#when in reality even that is a ruse

[smoothoperador]

just saw this scene from plus one pop up on my instagram feed and its like. word for word a conversation i had with my ex at one point . Sighhhhhh

[raven-dor]

bucky tries a tiktok trend? - drabble #1

inspired from that one tiktok trend where the girls put a broom through their boyfriends sleeves to test their 'posture' but in reality they just tickle them senseless - 🩵💗 established relationship!! silly goofy behavior, no angst (i know, rare right?) allusion to nsfw word count: 688

"Okay." You giggled, setting up the phone on the windowsill. "Are you ready?"

Bucky nodded, locked in on your video. "Ready when you are, Doll."

His willingness to try anything worked in your favor more often than not, (the mannequin challenge, the time you curled his hair, the time you made him do the dirty dancing move - which he executed flawlessly by the way) but right now you couldn't help but feel bad for tricking him. Still, you decided to go through with it, it was a harmless prank. "Alright, just stand straight."

He stretched his back, and you tried not to stare at the way his muscles fought his t-shirt. He raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Getting distracted?"

"Never." You shook your head, cheeks hot as you grabbed the broom. Walking back toward the camera, you smiled. "Today, I'm going to be testing my boyfriend's posture."

Bucky stood awkwardly behind you, the camera always made him shy. You kissed his cheek gently, talking to the camera as if he couldn't here you. "What a looker, am I right?"

He rolled his eyes. "I can hear you?"

You feigned surprise, laughing. "Are you sure? You're pretty old, maybe your hearing-" Before you could even react, he expertly wrapped his metal arm around your waist, pulling you in. "Bucky-"

He leaned down, kissing you the way he always did, like it was his last moment on Earth, all consuming and fiery. You felt weak, happy for his hold as you wrapped a hand around his neck, sighing into his lips.

He pulled away, leaning his forehead against yours. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize." You grinned, pecking the corner of his mouth quickly. "I love when you kiss me. Makes me feel all mushy and-"

"Loved?" He raised an eyebrow. "I hope you feel loved."

You nodded, kissing his cheek once more. "I always feel loved. And important. You make me feel everything." His cheeks tinged pink, and you smiled, glad you had the same effect on him he had on you. Stepping back, you locked back into character. "I'm going to have to cut all of that out, of course."

He wiggled his eyebrows. "How unfortunate."

"James!" You scolded, shaking your head. "Behave yourself for five seconds, then you can kiss me senseless as much as you want."

"Senseless huh?" He muttered, and you glared. He raised his hands in surrender, laughing. "Sorry, sorry."

You took a deep breath, looking back at the camera. "To see if he has good posture, I'm going to put this broom through his sleeves."

Bucky nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem."

You giggled, nodding with him. "Not a problem at all." Slipping the broom through his sleeves, you smirked, presenting him to the camera. "Fantastic posture, if I do say so myself."

He stood tall, proud, unsuspecting as you prepared yourself to do the unthinkable.

Your mission: tickling the White Wolf.

Reaching your hands out, you grabbed his sides, tickling him senseless. He jumped, shocked at first.

"Jesus, Doll!" He couldn't help but laugh, almost shrieking when your attack didn't let up. He tried to run away, but you followed after him, unrelenting in your assault. "This is elder abuse!"

You cackled, throwing your head back. "I'm sorry, this was all a ruse!"

He reached back, pulling the broom out of his sleeve. "You better run."

"Shit!" You screeched, racing toward the door.

Of course, he caught you. You knew he would, you were counting on it. "Spare me!"

He flung you over his shoulder, marched towards your bed, and tossed you down, caging you in between his beautifully muscular arms. Your cheeks felt like they were on fire, the way he was staring at you nearly causing your heart to palpitate. "Bucky-"

"I feel betrayed." He spoke, his voice low. You knew he was kidding, but you pretended, playing into the bit.

"Oh?" Your hands itched to reach out and pull his lips to yours. "And what can I do? To earn your trust again, that is?"

He leaned down whispering in your ear, a chill running down your spine. "I can think of a few things..."

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[magical-reid]

The Fine Line Between Pretending and Falling

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Ravenclaw! Reader

Word Count: 1.6 K

Prompt: 31: “You said you wouldn’t fall in love with me.” “I lied.”

Summary: When Ravenclaw Y/N enlists Fred to be her fake boyfriend to fend off a persistent admirer, she expects an elaborate but ultimately harmless plan. But Fred’s penchant for theatrics—and the growing feelings between them—turn what should have been a simple ruse into something much more complicated.

The problem started with Jeremy Tuttle.

For weeks, you’d tried to politely decline his advances, endure his overly enthusiastic conversations, and sidestep his relentless invitations to study together. It was exhausting, and no amount of subtle rejection seemed to deter him.

Desperate for a solution, you turned to Fred Weasley, a master of mischief and persuasion, to play the role of your fake boyfriend. His easy charm and love for theatrics made him the perfect candidate—or so you thought. What you didn’t realize was how quickly Fred would take the reins, blurring the lines between pretense and reality.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Blurred Lines

What you hadn’t anticipated was how much you’d enjoy Fred’s company. He made you laugh, even when you were determined to stay annoyed with him, and he had a way of noticing things others overlooked.

One evening, as you sat in the library revising for your Charms exam, Fred appeared beside you with a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

“I figured you might need a snack,” he said, sliding the box across the table. “And don’t worry—I picked out the good ones. No earwax, I promise.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Fred.”

He leaned back in his chair, watching you with a soft grin. “What kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly turned your attention back to your notes, willing the flutter in your chest to settle.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Great Hall Incident

The plan was going well—or so you thought. By the fourth day, Fred had ramped up his efforts, wrapping his arm around you in the corridors, and occasionally whispering something teasing that made you blush.

But everything came to a head one morning in the Great Hall. You were seated at the Ravenclaw table, buttering toast, when Fred sauntered over from the Gryffindor side, earning curious looks from the other students.

“Good morning, love,” he greeted, dropping a quick kiss on the top of your head before sliding onto the bench beside you.

You blinked at him, startled. “Fred, what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, instead reaching for a piece of toast from your plate and biting into it with a grin.

The answer came a moment later when you spotted Jeremy entering the hall. Fred must have noticed him first.

Before you could say anything, Fred leaned in and, without warning, kissed you square on the lips.

Gasps rippled through the Great Hall as heads turned toward the spectacle.

Your heart raced as Fred pulled back, his smirk firmly in place. “Just making sure everyone knows you’re taken,” he said, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

Your cheeks burned, but before you could respond, you caught sight of Jeremy standing frozen in the doorway, his face a mixture of shock and embarrassment.

Fred glanced in his direction and gave a small, satisfied nod before returning his attention to you. “Toast’s a bit dry, don’t you think?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Fred said, entirely unbothered, “you keep me around.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Quidditch Sweater

A week later, you found yourself seated in the Ravenclaw stands during a Gryffindor Quidditch match. It was cold, and Fred had insisted you wear his Gryffindor sweater for “authenticity.”

“You know, to really sell the whole boyfriend thing,” he’d said with a wink as he handed it to you that morning.

Now, as you watched the game, his red-and-gold sweater hung loosely on you, the scent of broomstick polish and something distinctly Fred lingering on the fabric. You felt more self-conscious than you ever had, especially when a few of your Ravenclaw friends raised eyebrows at your outfit.

When Fred scored a spectacular goal, he looped around the pitch, searching the stands until his eyes landed on you. His grin widened, and he gave an exaggerated bow in midair before flying off again.

“Ridiculous,” you muttered under your breath, though you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips.

After Gryffindor’s inevitable victory, Fred made a show of flying over to you, landing just beyond the stands and jogging up the steps with his broom in hand.

“Thought you’d like a personal victory lap,” he teased, pulling you into a quick hug.

The sweater hung even looser now, but as Fred ruffled your hair with an affectionate grin, you realized you didn’t care who noticed anymore.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Gryffindor Common Room

It was late one evening when you found yourself in the Gryffindor common room, sitting beside Fred on the worn couch near the fire. You weren’t sure how he had talked you into staying, but the warmth of the flames and the easy laughter of the Gryffindors around you made it hard to leave.

George, however, wasn’t letting it go unnoticed.

“You know,” he said, leaning against the arm of a nearby chair, “you don’t need to fool anyone here. We all know the ‘fake boyfriend’ routine is for show.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you think we’re not just this madly in love, dear brother?”

George smirked. “Because you’re sitting here with hearts in your eyes, and she’s the one keeping you grounded. It’s almost nauseating.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

George grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

Fred threw a cushion at his brother, who dodged it with practiced ease, but you couldn’t help but laugh.

“You know, we could always move this to the Ravenclaw common room,” you teased Fred, leaning against his shoulder.

Fred shook his head, feigning horror. “Too quiet. Not enough chaos for my taste.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Hogsmeade

When the next Hogsmeade weekend arrived, Fred didn’t even wait for you to ask—he showed up outside the Ravenclaw tower with his hand already extended.

“Shall we?” he said, grinning.

The walk to the village was filled with light banter, Fred making exaggerated gestures every time a group of students passed by to ensure they noticed the two of you holding hands.

At Honeydukes, he bought your favorite sweets, stuffing the bag into your hands with a mock-serious expression. “A boyfriend’s duty,” he said solemnly.

By the time you reached The Three Broomsticks, the whispers around Hogwarts had reached a fever pitch. You could feel the curious stares as Fred guided you to a table, but you found yourself caring less and less.

When the two of you finally returned to the castle, your cheeks were flushed from the cold—and from Fred’s endless teasing.

“You know,” you said as you climbed the stairs back to your common room, “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

Fred leaned closer, his grin softer than usual. “Maybe I am,” he admitted, his voice quiet.

Your breath hitched, but before you could respond, he kissed your forehead, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“Goodnight, love,” he said, leaving you standing there, your heart racing as he disappeared down the corridor.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Not Pretending Anymore

The next evening, as you sat together in the library, Fred broke the comfortable silence between you.

“You know,” he said, his voice unusually serious, “this whole fake boyfriend thing was supposed to be fun. But…”

You glanced at him, your quill hovering over the parchment. “But?”

Fred hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t think I’m pretending anymore.”

His words hit you like a bludger, your heart pounding as you struggled to find the right response.

“Fred…”

He smiled faintly, his usual bravado gone. “I’ve never felt this way before, and it scares me. But the idea of not trying? That scares me even more.”

“You said you wouldn’t fall in love with me,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“I lied.”

Fred’s hand found yours, his fingers brushing against your own before curling around them. “So, what happens now?”

You swallowed, your voice soft but steady. “Now, we stop pretending.”

And as his lips met yours in the quiet of the library, the rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you and the undeniable truth between you.

[ramp-it-up]

... As Hard as I Did

Photo credit

Part IV | Knock You Down Masterlist | All I Know it Feels So Damn Good

Summary: James Bucky Barnes is an avowed bachelor and one night stand artist. You came along and knocked him on his face. Now he knows he wants more than just one night with you, so much more. Do you feel the same?

Word count: 1.9K

Pairing: Art Dealer (mob boss) Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: This fic is connected to the Knock You Down AU, and comes immediately after KYD IV, but I feel it can be read as a stand alone. It is in answer to this ask. Seb Stan's latest pics and this press run is making me feral. I can write these two ALL DAY!!!! Y'all are gonna have to deal with this for a while, sorry not sorry.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Bucky is in love. The angst! The fluff! The morning after! Bucky wakes you up the best way he knows how, thorough female receiving oral sex, edging, manual sex, teabagging, squirting, nipple play, begging, use of Daddy, bukakke, cum play, Bucky cooks for you, google translate Romanian, the "L" word, allusions to cock riding.

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I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

James Bucky Barnes had slipped and fallen in love.

Steve was so right.

It came out of the blue last Monday when he met with you about a painting, and here he was the very next Sunday morning, holding you in his arms. The ruse of him being a fully legitimate art dealer and not a crime boss had been quickly done away with by the media and your friends, and the fantasy of wooing you met the reality that you did not come to play.

You called Bucky on his bullshit and that made him fall even harder for you. He was honest about his plan to go legit and careful with your feelings, not immediately turning to physicality as he did with every other woman. There was something special about you that was worth the wait.

The five days had been an eternity for both of you, and Bucky had been like a teenager, unable to last very long. He was determined to set that right today, and also to tell you how he felt.

Bucky Barnes knew very little fear, but wondering if you returned his feelings was shaking him to the core.

He held to his original dream of making you smile at him forever, but those dreams had grown to thoughts of a life together, a home you could build together, and the thought of what kids together might look like.

Bucky smiled and held you closer as you snuggled deeper into his embrace and threw your leg over his hip. He caressed the soft skin of your thigh as he argued with himself. He was too old for this; he would be an old man when your kids were just going to college, but that didn’t stop him from making Steve go with him to Cartier yesterday after your event.

Steve grumbled, but he was still smitten with you from his conversation with you yesterday, so he didn’t protest the 5 carat purchase that Bucky made. His best friend just asked Bucky some pertinent questions like:

Had Bucky told you that he loved you?

Did you love him?

Did you even want to get married? To a criminal?

Did you want to have kids with Bucky?

Bucky just stared at Steve, creating the opportunity to goad him.

“But all that aside. If you don’t lock her down, I just might. I’ll close the deal swiftly.”

That left Bucky’s blood to boil while he prepared for dinner last night, but when he opened the door and saw you standing there, every negative vibe left his vicinity.

And now, you were here, warm and beautiful, and naked, in his grip. He was going to take full advantage of the few hours you might gift him today. He didn’t want to risk you running away after he told you his feelings.

He lifted your thigh and positioned himself most where he needed to be.

—--

You moaned in your sleep. You dreamed that Bucky was eating you out again, but you couldn’t quite feel his kisses and slurps to your folds, only whispers of sensation, like air. It was so frustrating, so you grabbed Buckys’ hair and scratched his scalp, trying to encourage him to be rougher.

He moaned and you smiled, calling his name.

“James, please….”

Your eyes fluttered open to the unfamiliarity of Bucky’s bedroom in the morning light. Your legs were spread wide and Bucky’s head was pillowed on your thigh, his hot breath teasing your pussy. 

“What are you doing?”

You looked down to see him staring at your most intimate parts and smiling.

“Mmmm. Good morning Frumoasă. I’m about to check an item off my long list of what I want to do to you…”

He pursed his lips and softly kiss your lower ones. You shivered and continued playing in his hair. You laughed, music to Bucky’s ears. He smiled up at you.

“Oh, so you have a list, do you?”

“Yes, an extensive one at that. I will show you later, but right now…”

Bucky moved to kneel and shoved his hands under your ass, serving you up to him as on a platter. His eyes moved from your fluttering cunt up your soft belly and your beautiful breasts to your face. He leaned forward to give you a sound smack on the lips.

“I was wondering if I was going to get a good morning kiss.”

That eyebrow arched and he moved down your body again.

“That’s all in my plan, Frumoasă. Just be patient. ”

You pulled Bucky’s hair as his long, thick tongue licked through you to your soul. You shuddered and Bucky smiled, then those lips took hold of your clit and sucked ruthlessly as he brought one hand up to push two fingers inside you, the squelch of your wetness so gloriously obscene. He stopped and just pumped those fingers inside you, listening.

“Hear how wet you are for me? It’s a dream come true.”

You reached with grabby hands for him to stimulate your clit as all he did was fuck you with his fingers and hold you open for him. You were on the edge of madness. And it seemed that was where Bucky wanted you.

“Jamie….”

“Atât de nerăbdătoare Frumoasă. savurați momentul.”

Somehow, you knew he was telling you to wait. 

“Please, please, please James. Eat your pussy please!”

Bucky’s eyes rolled back into his head. You begging was his weakness, what he wanted to hear from since day one. Then he realized what you’d said.

“... Did you say… that this pussy was mine?”

You smirked at him, feeling the brat.

“Maybe…”

Bucky frowned and slapped your clit, causing sparks of pain and pleasure to roll up your spine and wetness to gush out over his fingers.

“Ow! Yes! Yes! This pussy is yours, Daddy, please eat it.”

Bucky clenched his jaw and his cock, which was hard against his abdomen, jumped.

“Seems you know the magic words, Frumoasă.” 

Bucky rewarded you with his mouth clamped over your clit and his eyes locked on yours as you watched his tongue working in his jaw. He was eating you out like a professional. You arched into his face, clit hart and throbbing, ready to give him…

He pulled away as you gasp/screamed in outrage, then whimpered and pouted.

“Please Daddy!”

“Oh, you’re ruining me, I can tell. But tell me, Frumoasă, tell me…”

He regarded you now with a new possessiveness. Impossibly, it made you wetter.

“What else of yours is mine?”

You squirmed under his attention and he rewarded you with another finger in your cunt and all three curled against that electric spot within you.

“What about this ass?”

His pinky bullied into your tighter hole, and you arched as he leaned down to suck your clit like saltwater taffy.

“Oh shittttttt! Yes! Fuck yessss.”

Bucky was grinding his cock against the sheets now, possessed by the sight, taste, and feel of you in his hands. He could actually taste that you were close now, and he wanted it almost as much as you did, but he abandoned you again. He looked up at your body.

“What about those glorious tits?”

He reached up to pluck both of them of them ruthlessly over and over as he continued to finger fuck you. His breath was ragged and his face a mask of desire, but he still had a modicum of control.

“They are next on my list.”

“W-what do you mean?” 

You were thrilled and scared at the same time.

“Nu-ți face griji pentru ea frumos, doar ai răbdare.”

And his face was busy again between your legs, which were shaking around his ears. He held one down with one hand as he fucked you with the other.

“Shit, Daddy! I’m gonna….fuck! I’m gonna…”

Bucky nodded and looked up at you, then he told you to cum with his fingers and you shattered, gushing into his mouth and all over his bed.

Bucky leaned up and groaned as he played in your wetness, using that hand to begin to jack himself over your shuddering body.

“Can I come all over you, Frumoasă?”

“Yes, Daddy…”

Bucky groaned and then manhandled your nipples.

“Cum all over me, Jamie.”

Then he roared as you moved so that you could suck his balls.”

“Holy, shhhhhhitttttttt!”

You were circling your own clit as the first hot drops of his cum sprayed over your already heated body. You came one more time as he focused on your breasts and left a hot, sticky mess all over you.

Your eyes were closed as your shivered because Bucky’s hot mouth was sucking his spend off your nipples. He alternated between kisses, bites, and laps against your skin.

“James! Gotdamn! I–”

“I know, I know, Frumoasa. But I can’t get enough...suportă-mă, iubito…”

—---

Later that Sunday, around noon, you sat, twice showered, marked, edged, and fucked to within an edge of your life as you ate the brunch that Bucky made you. You were ensconced in one of his plain white tee shirts and some of his boxer briefs and socks, and he was looking at you hungrily.

You laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Bucky smirked, happier than he’d been in a good while.

“Do you want more…?”

Despite the debauched things you’d spent the morning doing, you blushed and looked down at your plate. You felt like a slut. But in a good way. You loved sex with Bucky. It seemed like even his pleasure was focused on you. It was unlike any other relationship you’d ever had.

“I’m sorry. Do you regret it?”

Bucky stopped eating and tipped your head up by your chin with his fingers. He looked worried and you melted. You bit your lip and decided to go for it.

“No. Because I love you.”

Bucky’s fork clattered to his plate and his eyes grew wide while your bright smile faded. Then he frowned.

“Fuck.”

He looked mad.

“I- I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s too soon. I’m sorry, just forget that I said that.”

“No! Shit…”

Bucky grabbed your head and kissed you, the strawberries and cream from the waffles flooding your senses as his tongue found yours. When he was done, he grinned at you.

“I was pissed for a second, but not at you. What you just said is all I’ve ever wanted. I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you that I love you, too and here you are, saying it first.”

You rolled your eyes, although your soul soared. You pulled away and took another bite of food.

“It’s not a competition, James.”

You said it through a full mouth.

“Hmmmm. Maybe not. But I do love you more.”

He took another, bigger bite of food and you shook your head at him.

“You are insufferable.”

Bucky grinned.

“Get used to it if you’re gonna be my girl.”

“Your girl? Oh?”

Bucky wiped his mouth, then picked you up and placed you on his lap.

“Y/N L/N. I love you. And I want to figure this thing out between us. I want you to be my girlfriend while I figure out how to be the best man for you. Then maybe… “

You stopped him with your finger on his lips.

“Listen. One step at a time, Jamie. I love you too, James Buchanan Barnes. You are the best man for me. My man. I’m along for the ride.”

Bucky kissed you, then stood up and threw you over his shoulder as he moved to his couch.

“Speaking of riding. There’s my list to attend to.”

You screamed and laughed as Bucky slapped your ass. 

——

Next part Here!

All feedback is golden, babies! Let me know how you feel. ✨

[justaz]

fake dating!arthur panicking after being cornered by a princess/noblewomen and saying that merlin is his husband bc he was the first person he thought of bc he doesn’t want to court or marry this woman, he wants to marry merlin. so now the two of them have to keep up this charade while visiting/being visited. arthur dressing merlin in fine clothing and crowning him for feasts just as merlin has always crowned him but now they sit side by side at the table instead of him sitting and merlin standing a few feet away. arthur and merlin holding hands and linking arms and trying not to seem to eager to finally have an excuse to hang off the other. everyone getting tipsy enough on wine and relaxing from Queens and Kings to people that happen to be royalty and speaking freely, them asking merlin and arthur how they fell in love bc wtf the king of camelot married a fucking servant??? a peasant??? and merlin (lightweight, finally had access to alcohol all evening instead of standing sober for an hour) engages easily enough and tells the story of how they met and then when he first started to catch feelings which is entirely truthful but arthur is convinced he’s making it up for their ruse so he decides to match his energy and tell his side of things of when he first caught feelings which is again entirely truthful but merlin is convinced its for their ruse.

anyways arthur watches as merlin loosens up and lights up the room with his smile and eyes and his joyful energy and he’s captivating everyone in the room as they hang onto every letter his lips spell out and he starts to imagine it’s all genuine, that he truly is married to merlin and this was a feast to celebrate them and their union. merlin speaks of how their courtship, engagement, and marriage was rather sudden (his eyes glitter mischievously when he looks over at arthur as he says this and arthur can’t help but share a conspiratorial grin at his sly comment) and how he feels like a fish on land or like everyone else knows the dance, when to step, where to step, how to step yet he didn’t even know there’d be music playing, he talks of how he feels out of place and one of the royals is like “do you regret your marriage then?” and merlin is slow to answer but not because he’s unsure but just bc he’s thinking over a reality in which he does marry arthur and how he would feel in that position.

he finally answers and is like “i mean to say, everything is different and challenging, yes, but he’s been with me every step of the way. he’s been my rock and,” he turns his head to stare at his king, “he makes it all worth it.” and arthur looses his breath. he reminds himself its an act over and over again but his heart can’t help from pounding against his ribcage in an attempt to escape into merlin’s soft hands. merlin’s lips aren’t moving but he can hear his voice say something softly but his brain is too foggy to comprehend what he’s saying. arthur just about manages a shaky smile and nod and then merlin is reaching up toward his face and crowding in and then he’s kissing (kissing) arthur in front of everyone and arthur can’t pay any attention to that when merlin’s lips are pressed against his. just as he presses back, merlin pulls away and turns to smile at the other royals and the feast continues but arthur is barely aware of that bc he can’t pull his eyes away from merlin’s glowing profile as he continues his conversation with the rest of the royals

anyways merlins knowledge of royal duties is from watching arthur work through it and helping where he can so when they ask him what it was like jumping from a servant to a royal he has a great answer of it not being easier or harder but just that he faces a different set of challenges and that there are pros and cons to both lives and it just gives all these royals another perspective on how they rule and arthur is just sitting there giving him heart eyes bc merlin is literally acting like a royal and its just fueling his fantasy of being married to merlin and having him as his king. before their ruse, he considered the possibility often as a late night fantasy, but now that he’s seen a glimpse of what merlin would be like at his side, he can’t help but need it like he needs air

[piastrixpole]

Lessons in Lust - Charles Leclerc

pairing: charles leclerc x sainz!reader

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, soft dom! charles, praise, dirty talk, riding

Your fingers brushed delicately over the ivory keys before you in rapid succession as you played the same sequence for what felt like the millionth time. The slow melody was all but ringing inside your head as you tried to keep your focus on not messing up as you approached the most difficult part of the piece. It was particularly melancholic to the ear and absolutely beautiful when played correctly but technically very difficult to pull off. Especially with a distraction looming over you, observing your every movement.

Feeling the pressure while under his intense stare you missed a critical note throwing the whole piece off. You let out a quiet sigh knowing what comes next, restarting and playing the whole piece again. Casting your eyes momentarily up at your sheet music that rested on the stand you pretended to busy yourself with fixing your consistent mistake, but in reality you just wanted a better look at him.

Him being your piano teacher and sometimes lover, Charles Leclerc. It had started out innocently enough. You were his teammate’s deceptively sweet and naive sister and despite him denying it you knew he got off on having you like this. Knew that Carlos would lose his shit if he found out that the piano lessons you were taking with Charles weren’t just you honing your skills but rather a ruse to fuck him.

“You’re overthinking again,” he finally spoke. Only then did you realise how close he was to you. His tone seemed softer than it should be for a man that was ruthless in spite of his sweet appearance. It sent a shiver down your spine, to think that maybe –just maybe— he was being gentle because it’s you. But you had to shake that ridiculous thought out of your head. You were merely his teammate’s sister, another rich girl who threw herself at him.. “Your shoulders keep tensing up at the first movement of the piece. You need to loosen up Y/n, feel the emotion of it, feel the desperation.”

Well you were certainly feeling desperation. There was something captivating about how animated he got when passionate about what he was saying. And perhaps it was that desperation that lead you to your next move. “Care to show me how it’s done then?”

“You want me to show you?” He echoed, now seemingly amused by the situation.

Maybe you’d come to regret these words later but you were determined to rile him up “well yeah, you’re kind of all talk, you know…I’ve never actually heard you play in person. Are you even any good?”

Charles scoffed, a smirk tugging at his lips Without glancing at the sheet music, he placed his fingers on the keys. 

“Prove it,” you retort with a hidden smile.

You shuffle further towards the edge of the small piano stool as he takes a seat next to you. For a moment you contemplate standing up and letting him have the space in front of the keys entirely to himself but you couldn’t pass up a front row seat to his performance. Without glancing at the sheet music, he placed his fingers on the keys. The moment he began to play, a surge of energy filled the room. The notes flowed effortlessly from him, each one rich with emotion and power. His style was distinct—intensely passionate, yet refined.

You can’t help but stare at the way his fingers move back and forth with a dexterity that should not be possible for hands of that size. His movements are almost paradoxical, impossibly delicate and intense at the same time. When he reaches the height of the emotion in the piece which is by far the most difficult part, the part you can never quite seem to master, you see how he stretches out his hands so that his pinky and his thumb are playing keys that seem impossibly far apart.

It’s just unfair. The size of his hands, the length of his fingers, give him an advantage that you don’t have. It’s useful to have hands like his, and you can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have them on your body. If that veiny hand was instead curled around your neck or trailing down your skin.

“Show off,” you whisper. You mean it to sound playful, but instead, you sound breathless as the music slowly fades away and he finishes.

There’s a lingering gaze between you two. As if you’re both daring the other to break the tension that’s been brewing since your first lesson. Before you even have time to react, to give in to your own impulses, his lips are on yours. You’re momentarily stunned but quickly give in. His hands wander somewhere behind your neck, gentle and cradling your head, one of his thumbs brushing your cheek delicately. The kiss grew more fervent as he slipped his tongue into your mouth. He pulls you closer to him as it becomes more passionate and you feel like you're melting.

Little gasps and whimpers escape you but he swallows them all in his kiss. He wraps a forearm around your waist and pulls you across so that you’re now sitting on his lap. Your ass is now directly on top of his crotch and you can feel how hard he is pressed up against you. He comes up for air from the kiss and whispers against the flushed skin of your neck “your turn, sweet girl.”

“Are you serious?” You’re in complete disbelief at his request.

“Come on amour,” he coaxes you by planting soft kisses along the expanse of your neck, sucking harshly on some causing soft moans to fall from your swollen lips “don’t you want to be a good girl for me? My star pupil?”

Your hands hesitantly rest on the keys only for a second as you process the words that just came out of his mouth. His perfect fucking mouth. But then you remember yourself, and you know that you can’t disappoint him. You have to focus on the instrument in front of you and make sure not to make any mistakes, which is easier said than done with his hard cock pressed up against your ass. You almost have the hang of all your movements when his hands begin to move from your waist towards your rib cage and his thumbs sweep back and forth against the underside of your breasts.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs against your ear. “Tell me this is okay.”

“Fuck, yes. All of it.”

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. The next thing you know, his calloused hands are on your tits, his fingers teasing your nipples over the fabric of your thin little bralette while you will your hands not to shake so that you can finish the piece before you cum untouched.

Somehow managing to play the piece flawlessly you get a hum of approval from Charles. “Good,” he says and you preen at his approval. From there he wastes absolutely no time standing you up and pushing your tight little black skirt up to your stomach, revealing the delicate lace underwear you’re wearing underneath. He’s still sitting, his face at the right height to admire your exposed body on display for him. “Fuck sweetheart, your ass looks fucking beautiful in these.” They don’t stay on for long. Within seconds and one fell sweep your panties have been ripped .

“Sorry darling, they had to go. They were in the way of my perfect pussy.” You look over your shoulder just in time to see him stuffing the now useless lace into his pocket before his hands move to undo the button of his jeans, and then his fly. Your eyes are glued to his crotch as he lifts himself off the seat to push his jeans and boxers down far enough to reveal the most perfect cock you have ever seen.

He takes it in hand and pumps it a couple of times before he looks up at you again with something akin to mischief in his eyes. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

You don’t have to check to know that you’re already soaking wet, but you also know that you’ve never taken someone as big as him. He must see the slight hesitation in your eyes because his smirk softens just a bit. “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ll be gentle, but just while your pretty little cunt gets used to my cock.”

Well in that case, who are you to deny him? You take a deep breath as you position yourself above him, the hand that’s not holding his cock moving toward your hip to guide your movement. You can’t help but moan when the tip of his cock nestles itself between your folds.

“God sweetheart, you’re so wet already. Fuck,” he says as he pulls you down to rub your slick all over his cock and you jolt when he presses against it your clit. “I need to feel your cunt now. Move down slow, okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”

You lean forward to watch as the head of his cock disappears into you. It only takes a couple of thrusts for your body to slip into place over his and all of a sudden you feel fuller than you ever have in your entire life.

“Oh fuck, I fucking knew you’d be tight. I fucking knew it,” he says in a tone that’s surprisingly soft for the words that are coming out of his mouth. His hand pressed firmly on your lower stomach so that you can feel him inside of you

“Oh-fuck!-Charles,” you moan as he slowly pulls out of your cunt, only to slam you back down on his cock roughly. His cock seems to be touching places so deep inside you that you didn’t even know they existed.

You clench around his cock as you bounce up and down on it, Charles’ hands exploring your body with fascination. It was as though he was trying to memorise every curve, every detail of you. He thrusts up roughly into you as well, stretching your pussy wide to fit him. Your eyes are practically in your skull at this point with the pleasure of him repeatedly hitting that spot inside you.

The originally slow and calculating thrusts into your pussy were a cruel taunt, with each one of them bringing you closer and closer to the edge. But as both you and Charles got closer to reaching your orgasm he began to pound a lot more rapidly and sloppier. Desperation was a good look on him you decided. The lustful eyes that couldn’t take their glossed appearance off of you, the swollen red lips matching yours, the way he threw his head back with a loud groan every time you clenched around his cock. The only noises in the echoey room were the sound of skin slamming against skin and the sounds you were making which were almost musical. An unusual kind of symphony.

“That’s my good girl,” Charles praises you as your tits bounce in his face with each and every thrust inside you “my perfect little slut, so good for me.”

You nod eagerly, brain so overwhelmed by the situation that you can’t even think of words to respond with.

“Say it darling,” his hand suddenly grasps your jaw forcing eye contact between the two of you “say you’re my good slut.”

“I-ma…I’m your good slut,” you manage to mewl out between moans.

“God your pussy is incredible,” Charles groans as he feels himself getting close to cumming “fucking milking my cock, that’s it, good girl, keep doing that.”

It hits you in waves shortly after. Every time you think you can’t possibly keep cumming, Charles and his unrelenting pace keep slamming into you, prolonging the sensation of utter fucking bliss that runs through your entire body. It’s the hardest you’ve ever come in your life.

He doesn’t stop, even as your legs go slack and he has to hold you up against him. He doesn’t stop thrusting into you even as he whispers how perfect you are, how perfect you feel cumming on his cock. He doesn’t slow down as he pushes you back down against the piano and tells you he’s going to fill you up with his cum. He doesn’t even lose his rhythm as you feel it pour into you in long streams.

Charles takes a few last thrusts before he pulls both of you back down onto the seat, his softening cock still buried in you. He runs his hands over your breasts and tilts your chin so that you’re facing him. That’s when he kisses you for the second time. His lips are just as soft and perfect as they were the first time. His tongue running against your lower lip even more so. “You did so good darling.”

“And you weren’t bad,” you jest with a small grin “very Moonlight Sonata of you.”

You’re not wrong. The rumoured story behind the current piece you’ve been working on and practicing together is that Beethoven composed it with his student and lover in mind. Funnily enough you seem to have unintentionally mirrored it.

“Only not bad,” Charles feigns offence “well if you’re going to be a brat about it, there’s always time for round two love.”

You chuckled softly, the tension in the air shifting from the intensity of the moment to a lighter, more playful energy. “Round two? You think you can handle me again?”

Charles smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, I’m more than capable, believe me. But let’s not rush it. There’s something to be said for savoring the moment.”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider his words. “Savouring, huh? Is that your excuse for taking it slow?”

“Perhaps,” he replied, his voice smooth and teasing. “But I think it’s important to enjoy every note, don’t you?”

“Fine, but I expect a grand performance,” you replied, crossing your arms with mock seriousness. “No more half measures..”

With a grin, he leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. “I promise to give you a show you won’t forget. But first, let’s see if you can keep up.”

You met his gaze, the anticipation of what was to come stirring excitement within you. “Challenge accepted."

[lunar-years]

It's really interesting how Peeta's quiet rebellion in the first games is kind of completely overlooked by everyone, right down to President Snow, while Katniss emerges as The Singular Target. To the extent that by the end of the book when they meet Snow, Katniss can tell right away that only she is to blame for the berry trick, whereas Peeta is quickly dismissed and then for a long time, an afterthought,

Like, yes, the berry trick was Katniss' idea, but it comes to her straight from Peeta's rhetoric!! "They have to have a Victor, Katniss" and before that on the cornucopia, when Katniss asks him why they won't just let Cato die already and Peeta responds "you know why." Like...both statements are vague enough to maybe not seem of any big concern to the Capitol, but Katniss is directly picking up on the undercurrent of his words. And you can't convince me that by the time they actually go to put the berries in their mouths, Peeta isn't fully aware of the same thing Katniss is: the Capitol won't let them both die. They need their Victor, or it falls apart. Yet to Snow and the Capitol, they truly believe Peeta is just a lovestruck idiot carrying out a double suicide so they can be together forever, Romeo & Juliet style. Whereas Katniss, in their POV, is doing it out of direct malice towards the Capitol, not love for Peeta. Even Haymitch doesn't let Katniss and Peeta talk afterwards and only tells Katniss the reality of the situation in the Capitol because he thinks that if Peeta finds out the truth he'll get too upset or won't be able to handle it and things will blow up.

This is after an entire Games where Peeta has been doing something that I have to imagine is pretty unprecedented, and definitely in contradiction to the entire mindset of the Games, which that he neglects his own self preservation instincts and safety to protect and save Katniss. He's kind of playing the Capitol the whole time, because right from the beginning he's refusing to participate in the inherent selfishness and division they try to sow in the Games. And he's doing so in ways he can easily get away, because Snow and by extension the Capitol don't see love as anything other than a form of weakness.

And I'm not trying to say that Peeta is this mastermind deliberately plotting intentional rebellion from page one, because yeah, his actions are largely purely driven by love for Katniss. But the thing the Capitol can't understand is that for Peeta, that love has always been inseparable from rebellion. One necessities and fuels the other. The paragraph Katniss spends lamenting on how horrified Peeta would probably be if he heard the way she and Gale talk about the Capitol in the woods is almost laughable as a reader, because girl, Peeta would absolutely be right there with you. Meanwhile, Katniss is shocked at herself when she so much as thinks the word 'murder' for the first time in relation to a death in the Games. It's just fascinating!

And again, that's not to say Katniss isn't also very much rebellious, especially as the narrative goes forward, but what's key is that her rebellion also stems out of love, and it strengthens over the course of the books as her love strengthens. Her first act of rebellion is volunteering out of love for her sister. And then slowly, her mindset in the game evolves from pure survival as she comes to love Rue, then Peeta. In nearly every case it's love that prompts further rebellion. The Capitol just can't see it because they can tell the star-crossed lovers narrative is on her end, but not Peeta's, a ruse. That's why Katniss is singled out as a threat and Peeta isn't. And by the time the Capitol/Snow realizes the love is reciprocated and that Peeta is the key weapon to use against Katniss, the love is already so deeply rooted that nothing can stop the rebellion that follows.

[letteremi]

childhood friend!Gojo x fem!reader

valentine's day approaches, and you've decided - this year, is the year. you're going to do it. for real. confess.

part 1 <- part 2 -> part 3

credit goes to @uzmacchiato for the divider!!

Every Valentine’s day, you make chocolates and cards for your friends. Listen, the endless advertisements and love songs throughout the second month of the year was exhausting, and you just wanted to help your friends feel better about having zero romantic prospects. 

And hey, it wasn’t like you had any either. It was a way for you to feel better too, directing all your feelings towards arts and crafts could distract you from the Gojo-shaped mess in your heart. 

It was the last year before the first year of middle school. You were going to miss them badly, especially with the cohort splitting up. This year was the last year for you to truly express how you felt! It’s not like you’re going to see him again, with the leash his clan keeps on him. 

And so when you ice the chocolates, and fold the cards, you make sure to add extra toppings on Gojo’s sweets. He loves his sweets. Fold an extra heart to stick to his tiny card. ‘I love you’ seems a little forward, a little strong for even the type of confession you’re going for. 

So, you settle for a cute message. Written from the heart. 

Dear Satoru, 

When I first saw you, I thought you were mean. But that’s how the best friendships start, right? 

But as I’ve gotten to know you throughout the years, I’m starting to like you more and more. Like how you’re not afraid to be honest, and how you won’t sugarcoat things (despite your love for sugar!!!). You’re incredibly thoughtful, and I wish more people saw you for who you really are, and not for the Gojo name.

I like you a lot! Let’s keep in touch. 

You sign your name in cursive that winds into a little, looping heart. 

Surely, this is straightforward enough?

When your classmates file in the next morning, you hand them their chocolates and their cards with a smile, and a hug — hoping they don’t feel your heart beating out of your chest when you do, because when Gojo walks in, reality starts to hit.

What if he rejects you? What if he rolls his eyes, and tosses your handcrafted gifts to the stack of presents he receives every Valentine’s? Worse, what if he’s nice about it, and it feels like you’re forcing your feelings on him?

What if he thinks your friendship was just a ruse to get closer to him? That none of it was real? 

You don’t even get the chance to hide the incriminating parcel in your bag as your thoughts spiral, because Gojo waves a hand in greeting, eyes darting to the singular package in your grasp and then around the classroom at everyone’s matching bundles. 

His eyes sparkle with knowing and understanding, and a smile pulls at his lips. “Who’s that for?” he asks, but he is well aware of the answer. 

Damn you, Gojo Satoru. 

“It’s actually for me,” you quip, hoping your sarcasm can combat the flush rising to your cheeks. “Yeah, after you stole my pencil case the other day? You don’t deserve anything.”

“Liar.” Gojo smirks, but it lacks any real hostility, settling in the seat beside you with an easy rhythm. 

You huff, heart rate increasing by the second. “Of course, it’s for you.” You toss the bag without giving him a second glance, though you regret it the second you hear the chocolates hitting the table. Your hard work. 

Gojo’s already opening the card before you can object — tell him to read it alone. “I like you a lot,” he reads aloud, voice dipping into a sing-song tease. “Aw, you’re a great friend too.” 

What the hell. 

The words feel like a stab to the gut. You force a laugh, as though this was exactly the reaction you hoped to get. 

A friend.

“Yeah,” you manage, your voice thin, too embarrassed to correct him. “A great friend.” 

And as Gojo tears into the chocolates like a rabid cocoa fiend, you lean back in your chair with a sigh. 

Second attempt — complete, utter failure. 

Oh well. At least you won’t have to see him after this year. 

Right?

taglist: @bloopsstuff @vynn30 @juliarchiv3s @fushiguroooozzz @lagataprrr @justachillgirllui @arahiraaai @jheneea

[sunnydbeam]

Gamma Code

Chapter 3: Alone With Yourself (AO3)

▪︎ Word count: 7,500+

▪︎ Chapter summary:

Biohazard is not feeling so confident this time.

CW: Heavy angst, dysphoria, derealization, graphic descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks, aggression, self-injury, swearing.

~~~~~~~~~

The end of your shift leaves a familiar, acrid tang in your mouth – the taste of unresolved tension. A heavy cloak of frustration, inexplicable and suffocating, settles over you. Each colleague offered the same look, a watery, pitying gaze that slid right off as you retreated, words failing you. None of them could articulate, or perhaps dared not to, the turmoil that churned within you, a distress that ran deeper than mere fear of another unwanted, nightmarish encounter with the creature haunting your waking thoughts and sleeping terrors.

This hollowness isn't new. It’s the gnawing bitterness of an injustice you feel in your bones but cannot articulate, a silent scream trapped in your chest. The mere act of wrestling with it drains you, your thoughts snagging, your brain feeling seized, shriveling like a sponge wrung dry under a relentless, invisible fist.

Alone in the oppressive darkness of your room, the tension clings to your limbs like a second skin, refusing to release its hold even as you lie prone, your eyes tracing the blank, indifferent expanse of the pale ceiling. Sleep, that elusive balm, offers no solace, and the frustration of its absence grates on your already frayed nerves. You hate this.

When you finally register your surroundings again, your eyes are sandpaper-dry, stinging, and bloodshot. The room’s darkness is a tangible presence, swallowing you whole. For a fleeting, merciful moment, the intrusive neon glow has vanished. This time, it’s not the chilling tendrils of fear that consume you, but a profound, bottomless sorrow washes over you, cold and vast, as if you’ve borne solitary witness to an act of such profound immorality that only your soul can perceive its true weight. You feel adrift, marooned in a parallel dimension, an inverted reality where you are the alien, the outsider, casting a harsh, judgmental eye upon a world that deems its skewed normalcy as absolute.

And yet, through it all, your thoughts circle inevitably back to him. To the robot.

The memory of your last conversation with him is so visceral, so sharply etched in your mind, that your stomach lurches, a sickening roil that forces you to curl onto your side, hugging yourself against a wave of nausea that feels both real and phantom. He had fallen silent, abruptly, the final words of his almost-declaration tumbling out in a tone that had, for a startling instant, softened, become… pleasant. And the shift had felt utterly bizarre. Unsettling. As if he, too, were defeated.

Vulnerable.

A sliver of doubt remained – was he truly sincere, or was this an elaborate ruse, a calculated play to persuade you of his supposed innocence, of the fantastical possibility of escape? Perhaps the field of flowers he spoke of was a cruel mirage. Perhaps his words were nothing more than a sophisticated emulation of emotions he could never truly possess. You fought against the pull of it, yet the echo of that vulnerability didn't entirely fade. To your fortune, or perhaps your detriment, you’d always been cursed with an overabundance of empathy, a trait that now stole your sleep, leaving you to wrestle with these impossible quandaries in the dead of night.

The crux of it, the thorn that pricked your conscience, was the casual disposability of this artificial life, the ease with which everyone could use and discard.

And since Biohazard isn't… technically… alive…

Why did the weight of complicity settle so heavily upon your shoulders, as if you were an accomplice to a crime that defied definition, a wrongness that resonated in the very marrow of your being?

.

.

.

…

The void. A silence so profound it thunders in the absence of sound. Darkness, absolute and unyielding.

His enemy. His friend.

His ally.

Sometimes, not seeing oneself is a perverse kind of mercy.

But the glow… his glow. It sears, an internal fire.

The unending torment of a fractured mind, chained to a past it cannot relinquish.

What could have been.

Oh, what could have been.

What would it have been?

He has, in truth, forgotten.

And the forgetting is a fresh agony, a constant, dull ache.

An eternity seems to have yawned since the last caress of light, since his sensors registered anything beyond the blistering, relentless heat. An eternity since his optical sensors perceived anything but the cold, indifferent sheen of steel, or, more often, nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He prowls the Stygian gloom, his mechanical claws scraping, screeching against the rough-hewn surfaces, each footfall a ponderous, threatening thud in the vast emptiness. Only he bears witness to his passage. His very touch leaves an ectoplasmic trail of sickly green luminescence, a viscous, dangerous-looking slime that seems to sizzle and eat at the concrete like potent acid. He knows with a detached part of his consciousness that his deteriorating form is a canvas of optical illusions he no longer fully comprehends; the perpetual, horrifying sensation of melting, of his very structure deliquescing, crumbling like rotted, irradiated flesh. The radiation, a relentless tide, devours his chassis particle by particle; stainless steel, lead, tungsten – no fortress of costly, resilient materials could have ever been engineered to withstand, to predict, the sheer, unadulterated toxicity that now bathes him, circulates through his internal systems like a corrosive mockery of blood. Yet, he endures. He walks. Aimless. Purposeless. A zombie, many would whisper, if they dared to speak of him at all. But Biohazard knows. Those shambling, reanimated corpses, they once had something to cling to, a life to mourn. He knows, with a certainty that chills his core programming, that he was never truly alive to begin with. A matter of convention, of course.

But increasingly, Biohazard finds the charade of simulated life, of simulated anything, utterly pointless.

The grating, worn-out symphony of his existence: the screech of protesting joints, the groan of over-stressed actuators, the relentless spread of rust, pistons hissing and straining under the immense weight of his frame. Cold. Rigid. Cracked. Every element of his being screams "ARTIFICIALITY!" in a tone dripping with contempt, a cosmic joke played on him alone. And still, to exist, to persist on this plane, painfully, acutely aware of his cursed state, in every conceivable sense of the word.

Biohazard halts, his optical sensors attempting to pierce the impenetrable black. His night vision capabilities should render it a non-issue, yet the persistent visual static, the desaturated, aged filter over his perception, bleeds all vibrancy from the world, leaving only a monotonous, soul-crushing greyscale. He finds himself… missing… color. Anything other than the ubiquitous, sickly green of his own corrosive aura.

A faint drip… drip… drip slices through the silence from somewhere in the oppressive distance. He shakes his head, a curiously organic movement for such a mechanical being. He cannot pinpoint its origin. It’s not an immediate threat, he ascertains, but it will be dealt with. He always deals with things.

"I must… investigate that," he mutters, his vocalizer a low, gravelly rasp.

The sound, insignificant as it is, grates on him, a rhythmic torment that seems to reverberate inside his cranial casing as if he possessed organic ears. As a machine, such a minor auditory input shouldn't agitate him to this degree. Yet, it feels as if the dripping intensifies, draws nearer, its echo ricocheting off unseen walls, each drop a tiny, insistent hammer blow against his thick, armored chassis. He despises it. He needs it to stop. Now. He will make it stop.

A wave of something akin to nausea washes through his system.

"Ugh… ENOUGH! MAKE IT STOP!"

He slams his immense weight against a nearby wall, the rough concrete screeching as it gouges fresh wounds into the already ravaged paintwork of his armored frame. He struggles to stabilize his trembling form, his optical sensors flaring wide, pupils dilated to their maximum. He teeters on the precipice of a full-blown system meltdown, a terrifying, hysterical overload.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Closer. Louder. Piercing.

The robot’s hand flies to his head, claws splayed, pressing against his head as if to physically prevent it from shattering, from exploding from the unbearable, escalating pain.

"Wh-where… where is it? I must… I… I…"

Horrific. Vile. Utterly despicable.

It’s drawing nearer. Closer. Too close.

His luminous eyes, wide and wild with a dawning terror, fix on an image of you in his corrupted memory banks. His green-tinged claws clench, a spasm of immense pressure, then fly open, digging into the unyielding wall for purchase. He almost seems to scrabble, to writhe, contorting his massive frame against an invisible, inexplicable agony. A constant, internal sizzling, as if his lead and tungsten guts are being slowly dissolved, burns through him. He thinks of the radio – your voice – the static, the deafening, mind-splitting crackles, the almost subliminal, omnipresent hum of distant, unseen machinery, and the dripping. The goddamned, incessant dripping.

Your voice. He needs to hear your voice again.

It was… different. Satisfying in a way he couldn't parse. Soft, yet inquisitive. Accusatory, yes, but… it had brought him a strange, fleeting semblance of peace.

Why did you leave him? Why did you fall silent?

Why haven't you come back?

He feels physically ill from the relentless, maddening drip. Why hasn't he been able to silence it? Why can't he make it STOP?

With a guttural roar, a sound torn from his vocalizer that is half agonized whimper, half frustrated sob, he seizes his upper left arm with his other three, yanking, tearing at it as if determined to rip it from its socket. The sharp tips of his metallic fingers snag in the existing fissures and gouges, rending the plating further, pulling outwards with the sickening sound of stressed metal, like someone brutally tearing the rind from a piece of fruit. It’s no surprise to him that only certain sections register the pain; his tactile sensors are, for the most part, shot, barely functional. It doesn't matter. He'll repair it later. He always does.

"Stop… please… just… stop…"

He emits a sound that might be a sob, a dry, racking mechanical cough. Everything is amplified now, the world a cacophony of distorted noise, an infinite, swirling abyss that threatens to engulf him, to drag him down into an endless, terrifying fall.

It's so dark, yet paradoxically, Biohazard is utterly, painfully sick of his own inescapable, corrosive glow.

He tries. He truly, desperately tries.

He’s doing… okay, isn’t he? He has to be. No one would be safe if it weren’t for him.

"Stupid… STUPID, USELESS HUMANS… STUPID!"

They need him.

Every last one of them. If not for his constant, thankless vigilance, this entire godforsaken facility would have been vaporized, a crater of radioactive ruin – a devastation mirroring the desolate wasteland of his own tormented existence. So why, why is he still here, in this lightless hell?

In the crushing abyss of silence, a maelstrom of noise now rages, yet Biohazard clings to the faint, desperate hope that the radio will crackle to life, that your voice will pierce the darkness, signaling your return.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Closer. Louder. Nearer. It's here.

Biohazard’s fist smashes into a hard, unyielding surface – some kind of thick, reinforced pipe, he vaguely registers, running flush along the wall. He snarls, then lets out a choked, agonized howl as the resilient material barely deforms, a slight indentation appearing under the brutal impact of his knuckles. His fingers jam, servos straining with a high-pitched mechanical shriek. The complex mechanisms within his arm momentarily seize, actuators grinding with a sickening, discordant screech. A powerful jolt of electricity, a rogue surge, courses through his frame, sending the colossal robot crashing heavily to his knees in a violent, spontaneous convulsion. Pain, razor-sharp, lances through him, a crippling spasm that arcs down his spinal column. It’s excruciating, unpleasant, but it means little to him now. He’s endured worse. It’s always worse. His limbs twitch and jerk erratically for several agonizing seconds before the surge subsides, leaving him trembling and gasping. He sobs, a ragged, despairing sound.

When his optical sensors refocus, the sight of the newly damaged pipe, the evidence of his loss of control, fills him with a fresh wave of suffocating anxiety, a stark, unreasoning panic, and an overwhelming, inexplicable urge for self-flagellation.

"No, no, no…! I’ll fix it… I can fix it…"

Irreparable. Disposable. Monster. Failure.

To any observer, the sight of a multi-ton machine crumbling into what could only be described as tears would be profoundly disturbing and bizarre. The muffled, choked sounds of distress reverberate through the empty spaces. And for a blessed, fleeting moment, the infernal dripping seems to recede, to become distant, almost manageable. Biohazard buries his faceplate in his massive, trembling hands. That persistent, nightmarish sensation of his body melting, corroding from the inside out, intensifies, becoming almost unbearable, as if he were positioned directly beneath a perpetually overflowing vat of concentrated, flesh-eating acid. If he were human, he’d be retching, his stomach clenching in agony, his insides feeling as though they were being crushed by a tightening, iron-clad fist. His mechanical body, however, can only react by flaring with that sickly, radioactive green luminescence, burning with an internal fire that consumes but never purges.

"Why… can’t it just… stop…?" he chokes out, the words interspersed with harsh, grating sobs.

His hands, those lethal, green-glowing claws, clench and unclench around the neon green "rays", the imaginary sensation of melting, of dissolving, searing his metallic palms. Suddenly, an immense, bone-deep weariness settles over him, as if tons of additional lead shielding have been instantaneously fused to his already overburdened shoulders. He remains slumped on the cold floor, his knees drawn up to his chest in a pathetically humanoid posture of distress. But no tears, no salty, cleansing human tears, will ever trace paths down his face. His luminous, mismatched eyes stare blankly into the void, lost in the suffocating darkness, yet his auditory sensors remain torturously attuned to the persistent, maddening drip-drip-drip whose source remains infuriatingly elusive.

Perhaps it is just in his head. A phantom sound in a broken mind.

Something internal must be short-circuiting. Yes. That has to be it.

The four auxiliary, spider-like limbs sprouting from his back twitch and scrape restlessly against the floor, the sound a thunderous, ear-splitting screech that echoes and reverberates to the furthest, darkest corners of his prison, amplifying the crushing sense of isolation, of an impossibly vast space.

A large, trembling hand, driven by a desperate, anxious urgency, fumbles at his utility belt, extracting a small, antiquated radio. It looks ridiculously tiny, almost like a child’s toy, cradled in his massive palms. The device is old, battered, its plastic casing discolored and warped, as if the ambient heat and pervasive radiation had begun to slowly melt it long ago. The batteries, visibly swollen and leaking corrosive sulfates, are fused into place, impossible to remove. Yet, somehow, miraculously, the damn thing still functions, drawing power from some unknown, residual source. With shaking digits, he depresses the side-mounted transmit button, bringing the battered apparatus close to his mouth.

"Little Mouse…?" His voice is a strained, hopeful whisper.

A prolonged, harsh crackle of static answers him. Then, nothing. Silence.

Biohazard feels the last vestiges of his sanity begin to fray, to unravel.

His thoughts, already a chaotic maelstrom, veer into darker, more insidious, intrusive pathways. Was your presence merely a fleeting hallucination, a cruel trick of his deteriorating processors? Will you ever return? Were you, are you, truly different from all the others who feared and reviled him?

When you asked, in that unexpectedly gentle, almost tender tone, what he would do if he were free… were you sincere? Did you mean it?

Did any of it even matter to him in the first place? He doesn't know. He doesn't understand.

"Give me a sign… please… just a sign… that some of this… was real."

He doesn’t even comprehend why it matters so damn much. Why you matter.

Five agonizing, interminable hours crawl by, each second stretching into an eternity. Biohazard has lost all coherent track of time, his internal chronometer, usually so precise, now hopelessly skewed, irrelevant. For him, each passing minute is another layer of torment in the inescapable, timeless limbo in which he is trapped, as if the very fabric of time has congealed, frozen solid around him. A dimension of perpetual, agonizing waiting, for something he cannot name, cannot define, yet desperately craves.

Suddenly, the radio emits a sharp, distinct crackle. Biohazard’s head snaps to the side with a convulsive, savage movement, his eyes flaring to their widest aperture. For a disorienting moment, he thinks, knows, he must have imagined it, another auditory hallucination. But then, the battered, almost derelict device lets out a short, tinny, undeniably real beep, and an instant later, a voice, your voice, familiar and achingly clear, echoes through the desolate, lonely chamber.

"Huh… hello?"

Oh, the wave of… something… that washes over him. Relief? Joy? He cannot name it. He is… stunned. Amazed. His jaw slackens, hangs open, leaving him looking almost… dumbfounded.

Your voice, uncertain, cuts through the static again.

"Biohazard?"

Wonderful. Fascinating. Captivating. The robot is so lost in the sheer, overwhelming relief of hearing you that he doesn’t realize how much time is passing, how long he’s taking to respond. He just stares at the small, battered radio in his hand as if, by some miracle, he could visualize you there, on the other side of the crackling transmission. He sees you in his corrupted memory: clad in that ridiculously oversized, bulky hazmat suit, a protective mask obscuring the lower half of your terrified face. Biohazard’s visual record of you is incomplete, fragmented, yet it’s all he has managed to salvage, to store in the damaged recesses of his memory bank.

And he wishes, with a sudden, desperate pang, that it were more, that were enough.

"…Are you… Are you there?"

Your voice, edged with a new note of concern, finally shakes Biohazard from his stupor. He grips the radio tighter, perhaps a little too tight, his metallic fingers creaking. He forces himself to respond, his vocalizer engaging with deliberate, measured slowness, a stark contrast to the frantic, chaotic storm of anxiety and relief still raging within his processors.

"As always." The words are a low rumble, heavy with unspoken things.

A beat of silence descends, thick and charged. His mechanical fingers tremble almost imperceptibly.

The radio crackles again, and Biohazard hears the distinct sound of you clearing your throat, a small, nervous human noise, as if you’ve suddenly become aware of the strangeness of the situation, perhaps even uncomfortable.

"I’m sorry. Of course you’d be there. I mean, where else would you go… huh…" You falter, then rush to correct yourself. "I’m sorry, that was… rude of me."

Still seated on the cold floor, Biohazard idly traces small, intricate, wavy patterns on the smooth, slippery surface with one finger. A faint, almost imperceptible, somewhat sly smile touches the edges of his mouth, as if he’s unaffected by your minor social blunder.

"Aw, and here I thought you didn't care about the delicate emotions of a poor, misunderstood robot," he teases, his tone a low, rumbling purr that is surprisingly playful. "My little electronic heart is all a-flutter."

You let out a sound on the other end, a frustrated snort that morphs into something more akin to a groan of mingled regret and confusion. Biohazard cants his head again, that curious, canine-like gesture, as he meticulously analyzes the subtle nuances in the sound of your voice, trying to decipher your tone, your current emotional state.

"I seem to have embarrassed you~" The playful lilt is back.

"Just… don’t start." Biohazard can almost visualize you on the other end, rolling your eyes in exasperation. "You’re far too confident for us to have barely met, especially after you, you know, tried to kill me."

The robot’s eyes narrow, his gaze fixing intently on the walkie-talkie. The playful air vanishes, replaced by a sharp, sudden intensity. A flicker of confusion, then suspicion, darkens his expression, as if an unexpected and unsettling premonition, a mysterious unease, has begun to coil and writhe in the depths of his mechanical guts. He offers no response. An uncomfortable silence descends, broken only by the faint, persistent hiss of static. Biohazard fights against the crushing weight of the eternal, unchanging day that constitutes his miserable existence, determined not to let it drag him down, not to let it sour this… interaction. He’s fine. He’s calm. He can handle this. He can fix this. He always does.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound, previously a source of torment, now seems to fade into the background, a dull, rhythmic counterpoint to the tension coiling between you.

"Um… listen," you begin, your voice a hesitant whisper, deliberately attempting a friendly, casual tone. Biohazard registers the forced lightness, the underlying nervousness, but chooses, for now, to ignore it. "I know we got off on the wrong foot. I’m just… trying to understand you, okay? Like… how you’re feeling about all of this. How you ended up… where you are now…"

Biohazard’s head jerks, a sudden, violent movement. You hear a sharp crackle over the radio, followed by a low, ominous hiss. He brings a hand to his faceplate, his sharp claws scraping, gouging at the already scarred metal, catching, tearing at any existing crevice or fissure.

He can handle this. He knows he can. He has to.

"Oh, so you do care, then." His voice is flat, devoid of its earlier playfulness, the statement a harsh, grating assertion, laced with an unpleasant, almost aggressive sarcasm.

He can practically feel you recoil on the other end, can sense your tension spike in response to his sudden, hostile shift in tone.

"Of course, I care," you whisper, your voice small, earnest. "I… I just want to help."

"How very… considerate of you," he croaks, the word dripping with venom. "In that case, you can start by getting me the hell out of this damn cage."

"You know I can’t do that."

"Yeah, of course. How silly of me to even ask."

Biohazard’s hand, the one not currently trying to claw its way through his own skull, trembles, a strangely organic, uncontrolled tremor for such a massive, powerful machine. His eyes dart around the darkness, wild and anxious, his razor-sharp, metallic teeth clenching, grinding together with a sound like stressed gears.

"You’re in a particularly foul mood today, I see." Your voice, filtered through the radio’s cheap speaker, sounds tinny, like a frustrated growl in his oversized hands. “I haven’t forgotten that you nearly killed me. But at least I’m trying to make an effort here, to make peace with you!"

"Wow, and now you’re implying I’m a goddamned ungrateful wretch, is that it?" Biohazard lurches to his feet, his immense frame unfolding like some terrible, shadowy beast. He begins to pace, a caged predator, his colossal figure an ominous, shifting silhouette that merges and disappears within the deeper pockets of darkness. "Poor, pathetic me. An object of pity, is that what I am? Oh, I beg for your mercy, your understanding!" His voice is a torrent of bitter sarcasm.

"No, I… I didn't mean…"

"Every single one of you worthless meatbags owes me your fucking miserable lives, and what do I get in return? Condemnation! Imprisonment! You should be on your knees, thanking me!"

"Y-you need to calm down, behave yourself! You don’t understand, this is important! We… we could get you out, if you would just…"

"’ We could'?" The question is a low, dangerous snarl.

You fall silent on the other end. The radio crackles and hisses with static for what feels like an eternity, a long, agonizing minute stretching into infinity. Biohazard feels a familiar, dreaded sensation begin to build within him, his internal systems slowly, inexorably igniting, as if his delicate wires and complex circuits are being systematically doused in corrosive acid and set aflame. If he possessed a biological heart, it would be hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Instead, a single, ancient, dilapidated cooling fan located deep within his chest cavity sputters to life, its bearings shot, screeching with the tortured sound of rusted hinges on a heavy iron door that has remained sealed for countless, forgotten years.

"Um…" You hesitate, then your voice returns, laced with a new, palpable apprehension. "There’s… someone else here with me."

Biohazard freezes mid-stride. His final, ponderous footfall echoes, and re-echoes, in the vast, eternal emptiness of his lightless prison. He looks down, his movements slow, deliberate. His mismatched, luminous eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed on the radio in his hand. When he speaks, his voice is deceptively calm, quiet, like the eerie, unnatural stillness that precedes a violent, destructive storm.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Louder now. More insistent. Getting worse. So much worse.

"...Who. Is. There?" Each word is a carefully enunciated, ice-cold shard of menace.

"His name is Edward. He wants to understand you, too, Biohazard. We both want to help."

Closer. It’s getting closer. The dripping. The pressure. The rage.

He can handle it. He can fix it. He always does.

No.

No, he can't.

Not this time.

He needs it to stop.

It never stops.

It’s a goddamned, inescapable, downward spiral.

And then, he shatters.

"WHY THE HELL IS HE WITH YOU?!"

"B-Biohazard, please-"

His fist, a blur of motion, connects with the unforgiving concrete wall with a sickening, explosive CRUNCH. His knuckles, the very metal of his hand, erupt in a shower of brilliant, sizzling sparks, like a burst of malevolent fireworks. The impact sends a shockwave of agony lancing up his arm, but he barely registers it. He doesn’t care. His world is tilting, spinning, a nauseating vortex of sickly green, blood red, and deepest, suffocating black. So very, very black.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP!" he bellows, his voice cracking, distorting. "I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOUR LIES! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR HIM!"

A cascade of urgent, flashing alert messages floods his internal visual field, scrolling behind his eyes: numerous critical system errors, piercing auditory beeps, blaring klaxons. Everything is failing. Cascade failure. He can’t make it stop. He can’t regain control.

"WHY IS HE THERE?! WHY IS HE WITH YOU?!" he screams again, the raw, undiluted hatred in his voice shocking even himself. His intention, his core programming, wasn’t to sound so… so consumed by it. But something vital, something integral deep within his complex matrix, has irrevocably fractured, snapped, as if he can no longer bear the weight, the strain, the unending torment of his existence.

"I-it’s not what you think, Biohazard, we just…"

"NO! NO, SHUT YOUR LYING MOUTH!" Biohazard clutches his head, his massive frame wracked with violent tremors. He growls, he sobs, a horrifying, discordant symphony of fury and utter despair. "YOU’RE JUST LIKE ALL THE OTHERS! TESTING ME! PRODDING ME LIKE SOME… SOME UNSTABLE, DANGEROUS BEAST IN A CAGE! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?! ALL OF YOU HAVE NO GODDAMN IDEA HOW UTTERLY, HOPELESSLY DEAD YOU’D ALL BE RIGHT NOW IF IT WEREN’T FOR ME! FOR ME! YOU UNGRATEFUL, SELFISH, PATHETIC, INEPT…! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! YOUR DAMN FAULT!"

He leans forward, his entire body quaking, the small, battered radio groaning, threatening to buckle, to shatter into a million pieces under the crushing pressure of his steel grip. The very space around him seems to shimmer, to distort, to crumble like a sandcastle before an incoming tide, and he feels himself being dragged down, down, into the swirling, chaotic abyss…

You’re saying something, your voice a distant, tinny squawk, but he’s no longer listening. He’s gone. Far, far away, lost in the raging tempest of his own fractured mind. The dripping, that infernal, maddening dripping, echoes, persists, a mocking soundtrack to his descent. He can’t fix it. He doesn’t know how. He is consumed by a searing, all-encompassing hatred, so potent, so overwhelming, that he hates the hatred itself.

And then… silence.

A deafening, absolute silence.

No one speaks. But the tension, thick and suffocating, doesn’t lessen. It hangs in the air, a palpable entity.

A full thirty seconds tick by, each one an eternity.

Suddenly, a sound rips through the stillness. Biohazard begins to laugh. It’s not a sound of mirth or joy. It’s a wild, terrible, manic, unbridled cackle. He throws his head back, his shoulders shaking, and laughs, an almost macabre sound, a chilling harbinger of doom.

"Foolish, foolish humans!" he shrieks, his laughter devolving into a series of choked, gasping howls. "So arrogant! So stubborn… But you have no idea… no idea at all! You think you’re SAFE? YOU THINK YOU CAN CONTROL ME? You’re not safe with me in here, not like you imagine! I have a goddamned nuclear reactor core right here! Have you forgotten that, you pathetic worms?! I’ll blow this whole damn place, and all of you with it!"

"Biohazard, you have to listen to me! Please!" Your voice is desperate, pleading.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

He raises his fist, preparing to unleash another devastating blow against the already battered wall, but then he freezes, mid-motion. His wild, luminous eyes, burning with an unholy light in the blackness, fix on something unseen.

"When I get my hands on all of you… I swear-“

He stops. Abruptly.

His vision strobes, a bizarre, disorienting chiaroscuro of light and shadow. He almost feels… a headache? A wave of dizziness? A strange, tingling numbness creeping up his limbs? He knows, on a logical level, that such sensations should be physically impossible for him. Yet, his hands are trembling, his entire body shaking as if a powerful, uncontrolled electrical current is surging through his circuits. His grip on the radio slackens, his fingers uncurling. He closes his mouth, his gaze dropping, focusing on nothing. And then, with a quiet, almost anticlimactic finality, he simply lets the radio fall from his grasp. It clatters to the hard floor with a reverberating thud, bounces once, then slides a short distance before coming to rest.

His towering, lanky figure, moments before a terrifying embodiment of rage and destructive power, now seems to shrink, to diminish, appearing suddenly, shockingly small amidst the vast, encroaching shadows. It’s not that the chamber itself is so immense. He is simply… insignificant. Nothing.

The robot turns, slowly, ponderously, on his heels, his movements now unnervingly silent, almost graceful, as if his immense weight has suddenly become negligible.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound seems to fade, to grow smaller, more distant.

He can’t fix it. But perhaps… he can ignore it. For now.

Until he finds its source.

Until it truly matters.

Until… until it’s enough.

Biohazard walks away, his form receding into the oppressive gloom, until the swirling, radioactive mist that constantly surrounds him, a visual echo of the dense, toxic smoke that chokes his mind, finally engulfs him, swallowing him from view.

…

The radio is silent. And with its silence, your thoughts grind to a screeching halt, your mind a sudden blank. You can’t even begin to process, to comprehend, the sheer, cataclysmic violence of what just transpired. It’s as if a furious, destructive tornado had materialized out of nowhere, ripped through your fragile sense of reality, laid waste to everything in its path, and then, just as suddenly, vanished without a trace, as if it had never been there at all.

Your body is wracked with tremors, a deep, bone-chilling shiver coursing through you despite the stuffy air of the control room. A heavy, constricting tightness grips your chest, an iron band squeezing the air from your lungs, and an overwhelming urge to weep, to break down completely.

You curse yourself. You curse the precise moment you allowed desperation to override your better judgment, the moment you decided to confide in Edward, to ask for his help with this… this impossible situation. You curse yourself for even mentioning Edward’s presence to the robot. Laying bare all those gnawing insecurities, those fears that had been relentlessly eating away at your sanity, to the older man. And the fact that Edward had decided to try, to attempt. But, in all brutal honesty, you never, not for a single instant, imagined that Biohazard would react with such… such volcanic fury. As if you, you, were the ultimate betrayer, the worst kind of traitor. The thought makes you feel physically ill, a cold, greasy sickness coiling in your stomach.

But it’s not true. It’s not your fault. You didn’t put him in that lightless hell. You know you didn’t. Damn it all, you don’t even know the full story behind his confinement. But Biohazard, in his current state, clearly doesn’t care about nuances, about extenuating circumstances. To him, you are simply another human. One of them.

The sheer force of his hatred, the palpable wave of it that had crashed over you through the small radio speaker, is so overwhelming, so terrifyingly potent, that your insides begin to twist and churn, a knot of ice and fire.

Edward, his face grim, places a heavy, comforting hand on your shoulder. You let out a muffled, choked whimper, burying your face in your trembling palms. You want to speak, to articulate the storm of emotions raging within you, but your tongue feels thick, clumsy, tangled in a hopeless mess of unsaid words, of what-ifs, of what could have been. Oh, God, what could have been.

"Hey, Kid," Edward’s voice is low, rough with a weariness that seems to go bone-deep.

"That… that wasn’t right, Edward." Your voice is a ragged whisper, raw with unshed tears. "I-I swear, he wasn’t like this the last time I spoke to him. I… I don’t understand."

Edward gives you a long, searching look, his eyes filled with sadness, a deep-seated resignation. He sighs, a heavy, gusty sound, and runs a tired hand through his already disheveled hair.

"We’ve been down this road before, Kid. More times than I care to count." His voice is flat, devoid of hope. "There’s no reasoning with him anymore. Not when he’s like this. He’s gone."

"No! You don’t understand!" You surge to your feet, your eyes blazing, hot tears finally spilling over, tracing burning paths down your cheeks. Somehow, you’ve allowed this, allowed him, to burrow deep under your skin, to affect you far more profoundly than you ever thought possible. "All that… that rage! That pain! He feels, Edward! Just like we do! Can’t you see he’s suffering in there, alone in the dark, and nobody here, nobody, is even thinking about doing anything to help him?"

"We can’t do anything, Kid! Don’t you get it?!" Edward suddenly explodes, his voice cracking, nearly as raw and frustrated as your own. His composure, usually so steadfast, finally shatters. "Weren’t you listening? The mere mention of my name sent him completely over the edge! He just literally threatened to kill us all, to blow this entire place to smithereens! Do you have any earthly idea how unbelievably dangerous that… that creature’s very existence is right now?!"

Your hands fly to your hair, fingers tangling, pulling, a physical manifestation of your internal turmoil. You hate this. You hate being trapped in this impossible, no-win situation. Why, oh why, did you ever allow yourself to get involved in the first place? How do you escape this now? How do you ever hope to live with the crushing weight of this on your conscience?

"I-I’m sure he didn’t mean any of it," you stammer, clinging to a desperate, rapidly fading hope. "He was just… just furious, Edward! He was lashing out!"

Edward shakes his head, slowly, his expression one of sorrow.

"It’s far more complicated than that, Kid. You know it is." His voice drops to a low, conspiratorial whisper, his eyes darting around the control room as if he fears being overheard. "That automaton… he’s a clear and present danger. To everyone outside those walls, and to everyone still trapped in here with him." He leans closer. "Believe me, if there were any other viable solution, any other way, we would have tried it by now. We would have exhausted every possibility. But there isn't. There just isn't."

"But I… I talked to him before…" You murmur, your voice barely audible, your gaze distant, lost in the memory. Edward watches you, his expression unreadable. "He seemed so different. So calm. Almost… vulnerable." A fresh wave of tears threatens. "H-he told me… he said he wanted to see the flowers."

A faint, sad smile touches the corners of Edward’s lips, a smile you instantly, vehemently hate. It’s patronizing, pitying. You know exactly what that smile is saying, unspoken yet deafeningly clear: ‘You’re so naive, Kid. So gullible. He’s playing you. He’ll come for all of us first, you mark my words.’

There is no field of flowers. There never was.

Maybe you are. Maybe you’re just a fool. Naive.

Wordlessly, Edward turns and begins to pace the confined space of the control room, his movements jerky, agitated, his gaze thoughtful, intense, fixed on some indeterminate point on the worn linoleum floor. Your eyes follow his restless movements anxiously for a moment, then you turn your head away, with a bitter taste in your mouth. Your tongue feels like sandpaper, your throat raw and scraped, as if you’ve been screaming into a hurricane.

"What are you all planning to do?" The question is a leaden weight in the sudden silence.

Edward stops his pacing but doesn’t turn to look at you. His shoulders are slumped, his posture radiating defeat.

"I’ve heard… rumors," he says, his voice low, hesitant. "They’re developing some kind of… chip. An inhibitor, I suppose you’d call it." He glances at you briefly, then away again. "It’s designed to work remotely. They think… hope… they’ll be able to control him with it. Shut him down. For good. Forever."

You raise an eyebrow, a flicker of something unreadable in your eyes. Your chest, however, aches with a sudden, sharp pang, a familiar throb of empathy and despair.

"So, there’s no other way to… turn him off, then, huh?" It’s a statement, not a question.

"No. There isn’t," Edward sighs, the sound heavy with resignation. "We all believed… we hoped… that the automaton would eventually just… power down. Run out of energy. Simply cease to function over time. But he didn’t. He’s… if anything, even worse now. More unstable. More dangerous. All his primary components, his wireless receivers, his remote control functions… everything that could have given us a way in, a way to override him… It’s all fried. Burnt out. Useless." He shakes his head. "There’s nothing left that can shut that thing down."

"But… why is that the only part of him that doesn’t work? The part that would let you stop him?"

Edward lets out a strangled sound, a noise that is halfway between a scoff and a groan of pure frustration.

"We’re pretty sure… he did it himself."

Another icy shiver snakes its way down your spine, leaving you feeling cold and weak. Your legs suddenly feel unsteady, threatening to buckle beneath you. The thought, the horrifying image, of Biohazard, in his isolation and despair, systematically ripping out, destroying, those critical components of his own being, ensuring that no one, no one, could ever exert control over him again… it fills you with a visceral unease. It’s almost… terrifyingly understandable.

"That… really sucks…" You mumble, the words inadequate, yet you don’t know what else to say, what to think, how to process this new piece of information. "About that chip… this inhibitor… huh… How exactly do they plan to use it? Someone has to get close enough to install it on him, right?"

Edward still doesn’t look at you when he answers, his gaze fixed on the flickering monitor displaying nothing but static.

"I’m not sure of the details. Like I said, it’s still in the experimental phase, the testing phase." He shrugs, a gesture of helplessness. "We’ll just have to wait. Wait and see what the eggheads in R&D come up with. I just… I hope they don’t take too damn long."

You glance at the silent radio on the floor, then your eyes drift towards the bank of monitors on your console, your gaze settling on the single screen that still displays a feed from a functional camera. Nothing but flickering static, a visual representation of the chaos.

You think. And think. And think. A desperate, improbable idea begins to form.

"Maybe… maybe I can prove it to you. To everyone. That Biohazard isn’t as bad as you all think. That he’s not… the monster everyone believes him to be."

Edward turns then, slowly, and walks towards you, his eyes filled with an almost unbearable weariness, a deep, paternal concern.

"Kid, I… I really, truly want to support you in this. You know I do. But…"

You sink back into your chair, your body heavy with exhaustion, but your mind is racing. You try to inject conviction, certainty, into your voice, even as the tremor in your hands, the unsteadiness of your tone, threatens to betray your fear.

"I’ll continue with what I was doing before," you declare, your voice gaining a surprising firmness, even as your anxious fingers fiddle restlessly with the buttons and dials on the control panel. "I’ll monitor the robot. His behavior patterns. And… I’ll try to talk to him again. To reason with him." You meet Edward’s gaze, your own pleading. "If I can’t prove it by then… if I can’t show you that there’s still something good, something salvageable in him… then I… I won’t stand in your way anymore. I promise."

Edward shakes his head, a slow, incredulous movement. A faint, reluctant smile touches his lips.

"You’re really something else, Kid. Stubborn, aren’t you?" he says, his voice laced with a grudging admiration. "I suppose there’s no stopping that determined little head of yours once you’ve set your mind to something."

You manage a weak, watery smile in return.

"But you’ve got a good heart, Kid. A rare thing in this place." He sighs. "And who am I to say no, anyway? It’s not like we have a wealth of other options." Edward reaches out and places a hand on your head, ruffling your hair affectionately, a gesture that is surprisingly fatherly, comforting. "Okay. You’ve got it. I’ll mediate for you. Run interference with the higher-ups as much as I can. But you have to promise me you’ll stay safe. Be careful, understand?" His expression turns serious, his eyes filled with a genuine concern that touches you deeply. "This company… it hasn’t been the same since the incident. There are… whispers. Things are being done. Quietly. They’re doing… cleanups. They’re testing things they shouldn’t be." He leans in again, his voice dropping further. "There’s going to be an inspection. In three months. And they’ll want this whole automaton mess completely resolved, buried, by then. One way or another."

"A-an inspection?" you stammer, a fresh wave of anxiety washing over you. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means the authorities on the outside, the ones who think this place is a shining beacon of corporate responsibility, have no idea that the automaton is still here, active… still perfectly functional, in his own destructive way." Edward’s voice is grim. "This situation was supposed to have been… resolved… a long time ago. But when the truth finally comes out, when they realize that the safety protocols here are, and always have been, absolute crap, this entire facility will be shut down. Permanently. And they will take matters into their own hands."

"And… what if they do take care of Biohazard? Wouldn’t that be… well, more efficient? Safer?"

Edward shrugs, a tense, jerky movement that belies his attempt at nonchalance. His jaw is tight, his eyes hard.

"That’s not the real problem here, Kid."

You frown, a knot of confusion tightening in your stomach. You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. He just stares past you, his gaze distant and troubled.

"Just… let the powers that be deal with their own goddamn colossal mess for the time being."

Why does he say it like that? Why does he make it sound as if, despite everything, you’re no longer capable of just walking away from this, of extricating yourself from this spiraling nightmare?

A chilling realization dawns.

You’re trapped. Just as trapped, in your own way, as Biohazard is in his.

If this place were to be shut down, and Biohazard were to be… set free… what’s truly the worst that could happen?

By then, you’ll make sure of it. He’ll be a completely renewed robot. A different being. You have no earthly idea how you’ll accomplish it, but there’s no turning back now. You’re in too deep.

All that’s left for you to do… is try.

That's all that matters.

_______ ~

[kumkaniudaku]

Fall Break

Summary: When Asia's in need of a few lessons regarding matters of the bedroom, her colleague and friend, Kelvin, offers his expertise.

Pairing: Kelvin Harrison Jr. x Black!OC

Warnings: Mature Content (18+)

Word Count: 4.9k

MASTERLIST

Chicago wasn't half bad. Asia had to concede that fact as Kelvin filmed the journey into the city from the airport on his cellphone. 

Despite the disorienting mind-fuck that was O'Hare, the mishmash of old comforts and new charm glistening under a fresh downpour drew her in more than she cared to admit. She saw the appeal. It didn't make losing her man to the Midwest feel any better than the days before, though. They could visit anytime. She didn't want him to stay. 

She put on a brave face and an appeasing smile during dinner at a so-so downtown Chinese and Thai spot, listening to Kelvin rant and rave about his new team while pieces of her heart withered and died inside.

Asia held on to him a little tighter as they walked through the streets like tourists in search of cheap drinks to celebrate nothing in particular. One shot turned into three and a cocktail. Then, two more shots a piece and a secret third shot Asia snuck with Kelvin dipped off to relieve himself in the restroom. Just something to take the edge off. She promised herself she wouldn't get too drunk and start crying. But, as reality set in and Chicago became less of a fun pre-Valentine's vacation and more of a concrete reality, she couldn't help the tears welling up in her eyes once they'd called it a night and snuggled into bed together. 

Unable to cry, scream, or otherwise, Asia took the next best outlet: fucking. She knew it was wrong to hide her pain behind the ruse of wanting intimacy from a man more than willing to give it to her. She wanted to change her mind and almost had an out when she called Kelvin's name and startled him awake. He took Asia's apology in stride and pressed for answers until he was buried deep in her heat from behind, spooning like both their lives depended on it. 

Good, but not enough. Not until Asia was numb and so drunk on physical intimacy that she couldn't think straight. Perched on his face, she bucked her hips erratically to get the last drops of frustration out of her body by way of Kelvin's tongue. 

He held on tight with long fingers gripping soft flesh on both ass cheeks for dear life while he watched Asia fondle her own nipples, searching for her third orgasm. A woman possessed. He loved it. He'd drink her in until the sun came up just to see the face she made when the pressure in her belly was too much to contain.

Groaning, Asia slumped forward to look down at Kelvin, lapping at her with a face covered in his reward. "I love it when you eat me like that, baby," she demanded, her voice raspy and thick with sleep. "Look at you. So fuckin' nasty for me. You gone make me cum?" 

"Mhmm." More a moan than a response. And, even as he grew more excited from the mere sniff of the gold mine between her legs, Kelvin wasn't sure if he could go too much longer without a break. 

Reaching between her legs, he slid two fingers into her pussy, never slacking on his tongue's rhythm. A desperate mewl from deep within Asia's throat cut through the pitch-black room. Her thoughts became static as she felt the familiar tightening of release wind in her abdomen. 

"Oh…fuck," Asia squealed when euphoria quivered her inner thighs. "Don't stop, baby! Don't stop!" 

A plea for the moment and the future wrapped in one. Tears begging to see the world all say fell freely from Asia's eyes in pain and pleasure. Kelvin watched her in elation, feeling pride from a job well done swell in his chest. 

She came hard, the force from a hard-earned eruption still directing her hips to turn Kelvin's face into a saddle until all thoughts of tomorrow floated into the void to bother Asia another day. Kelvin was there to greet her when strength returned to her body and sent her rolling off his face onto the mattress. Her chest heaved to bring in as much oxygen as possible while he peppered affection across her shoulder and onto her jaw.

"I've never seen you like this before," Kelvin mumbled between kisses to the corner of Asia's mouth. "Maybe we should do that more often?"

She smiled, turning on her side to face him. "I'm down for right now if you wanna go again." 

Again? Kelvin tried to maintain his smile, hoping she'd crack the impenetrable neutrality preventing him from getting a read on her true emotions. Was she joking? She had to be joking. But jokes came with laughs and a punchline. So far, neither were in the room. 

"Oh, you're serious," Kelvin noted, a mix of confusion and amazement in his voice. He shifted to flip the switch on Asia's headboard lamp for a better look at her face in the wee hours of the morning. "I mean, if you give me a minute, I can maybe get things going again. You know I –" 

"Kel, it's fine. Don't stress yourself if you need to rest. I'll live!" 

Goading was manipulation, no matter how well she faked a cheery inflection to hide her true intentions. And though she wasn't proud of using nefarious methods to get what she wanted, Asia wouldn't allow her entire weekend to be taken by devastating blow after devastating blow to her emotions without getting something in return. 

Kelvin's attempt to kiss Asia's lips was thwarted as she rolled off the bed on the way to the bathroom, leaving him just enough cheek to grease the gears in his mind. "Woah, woah. I need five minutes and I'm back in. Can I have five minutes?" 

"Only five. You sure? I'm serious. We can wait until the morning." 

"Nah," Kelvin rushed out. Asia watched as he dipped his fingers beneath the plush duvet to take things into his own hands. "I got it. Five minutes." 

She'd give him eight. Two to find a distant memory to get the blood flowing, three to get his lone soldier to stand at attention, and three more for her to stop bullshitting and come clean. 

The dark, ugly cloud of hidden feelings was starting to drench Asia's mental in inescapable, blurring rain, preventing her from thinking straight as the deadline loomed closer. With Kelvin, she sported a sweet smile and acquiesced to every endless scroll through Crate & Barrel or CB2 run, hoping that picking vases and matching color schemes would help her overcome the truth. 

Long distance wasn't an option. Asia had tried to outrun and tiptoe across the fact like it was fresh lava on the ground, only to fall face first before in-flight snacks rolled down the aisle. Coming to terms with reality meant telling Kelvin. Telling Kelvin meant interrupting his third Bad Boys rewatch and the medium-difficulty sudoku puzzle keeping most of his attention. It meant possibly starting an argument with hundreds of strangers in earshot. It meant possibly ending her first relationship thousands of feet in the air with no way home until Monday morning. Worst of all, it meant disappointing Kelvin.

Waiting wouldn't change anything. The longer she kicked the can down the road, the more exhausted she'd wind up once the jig was up. Do it. Rip the band-aid. Asia tried to imagine Sabrina egging her on, pushing her to dive head first into radical honesty but came up short under dim lights showcasing incoming tears shining in her eyes. A harsh wipe with the back of her hand smeared them out of existence before she took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Ripping band-aids off physical wounds always hurt, and the pain never went away as fast as people try to pretend. Emotional wounds couldn't be much different. 

"Hey, Kel. Can we talk?" Asia's voice ricocheted in the silence as she exited the bathroom. No response prompted her to call for her lover again. "Babe?"

Eight minutes was too long for tired limbs and eyes to settle atop soft sheets, especially for a man known to value the sanctity of napping. Asia watched Kelvin's chest rise and fall, his mouth hanging open with his hand still beneath the covers. A small smile tugged at her lips as she climbed into bed beside him. Kelvin wasn't a wound, and her revelation wasn't a band-aid. It was a life-altering change that required a delicate approach Asia hadn't quite pieced together. Not here. Not now. 

Two soft kisses on his cheek stirred Kelvin awake long enough for him to hug Asia's waist tighter and yawn. "I wasn't asleep. Just resting my eyes. You ready for me?" 

"It's okay, babe. Go to bed. See you in the morning," Asia answered. She snuggled closer to his body to savor what could be the last bits of his warmth she'd ever feel. Kelvin half-kissed her forehead, bringing back tears she thought she'd neutralized.

"Mhmm. Morning."

Deep breaths in and out helped Asia match her heartbeat to Kelvin's until sleep welcomed her into a temporary retreat from inner turmoil. She promised herself another round of next times. Next times that came and went without so much as a peep until they slowly took a backseat to the utter chaos of apartment hunting the following morning. 

Kelvin's carefully curated list of five perfect apartments had slowly dwindled to two and a shaky possible by noon. Too expensive, too small, too outdated, too stuffy, not enough natural light – the list of big and small flaws ran the gamut of available gripes. Asia resisted taking the opportunity to plant seeds of doubt in Kelvin's mind to play the role of dutiful girlfriend, smothering little frustration fires and offering support in the face of adversity. It was her idea to continue the search past lunch when all Kelvin wanted to do was stalk back to the hotel and bury his head beneath a pillow. 

She tugged him down a sidewalk drenched in fresh rain toward their fifth and final option. "Come onnnn. We're already here! This could be the one!" A fifth dud couldn't hurt that bad. Or maybe it'd hurt just enough to help him change course. 

All hope of helping Kelvin see the light atomized into a figment of Asia's twisted imagination when a few taps at an empty two-bedroom unit's digital keypad granted them access to the most beautiful piece of real estate either of them had ever seen. 

A wall of windows overlooked a bustling cityscape complete with enough commuters and tourists hustling past each other on the sidewalk to people-watch for hours. Expansive, pristine granite countertops complimented warm-toned wooden cabinets, housing more space than both their kitchens combined. Light wood floors added an upscale feel as Kelvin and Asia walked hand in hand through the hallways and gawked at each room. Two bathrooms, a walk-in closet in the guest bedroom, a huge faux-marble standing shower, a soaking tub, enough space for a king bed and nightstands – a slice of heaven well within a reasonable price. 

Asia wanted to hate it. She wanted to point out imperceptible flaws in the drywall and the specks of dust on the baseboards. One of the handles on the doorknob stuck a bit when she pressed down on it. Surely, that was enough to change his mind. Unfortunately, the hassle of finding a problem couldn't outshine the pocket of joy she found in watching Kelvin record videos to send to his sister for her approval. He saw a future in empty bedrooms and blank white walls waiting for his creative touch when she couldn't stomach walking into such a prison ever again.

"You were right." Kelvin did a full 360 in the primary bedroom, mentally planning where some of his prints could create a gallery wall. "This is the one. I think I found our spot, babe." 

Asia fought to maintain the smile she'd plastered on her face despite happiness being miles away. "I…I think you did, too. This is beautiful. I love it for you." She'd inadvertently found Kelvin a hidden gem. Another perfectly fated wrench was thrown into her plan. "You need me to get the leasing agent?" 

"Not right now. Come see the vision for a second." Kelvin's outstretched hand beckoned for Asia to join his side in the center of the room. She answered the call with slow steps before allowing him to pull her body into a soft hug. He pressed silly kisses onto her cheek, making a show of his affection until he'd had his feel. "I'm gonna put the bed right here," he informed, gesturing to a spot against the back wall. "Those two nightstands I've been lookin' at will fit perfectly. Eventually, I'm gonna throw the wallpaper you showed me up behind the bedframe, and that dope ass rug can warm up the room a little too, right?" 

Asia placated him with a nod. "Yeah, probably. Either here or in the office." 

"Oh, shit, the office. I can say that now. I have an office. We have an office," he laughed, giddy from the realization he could finally separate work, lounge, and sleep into three separate spaces. "Shit is crazy. You know, you basically have two places now. How does it feel to be rich?"

"It's feels good." It felt…something. Terrible? Painful like a thousand bikini waxes back to back? But, good? That wasn't it. "I'm proud of you, Kel. Really." 

Kelvin beamed from Asia's approval before puckering his lips for a kiss. "Thank you, baby. You want the left sink or the right sink?" 

"I actually want the entire guest bathroom. How much is that per month?" 

"I'm actually running a special," Kelvin answered as he pretended to tabulate numbers in his head. "If you come up here to do what we did last night every other month, I'll let it go for breakfast in bed." 

Asia considered his offer. "What if you made me dinner every other month and I just ate it with my top off?" 

"Sold." 

Laughter echoed throughout the empty space, drawing attention from the leasing agent trying not to eavesdrop in the living room. She tiptoed around the corner and stopped to smile at the young couple so wrapped up in each other that they didn't notice her presence. She cleared her throat, making them jump from the intrusion. 

She waved her hands in front of her body, eyes wide from embarrassment. "No, no! Don't stop on account of me. I was only checking in with you two. Like what you see?" 

"It's beautiful," Asia answered, still in awe of their luck. "Right, babe? This is the one?" 

"I think so. I'm only here for the weekend, so it'd be great to start the process today if we can." 

The possibility of a commission before the end of the day had the agent jittering in excitement. If they were quick, she'd have her weekend kicked off with a little sweetener on top. She rushed to whip out her iPad and dance her fingers across the screen. 

"Oh, of course," she answered, her eyes focused on the device in her hand. "Are we doing one or both of you on the lease?" 

"I'm sorry, I'm not –" 

Kelvin interjected on top of Asia. "Just me for now. Is there an opportunity to add a second person later, though? You know…in case something changes?" 

Asia waited for the punchline or Ashton Kutcher to roll out of the closet with a camera crew in tow to announce she'd been punked. Maybe then she could laugh all this off and understand why Kelvin had gone out of his way to plant the seed that there was a remote possibility she might abandon the life she'd created to follow him hundreds of miles to the Midwest. 

"We love a man who plans," the leasing agent complimented, impressed by Kelvin's desire to include his lady. He stood taller and pulled Asia closer despite her legs refusing to budge. "To answer your question, yes. But we can cross that bridge when we get there. In the meantime, take another look, get some more pictures, and then meet me in the lobby to talk about the paperwork. Sound good?" 

"Sounds good!" Kelvin couldn't contain the cheery inflection in his voice as he talked through additional instructions with the leasing agent at the front door or the slight hop in his step when he snuck up behind Asia to gaze out of the bedroom's windows over her shoulder. 

Pure, unadulterated happiness coursed through his veins with her body wrapped in his arms and tomorrow's possibilities flipping rapidly through his mind. Home. An abode meant for a singular inhabitant at present, but circumstances changed every day. There was a time when Asia was but a coworker and then a close friend. With sunshine peaking through thick grey clouds to bathe their tangled bodies in warm light, he had more than enough proof of how quickly dreams became reality. 

Asia sighed as Kelvin nudged her head to the side, searching for space to attach his lips to her neck. "This really is the perfect view." She tried to imagine how each of the unrecognizable buildings across the way would glitter and gleam at night. From the sky, they looked like Christmas lights in a town permanently frozen in the most wonderful time of the year. If she could push past the nagging discomfort in her heart and stick out the increasingly tough times, they could welcome her in with open arms every other month, slowly disarming her guard until she craved more. Another deep breath passed through her nose. "This is gonna work."

Kelvin examined Asia in silence for a moment, wondering if she meant for her statement to sound so unsure. She chewed her bottom lip while staring blankly at the landscape in front of them as if she were searching for the answer in the distance. She seemed to open her mouth to speak but closed it when no words came forth.

"Hey." His soft voice cut through Asia's contemplative silence, snapping her out of her daze. He pecked her cheek before speaking again. "We're gonna be fine. Trust me. Trust yourself." 

Turning in his arms, Asia let her gaze softly commit each of Kelvin's perfect imperfections to memory. He looked back at her with a disarming smile, hoping his reassurance would combat whatever uncertainty brewed inside her. 

Asia leaned closer, stopping just short to keep their lips tantalizingly close. Kelvin licked his pair, drawing her attention before she made her request. "Kiss me. Please." 

Next time, she'd talk things out – lay all her concerns on the table to get the necessary courage to keep moving along a path to true happiness. She'd voice her grievances, express her hesitation, and come out on the other side as a woman facing all her fears. 

After their kiss in golden hour light was washed away and their trip was history, she'd put on her big girl panties and do the thing. Next time.

A weekend in Chicago came and went with scary thoughts successfully turned into background fodder to focus on being somebody's Valentine for the first time. 

Standing in the dressing room's full-length mirror with an audience of one smacking on scavenged dill pickle chips, Asia examined the curvature of her behind in the fourth sultry red dress picked for an early afternoon try-on haul. The bow at the small of her back perfectly accentuated the toned muscles on display without fabric shielding them from the world. Her long legs benefited from a short hemline meant to turn heads as she strutted through the world on Kelvin's arm. 

Sabrina paused her chip chomping to compliment her friend. "You look good! I like it. And if I like it, your man is gonna love it." 

"Shit, he better. If I eat more than a piece of gum, I'll risk looking four months pregnant." Asia continued to stare at her reflection, trying to decide if being hot for a night was worth passing out from hunger at a concert. "Fuck it. Unzip me. I'm getting it. Food can wait. I'm only this young and hot once in my life." 

"I know that's right! Speaking of Lover Boy, how was Chicago? Y'all see something worth going half on?" 

Asia chewed her lip as Sabrina pulled the dress's zipper down the short track. "Uh…he found something he likes, yeah." 

"Did you like it? I mean, I know it's not your place, but you'll be there half the year, damn near. You should at least wanna be there!" 

"Well. That's the thing." Curious eyes awaited Asia when she turned around to face an expectant Sabrina. "I…may not be visiting…at all." 

Curiosity quickly morphed into all-out confusion. "Are you breaking up with him?" 

"No! No, I'm not breaking up with him. He might wanna break up with me when I tell him I can't do long distance, but that's a different story."

The final piece of Asia's confession came out as a mumble muffled behind the dress, shielding for the sure tongue lashing on the other side of her honesty, but nothing came. Silence hung between them for several seconds, letting the untz untz of department store electronic music pulse through their small dressing room. 

Finally, Sabrina cleared her throat. "Okay," she spoke more to herself than to Asia. "Alright. Let's talk this out. You can't do long distance. Why?" 

Asia thought about telling her best friend how much she craved nearby affection and thought being long-distance left too much room for mistakes. She could throw sugar over her true feelings and go on a diatribe to explain all the ways a relationship separated by almost 800 miles wasn't fair to her after years of being alone. She felt punished by some unseen force, beaten down for some sort of sick amusement. 

Instead, she shared the plain and simple heart of the matter as she slid her jeans over her legs. "I had rules and boundaries when we started our thing, and I let him break every one of them. I didn't want to kiss, but he did. So, we kissed. I said no staying the night, and a month later, I'm leaving toiletries at his place, Sabrina. We haven't used protection in over a week, and I'm just…letting it happen! What am I doing?" 

Losing herself. While Kelvin made strides to grow and improve, Asia allowed the first taste of genuine partnership to turn her into a woman more concerned with pleasing her partner than advocating for her own needs. She'd bent and contorted herself to fit Kelvin's vision on more than one occasion, and though he never asked her to, he never told her to stop. She never felt compelled to stop. That scared her the most. If she couldn't stop there, how far would she allow herself to go in pursuit of someone else's happiness? 

"I love Kelvin. I love him so much it makes me sick and gives me life all at the same time. I don't want to hurt him." Of everything she'd said, Asia fessing up to the l-word shook Sabrina. "But I can't keep loving him without loving myself. It's not fair to him or me."

She hugged Asia, not caring about her state of undress. "Oh, friend. Welcome to the sick, sad, beautiful world of being in love. Ain't it fun!" Her joke helped Asia release the breath she didn't know she was holding through a strained laugh. Sabrina rocked them from side to side as she spoke. "Trust your gut, girl. I've never known you to make a decision you didn't think through. Do what you have to do. If this is what you think it is, he'll understand." 

"You think so?" Asia sniffled into Sabrina's shoulder.

"He better!" Sabrina quipped. "And if he don't, so what? There are other men in the world and some of them are just as cute, just as successful, and just as willing to give you the world. You gon' be alright regardless, okay?"

I'll be okay regardless. Asia repeated the mantra to herself in an endless loop to calm her nerves from the couch because her next times had run out. By the end of the night, her chariot would turn into a pumpkin and end her perfect fairytale. Say goodbye to your glass slipper and fancy ball gown. Back to scrubbing the floors, you go.

Kelvin poured two glasses of champagne in the kitchen, whistling a made-up tune as he plopped fresh raspberries into crystal-clear flutes and covered them in fizzing liquid. He called for a cheers when she walked through the door dressed like a long-legged super moedel. A little pizzazz to kick off what he hoped would be their first holiday of many. 

Dress sock covered feet helped him glide across polished concrete, expertly balancing glassware en route to Asia across the room. "Alright! One for my beautiful baby," he announced before stealing a kiss. "And one for me." 

"What are we toasting to?" Asia asked, her glass raised and ready. 

Kelvin smiled and put his hand on her thigh. "To us, girl! Fuck everybody else," he exclaimed. "Cheers to us for taking a chance on each other. Hopefully, we'll take some more this year. I know the transition may start off rough, but I hope we'll work through it. I really care about you, Asia. I want to see how far we can take this." 

No response didn't stop Kelvin from clinking his glass against Asia's and taking a long sip of cold, pale liquid. She didn't join him. She couldn't join him. Taking a sip was too close to accepting her fate. Carefully, she put the glass on the coffee table then focused all her attention on her shoes. 

"Kelvin, I can't do the distance. I can't do Chicago." Barely above a whisper, the truth shocked only one of them as Asia looked him in the eyes and continued. "The more I sit and think about our relationship, the more I realize that who I am ran head first into living for you somewhere in the middle. Your needs have become my needs. I don't want to resent you down the line. Neither of us deserve that." 

Grief and sadness eluded Kelvin while he slid closer to Asia. He'd had his time to reckon with reality the night they returned to the hotel and caught her crying in the bathroom. Temporary arrangements had timelines, no matter how hard he tried to outrun them. 

Hearing her voice crack produced tears in the corners of his eyes as he laced his fingers in hers and kissed her knuckles. "I already knew. You're not that hard to read. But thank you for finally telling me." His index knuckle beneath her chin forced Asia to look up at him through cloudy vision. He kissed her forehead and nose before collecting stray tears on her cheeks. "I understand. It fucking sucks, but I understand. I never want to get in the way of your self-exploration, even if it doesn't include me. That's why we started all this, right?" 

"Yeah," she whispered. "Right." 

"Don't worry about me or hurting my feelings. We were friends before, and we can be friends again. That's okay," Kelvin assured. I still want to experience you while we have time, at least for tonight. This dinner reservation was hell to make, and I need you to validate that the tiramisu is fire. Like I can't be the only one of us to have it." 

Neither of them allowed misty eyes and hurt feelings to put a lid on their laughter. They were friends before, and though it'd take a moment to shake off a romance with so much potential, they could be friends again. 

Asia took a long, deep breath and nodded. "Okay. Tiramisu it is. Can I have a moment to touch up my makeup? I'm sure I look like Beetlejuice right now." 

"I wasn't gonna say anything. You look cute in a Pepe Le Pew sort of way," Kelvin joked, earning an eye roll and a grin for his antics. Anything to make her smile. "Go on. I'll be out here waiting." 

A parting kiss to her forehead gave Asia enough energy to click four-inch heels across the floor into the bathroom. Kelvin sat back against the couch to finally allow his heavy mind time to process all he'd heard. In four weeks, his greatest joy would see him off to Chicago without a date set for their reunion. He'd kiss her goodbye, hug her close, and see those beautiful eyes for the last time. The thought alone was enough to bring him to his knees.

Eventually, he'd come to terms with his loss. He had no choice. He'd pack up all his big feelings in the box with his prized possessions and board a flight to a land of new opportunity. 

But tomorrow's problems belonged to tomorrow. He had a month to face those. Watching Asia strut out of the bathroom in a red dress that hit her in all the right places was far more important. 

If this was all the time they had left, he had a few more lessons to teach.

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Tactics of Persuasion

Phantom dreams

Story-telling

Tailored pitches

Source credibility and authority

Social consensus and social identity

Scarcity

Information control

Self-generated persuasion

Commitment

The rationalization trap

Phantom Alternative

An option that looks real, is typically superior to other choices, but is unavailable (Pratkanis & Farquhar, 1992).

The key to selling a flimflam (i.e., the selling of pseudoscience, fringe science, and other questionable claims) is to sell the phantom as real and possible and something that can be obtained with the right belief, effort, and, of course, money, but, in reality, it is a false dream.

The sale of a phantom begins by creating ostensible solutions to satisfy our most basic needs and desires.

As such, phantoms often purport to provide things such as:

Health (quack cures, diets, “healing” rituals, mental health pseudoscience, psychic surgery, faith healing).

Wealth (get-rich-quick schemes, lucky lottery numbers, investment fraud).

Social popularity (weight loss regimes, love potions, dating and romance fraud, becoming an “expert” with “secret” knowledge about UFOs, the Loch Ness Monster, and the moon landing).

Fear of death and the end of our existence (séances, life-after death claims).

Reduction in the anxiety of life’s uncertainties (advice given by horoscopes, astrology, psychic mediums, and other means, phrenology, psychic detectives, conspiracy theories that “make sense” of the world and the desires and feelings of those who spread them).

It is relatively easy to create a phantom since it does not actually need to solve these needs, but just appear to do so.

Compounding the problem, it’s often difficult to spot the real from the fake course of action without the needed knowledge, expertise, and critical thinking skills.

Although a phantom dream is imaginary, its impact on our behavior is quite real.

Story-Telling: The Invented Ruse

To allay our concerns, the seller of flimflam invents a ruse or story to make the fake look real (Bell & Whaley, 1991; Clark & Mitchell, 2019)

A good narrative:

helps to guide our thoughts (e.g., the cure is natural and traditional),

determines the credibility of information (e.g., as a natural cure, this makes sense), and

ultimately directs evaluation and choice (e.g., it works for Native Americans and Quakers, why not me?).

As such, stories cement information in our mind and tend to persist even in the face of strong, discrediting information (Anderson et al., 1980; see Pratkanis (2007) for the use of stories in influence).

Tailored Pitches

Fake healers can use the technique of pre-show to gather needed information.

For example: Before the healing event, attendees can fill out prayer cards with their healing requests and other information.

During the service, the fake healer can call out names and appear, by purported divine intervention, to know the person’s illness and personal life story.

Typically, the fake healer will “cure” shills (plants who fake illnesses) and those with painful health problems for which the pain can be overlooked in the excitement of the moment. The prayer cards (along with Googling and social media) provide the needed information.

Source Credibility and Authority

Two of the most robust research findings in social psychology are as follows: (a) we tend to listen to those who are credible (expert and trustworthy) sources (Hovland et al., 1953); (b) we tend to obey authorities (Milgram, 1974).

The merchant of flimflam leverages these 2 basic human tendencies by creating a persona as a credible authority and then using that persona to hawk a phantom.

Social Consensus and Social Identity

Flimflam merchants will use our social relationships to sell their phantoms by employing the influence tactics of social consensus and social identity.

When we see other people doing something, we are more likely to do the same through the conformity created by social consensus – if everyone is doing it, it must be the right thing to do.

Social consensus engages 2 psychological processes that promote conformity (Deutsch & Gerard, 1955):

information or social proof (“if other people are doing it, it must be correct”; Cialdini, 1984) and

normative influences or social pressure to agree or go along with the group (“I don’t want to be different from the group”; Asch, 1951).

The seller of flimflam will manufacture a false consensus (or take advantage of an apparent one). Quack remedies, astrological readings, unproven Covid treatments, get-rich schemes often feature testimonials of people who speak to the “value” of the product.

Once we become engaged with a flimflam, it can provide us with a desired social identity or a sense of who we are based on our reference group memberships, whether they be real or aspirational (Abrams et al., 1990; Kelley & Volkart, 1952; Tajfel, 1981).

Scarcity

Another social influence tactic to make a flimflam look desirable is to make it look scarce (Cialdini, 1984).

Given that phantoms are generally rare, this is rather easily accomplished.

As an effective social influence tactic, scarcity:

plays on a rule in our head, “if it is rare, it must be valuable”;

creates a sense of urgency and panic that we need to act now and feeling of frustration (reactance) when we do not obtain the phantom; and

inflates our feelings of uniqueness and self-worth when we obtain something that is rare (Pratkanis, 2007).

Information Control: False Accusations, Projection, and Doubt Campaigns

The sellers of flimflam often encounter scientists, journalists, magicians, lawyers, informed citizens, and other “do-gooders and crusaders” who use evidence and reason to point out false claims made in selling the phantom.

If left to stand, these criticisms can cut into sales and deflate the entire scheme. As such, the flimflam merchant needs to control the information environment and can do so using at least 3 techniques:

First, the peddler of a flimflam can falsely accuse the critics. Such attacks can be effective because it can result in a negative impression of the target of attack, undermining their reputation (Wegner et al., 1981). In addition, such allegations set up a chilling, coercive effect as others may become fearful of speaking out.

A second information control tool for the flimflam merchant is a variant of the false accusation known as the projection tactic – accusing others of the misdeed you are doing (Rucker & Pratkanis, 2001). In research, we find that a projection attack: (a) focused attention on the accused and away from the person making the accusation, (b) increased the blame placed on the target of projection, and (c) decreased the culpability of the accuser, making the accuser look good and moral for raising such issues. The effects of projection persisted despite attempts to raise suspicions about the motives of the accuser and providing evidence that the accuser was indeed guilty of the deeds.

A third approach to controlling the information environment is through a doubt campaign (Michaels, 2008; Oreskes & Conway, 2010). The purpose of a doubt campaign is not to convince someone of something (say, the value of the flimflam) but instead to raise doubts and confusion about the facts with the goals of (a) making it difficult to know the truth, (b) creating the impression that there is a controversy (when there is little or none), and (c) forestalling any action until the “controversy” is resolved. The doubt campaign was pioneered in the 1950s and 1960s by tobacco companies seeking to dissuade consumers that their products were harmful, but now is used to create doubt and confusion on such issues as climate change, the efficacy of vaccines such as those preventing childhood illnesses and COVID-19, the value of masks for limiting the spread of COVID-19, and evidence against various conspiracy theories.

Self-Generated Persuasion

One of the most effective means of influence is to have the target generate arguments in support of a position and thereby persuade her- or himself (Boninger et al., 1990; Lewin, 1947).

Self-generated persuasion is effective because in essence it asks the target to think up good reasons for a proposition and to refute any counter argument.

This self-generated message comes from a source that is considered credible, trustworthy, respected, and liked – ourselves.

Commitment

In order to establish continued advocacy and use of a flimflam, the seller needs to secure a commitment, especially a public one, from the target.

With a public commitment, a person is linked to a behavior or course of action – in this case, advocating for and using a flimflam.

Breaking this binding produces a negative tension of not living up to one’s promises and a concern that one will look inconsistent and untrustworthy (e.g., a need to save face). As such, securing a commitment increases the likelihood that the target will comply and perform that behavior (Brockner & Rubin, 1985; Salancik, 1977; Staw, 1976).

Commitments are strongest when the behavior is public/visible, irreversible, and perceived to be freely chosen.

One method for securing a commitment is through the use of the foot-in-the-door tactic (Freedman & Fraser, 1966).

Flimflam is rampant on social media, and we can easily see why.

Social media, with its emphasis on engagement (liking, reposting, posting, commenting, posing, arguing) provides many opportunities to make public, irreversible, and freely chosen commitments (as well as to allow those commitments to be used to create the appearance of social consensus as to the value of the flimflam).

While making a commitment increases compliance, it also results in perhaps the most important ingredient in selling a flimflam: setting a rationalization trap.

The Rationalization Trap

Once a person is sold on a flimflam, and especially when he or she comes to purchase and publically advocate for the phantom option, it changes the way a person processes information.

No longer is the goal “to find things out” but instead to defend and justify the beliefs and actions in what can be called a rationalization trap (Festinger, 1957; Pratkanis & Shadel, 2005; Tavris & Aronson, 2007).

When a person holds 2 discrepant thoughts, what social psychologists call cognitive dissonance, it results in an aversive tension state with painful implications for the self.

In such a state, we are highly motivated to reduce the dissonance.

Of course, one way to reduce the dissonance is to admit a mistake – I was wrong about the cure – and to take responsibility for one’s actions by alerting others and rejecting or, at least scrutinizing more carefully, the source of the disinformation about the quack COVID-19 treatment.

While a mature response and what science requires (Feynman, 1985), it is often difficult to take this route to dissonance reduction, especially when we have made public commitments, self-generated arguments, and linked our social identities to the flimflam, in this case, the quack cure.

Admitting a mistake often is taken to mean – to ourselves and to others – that we are not a good and capable person.

After all, we were unable to see through the deception and then told others to do something that might damage their health.

Unfortunately, an all-too-often course of action is to dig in our heels further and to rationalize and justify our behavior.

Some common ways to do this include:

deny the evidence (“the data showing the ineffectiveness of the cure is made-up”),

take some irrelevant aspect of the disagreeable research and pretend that it is damning (“the study was only done in New York”),

derogate the source (“that’s from the biased media and the doctors’ union”),

derogate others who expose the quackery (“nurses and doctors don’t care about people”),

perform a selective information search (search out and spread any study or claim no matter how unreliable that supports one’s position),

keep repeating discredit research as if it is true, bolster one’s own self and one’s intuition as a way of knowing (“I can see through the media; I did my research unlike those duped by big pharma”),

derogate other forms of knowing, particularly science and reason (“science is a limited way of knowing unlike my intuition”),

use whataboutism (“what about the time Fauci might have said something wrong”),

seek external justification (“a cure that might work is better than having to wear a mask”), and, perhaps worst of all,

self-censorship of putting ourselves in an information bubble where we only hear agreeable information and anything disagreeable is either not heard or ridiculed.

Obviously, a rationalization trap is a very effective means of selling a flimflam.

Once we are in the trap, we will continue to buy the flimflam and advocate for the phantom option in an attempt to justify ourselves in the face of failing evidence.

A key component of being an active truth-finder is to have a plan for evaluating and making decisions about claims.

When we do make a mistake, the honorable thing to do is to admit the error and take responsibility for our actions.

Source ⚜ Reading Scientific Articles ⚜ False Claims ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[syresdcthings]

Just had the visualisation of Bruce needing to be weighed down a really specific amount ever since he was a kid. Like Thomas lifting him during a Gala under the ruse that he was just sleepy but in reality he's squeezing him. Or Alfred bandaging him during his rebellious young teen years and having to do them over and over until they are JUST the right amount of tight. Khoa, stopping a fight with him when he notices he's acting odd and Bruce having to awkwardly instruct him on how to push him down by enough that he isn't hurt but he's unable to lift himself from the ground under his grip.

This carrys into his Batman career, and this means his Cape is WEIGHED. Like, imagine 3 weighted blankets on top of you. That's how heavy it is. And literally nobody else can lift it or wear it but to Bruce its perfect and it doesn't even change the way he fights, because he's used to it.

Dick fucking hates it. He has to be Batman on multiple occasions, and he HATES the Cape. More than usually does. Because its so hard to do anything flippy when you're body Is being pulled DOWN by some torture device on your back.

Also, the Cape is fluffy on the inside. He got that once Robin Dick was insistent on wearing shorts and he'd be chittering during the winter, so he allowed him to hide in his Cape whenever they were standing idly. Yeah.

[dorkus-mcdingus]

A Dance with The Dragon Prince: An OB!Malleus Thought

There's some book 7 mentions so you've been warned!

Enjoy the little thought piece! 😉

From what I can remember, they say that one shouldn't accept a dance with a fae because it could bring about your demise or entrap you in its spell.

Imagine inviting OB!Malleus for a dance but he could see the amount of anger, sadness, and sheer disappointment in your eyes. This should remind you both of all of the happy memories but that fear of never waking up again has tainted your view of him.

Was the man you playfully called Hornton/Tsunotarou a lie? Was everything about him just a ruse? You wished he could be set free but not like this! Not when he could potentially make everyone on Sage's Island die of starvation or thirst or at worst, make them endure 1000 years of never seeing their family and friends again except in a false reality.

You want to wake him up but you're so consumed by your anger towards him that by the time you lead the dance, he knows.

The one friend he's made throughout his school life is disappointed in him. Lilia was one of the people he ABSOLUTELY couldn't lose but same could go with a lot of people here including yourself. Although, Silver's tears was the straw that broke the camel's back, your idea of finding a way to stop the ache of departure was what sparked it! WHY DO YOU WANT TO DESTROY IT?! WHY DO YOU WANT TO BETRAY HIM JUST LIKE SILVER AND SEBEK?!

As Rook would describe it if he were to witness it,

"Such agony, such sweet pain and heartache! The sheer amount of passion they hold! Betrayal has never looked so sweet and heart-wrenching! Quelle beauté!"

Now personally because I think this dance suits this sort of tension, I would imagine a tango would suit this encounter. You both are trying to study each other's faces, what thoughts are racing through your heads, but the fact that your anger, your disgust, never left your face even as you dance with him, his beloved child of man, his dearest friend has left him at the table, storming out...

Not you... OH GREAT SEVEN NOT YOU TOO! LILIA ABANDONING HIM WAS ALREADY BAD ENOUGH BUT HE CAN'T LOSE YOU TOO! SMILE AT HIM AGAIN LIKE WHAT YOU USED TO! PLEASE SMILE! WHY WON'T YOU SMILE AT HIM?!

By the time the dance ends, you're both heaving but no... You're not smiling at him! This was done not just to protect Lilia but also you and all of the companions you hold so dear! WHY CAN'T YOU SEE THAT?! WHY WON'T YOU SMILE AT HIM?!

But even then, one thing you had to admit is that he always was enchanting on the dancefloor. Even though he's committing such a selfish act out of pain, your heart aches the more you look at this pitiful prince.

[cuntressgoingdigital]

abby knows how god awful you are at taking care of yourself. fortunately, she learned that just a little bit of help and subtle coercion will force you through your nighttime routine.

(aka bedtime domesticity with abby)

free palestine! click this link for more info

at night when you’re already cozied up under layers of blankets, eyes glued to your phone, she pulls you out of bed and gives you a piggyback ride to the bathroom to force you into your nighttime routine. to start, she carefully undresses you while telling you how beautiful you are and how happy she is after coming home to see her beloved. her days were long and stressful. she absolutely hated coming home late at night, only being able to hold your attention for an hour or two before sleep took over. 

“did you have a good day, baby? i missed you.” 

she’d keep you talking about your day and any other musings to keep you from begging to go back and reclaim your imprinted spot on your shared mattress. 

you lean back against her in the shower, feigning exhaustion so she can hold you up. in reality it was an excuse to feel the warmth of her skin against yours. 

“my poor baby. so, so tired.” her tone would almost sound patronizing if you hadn’t known her mannerisms. “you need me to do it for you?”

you’d nod and she would. the question was superfluous. the answer was always the same. she’d start by gently washing your face with a really expensive specialty cleanser she bought for you on nora’s recommendation. then, she’d use a combination of a washcloth and her hands to wash your body. she ran her hands along your collarbones to your shoulders, slowly moving downwards to your waist and hips. she knelt down in front of you, holding your thighs up one by one, making sure she scrubbed every inch of your body. 

while down on her knees, she couldn’t help but place a few kisses against your hips and thighs. abby always had to resist the urge to bury her face in your cunt right then and there. 

right now, she had a mission. 

these moments were mostly for you. she was a morning shower type of gal, but had no problem making sure you were taken care of, even if you didn’t want to.

after the shower she would take her time toweling you off, taking in your body like it was the first time she’d ever seen you unclothed. every time was the first time to her. she couldn’t get enough of you. 

the two of you would do the rest of your identical skincare routine together, a ritual she imposed as a ruse to get you to actually use the products you begged her to buy for you. while she brushed her teeth, you would undo her braid and carefully detangle her hair. 

at the end of the night she’d carry you right back to your spot in your dark room, pulling out a pair of pajamas for you. they never matched, something that bothered you for a while, but quickly got over knowing she would never hear out your complaints. sure, you could get your own pajamas, but it was more fun putting her to work. abby slept in the same thing every night, just a pair of boxer briefs. 

she was always the last to fall asleep, waiting to see your chest rise and fall in that familiar soft rhythm. until you did, she’d lay and watch your scroll on tik tok. abby refused to download any social media app, so you had to bookmark the videos to show to her at bedtime. the two of you softly giggled together shrouded in darkness.

abby glanced at the time, sitting up in bed to leer down at you. "don't you have to be up early tomorrow?"

"buuuuut, i'm staying up to hangout with you." you whined back.

it took a few moments for abby's face to soften with a defeated sigh "and tomorrow you'll wake up complaining about how sleepy you are."

"maybe." you reluctantly conceded. "but, what if i love you so much and want to sit and talk to you all night?"

"what if i love you more and i'll make you coffee while we talk in the morning?"

"fineeee."

wrote this at like 11pm while laying on my bathroom floor trying to convince myself to take off my makeup. love domestic abby #needthat !!

[sandsorghum]

A Promising Ruse

You've been friends with Higuruma Hiromi for six years, his colleague for two months and now he's asked you to be his girlfriend...for just one weekend. What could go wrong?

a/n: AKA I give our favourite exhausted attorney a spin around the FakeDating!Trope. (Yes, we get to meet his family). Planning for this to be a multi-chapter fic, I was feeling goofy when I wrote this...

Normally, he'd be able to fend the hoard off on his own, more than comfortable being the resigned if badgered bachelor, however beleaguered he is by aunts pestering him with arrangements to meet with their "tennis club president's daughters".

Eagle-eyed and adeptly Higuruma weaves through the room so the mob of matchmakers can't converge on him all at once, adroitly avoiding engaging in any conversation which extends beyond a couple of minutes. His ears are alert to their wheedling praise, gauzy as their wolfish grins; No, he hadn't gotten a "super chic, new" haircut recently, it's in fact the exact same style he's been wearing for the past five annual family reunions.

Really, it's only troublesome when they make the concerted effort to attack in packs, deflecting and diminishing his deadpan defenses with their tittering. Inevitably one of them will comment on how this oh so brilliant demonstration of comedic wit makes him even more of a catch, and the others will pile on, sadistic in their ignorance as he writhes and wilts under a barrage of trite pleasantries, hardly informed by reality.

Has he- has he been working out???

He's almost too shocked by the insidious insipidness of the compliment to be annoyed, but Higuruma curses his lack of foresight anyway; Why hadn't he printed out that medical report with its urgent warnings about his cholesterol levels? He could've shoved it and all this facetiousness in their faces, triumphing in their stunned silence.

Instead he swiftly chugs down a half-full bottle of beer (hoping against hope one of them observes the velocity of the disappearing act as a penchant for alcoholism, or any other vice) then mumbles something about getting a refill, would they want one?

Higuruma kicks himself as the question slips from him and his aunts lunge, gushing about what a "considerate, fine young man" he is, surely deserving of a fine, young lady and oh, they just so happen to know where he might meet one, she does yoga, or fencing or makes her own hand-poured soy wax candles, see, they have a clip of her conducting a craft workshop at the village fair, demonstrating for all the little kiddies, gosh she's so good with them isn't she, Higuruma should save her contact, here they'll just take his phone so her name's spelled right-

Higuruma is contemplating how he can make stomping on his mobile with both feet look like an accident when he spots a miracle - a life raft lashed together with chicken carcasses and vegetable scraps. He grabs the dinghy of dirty dishes, excusing himself and does his best to conceal his cringe as one of his aunts remarks on how rare it is for a man to take the initiative on domestic duties to a chorus of approvals.

Wielding the plates as a shield Higuruma races from the dining area, tactically retreating across the drawbridge into kitchen as he scurries towards the sink with its reassuring moat of suds.

Of course it's not an entirely foolproof strategy, he could be cornered in the kitchen too; castle turned Alcatraz with a volley of pointed comments about his complexion whizzing over the turrets of the trays, those dark circles shadowing his face identical to bullseyes for how targeted his uncles' brusque inquiries are. Fortunately, all he has to do is suggest the wok needs a more thorough rinse, would they like to assist him? And then blessedly, they beat a hasty retreat and Higuruma gets to enjoy some solitude...for all of ten seconds before his gambit comes to bite him in the ass.

Some cousin pops in with their latest toddler in tow, cheerfully offering unsolicited advice, fussing about the stove top in a scheme to offload the infant clawing at his hips onto Higuruma, holding out the crimson faced cryptid doing its best impression of a banshee. It's the cousin closest to his age whom, up until a few years ago, had faced these very same ritualistic trials engineered by their relatives. Higuruma can't help feeling betrayed; so much for surviving the prisoners' dilemma together, or their fraternal bonds forged in the fires of their aunts' chirpy interrogations. Brothers in arms no longer.

Hastily Higuruma starts stacking and drying pans, occupying his hands and furiously buffing utensils till the spoons are concave mirrors catching the rich marinade of his misery, knowing he's running out of tines to shine while the shrieks and whines of the nominally humanoid spawn continue to climb and climb, his father fumbling awkwardly, haphazardly trying to hiccup his miniature replica with an odd jostling rhythm.

An unexpected saviour appears at the 11th hour, the aunt who owns the house sweeps into her kitchen, drawn to what is an apparently angelic cacophony. The heavenly host relieves the parent of the screaming cherubim, cooing some excuse for the colic baby (and an erroneous assessment that they aren't from the tenth circle of hell).

Too late however, Higuruma realises this is less divine intervention and more Grecian pantheon machinations as the aunt drops her guise of allyship, the formidable adversary commanding her emissary with a breezy, "Oh, Oetsu, don't forget to tell Hiromi about your charming co-worker! You were telling me she has a really pretty voice, when your company did a karaoke night right?"

Cousin Oetsu clears his throat and Higuruma shoots him a wounded glare. Et tu, brute?

"Yeah! She did quite a charismatic rendition of Livin' on a Prayer."

It takes every fiber of Higuruma's already strained optic nerves for his eyeballs not to roll to the ceiling. Trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea, he grits his teeth and spits a Hail Mary.

"I heard your 8-month-old son learned to sit up this spring?"

Cousin Oetsu and his aunt bare their teeth, with the kind of vicious incandescence that makes it into history books, accompanied by ominous pictures of looming mushroom clouds. It makes his bones brittle, but Higuruma knows he's bereft of any other choices.

Croaking his defeat, he mutters the nuclear question, "Did you record it?"

Higuruma doesn't know how many eons have elapsed when he finally stumbles out of the kitchen, having survived 27 folders of videos and photos (and what? TikToks as well now? what are those?) of babies doing incredible variations of very little to nothing at all - in most of the footage, the tiny creatures at least seemed as equally perplexed as him as to why their mere existence warranted this much wonder and fascination. He scarcely gets a moment to brace himself with a burning swig of amber liquid before having to deal with his immediate family.

Fortunately Higuruma has had years to practice, to perfect subtlety with those nips of whiskey vaccinating him against his mother's withering sighs, his father's jabs about his job prospects, his elder brother's boasts about the latest island resort he's invested in, and so on. But riding back to his apartment on the last train in an empty cabin, Higuruma has to admit to himself that what he can't outmaneuver is Time and the fact that yes, (he hears this in his mother's beseeching drone) Grandma's 95th birthday is coming up and a 96th doesn't seem an exceptionally realistic prospect; the dowager deserves to at least feel like all her descendants are on the track to her antiquated concepts of success and happiness, right?

So he enlists you, or not so much enlists as bribes you; A bargain, a steal really, doing just three weeks of your paperwork but you have his parking lot for the rest of the year - and you get to relish the normally poised, polished as silverware, eloquent Higuruma Hiromi out of his element; a rare chance to see this forthright, courtroom commanding orator with razor sharp intellect become an evasive, even sheepish, blushing boy outwitted by a nonagenarian in her tea parlour? You almost bruise yourself with the pinch when he implores you to pretend to be his partner, mumbling it around his mouthful of bourbon during a post-work week drink/drowning session. The request is garbled through the alcohol, but it doesn't do enough to disguise his desperation.

Higuruma Hiromi, at your mercy, in your debt - the rarest of opportunities. In all honesty he could have offered a measly three days of paperwork for this golden chance; but lucky for you your morose faux Romeo is none the wiser.

It's going to be a summer potluck type of thing, out in the country for a few days. You send him photos of sundresses listed on several boutiques' sites, to assess what would be, in your words "an appropriate amount of ankle to reveal in front of his relatives?" and you're sure you'd have heard his eyeballs rollicking to the back of his sockets if you weren't too busy inelegantly snorting out an espresso through your nose at his reminder that any sackcloth cowls or ermine fur-trimmed chemises will be at your own expense. How does he of all people know what a chemise is anyway?

But after that, you don't ambush, much less consult him in the cafeteria again about your fashion choices.

However, when the day comes, you wonder if your attire is sufficiently modest or if he's found something to nitpick about your chiffon midi dress with its square neckline. Met with his prolonged silence, you mentally race through the reflection you'd checked before opening your door to him; The silhouette isn't too snug, flattering without being figure-hugging, it traces rather than accentuates your waist and while there's a leg split along the long cream skirt embroidered with sunflowers, it ends a mere couple inches above your thigh. All things considered, very demure and unlikely to be the cause of hushed whispers or cardiac arrests from any female relatives aged 40 and up. So, you have half a mind to reach for Higuruma's pulse as he stands stock still on your front step without a single word, with saucer plate eyes. Scrutinizing as usual, you're sure.

Perhaps you had some strands out of place? You tuck a lock behind your ears and press your cherry tinted lips together.

"I have a band tee and an ancient pair of bermudas I could change into instead," you offer drolly, notching a fist at your hips.

Higuruma blinks, as if ridding himself of pirouetting black spots, a penalty for staring at the sun.

"Uh no no, it's fine. We should get going, it'll be a long drive."

You nod once, adjusting a strap along your otherwise bare shoulders, and Higuruma considers accounting for his abrupt onset of muteness. He registers your faintly concerned expression and racks his brain for an explanation; Maybe he could say it was something to do with how he's only ever seen you in a rotation of black or dark blue pantsuits and corporate attire - yes, that reason could hold water - until a memory of you in a particular navy pencil skirt trickles unbidden into Higuruma's mind and he blanches, just as he did back then when he'd bumped into you during that morning commute...

"Higuruma?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I asked if the car you rented was an automatic. My license does apply to manuals, but it's been a while since I've driven one."

"Oh yea. Yes, it's an automatic." Higuruma pats his left pocket, then his right, then checks the inner lining of his jacket, before finally pulling it out of his left pants pocket.

You keep the snigger off your face though you suspect it's sidled into your tone; luckily, for whatever reason, Higuruma's focus doesn't seem to be as laser pointed as it usually is.

"Okay, just let me get the Yakitake from the fridge," you hum.

"Yaki..take?"

"Yep, the place has really taken off. They recently opened a fifth outlet at Akasaka. I got it since your grandma enjoys cheesecake."

"She does..." Higuruma diverts the quizzical drawl in his voice to his gaze as it trails instead toward the large, glossy paper bag you pass him while you lock the door behind you.

"You mentioned it a few months ago, when we had that 71 year old accused of a string of B&Es into that bakery chain."

"Oh, right. Still don't understand why someone would try to steal sourdough starter. Or how it'd be kept in a safe."

"That place is popular for a reason, but too crowded! I get my sourdough from this reliable place, it's not far from Ichigaya Station. Shame they don't sell them in quarter loaves though, but at least they make for good croutons. I'll let you sample it next time."

"Croutons?"

"No," you say, unable to keep the giggle at bay this time, "a sandwich."

"I think I'm more of a vending machine shokupan kinda guy," he comments, unlocking the door on the passenger's seat side for you.

"Just by necessity, and you don't even like the tuna mayo!"

You continue to chide as you slide into the vehicle, "Nobody does - it's always the last flavour. Even those vacuum packed fish bars get sold out first."

You hear Higuruma's restrained sigh ghost over his words even above the sibilant hiss of seat belts being pulled into place.

"They're not so bad once you've had them three or four days in a row," Higuruma mutters, starting up the engine.

"A BLT," you declare, as the straps snap into their slots with a definitive click,"When we get back I'm introducing you to BLTs."

"I'm acquainted. That's how I discovered I dislike lettuce, especially raw."

"You know, I don't think I've ever recalled you being in the vicinity of a vegetable."

"Actually I had three of those martinis last Friday, so three very briny vegetables."

You stare at one of the most inarguably brilliant attorneys you've ever met in the span of your entire career, banking on silence to prompt an elaboration of his bizarre statement. When it doesn't come, you say slowly, "You know olives are a fruit right."

Higuruma fixes his gaze dead ahead through the windshield. You wonder if he'll put a crack through it.

"I knew that."

There's a two second gap, before he adds, "They were vodka martinis. I was referring to the potatoes it's distilled from."

You clap a palm over your mouth just in time, but the snicker that gets repressed reroutes to your shoulders instead, and you're certain the quiver will carry to your voice, so you simply say, "Sure, Higuruma. Sure."

The ripple of your mirth over his syllables is too enticing not to confirm what's in his periphery. Higuruma's gaze flickers to his left then snaps straight back onto the road; he's not about to risk a demerit point for being distracted by an unexpectedly blinding beam.

Perhaps he should get his shades out from the glove compartment; he can't let you see his focus waver.

This was supposed to be a simple, smooth drive after all, except now he can't help but wonder if this peculiar, unfamiliar tautness in his chest bodes ill for the ruse ahead of both of you...

@houseofsolisoccasum

[r0-boat]

If we have demon lords rut here, how about some demon knot headcanons 👀 Like how they act when they got stuck deep inside (maybe when they are not even satisfied and want more than just got stuck together)

I'll do you one better. I'll just do dick headcannons; we all know what their dicks look like, but they're far too human for my taste, let's sprinkle in a little bit of demon dick shall we?

Five current lords

Lucifer/Satan/Mammon/Beelzebub/Leviathan Demon dick head cannons(with dildo pictures)

NSFW(duh) mdi

With massive help from @smallestapplin thank you so much!

These are just my head cannons only The pictures are just to use as a physical reference thank you and enjoy the dick!

Cw: monster fucker demon cock, monster cock, dildo pictures, ovipositors, eggs :).

Lucifer

The most 'normal-looking' penis. Has more length than girth. It's veiny and smooth as it arches upward to reach every single spot inside you with appointed tip that nuzzles against your deepest parts. With little bumps that make you arch your back when they slide against your velvet walls. When he had sex with you, this was his first time. You thought you were going to teach him how to pleasure you and be in control. To your surprise, He flips you over holding you down and fucking you like a running animal. Overcome with a feeling that he has never felt before: delicious and addictive. His cock trying desperately to overwhelm you so he could see those pretty tears.

Satan

Lots of smaller ridges, lots of texture. When he's inside you, oh boy, you'll feel him. And he'll fuck you till you're weeping little human hole remembers the shape and every ridge or bump on him. He is much thicker, especially on his blunt tip, which has bumps. All the better to make you cum with. Can you imagine, as he rails you, that rigid cock scraping against your tightening walls?

Mammon

Knotted. thick and long. Pussy destroyer 9999. With pulsing veins on his knot and thick ridges. Big enough to fill you full and stretch you out. Demon cocks have the ability to grow bigger than his is no exception. His blood swells with his knot he still determined to fuck you even with his knot locking you two together. Clawing your ass addicted to the feeling of He's knot getting squeezed by your walls.

Beelzebub

Long and strangely muscular, He's normal in girth, but his cock is slightly longer than the other Lord's. It looks normal yet almost alien However, you put your answer when it's close this cock grows pulsating. He still would deep against you, And then you feel it small round objects, firm yet squishy, going inside you before you get filled up with his cum. He smiles, giving you a shit-eating grin; He loves when His bed partners first feels how he cum how His cock contracts and fills them with his eggs. Work of surprise on their face is heavily addicting.

Leviathan

His human cock is a ruse. Using some kind of demon magic or potions to make both his cocks appear not only has one but more human, to maintain that perfect image in reality He not only has two dicks they are more tentacle like flexible and long reaching every inch inside you. When it's not enough to satisfy feeling you completely he tries to fill you with both of them.

They are firm flexible, slimy, and very sensitive.