the amount of CRIMINAL shit I see in the ranfren confession is genuinely just fucking cringe.

"Ranfren is supposed to be weird!!" It doesn't mean you can just say you want to RAPE Randal if he were a shotacon?? Even as a joke that's fucking disgusting. You have a problem to who ever made that confession, and it's not funny. I dont care if you have a mental problem, either get help or keep that shit in a diary.

The other reason, it's draining as stupid as it sounds, the amount of drama and like I said people in the fandom in it just creates a negative fandom space, yes a lot of fandoms have that side but it isn't usually as bad as whatever the hell this is. There might be worse out there but from my experience this is just fucking ridiculous.

Like I said, I still love ranfren a lot. But I just don't want to be associated to the fandom in such a way. ESPECIALLY with anon asks telling me that having DNI weirdos and being a ranfren fan at the same time is crazy. No it's not. There's a difference between being weird and being WEIRD. Weird being a fucking pedophile lolicon thing and the other weird is just liking weird things like horror, paranormal, Taxidermy and stuff like me.

But yeah that's what i have to say. REMINDER THAT THIS IS NOTT TARGETED TO MY MOOTS, ILY GUYS W MY FAGGOT HEART ♥️

[electricea]

“Sure, man - I don’t see why you couldn’t do it, either - all you really need is grit and hard work,” Someone much more detail minded might keenly point out that such awards wouldn’t come immediately and would likely take months if not years and even then, nothing was a guarantee - but now was not a moment for pragmatism. The last thing he wanted was to crush a potentially budding dream before it could ever be born, so leaving it at this was enough, whether or not this was something this guy wanted to have seriously pursue would have to be up to him.

“That’s pretty impressive that he works for a big company - I guess he’s charge of all their tech and shit?” He didn’t really know all the ins and outs of IT but that was his guess on how it all worked - he supposed you just have really needed to love technology in order to work with it, hell even spending your free time doing it - and it seemed like this guy, this whole family had all of that and more in spades. “What about your mom? She work with any technology herself or is she the odd one out?” He jokes.

“An AI that can learn to speak? So that means you’d actually be able to have conversations with? Ask it questions and stuff like that?” That honestly did sound pretty cool and although he didn’t understand much of the technical talk, it seemed as though this guy was putting a bit of himself into his work, something that Ryuji couldn’t help but admire. “From what you’ve said, this sounds like a real passion project for you and I think that it’s pretty cool that you’re willing to stick with it and not give up. I’m sure there’ll still be more roadblocks to come but as long as you keep at it, I think you’ll do alright,”

He didn’t know all that much about AI or its intricacies so perhaps to say such a thing would be unwise but that had always been the direct, simple philosophy he had lived his life by - keep it and never give up and good things would be sure to come. He just hoped in this instance, it proved to be true. “I get confidentiality but I’d love to see whatever you can show me,” He nods his head eagerly at the offer. “I bet it’d be awesome to see how your AI is coming along there,”

"I just tried my best and worked really hard - I'm sure if you also work at it and keep at it, you could earn some awards, yourself." This wasn't just him trying to suck up to Chihiro - sure at first glance they were small and scrawny but if they really put in the dedication and the years of work, who knew what they were capable of? Plus, they looked pretty young so they still had that much going for them. Hell, even if running just gave them more confidence at first, he'd be content with that.

"That's definitely pretty cool, so you must be pretty familiar with 'em by now, right? What'd your dad do? I'm guessing he worked with computers?" Must have been something like that he supposed - or maybe Chihiro's dad was just the sort who always had a computer in their lap - he certainly knew of enough students like that in school, nerdy types with their nose always buried in a laptop or something like that. Still, from the sounds of it maybe he hadn't quite given them their due given Chihiro's seeming capabilities with a computer. "So, why don't you tell me some more about the programs you make? Like maybe the most recent one for example...?"

Now it was his turn to stay relatively quiet as the topic of chat bots and AI in general were something he didn't know or understand much of, but he was still happy to listen. "Ah, so it's like getting to sort of talk with robots, right?" That much he understood, even if he didn't really understand the mechanics behind it or how the bots could really 'talk' per-se. "So, this boy would feed lines from other users...? Almost like it remembers what people said to it, if that makes sense," Could a bot even remember anything...? He didn't quite know but it sure sounded interesting.

"Heh...I'm pretty out of my depths when it comes to bots, but I'm with you there! Sometimes simpler is better,"

[onceuponaroast]

So here's a lukewarm take for you all:

I love the "Doesn't understand implied context and has no critical media literacy because you didn't pay attention in English class" joke as much as the next guy, but uh.... it's not entirely correct

Because I DID pay attention in my English class, and the one thing they did NOT tell us to do... was form our own opinions on the text.

And absolutely it could have just been my teachers! It is in fact highly likely that my teachers specifically were just particularly shit at their jobs, but the main thing I was regularly instructed to do was just. Memorize whatever the teacher told us and move on. In fact, we were encouraged to focus on the absolute bare bones of any given story and spend as little time or mental energy in any given text. We were taught novels the same way we were taught history and science; to memorize the facts and move on.

We were not encouraged to engage with the text. When I offered a different interpretation of a passage I was told it was wrong and to 'not think about it so hard.' My Least Favorite Teacher- who I am biased against for unrelated reasons but nevertheless- once docked me points because I suggested a passage could be interpreted as referencing pregnancy. This was, of course, wrong; because she obviously was referencing menopause. (???)

We had so many standardized tests crammed down our throats that we were pretty much forced to just memorize the basic plot setting and characters- and do absolutely nothing else.

This is not to say tiktok is not ruining our brains- it's not even to say that every half assed massive Corp movie made of crappy ai writing isn't ruining our media consumption- because they both probably are. But when you see kids not understanding things like subtext and unreliable narrators, please don't laugh at them. Please do not assume it is a failure on their part. They can not help what they are not taught.