#with a concerning amount of accuracy

[pirateprincessjess]

What’s everybody’s most useless skill? If you show me any picture of Godzilla I can tell you exactly which Godzilla suit it is and who was wearing it.

[keferon]

The tac net crash chapter is one of my favorites so far~

Ah and. Guess what. I just discovered that including this post, I made 50 pieces of fanart for Mistakes on mistakes until.. I’m so sane and normal about this story can you tell👍

[reidrum]

you can let it go

note: user reidrum's hurt/comfort demons are back but like don't read into it

summary: in which you feel yourself slipping away but not if spencer can help it

cw: hurt/comfort, reader is depressed, hairwashing, pet names, spencer loves you very much

wc: 1.7k

The soft glow of the television is the only source of light in your apartment, a marathon of sitcom reruns has been burning into the screen for the unknown amount of hours you’ve been laying on the couch.

When the door opens you don’t even notice it, your phone has been dead for the past few hours and so if Spencer or anyone else texted you about their arrival you were none the wiser. You’d feel bad about being unreachable if you knew Spencer wasn’t expecting it—you’ve played this role before, too well actually—and so Spencer knows better than to think otherwise until he’s checked home.

“Sweetheart?” he calls out softly, aware of the vague shape on the couch.

You hide it well, you think. Spencer being gone on cases most of the time makes it easier for you to slip through the cracks undetected, where the weight of the fall needs only to be beared on you and no one else. Spencer loves you, and you know this to be fact. You love Spencer too, so much that it would be the opposite of showing him love if you let him worry about you—so you don’t give him the opportunity to do so.

It’s not that you weren’t cause for worry, people worry for a reason. But the vicious cycle you’ve stuck yourself in means creating a set up for them to leave you. They can only worry about you for so long until they realize you’re not making tangible progress to get better; they’ll never know you don’t have a choice but they’ll know it’s enough for them to abandon you.

But Spencer, he has enough to worry about. His job requires him to see the worst of what humanity has to offer, not to mention he’s already dealing with navigating his own gnarly demons like addiction and incarceration. To add upon that would be selfish and irresponsible, you love him too much to do that to him.

He approaches closer and his heart clenches at how quickly you try to mask whatever emotion you had on your face to a stone cold front.

“I’m fine.” you mumble, “just tired.”

He frowns, because of course he knows. It’s the only thing you don’t like about Spencer—his ability to read you better than anyone.

Spencer finds your achilles heel and lets his arrow aim with accuracy as it disarms and exposes you. To Spencer, he’s just looking for a way in. If that’s through your most vulnerable spot then that’s a trek he’s willing to brave for you.

He kneels in front of the couch to be level with your face, his hand reaching out gently carding through your hair.

“Angel,”

Your eyes squeeze tighter, like if you try hard enough you’ll be engulfed in the darkness it brings you.

“Don’t.”

He sighs, he knows it’s a futile effort to ask you what’s wrong. His fingers don’t stop combing through your hair, and you’re thankful that your dismissiveness wasn’t a deterrent this time. You’re never sure when it’ll be the last time.

“What happened baby?” he whispers softly.

You let out a whine, unsure yourself when or how it got to this point. It just…happened.

His hand holds pressure on your head, “Did you eat anything?”

“Wasn’t hungry.” you claim but your stomach betrays you as you speak.

He’d laugh if he wasn’t as overly concerned as he was, “I’m gonna order food and then we’re going to take a shower, okay?”

You open your mouth to protest, “But—“

“No buts,” he chides, “Just…wait here.” he stands up and walks into the kitchen dialing the restaurant number.

Great, you’ve upset him now. He just came home from a trip after solving what was probably a very exhausting case, and now you’ve selfishly added more to his plate of things to worry about. You should have sorted yourself out before he got home, before you burdened him some more.

Spencer places the order and walks back out into the living room, “Food’s on the way, do you want to walk to the bathroom or I can carry you?”

Your reply is immediate, “I can walk, don’t worry.”

The ghost of a smile teases his face, “You sure? Morgan thinks I gained some muscle since the last case, won’t even strain a thing if I tried.”

You make a poor attempt at matching his joke, “It’s okay, my legs still work I think.”

“Alright baby, come on.” he holds a hand out to help you up and leads you to the bathroom.

You stand in the middle of the bathroom while Spencer turns on the shower making sure it’s in the right temperature setting as it heats up. He returns to you and gestures for you to lift your arms as he gently undresses you, before quickly removing his own clothes to join you. You both get in the shower with your back facing the water stream and Spencer in front of you. The warmth of the water is soothing on you, but the concern rises before you can counter it.

“You’re cold,” you note, as your body takes up all of the water.

“I’m perfectly fine, don’t worry about me.” he whispers gingerly, his hands coming up to frame your face to gently guide you, “Lean your head back, sweet girl.”

You listen and let the pressure consume you as the warmth surrounds you like a halo, his fingers threading through your hair to massage your scalp. It’s almost painful at how tender he’s being with you, you’re not sure what you even did to deserve this treatment.

Spencer removes his hands and pumps shampoo onto them, rubbing and lathering them together before returning to your head. His fingers rethread themselves again but he brings your head slightly closer to him to press a long kiss to your forehead. The familiar sting returns to your eyes and you know it’s not from the shampoo dripping down.

He leans your head back again to the water stream to wash out all the shampoo, before repeating the same process with the conditioner. His fingers spend extra time applying pressure to your scalp in hopes of it relaxing and calming you further. When your eyes flutter shut he smiles to himself softly before kissing your nose.

The intimacy of the moment is not lost on either of you. There’s a version of you that wouldn’t even believe someone cared about you this much to do things like wash your hair for you. Spencer can’t imagine a version of himself where he does otherwise.

Once all the conditioner is lathered out he makes quick to wash your body and his before rinsing you both down and shutting the shower off. He reaches for the hair towel and wraps your hair up, to which you can’t help but smile in amusement at the fact that he even knows how to do that. Spencer must sense your astonishment and chuckles, “I told you I’m a man of many talents.”

You reach for the bigger towel and hand one to Spencer as you both dry off and step out of the bathroom. He perches you on the edge of the bed while he goes to the dresser to grab clothes for you both, coming back to tug one of his sweatshirts over you and a pair of his boxers to slip into. 

Spencer puts his own clothes on and grabs your wet hairbrush, cause for another amusing smile because how the hell does he know the difference. He notices a lot more about you than you think, and for him sometimes it’s fun to keep those cards hidden until certain times. Like now, when he props himself against the headboard of your bed and calls for you to sit in between his legs.

Once you situate yourself he leans you forward slightly so he can brush all your hair to your back, and gently brushes out the tangles in your wet hair. The soft stroke of the bristles grounds you back to reality—back to him, and suddenly you don’t feel as heavy anymore.

The last tangle is brushed out and he sweeps your hair to one side and gestures for you to lean back into his chest, his nose burying in the crook of your neck.

“I’m not mad at you,” he says into your neck, “I know you think I am, but I promise you I’m not.”

You swallow a sob, “It’s okay if you are, I don’t mean to be so high maintenance.”

He holds you tighter instinctively, “It is not high maintenance to feel emotions, baby. Or to need support. Taking care of you is a privilege, really.”

Since the day he met you he’s spent everyday cursing and thanking whoever made you feel like this was a normal state to be in. You don’t deserve to feel scared at showing your face to the people who love you in fear they’ll weaponize it against you. But in an odd and maybe slightly selfish way he’s thankful that he gets to be the one who shows you what it means to be loved, that your ability to grow and heal is not sacrificed as a causality of the circumstances you’ve faced.

What he does get upset about is when you hide from him like this—he can’t take care of you if he doesn’t even know something is wrong, and as smart as he is sometimes it’s just not that easy to tell how you’re feeling on calls with you when he’s away.

“I mean it, I love you. Nothing will ever change that. I’ll always be here for you. Just need you to tell me when, okay?”

You angle your head up towards him, “I’m sorry.” you strain.

“Nothing to apologize for, angel,” he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, shutting his own eyes, “You’re okay, everything’s okay.”

Spencer knows you trust him, and that your reluctance to open up is not personal to him but to who you were before you met him. He hopes that by loving you as much as he does it will be enough to uncross the wires that led you astray, and back into his heart.

[hitoshitoshi]

Telekinesis [Caleb x Fem!Reader 18+]

Summary:

Caleb bullies you for hours with his cock.

Or

Caleb puts his Telekinesis Evol to use.

Word Count: 1.3k words.

Tags: Inappropriate use of Evol, Power Dynamics, Consensual Sex, Dom/Sub, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Deepthroating

“Ah, ah, ah, Pipsqueak, don’t even think about it.”

Caleb was so mean — the meanest of the mean. You would think that someone who was part of the Deepspace Aviation Administration would be more put together outside of his work, but you were dead wrong. Because here Caleb was, leaning back on his gaming chair playing games online with his friends, headphones in, with a handsome smirk on his face as he was beating the other team round after round. And where were you? On his lap round after round.

Caleb replied to you, his voice brimming with a hint of condescension, masked with innocence and concern, "Well, Pipsqueak, it's not like you've been moving at all these past few hours. I've been doing that for you so you wouldn't get tired. I wouldn't ever let my darling Pipsqueak ever tire herself out." Caleb pressed his cheek against yours, his breath tickling your ear as he continued, "Plus, I want my Pipsqueak to feel good, yeah? You're gonna feel good for me?"

Your brain was already mush 3 hours ago, 10 rounds in, unable to think a single coherent thought as all you did was just moan and nod in agreement to Caleb's words. You always loved it when Caleb made you feel good. You always wanted to be good for Caleb. You just had to.

Caleb smirked as he gave you one last look before resuming his game, "That's my girl, Pipsqueak, just let your Caleb do all the work".

"Caleb," you whimpered out with your lips against Caleb's neck, tears were in your eyes with copious amounts of cum dripping from your spent pussy, your body moving up and down on his cock as though you were some doll. Well, you were, since Caleb was using his Telekinesis Evol to turn you into his cocksleeve— you looked pathetically ravishing. Just like how Caleb liked you to be. Caleb was so sweet to you outside of bed, yet he was the biggest bully ever in bed.

And you loved it. You loved it when Caleb would be like this to you — you loved being his toy. You loved it when he took control of your body and just let you feel. You loved how he could easily lift you up with his Evol so that only the tip of his cock was still in your pussy, and you loved it when he would drop you back down on his cock so that he would fill you up, so very deeply.

The contrast between the gentle caress of his cheek against yours and the relentless pounding of his cock inside you was driving you wild. Your overstimulated nerves sang with each thrust, each drop, each fill. Your walls clenched around him, milking his cock, your body responding even as your mind floated in a haze of pleasure.

"Look at you, Pipsqueak," Caleb murmured, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. "So full of my cum, yet still so hungry for more. Aren't you greedy?" His words were punctuated by a particularly deep thrust that had you seeing stars.

You tried to respond, but all that came out was a breathy whimper. Your fingers weakly clutched at his shoulders, not being able to do anything as you were drunk on his cock. Caleb chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

"Can't even speak, can you? That's okay, Pipsqueak. Your body tells me everything I need to know." His hand snaked between your bodies, finding your swollen clit with unerring accuracy. The touch was almost too much, your oversensitive clit throbbing under his long fingers. As Caleb continued to use his Evol to move you on his cock, his fingers worked your clit in tandem. The dual stimulation had you teetering on the edge of another orgasm, your fifteenth? Twentieth? You'd lost count hours ago.

"Come on, Pipsqueak," Caleb urged, his voice strained with his own approaching climax. "One more for me. I know you can do it. Be a good girl and come on my cock." His words, combined with the relentless stimulation, pushed you over the edge. Your vision whited out as pleasure crashed over you in waves, your body convulsing in Caleb's arms. You felt him follow you over the edge, his cock pulsing inside you, adding to the flood of cum already filling you. As you came down from your high, completely limp as you collapsed right on top of him, Caleb's Evol gently lifted you off his cock. You whimpered at the loss, feeling empty and bereft. But Caleb wasn't done with you yet.

"Shh, Pipsqueak," he soothed, his hand stroking your hair. "We're not finished. I think it's time we put that pretty mouth of yours to work, don't you?"

Your eyes widened at Caleb's words, a mixture of anticipation and exhaustion coursing through your body. Despite your fatigue, the thought of tasting him, of pleasing him further, sent a thrill down your spine. Caleb's Evol gently maneuvered you, positioning you between his legs. Your face was level with his still-hard cock, glistening with the mixture of your combined fluids. The musky scent of sex filled your nostrils, making your mouth water involuntarily.

"Open up, Pipsqueak," Caleb commanded softly, his hand tangling in your hair.

You obeyed without hesitation, your lips parting as Caleb guided his cock into your mouth. The familiar weight on your tongue, the salty-bitter taste of your mingled cum, had you moaning around him.

"That's it, Pipsqueak," Caleb groaned, his head falling back against the back of his chair. "Use that pretty little tongue of yours. Clean your Caleb up nice and good."

Your tongue swirled around his shaft, lapping up drop of cum on Caleb's cock — peppering sweet and soft kisses on his cock in between kitten-licks. Despite your exhaustion, you found yourself eagerly sucking and licking, driven by an insatiable desire to please him.

Caleb's Evol came into play once more, controlling the bobbing of your head on his cock. The pace was slow at first, allowing you to adjust, but soon picked up speed. Your eyes watered as he hit the back of your throat, but you relaxed into it, letting him use your mouth as thoroughly as he had used your pussy.

"Fuck, Pipsqueak," Caleb panted, his grip tightening in your hair. "You're so good for me. Such a perfect little cocksleeve, aren't you? First your pussy, now your mouth. I bet you'd let me use every hole if I wanted to, wouldn't you?"

You hummed in agreement around his cock, the vibrations causing Caleb to buck his hips, driving himself deeper into your throat. Tears streamed down your cheeks, but they were tears of pleasure, of overwhelming sensation.

Caleb's other hand came to rest on your cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear. "Look at me, Pipsqueak," he commanded softly. You raised your eyes to meet his, seeing the mixture of lust and affection in his gaze. "That's my girl. So beautiful with your lips stretched around my cock." Caleb's Evol increased the pace, fucking your mouth faster and deeper. You could feel him swelling on your tongue, and knew he was close to another release. Your own arousal built again, your neglected pussy clenching around nothing.

"Gonna cum, Pipsqueak," Caleb warned, his voice strained. "You're going to swallow it all, aren't you? Be a good girl and don't waste a drop."

Moments later, Caleb's cock pulsed in your mouth, flooding it with his cum. You swallowed eagerly, your throat working to take every drop just as he'd commanded. The taste, the feeling of him using you so thoroughly, pushed you over the edge into another unexpected orgasm — you came untouched. As the last waves of pleasure subsided, Caleb gently withdrew from your mouth. Caleb's Evol lifted you once more, moving you to in his arms as he cradling you against his chest.

"Such a good girl for me," Caleb murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "My perfect little Pipsqueak."

A/N: No beta, no proofread, just horny. I just want Caleb to come home.

MASTERLIST | TWITTER

[bluecrocss]

Yes. You are racist. (Buckle up, this is gonna be a long one)

So approximately half a year since the premier of the Disney+ Percy Jackson show, and almost two years since the announcement of the Trio's casting, I would like to take this moment to look back at the insane, racist and anti-black backlash that was launched at Leah Sava Jeffries and a few other cast members from the PJO fandom.

I'm not concerned with the trolls who are openly racist, who resorted to racist slurs and outright threats, everyone agrees that they "took it too far". I want to talk about the rest of you, the "I'm not racist, but.." people, the "What's wrong with wanting book accuracy?" people. Just to let you know, for the unasked question... yes, yes you are.

I've noticed the Percy Jackson fandom has been lording some weird superiority complex over a certain *unnamed* fandom that has fallen out of grace due to their recently outed bigot of an author. But honestly, y'all are not much different. The amount of vitriol and anti-blackness I have seen from this fandom (beyond just bullying a 12 year old girl), y'all don't have a leg to stand on.

Below is a breakdown of the most common arguments I have seen used to justify y'alls absolutely insane bigotry. I am going to explain why none of these justify the amount of anger and vitriol y'all have sent towards Leah, Rick or any of the cast.

I am not here to argue, and this is not a democracy. I am giving you a chance for some self-reflection and to understand that this pattern of violence directed towards POC actors (mostly black women) has never been justified in the name of "book accuracy"/"comic book accuracy"/"ending forced diversity" or whatever other excuses y'all try to make up.

If you still try to justify or argue further for any of these points, I will just block you. I am not coddling you through your racism. If anyone has seen any other dumb arguments floating around that I might've missed, feel free to sound off in the comments.

She's not book accurate:

Neither is Percy, Luke, Grover, Dionysus, Poseidon, and just about every other named character.

Rick already made it clear that physical features were not the priority with casting, rather it was actors that embodied the role. So why are the biggest complaints about Annabeth and Zeus? 🤔

What? You're gonna say everyone else got backlash too? I see you trying to obscure the main issue by playing dumb 😉

See my friend, yes, there were one or two comments about how Percy's hair should be black or how Luke is supposed to be blonde, but as soon as Leah was cast, none of those actors got any significant backlash. In fact, Walker and Charlie literally have an army of fan girls at their beck and call, calling them the perfect Percy and Luke, despite neither being "Book accurate". But then again, have we not observed the pattern of White boy of the month vs WOC to hate for the year? (Yes, I know Charlie isn't white. Further adds to the irony, doesn't it).

Why include character descriptions if you won't stay true to them, you cry? Well, my dear sweet moron, see, books and TV are two different mediums. Because in literature, you can't *Literally* SEE the characters, the author has to add descriptions to paint a picture in your mind, in TV... that's not an issue. So unless the character's appearance is necessary to the plot (like Luke's scar, or Nico being Italian) the show runners can actually focus on more important things.. Like ACTING and PERSONALITY.

2. It's just not how I imagined her:

News flash, babe! ANNABETH ISN'T REAL. None of these character are. They are concepts that originated from the brain of Mr. Rick Riordan. It doesn't matter how YOU imagined her. There are millions of people who read these books that imagined her several different ways. When the creator of the character watched Leah's audition and said, 'Yes! She embodies the character I created!", your imagined version of Annabeth ceased to matter. And guess what? The books still exist... they have not been burned. Your version of Annabeth has not disappeared. Go read the books.

3. Zeus can't be black/Gods have to be Greek/*Insert Character* can't be black:

Y'all did not read the books, I swear. You have to be fake fans looking to troll atp.

The gods move based off the center of western civilization. They change their forms/environment to reflect the culture they are occupying (they did it with Rome, now they're doing it with America). The gods change forms all the time. How we see them is not their true form as a mortal would disintegrate if they were to see their true form.

America is a cultural melting pot (specifically NY where Mount Olympus is now based). If the god's choose forms that reflect the current society they inhabit, they could literally be any race (keep in mind NYC is only 33% white).

All of this is literally SPELLED OUT in the Lightning Thief.

Furthermore, if you're going to push the ethnically Greek thing... Poseidon is British with a British accent and Hermes is Latino. The only ethnically Greek actor is Dionysus (who still doesn't look book accurate). Y'all are sounding like some white supremacists because do you forget that race is a social construct?

Before the advent of the transatlantic slave trade, I can promise you that the Greeks and the Anglo-Saxons did NOT view themselves as the same people. Why are y'all not taking issue with Poseidon's actor then?

Also, Percy Jackson has canonically had a slew of explicitly black demigods since the second book (including Harriet Tubman, which I have mixed feelings about 😭), so I genuinely have no idea where some of y'all are going with this point.

4. She was our smart blonde representation:

Don't pmo. I swear to God!

White, blonde women have NEVER been excluded from Hollywood. Representation is not something you lacked. The dumb blonde stereotype was a simple branch off of a larger misogynistic "dumb woman" stereotype. It has not truly been relevant since the mid 2000s outside of childish jokes.

This iteration of Percy Jackson will probably not go beyond the first 5 books, based off pacing and the age of the actors. So here's a fun game: 5 bucks to the first person who can find me a quote in the first 5 Percy Jackson books, where Annabeth laments her insecurities about being blonde (hint: there aren't any).

Also, her blonde hair does not hold her back at Camp because she is head of the Athena Cabin who are highly respected (and guess what?), ARE ALL BLONDE!

Her insecurities about her hair color are two or three lines at most in the later books, not this fundamental, core part of her character y'all all of a sudden wanna pretend it was. And guess what, as a non-blonde black girl, I was able to read those scenes of Annabeth feeling undervalued because of her looks and relate to her even if she didn't look like me at the time.

Why all of a sudden can y'all not do that with a black Annabeth? By every metric black girls are undervalued for their intelligence in academia more than white girls are, regardless of hair color. So your little representation of a woman undervalued by her looks would still hold. Do y'all dehumanize black women so much, that you are incapable of empathizing with show!Annabeth's plight in the way I could with Book!Annabeth simply because she doesn't look exactly like you?

Your issue isn't that she isn't blonde, it's that she is NOT WHITE.

Furthermore, Becky Riordan had tweeted previously (before the show was even cast) that Annabeth never needed to be blonde (probably recalling the BS y'all put Alexandra Daddario through), so even if they cast a white Annabeth, the blonde hair was never a guarantee. the author and producers all agree that it was not a significant part of her character. It's been a non-issue since day one.

Also, stop acting like smart blondes are rare in media... If you don't go watch some Legally blonde, Iron Man (Pepper Potts), Zack and Cody (Maddie), Liv and Maddie, FMAB (Winry), Captain Marvel, She-Ra, Buffy, The boys (starlight) etc. etc., and go sit down somewhere 🙄🙄🙄 (those were literally all things I've watched recently, off the top of my head, btw 💀)

5. It's not about race, but...:

Yes it is. It was always bout race. No other actors got as much hate as Leah. Her grandmother and other family members on IG had to mute their comments because they were getting so many threats.

Alexandra Daddario had to come to her defense on Twitter. Rick had to put out an official statement on his website. This girl has endured years of psychological torment for simply having the best audition. No one else is book accurate, no one else is ethnically Greek (except Jason Mantzoukas). Walker literally has British and German ancestry.

Why was she being called racial slurs on reddit and in youtube comments?

I know what you're gonna say, "I actually had problems with the entire cast", "I actually had a bigger issue with Walker's hair color", blah blah blah. Then why aren't you in Walker's comment sections? Why are you only making your displeasure known on posts defending/advocating for Leah? Why is she always your first example of 'wrong casting"?

Well, she "looks the most different"... Look up the term "scapegoating".

"Oh, I don't agree with the harassment. I just don't like the casting." Guess what? She's already been cast. They are not going to uncast her. What do you get out of still complaining about it.

All the vitriol you're stirring about her when you complain about her on Social media, it is directing people to send her hate, even if you're not writing it directly. It's is not enough to "not agree" with the racism, it is your duty to actively prevent it. And btw, these are young gen z actors, they are active on social media. They see the edits of themselves (even comment on it) and they most likely see these little "harmless" complaints you're posting. Are your upset feelings really worth contributing to the racist dogpile on this poor girl?

6. Why couldn't they atleast give her blonde braids?:

Why should they? Y'all wanted blonde because of the "dumb blonde" trope... that doesn't apply to POC.

A blonde black girl is gonna be viewed the same as a non-blonde black girl (or at worst, someone might decide she's "ratchet" or some shit for wearing colored hair). What difference would it make?

Why shouldn't Walker dye his hair, then?

7. Annabeth has Gray eyes:

Less than 3% of the global population has "gray eyes". Even if they cast a white actor, they would've needed contacts. Her being black is not the reason Annabeth's eyes aren't gray. Simply put, it is a plot element they removed, like the whole "names have power" element, or Ares having flames for eyes, or Dionysus using his powers to grow strawberries at Camp.

That's how adaptations work. Unnecessary plot elements are cut to save time and budget. This has nothing to do with her casting. They probably also didn't want to make child actors wear contacts (not a new practice).

8. Even if Rick chose her, he was wrong/Disney is forcing him to be okay with it:

Where do I start? Rick created the character. He can't be wrong. Do y'all have no self-awareness? Death of the author has no place here, because y'all are hung up on an aspect of the character that is not relevant to her arc or development.

Y'all's justification for wanting a "book accurate" Annabeth is that she was such an inspirational and important character growing up, and yet your behavior is so in conflict with the character you claim means so much to you. You're narrow minded, dismissive of bigotry and injustice, and disrespectful to the wishes of the creator of your favorite character; everything that Annabeth would never be. Y'all were never genuine fans of the books. You're bigots that needed an outlet for your rage.

Keep in mind, Rick has said countless times that PercaBeth directly mirrors his relationship with his wife. Y'all think he would have allowed them to cast someone who doesn't live up to the woman who has been by his side for decades? The mother of his children?

Regarding Disney forcing him, show me one piece of direct evidence that proves Disney in anyway pressured Rick to cast her. Cuz if you can't, that's baseless speculation. And if you have to resort to baseless speculation, maybe try to examine why it's so important to you to hold on to this belief.

9. So, I'm racist because I hate "race swapping"?:

To start, there is a difference between "race swapping" and "color blind casting". Often times, when y'all complain about the former, you're actually mad about the latter.

It would be "race swapping" if Rick and the team decided ahead of time that they wanted a black Annabeth and ONLY allowed black actors to audition. But the actual reality was that they accepted auditions from everyone (there were white actors and non-black poc that also auditioned for the role) and chose the best person who embodied the role. They didn't "make Annabeth black" and they didn't "make Zeus black", they cast black actors for those roles.

Y'all think you're being slick with your wording. Dismissing that is implying that they did not earn their roles fair and square. Which is racist. It's the equivalent of going up to a black college student and telling them they only got in because of affirmative action. You're dismissing the achievements of a person solely because of their racial background.

For all you people complaining about "unfairness" and "forced diversity", I would think hiring based on merit would appeal to you 🤔

71% of theatrical Hollywood leads were white in 2024 in comparison to 29% POC and you still think "black washing" is a thing? You still get this angry over a black person fairly earning a role because you think in a time where Hollywood only knows to do remakes and adaptations, that the majority of lead roles still *have* to be reserved for white actors?

Once again, white people have never been excluded from Hollywood for being white. Representation has never been something you lacked nor is it something you can lose. Your anger comes from seeing a black face where you think they don't belong. Because you feel you are owed a disproportion of representation in Hollywood.

10. Woke agenda/DEI/Forced Diversity:

If you are unironically using any of these terms in a negative light, it's already too late for me to reason with you. Look up the term "dog whistle". If you are sharing the same terminology with Elon Musk and his fanboys, maybe reevaluate some things.

POC are objectively underrepresented and have been historically excluded through actual laws and policies in Hollywood. There is no such thing as "forced diversity", you have bought in to a right wing conspiracy theory.

"Woke" is a term that was intentionally appropriated from the black community. It originally meant being aware of injustice and systematic threats to the community and is now being weaponized by bigots. Good job.

Diversity and inclusion is a good thing.

11. But POC deserve to have their own stories told:

We do. And we have been fighting for it for over a century now, and we've made great strides, no thanks to y'all.

No thanks to y'all gaslighting us about how little representation we get or that representation matters at all. No thanks to y'all pushing the idea that POC can't sell globally and obscuring POC actors in international promos. No thanks to y'all continuing to whitewash even to this day (Bullet train, the beguiled, gods of Egypt, atla, every portrayal of Jesus ever, etc.). No thanks to y'all calling every piece of media that has more than one black lead and more than one queer couple "woke". No thanks to y'all throwing a fit every time a black person in a fantasy setting isn't a slave.

Fact of the matter is, y'all never cared about POC "getting their own stories", you're only parroting our own words back to us now as a politically correct way of saying, "leave white roles alone" lmao

Well fun fact, actors of color getting opportunities to play lead roles and allowing poc to "tell their own stories" are not mutually exclusive. If y'all cared that much, instead of bullying a 12 year old actress, you could actually support up and coming independent POC writers, directors, and studios 😱

12. Studios need to stop "setting up" actors of color:

Do me a favor and google the term DARVO.

Your racism is not the fault of the studios for giving a POC actor a role that they earned. It is not up to the rest of society to tiptoe around racists to avoid their vitriol. It is our responsibility to hold them accountable and protect minorities from unwarranted hate. At most, you can say it's the responsibility of the studios to provide adequate support to POC actors who face this backlash.

At the end of the day, Hollywood only allows very few spots for POC actors (especially WOC), while simultaneously pushing a new white boy every month to put in everything. Putting minorities in these roles that are usually closed to them, usually opens the door to more actors of color than before.

Brandy being cast as Cinderella did a lot to push her into the mainstream (yes, she was already extremely famous in the black community atp), Halle Berry being the first, black, bond girl literally shot her to icon status, and even going as far back to what Anna Mae Wong did for Asian American actresses with her "femme fatale" roles.

At the end of the day, even with the backlash, *some* rep does more good for POC actors than *no* rep. The solution to racist backlash isn't to take away those opportunities, but rather to not be racist??? 🙄

Also, for everyone that claims that "POC race-swapping" is just as bad as "white-washing", despite white washing having a longer history and objectively causing more harm, note how the backlash to white washing never lasts as long as the harassment that POC get.

Like, no one brings up Scarlett Johansson's ghost in the shell role anymore, but you can best believe Candace Patton is still fending off racist trolls. As much as people hated the atla movie, people moved on quick from Nicola Peltz playing Katara since she was just a kid that accepted the role (re: daddy bought her the role), but y'all would not have any of that consideration for Leah Sava Jeffries.

But I digress...

13. What if we made Tiana white? Wakanda white? Hazel white...:

Ah, my favorite inane point. I was so excited to get here :)

See, I could start out by pointing out how "White washing" and casting a POC actor as a traditionally white character are not equivalent.

I could point out the history of hollywood ACTIVELY excluding POC actors and POC stories. I could point out how grossly over represented white people are in hollywood. I could point out that POC characters are so few in comparison that whitewashing them causes actual harm, where white people have never lacked rep.

I could point out how, because poc characters and stories are so often tokenized that their racial/cultural background is often directly tied to their character's identity, in opposition to a lot of white characters, since hollywood treats white as the "Default".

See, I could make all those points, but the thing is, the people who make this argument already know all that. They are trying to waste time by drawing me into a pointless circular argument that will sum up to "fair is fair", while ignoring all the context and nuance I previously provided.

So you know what? Forget it. Let me play your game.

I am actually fine with a white Tiana. Would it make sense, for her and her family to experience Jim Crow era racism, in the south while white? No. But we can look past it. Disney was never known for historical accuracy anyway 🤷🏿‍♀️

However, in exchange, the live action frozen will have a black Elsa and Anna, live action Rapunzel will be black, live action Merida will be black, we're re-filming Cinderella and Beauty and the beast to cast a black belle and Cindy, snow white will need to be recast as black, and we also get aurora whenever the live action sleeping beauty is announced. But then y'all can keep Tiana, deal?

You want a white T'Challa? Fine! (I'm partial to Ryan gosling), in the meantime, we'll be recasting Iron man, Captain America (Steve version), Bruce banner, Thor, Loki, hawk eye, black widow, ant man, captain marvel, Bucky, Peter Parker etc. All the avengers and their side characters, then y'all can have Sam Wilson, war machine and the whole of Wakanda (will it make sense that a sole, hidden, African nation is randomly made up of white people? Who cares? We get the avengers!).

You want white Hazel? You got her! I hope you have no problem with us taking Percy, Nico, Will, Poseidon, Jason, calypso, Rachel, Tyson, Silena, the stoll brothers, Sally Jackson, Hades, Hepheastus, ares, etc. But y'all can have Hazel and Beckendorf.

If we're gonna do this, let's commit all the way. Fair is fair, after all.

14. Leah isn't as "pretty" as Book Annabeth/Movie Annabeth:

I wish I could say this wasn't a genuine point I had read, but when all else fails, they will always go for a woman's appearance.

Now first of all, as a rule, I will never hold black women to white beauty standards. Our hair will never be long and silky enough, our nose will never be narrow enough, our skin will never be fair enough and our eyes will never be light enough (Might I recommend Toni Morrison, when you get the chance?). But Leah is unfairly gorgeous idc what any of you say, and you're not gonna have me use my defense of Leah as an opportunity to bash Alexandra either because she is also beautiful. These two queens slayed to the best of their abilities within this toxic ass fandom.

I find it funny, however, that so many of you harped on the "blonde" issue because you thought it was important that Annabeth be seen beyond just her looks, but quickly devolve to bashing an actress's looks when it comes to why she's not right for this role 🤔

I would also like to sincerely apologize that the 13 year old girl they cast in the show, wasn't as sexually attractive to you as the 24 year old woman they cast in the movie and sexualized through like 25% of her screen time (I'm actually not sorry. You're very weird if this is an actual point for you).

15. I don't agree with sending hate to the actor, but she's just not right for the role:

Once again, what are you doing by complaining about her casting on no other basis than her race?

The creator of the character said she embodied the role. She has already been cast, and Disney would be in a legal/production hell to recast her atp. Just because you're not directly leaving comments on her social media doesn't mean you're not part of the hate mob.

No matter how you look at it, your issues with her casting come from a very entitled and narrow-minded place. When you join in on these dialogues you are bolstering a sentiment that pushes more people to harass this teenage girl. When you leave these "harmless" complaints, on show content, fan posts or posts defending her, she's liable to read them because the cast regularly interact with fans online.

What do you have to say that is so important that it trumps protecting a young girl from the long-staying trauma of racism, of being told she doesn't deserve something she worked for because of how she was born?

16. I can't even criticize the show without being called racist:

Get. Over. Yourself.

Y'all are not the victim. Have fans of the show gotten protective of Leah and the young cast? Yes.

With good reason. This fandom is unbearably toxic.

Racism outweighs your need for a "perfect adaptation", sorry.

If you explain yourself properly and keep your critiques fair (like, even I don't think this was a perfect season, and will be sharing my thoughts shortly), no one is gonna call you racist.

You're preempting with that because in all honesty, you're probably planning to use your "critiques" of the show to pivot to one of the many points that I just outlined, and you want to pre-empt the criticism.

If a black Annabeth is the end all be all for you, just don't watch the show, no one's holding a gun to your head. Geez.

17. I'm Black/POC and I don't agree...:

Hey, Candace Owens... No one gives a shit.

First of all, for all the "I'm POC and I don't agree" people, you don't speak for us. Anti-blackness is rampant in just about every culture globally. You being not-white doesn't somehow make you less prone to hating black people.

But for the "I'm black and I don't agree" leftovers (assuming you're not just a 👩🏼‍💻 behind a keyboard). Black people are not a monolith. You're not obligated to think a certain way because you're black.

But consider why you're putting yourself up as a barrier to protect this hate mob. It's one thing to just state why you don't like Leah's casting, but to start off your spiel with "I'm actually black" as a way to weaponize the very identity politics you're critiquing... very strange. Not to mention, what are you defending?

The black community is coming together to defend one of our own, a kid who has been receiving death threats since she was 12, and this is when you feel the need to back the opposition?

I mean whatever... sometimes the house slaves would snitch to the master. There will always be some of y'all in the woodwork. It is what it is.

But when the exact ideology you defend is turned against you, when a Baltimore elected official is being accused of getting his job through "DEI", when conservatives are claiming that they wouldn't "trust a black pilot", don't decide that's where you'll finally draw your line in the sand.

All that being said, This is my Annabeth:

May every tongue that rose against Leah Sava Jeffries Shrivel and die in 2025 🙏🏿 My girl will keep winning ❤️

(video by @/waleahhasmyheart on TikTok)

[hivemuthur]

A Deer and a Man - Ch.2.

viktorxfemale!reader mature (overall explicit)

Ch.1. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6.

word count: 5,9K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family’s wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author’s note: This fic has some special hold on me, it made me sit down by the piano this week. Also, I've committed a playlist, you can check it out on Spotify. Super thanks as usual to @mithrava for consulting on regency historical accuracy and to @rennethen who beta reads!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You hate to admit it, but you do anticipate. The last time you had awaited something with such feeling was when your mother departed to tend to your ailing aunt—or rather, to command her staff when she could no longer do so—and you and your sisters had run barefoot through the house, singing The Unfortunate Rake at the top of your lungs, much to your father’s amusement.

Now, dressed and polished from head to toe by your ever-diligent Peggy—though not without a spirited debate regarding the appropriate amount of rouge upon your cheeks—you allow yourself to drift into thought, chin propped upon your hand as you gaze wistfully at the passing landscape through the carriage window.

"Why do you look as though you are being led to the gallows?" comes the voice of your sister—the middle one. You glance up to find her brows lifted almost to her hairline and your mother wearing a look of mild reproach. "Should you not be overjoyed?"

"I am quite overjoyed, Kitty, but I thank you for your concern," you reply flatly, rolling your eyes.

Kitty is, in every way, the daughter your mother wishes you to be. Her sole ambition in life is to marry well and raise a brood of children. You find it all terribly dull, though you suspect something within her will change when she encounters her first true disappointment.

Tess, the youngest, is far more like you. She has never betrayed your confidences to Mother. She sneaks you sweetmeats from the kitchen at bedtime, insists you look lovelier with your hair unpinned, and entrusts you with her dearest secrets, knowing they are safe in your keeping. It is for this very reason that she remained behind today, occupied with the practice of her calligraphy under her lady’s maid’s supervision.

"It would not pain you to smile, my dear," your mother remarks, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. A deception, you suspect.

Nevertheless, you indulge her. You summon your most winsome smile and compose yourself in your seat, all the while wondering—anticipating—what it is that Viktor wishes to say to you in private.

When the carriage draws to a halt, he is already there. Viktor stands waiting with his weight shifted to one side, the tip of his cane pressed lightly against the ground. The early afternoon light casts a warm glow over him, accentuating the deep brown of his coat—a fine, if somewhat modest piece, its cut more practical than fashionable. A dark waistcoat lies beneath, fitted neatly over his frame, with a cravat tied in a manner that suggests efficiency rather than vanity. His hair resists perfect order, a few loose strands falling across his forehead despite his apparent effort to tame them.

There is something almost careless about his appearance, yet not in a way that suggests a lack of pride. Rather, it is as if he simply does not concern himself with the rigid expectations of refinement. His gloves are well-worn, the leather of his cane handle bears the mark of frequent use, and yet—despite all this—he cuts a striking figure. Perhaps it is the way he carries himself, or the sharp focus of his gaze as he watches your approach. Handsome, undeniably so, but with a presence that unsettles as much as it intrigues.

And you find yourself grateful for the abhorrent amount of blush Peggy has pressed into your cheeks—at least you can blame the warmth rising there on that. Even more so when he grants you a fleeting glance and smiles to himself before turning to your mother.

“My Lady, it is a pleasure to see you again,” he says, bowing his head with practiced grace.

She responds with a measured nod, her expression unreadable. “Mister Viktor.”

Next, he turns to Kitty, who is already smiling prettily, her hands clasped before her. “Miss Catherine,” he greets, offering a slight bow.

Kitty dips into a shallow curtsey, her tone light. “Mister Viktor, I trust you are well?”

“As well as one can be, Miss,” he replies smoothly before his gaze finally lands on you. It is fleeting—just a moment longer than propriety demands—yet enough to send a thrill through you.

“Miss,” he murmurs at last, bowing once more.

You respond with a curtsy, keeping your chin high despite the quickened beat of your pulse. Acutely aware of how desperately the two halves of you claw at each other within your chest you clench your jaw and force yourself to blink.

Your mother clears her throat. “Shall we proceed?”

Viktor is silent for a moment, his gaze flickers between you and the path ahead, considering something. Then, with measured care, he speaks. “Ladies, might I request a moment alone with my future wife? I should like the opportunity to better acquaint myself with her.”

Your mother’s expression does not shift at once. Instead, she regards him with a pensive air, weighing the request. Then, just as swiftly, her features settle into the familiar, practiced smile of social grace.

“I see no objection, sir.” She turns to you, levelling you with an unreadable look. “I trust you will conduct yourself with decorum.”

You incline your head. “Of course, Maman.”

Viktor nods in gratitude before turning his attention back to you. With an ease that seems entirely natural to him—but utterly foreign to you—he extends his arm. You hesitate only for a heartbeat before slipping your hand through, the warmth of his sleeve pressing against your palm.

At once, your mind replays the moment in the music room—the ghost of his touch at your forearms as he steadied you when you stumbled. The surprise of it. The quiet strength in his grasp. The way you had looked at one another for a long time before pulling away.

Now, as your fingers rest against his sleeve, you are keenly aware of the space between you, and the fact that—however slight—he has just closed it once more.

You march forward leisurely and even though you can’t see your mother and sister trotting behind you, you wait for a long moment before coming up with something to say. You wait for so long, in fact, that Viktor beats you to it.

“How have you been?” he asks softly, your name following the question with an intimacy that startles you.

Your fingers twitch against the fabric of your glove, and you glance at him sidelong. “Well enough,” you reply, though your voice is not as steady as you wish it to be.

“Any new rebellious music you have come across?”

“Ah, that,” you chuckle, though you scowl inwardly at how flustered the sound is. “Sadly, I have had no opportunity to evade my mother’s hound-like hearing abilities. So, only little dancing tunes for my sisters—nothing of true note.”

“A pity,” he muses. “I quite enjoyed the Sonata.” His tone is contemplative, but there is in intention hidden not that too well underneath it. “And yet,” he continues after a beat, “it is for that very reason I asked to meet you.”

You arch a brow, affecting nonchalance despite the way your heartbeat betrays you. “Oh? Are you also a great admirer of music deemed unsuitable for proper ladies?”

“Absolutely,” he answers, the humour in his tone fleeting. “But I do have another, more pressing motive—if you do not mind me speaking plainly.”

“By all means,” you say, tilting your head towards him. “Do tell, Viktor.”

He gestures with his cane, the subtle drawing your attention to the promenade before you. Couples walk in neat little pairs, each shadowed by their requisite chaperone, the ritual of courtship unfolding before you like a well-rehearsed performance.

“The endless hunt,” he murmurs. “Men trailing after their prey under the pretence of romance.”

You huff a small laugh. “Why do you presume it is only men who do the hunting? Perhaps you are the deer, and simply unaware of it.”

Viktor glances at you then, his lips curving in an intrigued smile. “An interesting proposition.” His gaze lingers, thoughtful, before flickering back ahead. “I am, however, quite aware that this—” he inclines his head towards the scene before you—“is not the future I would have chosen for myself.”

His fingers tighten briefly on the handle of his cane. “Which is why I come to you with an offer of compromise.”

Your brows lift. “A compromise?”

“A contract,” he corrects. “Between us, and no one else.”

Your stomach tightens, though with what, you are uncertain. “And what, pray, would this contract entail?”

“Freedom,” he answers simply. “As much as may be found within the gilded cage we are about to share—for better or for worse.”

You glance up at him, studying the sharp lines of his profile, but say nothing.

Viktor exhales through his nose, as if steeling himself. “I would not ask you to be anything other than what you are. You may conduct yourself as you wish—the clothes you wear, the music you play, the company you keep…” He pauses, and you feel, rather than see, his eyes on you. “So long as I am afforded the same courtesy.”

A curious sensation unfurls within you, slow and uncertain. A flutter—a fervour, almost—on one hand. Yet on the other, something sinks deep and remains suspended in an inertia for which you cannot place the cause.

Your fingers, still lightly curled around his arm, shift almost imperceptibly, your gloved fingertips brushing against the bare skin of his wrist where his cuff has shifted ever so slightly.

Viktor stills.

His step does not falter, nor does he pull away, but for the smallest fraction of a moment, you feel it—a sharp, fleeting pause, as though you have startled him.

You tilt your chin slightly, affecting an air of curiosity. “And why,” you murmur, voice quieter now, “would you offer such a thing to me?”

He hums, the sound low. “You play your part very well,” he admits. “Colour me impressed. But I see that you are not wholly content, and I do not wish to make you miserable.”

His eyes flick once more to the couples ahead, his expression unreadable. “This,” he says, his voice measured, “has never been my desire. And I suspect it has never been yours.”

“You did not jest about speaking plainly,” you remark, though there is a note of something in your voice—something faintly wistful coming from an unknown place you are not certain you wish to explore.

You suppose you ought to be offended—particularly by such a frank allowance for debauchery (and the expectation of reciprocation on his part). Yet what strikes you most is not the proposition itself, but rather his own unwillingness to partake in this experiment, despite claiming the title of a man of science.

He turns to you at once, his brow drawing together. “Forgive me. Have I offended? That was not my intent.”

You shake your head, exhaling softly before tilting your gaze up at him. Unable to give him the answer just yet. Unable to lock that part away. “Which one are you?” you ask, fixing your gaze on promenading couples.

Viktor only looks at you, his head tilts slightly in your direction and you can feel his breath ghosting around your temple.

“A deer,” you continue, “or a man?”

His lips curve, though his expression remains thoughtful. “A man, undoubtedly,” he says. “But my deer is not a woman to be conquered, nor wealth to be obtained. Progress only—science.”

You consider that for a moment before asking, “And which one do you think I am?”

Viktor studies you then, a searching sort of scrutiny in his gaze. “I think,” he begins, then pauses, as if weighing his words. “A man, as well. You simply do not yet know what it is you are hunting.”

You swallow and let your face display honesty for a flicker of a second. A tremendous feeling of being watched and seen by someone who barely knows you makes you both grow and shrink—one part of you laps at it, eager and hungry, the other, shy and defeated, steps back cradling her heart in her hands.

A pause, then—

“I accept your offer, Viktor.”

***

Days pass as you mull over the new terms of your arrangement, the weight of it settling upon you like an ill-fitted gown. The household is abuzz with the nonsensical pressures of wedding preparations—your mother and sisters significantly more enthused than you.

You find yourself torn between the promise of freedom and the threat of imprisonment, for what Viktor has proposed holds both in equal measure—a double-edged sword poised to cut you both.

Each of his conditions is something you never dared to dream of, having long resigned yourself to the certainty that you would never marry, certainly not for love. That naïve conviction held firm until your mother—ever pragmatic—brought you back to earth. In time, you had learned to accept your fate, to dream, however cautiously, of a husband who might tolerate your eccentricities, just as your father does. And perhaps, if fortune were kind, one who might even grow to love you, as your father so clearly loves your mother.

But with Viktor’s proposition, such hopes dwindle by the day. The reality that awaits you is one in which you must learn to be content with the love you can provide for yourself.

He comes and goes, paying you little visits, bringing flowers for your mother and, on occasion, Jayce for your father. And once, Jayce brings his mother, and the meeting nearly rends you in two—to witness what mothers can be. How gentle they can be, how kind. Even to a child not their own. Ximena Talis holds only love for Viktor in her heart; it seeps through her eyes, through the tenderness of her hands when she pats his back and smooths his cheek, telling him how proud she is.

A fraction of this kindness reaches you when she takes your hand and tells you what a good boy he is. How sensitive and clever. And it wounds you deeply to see how enraptured she is by the idea of Viktor finding someone who will love him as she and Jayce do—blissfully unaware of the pusillanimous little mercy he has devised to ensure the success of your sham.

Yet you do find excitement, somewhere within you. At the thought of the music you will play freely, at the great fire you will make to burn the tighter half of your short stays (you must keep some for when your mother visits), at the hairpins that will go conveniently missing on the way to your new house, and the books you will read lying in the grass. It is not all so miserable.

It comes and fades, just as Viktor drifts in and out of your thoughts, lingering in the late evening hours when your night-bound self cannot cease conjuring visions of what your life will be in mere days. After many nights spent ruminating, you resolve at last that such sentiments are not worth troubling your heart over. You must stand by your acceptance of Viktor’s offer.

So you endure the dress fittings, the flower selections, and the cake tastings that your mother drags you to, a sad smile fixed upon your face, telling yourself it will all be over soon. And indeed, when the day of your imprisonment— which is also the day of your release—arrives, you find the skin of your face intolerably tight with powder and a smile affixed there, despite the wetness lingering beneath your eyelids.

You regard yourself in the mirror, refusing to let nerves take hold of you. It is only last-minute jitters, you tell yourself, even as the ultimate version of your daylight self stares back—her hands clasped into fists, her hair arranged into the most meticulous bun you have ever seen, her breasts bound by the most vile short stay you have ever had the misfortune to wear. All of it wrapped in a blue dress, a fabric of your choosing—the only compromise your mother allowed in the preparations.

Your mother has left the room to inform your father that you will soon depart for the church, while your sisters flit about you, giggling and teasing about how you will step before the altar a child and leave a woman grown. The words tighten your chest, and you wave them off with a sharp breath.

"Please, it is hard enough to breathe without all of you crowding me."

"Are you going to bring shame upon Maman now? See, Tess? We should have placed our wager while there was still time," Kitty jests, but you find no laughter within you. Tess only frowns, visibly troubled, as a child might be when confronted with emotions beyond her understanding—or perhaps because she understands them all too well.

"I will fetch Maman," she says, watching the colour drain from your face despite the rouge upon your cheeks.

"No—" you snap, grasping her shoulder firmly. "I need Peggy. Tess, I beg of you."

Tess nods solemnly, throwing Kitty a warning look as severe as a seven-year-old can muster. Kitty huffs but follows her out, leaving you alone with your trembling hands and a heart that pounds so furiously it makes your chest feel even tighter. Before you can give in to the swooning sensation creeping up your spine, the door creaks open once more, and Peggy peeks inside, brow furrowed in concern.

"Everything all right, Miss?"

"No. Peggy, no," you cry, barely managing to keep your voice from breaking. Your eyes burn, but you force them wide, desperate to keep the tears from spilling and ruining the painstaking work of rouge and powder. "Why do I feel so wretched? It is as though something inside me has died."

Peggy steps further in, hands hovering uncertainly at her sides. "Oh, Miss, whatever has happened?"

You shake your head, pressing your fingers to your temples as if you might will away the frantic mess of thoughts swarming inside it. "I am such a fool. I was so certain I could go through with this, and I know there is no undoing it, but—" A shuddering breath, a helpless glance at your reflection. "I was ready to simply be a wife, to accept my place, but then he came along, and I, like a simpleton, began to hope. I let myself want."

Peggy's face softens, though hesitation lingers in her posture. "Oh, my dear child… but you shall be a wife, and I daresay you shall be happy."

You let out a brittle laugh, one that holds no mirth. "I shall not. I shall not be loved, nor truly known. I shall live in a grand house beside a husband who has no wish to understand me. I shall grow old in loneliness, without affection, without companionship."

Peggy presses her lips together, as if choosing her words with great care. "And how, pray, can you be so certain?"

You inhale sharply, fingers curling into the folds of your skirts. "Because he told me so. He offered me terms, a bargain. I—foolishly proud—accepted." The confession tumbles from your lips in a rush, bitter and breathless. "A life in which I may do as I please, so long as he is granted the same. No expectations, no obligations. Not in our conduct, nor our company, nor even the way we dress. And you—" Your voice falters, the words lodging in your throat. "You will not even be there to comfort me."

For a moment, Peggy says nothing, only watching you with an unreadable expression. Then, gently, she reaches for your hands, pressing them between her own. When she speaks again, it is not with formality, but with quiet insistence. She speaks your name.

"He would be a fool not to see you for what you are. And trust me when I say this—" She squeezes your hands, warmth and certainty in her grasp. "To fall in love with you takes mere seconds."

"It has already been seconds since we met," you mutter helplessly, sniffing as your brows furrow.

"People make strange decisions when they are afraid," she says with a soft, knowing smile. "And in my experience, men are the easiest creatures to spook."

A tear escapes the prison of your lashes, and before Peggy can react, you startle her with an embrace. She hesitates for only a moment before wrapping her arms around you, and you cannot remember the last time you were held with such tenderness.

Then, with gentle hands, she tilts your chin up and says, "Come now, let us put you back to rights before your lady mother starts to sulk, hmm?"

Peggy sets to work with quiet efficiency, dabbing away stray tears with the gentlest touch, mindful not to smudge the careful artistry upon your face. She smooths her thumbs over your cheeks, fixing the powdered rouge, then reaches for a fresh handkerchief to blot any lingering dampness. With delicate hands, she adjusts the loosened strands of your hair, tucking them back into place with a precision that belies her station. The soft murmurs of reassurance she offers are meant to soothe, yet they do little to quell the tight knot in your chest. You watch her through the mirror, unblinking, as she works—fast, methodical—restoring you to the poised young lady your mother expects to see walk down the aisle. When she finally steps back, her eyes sweep over you with a quiet sort of pride, as if she has mended something far greater than a few ruined curls and a streak of moisture on your cheek.

The remainder of the time slips past in a haze, your body moving through each step as though it belongs to someone else. Your sisters return, chattering brightly, their excitement so stark against the hush in your own mind that it feels almost deafening. Your mother arrives moments later, beaming, and claps her hands together at the sight of you, exclaiming over your appearance without noticing the effort it took to make you look so flawless. You offer her a small, obedient smile, a perfect replica of the one you have worn for weeks now and allow yourself to be ushered out the door. The carriage ride is a blur of voices and silk rustling around you, the weight of expectation pressing against your skin like the stay laced too tightly around your ribs. By the time you arrive at the church, you are exactly as you ought to be—composed, lovely, and utterly unreadable.

The heavy church doors are pulled open before you, and a hush falls over the gathered assembly. The murmur of conversation, the rustle of clothing, even the faintest shifting of feet upon stone—everything stills as you step into the dim, vaulted space. The scent of aged wood and melting wax mingles with the perfume of fresh flowers lining the pews, a sickly-sweet contrast to the sharp awareness tightening your chest.

Light filters through the tall, stained-glass windows, dappling the aisle in shifting colours as you take your first step forward. Your father’s arm is steady beneath your fingertips, a firm anchor, but it does little to ease the weight pressing against your ribs. Your gaze lifts, drawn forward, past the unfamiliar sea of faces, past the faint blur of expectation, to the one person who matters in this moment.

Viktor stands at the altar, rigid as a statue, his hands clasped before him. He is dressed finely—your mother’s doing, no doubt—but the cut of his coat, the carefully pressed folds of his cravat, feel like a costume rather than something truly belonging to him. His face is unreadable at first, his expression schooled into an impassive mask, but then—then his eyes meet yours.

Something flickers there. A hesitation, barely perceptible. The faintest parting of his lips, as if he might speak if the weight of the room did not demand silence. His gaze drags over you, slow and searching, taking in the meticulous artistry of your appearance, the delicate lace framing your face, the blue silk wrapped about you like a second skin. You expect nothing from him, and yet—his fingers twitch at his side, as if resisting some impulse even he does not understand.

And then, just as quickly, it is gone. He schools his features once more, his posture remains stiff, and whatever moment had passed between you vanishes into the hush of the church.

The priest turns to Viktor first.

“Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

A silence, brief yet all-encompassing, stretches across the nave. Viktor’s gaze remains steady, locked upon yours as he answers, his voice even, assured and the words strike you with reverence you did not suspect him to have.

“I will.”

A breath catches in your throat.

“Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?” The priest turns to you.

You part your lips, but for a moment, no sound emerges. It is not hesitation, not truly—it is the finality of it, the weight of a thousand expectations pressing down upon your ribcage. You feel Viktor’s gaze on you, unwavering and waiting.

Your fingers tighten at your sides, nails digging into your palm.

“I will.”

The words leave you quieter than intended, but they are spoken. A shift of movement behind you—a sigh, perhaps your mother’s—reaches your ears, but it is distant, inconsequential now.

The priest nods, satisfied, and gestures for your hand.

Viktor steps forward, extending his hand to you, palm open. Your fingers feel unsteady as you place them in his, the warmth of his skin seeping through your glove into the coldness of your skin. He holds your hand with gentle firmness, neither possessive nor hesitant—simply assured.

He speaks first, his voice steady, the words carried by the hush of the chapel.

“I, Viktor, take thee to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a fleeting motion, barely noticeable.

It is your turn. You inhale, the breath unsteady, and repeat the vow, your voice carrying a note of quiet conviction.

“I,” you start, then speak your name quietly, “take thee, Viktor, to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

As the final words leave your lips, Viktor’s grip remains unwavering and warm. The rector nods and Jayce steps forward, placing a golden band into Viktor’s open palm, while his eyes remain fixed strictly on yours.

He slides it onto your finger slowly, its weight featherlight and yet impossibly heavy. There is finality in it, a truth that cannot be undone, and when you lift your gaze, Viktor is still watching you, his lids hooded. His mouth parts, and he speaks the finals words softly, almost intimately and for a moment you feel like it’s only you and him, holding hands in this vast, echoing space.

“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship,” he recites between breaths, the honesty beneath it rips through your chest. You wonder if it’s at all possible for this man to be so rehearsed that he can proclaim his worship to you in such a tone, while feeling none of it. “And with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Before you can breathe, the priest proclaims, “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

And so it is, final and done, when your heart hammers in your ears as you sign yet another contract—the Register—to bind you not only in the holy matrimony, but also in the legal one. The rest is a blur, as people outside the church whistle and clap upon your emergence and the carriage takes you all back to your house for the reception.

And you brace through it as your day self—bright, charming, and polite. Thanking your guests and being the picture-perfect bride, making your mother and father proud. You smile until your cheeks ache, laugh when it is expected, and accept well-wishes with a gracious nod.

Ximena Talis is among the many to take your hands in hers, her warmth enveloping you like the motherly embrace you once yearned for. “My dear, you are radiant,” she says, pressing your fingers gently. “Viktor is fortunate beyond measure. I have always known he would find someone exceptional.”

The words settle in your chest like lead. You murmur a soft “Thank you, my lady,” but the sentiment stings. Fortunate? Perhaps, but not in the way she imagines. You wish you could believe in the same happiness she does.

Across the room, Viktor lingers at the edge of the gathering, ever the observer. His gaze flickers towards you, assessing. He sees the perfect illusion—the grace, the charm—but does he notice the way your hands tighten in your lap when no one is watching? The way your laughter sounds hollow?

At last, he steps close enough that only you can hear him. “You do not seem out of place,” he remarks idly, reaching for a cup of tea.

You do not look at him as you reply. “Neither do you.”

He hums, tilting cup as if he were looking for an answer within it. “I expected you to be more resistant.”

“I have learnt when resistance is futile,” you answer smoothly, placing your empty cup on a passing tray. “And you?”

He glances at you, just once, before bringing his glass to his lips. “I have always known how to adapt.”

A small smile curls at the edge of your mouth, just enough to be seen by those watching, just enough to be mistaken for joy. “Then we are well-matched indeed.”

His lips quirk, as if in amusement. But he says nothing more. Instead, he lingers close enough so that the heat of his body transmits to yours, and unlike you, Viktor cannot blame his reddened cheeks on powder blush.

You try to read anything within his expression, but the only thing that gives him away is the almost imperceptible tightness of his jaw.

Before you decide what to make of it, you are pulled back to your bridal duties—an obligatory dance with your father comes first.

He observes you all the way through it, as if trying to decipher how unhappy you are. “Know, that I have never been more proud of you,” he says, holding your hands firmly.

“And why is that? I have achieved nothing today, Papa, I merely got married,” you jest, but your father sees right through you. He breaks the rhythm of the dance to pull you into an embrace and whispers into your ear, “It’s not that you got married. It’s how you’ve done it. Of that I am proud.”

You gasp quietly and let yourself be held. It helps you to get through the rest of the rituals—dancing with uncles and other relatives, until a brief reprieve comes in a shape of Jayce. He grins down at you with a lopsided ease. “Look at you,” he teases, his voice light despite the tension that flickers beneath. “The perfect bride, the perfect wedding. You’ve even got the perfect brother-in-law.”

You let out a quiet huff, only half amused. “Are you fishing for a compliment, Jayce?”

“Wouldn’t need to if you’d just admit I’m your favourite already.”

You move through the dance with ease, though his hand tightens slightly on yours as he lowers his voice. “You’re all right?”

A pause. You should lie, as you have been all morning, but Jayce is not so easily fooled. “I will be,” you answer, quiet but honest. It is the best you can offer.

He nods once, accepting that for what it is. “If he ever gives you trouble, you know where to find me.”

It is an unnecessary promise—Viktor is not cruel—but you do not dismiss it.

As the dance concludes, you step away, your role in the festivities almost complete. Before the hour grows too late, you press a ribbon into Kitty’s palm, her eyes lighting with delight as she fastens it to her wrist. Tess is more reserved when you pull her aside, brows knit in deep thought before you even place the pearl in her hand.

“You’ll be back soon, won’t you?” she asks. Her fingers curl around the gift, her frown pressing deeper.

You smooth back a stray lock of her hair, forcing a smile. “Of course.” Even you are not certain how much truth sits in those words.

At last, it is time to take your leave. The final goodbyes begin, your family gathering around, and just as you think the moment has passed without incident, your uncle—already too deep in his indulgences—lifts his glass with a booming voice.

“Well then! Since they will not dance together, they must at least seal the night with a kiss!”

Laughter ripples through the guests, some echoing their agreement, others clapping their hands in delight. A glance at your mother tells you she will not intervene—this is not so improper a request that it can be denied. Your father only sighs, while Jayce grins at Viktor, clearly entertained.

There is no way out of this. You glance at Viktor, only to find him already watching you.

He does not speak, but his gaze is searching, flicking over your expression with unreadable intent. A flicker of hesitation—barely a breath—before he shifts closer.

The moment stretches unbearably thin.

Then, Viktor leans in.

The kiss is light, brief, barely more than the press of his lips against yours. It is proper in every sense, exactly what is expected. And yet—something in it snags deep within you. The warmth of him, the feather-light brush, the way his breath lingers against your skin a second too long.

Then, so soft only you can hear, Viktor murmurs against your lips—

"It’s all right."

You do not know why the words unsettle you so.

By the time you pull apart, the guests are clapping, laughing, toasting the moment as if it were nothing at all. You school your expression back into place, accept the briefest of bows from Viktor before he steps aside, and let yourself be guided forward, toward the carriage that will take you away.

[subskz]

strawberry lemonade - l.mh

content: sub minho, dom reader, oral (m receiving), temperature play, foodplay (use of a popsicle), teasing, cum eating, reader calls minho kitty/kitten bc i am physically incapable of writing anything else, reader’s sex is unspecified, kinda unsanitary

word count: 5.3k

It was hot. 

The air conditioner in your apartment, however determined it was, served no match for the unforgiving amounts of heat seeping in from outside, hanging heavy all around you and coating your skin with a thin layer of sweat. You’d tried cracking open your balcony door with the hopes of letting a refreshing breeze billow through, but all you were met with was more of the sticky, humid summer air instead.

In the end, you and Minho had taken refuge in the kitchen, where the effects of your barely-functioning AC were strongest. As a last resort to escape the sweltering temperatures, you decided to open up your freezer and dig out a popsicle, more relieved than you’d ever been in your life when you found that there was one more remaining. Even after you’d fished it out, you were reluctant to let go of the chilly waves rolling out from the freezer, basking in them for a few more precious moments before begrudgingly shutting the door. 

The sound of crumpling plastic as you unwrapped your popsicle caught Minho’s attention, and he peered over at you curiously from where he was perched on the counter. He’d taken it upon himself to sit there in an attempt to cool himself off, a trusty wet napkin stuck to his forehead. His eyes gleamed when you approached him, zeroing in on the frozen treat in your hand with a catlike accuracy.

“This is the last one."

Minho frowned at that. Without missing a beat, he stuck his hand out to snatch it from your grasp. “Then gimme.” 

“No way.” You barely veered out of reach in time. “This is a matter of life and death, Lee Minho.”

“You mean you wouldn’t die for me?” he clicked his tongue. “So cold.”

“It is cold,” you agreed, opening your mouth to rest the popsicle against your tongue. Strawberry flavored; his favorite. It was icy and refreshing and nothing short of heavenly in the way it chilled your mouth, tinged with a hint of lemonade to balance out the sweetness.

Minho sniffed irritably, resting his palms on the counter to lean back and spread his legs, like even his own body heat had become too disgusting for him to bear. “I might actually die, y’know.”

You didn’t bother to make your hum of sympathy sound convincing, closing your lips fully around the popsicle without a care in the world. If your roles had been reversed, you were certain you’d be met with the exact same smug indifference from him—topped off with plenty of teasing and laughing directly in your face for good measure. With the way he was eyeing you so keenly, a valuable opportunity to give him a taste of his own medicine presented itself. So, you sucked for a few moments longer before pulling it out of your mouth with a dramatic pop.

“Mmm,” you licked your lips. “I get why you like this flavor so much.”

He made a face, nose scrunching up. “Don’t do all that in front of me.”

“Jealous?”

“Listen closely and you'll hear it calling out my name,” he said it so seriously, you might’ve actually believed him if he were anyone else. "Begging me to save it."

“Uh-huh.” You dragged your tongue along the dessert from bottom to top, ending it with a playful flick to its tip. “I think the heat’s got you hallucinating.”

Minho huffed; sulky, lips downturned and eyes flickering between you and the popsicle. Its citrusy flavor flooded your tastebuds as you took it back into your mouth, letting out another satisfied noise that was even more exaggerated than before.

He went silent for a bit, long enough for you to figure that he’d lost interest in convincing you to hand it over. You continued licking contently away, growing less concerned with taunting him and more concerned with gathering up the juices that had begun to melt from the heat of your mouth. You dragged your lips down to the popsicle’s base, slurping at it loudly in a way that was, in your defense, unintentional that time.

“It’s dripping,” he commented.

It came casual, breezy as ever, but when you glanced up, you found his eyes locked on you, so intensely that it had you taken aback for a moment. 

Then, you noticed it—a stray, red droplet splashing to the floor, with another traveling down your hand, preparing to do the same.

“Seriously,” he complained. “You’re not even appreciating it right! This hurts to watch.”

Without breaking eye contact, you brought your tongue to your wrist, swiping up the trail of juice before it could fall after the other.

“Better?”

To your surprise, Minho was the first to look away. He turned his head with another huff, seemingly annoyed, but a subtle shift in his expression piqued your curiosity beyond that. The corner of his lips twitched, trying to stifle an awkward puff of laughter, eyes blinking so profusely you’d think a drop of sweat might have trickled into them. 

His legs weren’t spread anymore, you noticed. In fact, they were unnaturally close; thighs pressed firmly together despite the sticky discomfort he must have felt with his skin rubbing against itself.

It dawned on you, for the first time, that it may not have been you who Minho was jealous of.

Feigning obliviousness, you slipped into the barstool right across from where he was seated on the counter. He stiffened, turning his attention back to you just as you licked another long stripe up the popsicle.

“Don’t get so close,” his voice cracked. “I don't need your extra body heat right now.”

“Want some?” you asked innocently.

You tilted the popsicle towards him. Dripping, red, shining with an inviting glaze where you’d worked your mouth. A melted droplet accumulated at its tip, weighing itself down and splattering against his thigh. 

He almost flinched, eyes darting down to the spot where it’d landed, then back up to your swelling lips. Even as he willed himself to ignore it, he was all too aware of the cool liquid spreading along his skin, quickening his heartbeat the further down it traveled.

“No,” he swallowed. “You already ruined it.”

“C’mon, let’s play that game you like so much. From your mouth to mine, right?”

Minho would always suggest it with the most self-satisfied look on his face, eyes twinkling with mischief and lips curving into an alluring smirk around whichever food he was trying to convince you to take from his mouth that day. Now, he didn’t look nearly as proud of himself. Squirming awkwardly under your stare, fingers fidgeting against the countertop, scrambling for something to bounce back with before he was completely cornered.

“That’s more of a favor, really,” he managed a trace of that crooked grin you knew. “So it’ll taste better for you.”

You rested your elbow on his thigh, pushing back a smile of your own when you felt his muscles tense up beneath you. 

“Then make it taste better for me.”

You brought the popsicle up to nudge Minho’s lips. Slowly, deliberately, you dragged it along them, tracing their pouty shape and coating them red with its juices. Even with the mesmerizing sight demanding all of your attention, you still didn’t miss the way his breathing began to pick up, chest rising and falling a bit more rapidly under his loose-fitted shirt. 

Then, he opened his mouth, just wide enough for you to push past his glistening lips and glide the frozen treat along his tongue. His stare realigned with yours, pupils blown wide; so dark that you could see yourself reflected in them. A glimpse into his own view, one that had his composure fizzling out alarmingly fast.

You inched forward bit by bit, taking your sweet time to admire how naturally his lips wrapped around it, how effortlessly he took it into his mouth, like he was meant to be filled. This time, Minho didn’t shy away, regardless of how your hungry eyes were pooling a heat in his stomach that was far different from the suffocating summer air. His eyelids drooped, thick lashes fanning over his gaze as it bore right back into yours. Defiant and desperate all at once—challenging you to take back the popsicle, pleading for you to take him with it. 

A soft noise rose in his throat when you pushed as far down as you could go, so deep that your fingers brushed the entrance of his mouth. You stayed like that for just a moment longer, then pulled the popsicle out in one fell swoop, grazing it along his front teeth and leaving a cute pair of bite marks engraved in its side. 

He had no chance to suck the melted coating off its surface before you popped it back into your mouth, still dripping with his saliva. You felt his thighs squeeze together under your arm, the red tint of his ears creeping up on his cheeks when you swallowed up the sweet blend without hesitation. 

“You were right,” you murmured. “That’s much better.”

His lips were still parted, and you rubbed your thumb over the corner of his mouth to break the trail of drool that had dribbled out. Then, without warning, your hand fell from his face, brushing over the spot between his thighs that he’d been working so hard to distract you from.

“But I think I wanna taste something else, now.”

Minho’s stomach flipped, breath hitching so loud he was certain you could hear it. He shifted under your hand in a pointless attempt to conceal how hard he’d become, but all it did was press his bulge further against your palm. You leaned down to run your tongue along the dried patch of strawberry on his thigh, cooling the skin where his shorts had ridden up and making goosebumps rise to the surface.

“Poor baby.” You gave him a squeeze, watching in delight as his cheeks puffed out, flushing a shade deeper in an effort to hold in his gasp. “You’re really overheated, huh?”

“You…” he tried to get a handle on his voice, but much to his horror, it trembled anyway. “You did this on p-purpose.”

“Did not,” you pouted. “It’s not my fault you’re such a spoiled little kitten. Can’t even watch me eat a popsicle without wishing it was your dick instead.”

Any retort Minho had planned died in his throat when you slid the popsicle back into your mouth. Watching it push past your lips when you were hovering so close to his bulge was enough to make him throb in the confines of his shorts—a detail that, embarrassingly enough, he was certain you felt clear as day under your hand.

Holding the dessert steady between your teeth, you dipped your fingers below the waistband of his shorts, tugging at the elastic to pull them down along with his boxers. It was almost cute; how he deliberately slowed his movements to avoid coming off as too eager. How he was still trying to convince you he was unaffected, even when your fingers had just been wrapped around the proof of how aroused he’d become without a single touch from you. Still, you let him have his way. Like watching a cat struggle to unhook its claws from a piece of fabric, you waited patiently as he unstuck his thighs from the counter little by little, hoisting himself up so you could slip the garments off at last.

His length sprang up against his stomach, drops of precum seeping into his white shirt to form a small, translucent stain. It made your adrenaline spike—imagining what must’ve been going through Minho’s head for him to get so worked up purely off his own thoughts.

You dragged your lips up the popsicle as you pulled it out of your mouth again, agonizingly slow, savoring every bit of flavor just to make his patience slip a bit more. 

“Is this what you meant when you said it was dripping?”

If the question itself hadn’t been enough to fluster him, what came next surely was. You nudged the popsicle playfully against his dick, flicking its leaking head with just enough force to make him jolt. He bit back his cry through gritted teeth, mustering up all his self-control to ignore the sharp chill that rocked his body so he could string together a response. 

“If I say y-yes,” he breathed. “Will you lick it, too?”

He cursed himself for barely being able to get the words out properly. His eyes squeezed shut to form an adorable grimace, refusing to meet the smirk that he knew was spreading across your face.

“Every last drop.”

You gave him no time to brace himself before you pressed the popsicle to his inner thigh and dragged it inwards all at once. Minho reacted instantly; muscles going taut, legs threatening to close in on each other, hips shrinking away from the ice cold stimulation. A thin, pink layer of juice was left behind everywhere you roamed, complimenting the fading marks you’d left on his skin days ago. 

The sensation was cool and glossy and deliciously unfamiliar against his flesh, parts of his body that were rarely touched by anything but you. It made him more sensitive than ever to the sloppy drag of your tongue that followed. He couldn’t even think to suppress his hiccup as you licked up the entire trail of sweet liquid, mixed with the salty tinge of his sweat.

“Is that better, baby?” you sucked up the leftover juice with an open-mouthed kiss, dangerously close to the base of his length. “Cooling you off?”

He could only form a soft grunt, not trusting himself to speak steadily when the popsicle suddenly found his other thigh, sending a visible shiver all throughout his body.

“Needy little kitten. All the attention just has to be on you, hm?” You twirled your wrist, drawing careful circles into his skin with the popsicle’s tip. “Is this how hard you get for me every time I’ve got something else in my mouth?”

The gentle rhythm of your movements almost lulled Minho into a trance, easing the uncomfortable heat that had been consuming his senses and replacing it with a pleasurable ache that made it difficult for him to focus on anything else.

“Y-you’re mean,” he stuttered out. “It's ‘cause you were teasing me.”

“Anything looks like teasing when you think with your dick, baby.”

You slid the popsicle further up his thigh, listening closely to the sound of his quickening breath as you approached the spot that was doing all the begging his mouth couldn’t verbalize just yet, twitching and leaking more uncontrollably by the second. A shaky sigh escaped him, dragging out into a moan when you flattened your tongue against his skin and followed the messy trail of juice, countering its cool sensation with the warmth of your mouth.

The feeling of his flesh—soft and pulsing and completely vulnerable under your teeth—was too tempting to resist biting down on. It sent his hips snapping forward with embarrassing speed, only making you sink your teeth deeper into his thigh. A low, frustrated whine met your ears, rife with desire for the wet heat that was taunting him just inches away from his cock, chipping away at his already minimal patience.

“Hah, more,” he demanded weakly. “Gimme more.”

“Still hot?” You nibbled until you were certain a brand new patch of red would be left behind on his plush skin, relishing in the remaining traces of strawberry as you gave it a final, languid lick. “I got you baby.”

In all its haziness, Minho’s mind processed your intentions a split second too late. His eyes fluttered open in alarm just in time to catch the mischievous glint that crossed yours. A fresh surge of frost rippled through his senses as you slid the popsicle along the underside of his cock, pressing its full length against him all at once.

Even as his hand flew up to clamp over his mouth, a broken cry rang out through the kitchen regardless, so loud that it sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. The satisfaction it brought you was only amplified as he immediately began writhing under your hand, hips twisting and muscles clenching, like he himself didn’t know whether he wanted to escape the numbing cold, or lean into it—to let the strange thrill it created in his stomach take over in full.

“A-ah! Wait, wait, wait,” his honey voice spiked into something sharper; an uncharacteristically raspy squeak. “Too much, ‘s too much!”

“Too much?” you echoed. “It’s for your own good, kitty. You wanted more, right?”

You glanced up to find his hand now curled into a fist, bunny teeth sinking into it to restrain another pathetic sound. He met your eyes with a scowl that might’ve been intimidating if he didn’t look completely and utterly helpless.

“That’s n-not what I meant,” he mumbled miserably through his fingers. “You know it’s not.”

You tilted your head, determined to keep your hand firmly in place, even with all his wriggling around. “Then what did you mean?”

The popsicle was melting faster now thanks to all the contact with his burning skin, staining red all over your fingers and dripping torturously down his length. You rolled the treat lower to emphasize your question, wedging it against his balls and making his cock spasm wildly, as if crying out the answer for you.

“I thought kitties were supposed to be smart,” you frowned. “But this is all it takes for your head to go blank, huh?”

Another whine spilled out of him, too incoherent for you to make out what he was saying. But the way he blinked down at you, pupils blown out and putting his desperation on full display, told you all that you needed to know. He was clinging to the last few shreds of his pride, not quite ready to beg for you yet. Even so, you decided to indulge him—there would be plenty of opportunities for you to drag out the pleas you knew he was capable of later on. That, and, maybe the look that he was giving you, even more irresistible than any words might sound coming from his mouth, affected you more than you’d like to admit.

“Guess I should stop playing with my food,” your breath fanned over his skin in a murmur, like a gentle breeze quelling the throb in his body that had become near unbearable. 

Minho searched aimlessly for something clever to say, something to pretend like his brain wasn’t about to fizzle out watching you draw closer and closer, but any quip was cut short by his sharp inhale when you leaned in and wrapped your lips around the head of his cock in one, fluid motion. He doubled over the moment you did, hands falling to grip the edge of the counter like he might fully collapse if he didn’t. Relieved by the warmth of your mouth finding him at last, overwhelmed by how it contrasted the popsicle’s relentless chill. The combination of temperatures was nearly enough to bring the tension building in his abdomen to a tipping point, right then and there.

You began sucking at his tip without giving him any chance to adjust, squeezing your mouth rhythmically around him to add addictive bursts of pleasure that made him pulse under your lips. He hissed softly as your tongue pressed against his head, teasing under its groove and tracing its shape. His taste mixed with the lingering flavor of the popsicle, earning a satisfied hum from you that vibrated around him and sent a jolt of arousal through his veins.

“Feels good,” he mewled. “More, more, more.”

Hollowing your cheeks, you took his cock deeper into your mouth, engulfing as much of him with the velvety warmth as you could. His whimper turned up in pitch when you slid the half-melted popsicle along the part of his length your lips didn’t cover, back arching and hips bucking forward before he could even think to stop himself.

Your eyes darted up in a warning, stern gaze meeting his half-lidded one and making his heart leap in his chest. Solely from the way he stiffened, you could tell he’d immediately realized his mistake, but he pushed back his apology, pouting down at you instead.

It was an expression you understood all too well—communicating the need for you to control him when he couldn’t control himself. You brought your free hand to his stomach, flattening your palm against it to push him back against the countertop. The added pressure to his abdomen made Minho’s cock jerk on your tongue; so, deviously, you dug your fingers into his shirt, squeezing the soft flesh of his tummy and holding him firmly in place as you began to bob your head once more. 

Every wet slide of your lips was followed with a drag of the popsicle along his length, creating a fresh layer of juice where you’d been sucking just moments before. The groan he managed to stifle was quickly followed by another, more shameless one as you repeated the motion, sinking down to swallow up the strawberry coating, then pulling back so that just his tip was left throbbing in your mouth. 

Gradually, you built up a steady pace, timing the strokes of the popsicle with your mouth so that every inch of his dick was being stimulated at once. Hot and frigid, sloppy and smooth, like you were freezing his body over and setting it back on fire. It wasn’t long before the dizzying blend of sensations became too much for him to handle. You could feel his stomach expanding faster against your palm, could hear his cute grunts grow less and less restrained with each glide of your tongue. Minho’s hips surged forward in another reflex when you paused your bobbing to tease his slit, leaving him longing to be swallowed whole by you once more. A broken moan of frustration escaped him as you pushed down on his stomach to force him back, harder this time.

You pulled off of his cock completely, grazing your front teeth along it as you did and making him shudder under your hands.

“Quit squirming, kitten,” you scolded. “You’re making a mess.”

You swiped your tongue over your lips to lick off the strawberry sheen, well aware of his glossy eyes piercing holes into you as you gathered up the drops of saliva and slush. He moved around indignantly in his spot, a low, restless protest rumbling in his throat. But even he knew better than to test his luck by jerking his hips forward a third time, regardless of how he was already aching to feel your mouth wrapped around him again. Your gentle tone was deceptive, a fact made clear in the way you started working the popsicle against his dick again, like an unspoken threat. There wasn’t much left of it, anymore—less than half, with the last chunk rapidly melting away around the wooden stick. He had trouble deciding whether the friction it created was intoxicating, or utterly excruciating.

Minho’s entire face was flushed, now—red with lust, embarrassment, and the strain of trying to mask his reactions to all the different ways you were toying with him. The napkin on his forehead had become thoroughly soaked, lopsided and slipping from its place. Sweat dripped from his bangs, trickling down his face and neck, glazing his skin to create a positively sinful sight.

“Looks like you’re only getting hotter, baby,” you mused, tapping the wooden stick against his length in mock contemplation. “Maybe I should just stop?”

“No, no, no,” he didn’t bother to hide the panic in his voice. “N-not enough. Gimme more, I want more.”

He held his breath when you opened your mouth and leaned in again, only to give the popsicle a lazy, taunting lick.

“More of what? This?” You took a small bite, savoring it with all the careful attention you’d been giving his cock mere moments ago. The thought alone was enough to make Minho’s head spin with want, with a need for you to put your focus back on him. To work his body in ways no one else could, make him feel things no one else could—not even himself. 

“There’s not much left, kitty. Hurry up and tell me what you need so bad, or I won’t be able to cool you off anymore.”

He whimpered pitifully, delaying the inevitable. “M-mean. So mean.”

“So mean,” you hummed. “You love running your pretty little mouth, right? Just use it to say please, and you’ll get your treat.”

Minho was quiet for a moment, thighs rubbing helplessly together as he weighed the options in his foggy mind. With the way your smile grew watching him fidget, he was almost convinced you could hear his racing thoughts and pounding heartbeat. You took the popsicle between your lips, pulling the last bit carefully up the stick, ready to swallow it down.

“Please,” he whispered.

It was lilted and sweet, infinitely more delicious than any of the flavors that had been flooding your tongue. He probably knew exactly what he was doing—looking you straight in the eye as he said it, making absolutely sure it took full effect. But even as the feather-light word graced your ears and put an undeniable flutter in your chest, you weren’t ready to let him off that easily.

“Please, what?” You inched closer, enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from your lips.

His adam’s apple bobbed, eyes squeezing shut. “Please…your m-mouth,” he tried again. “Don’t make me beg for it.”

“But you sound so cute when you do.” You brushed your lips over the head of his length, earning a sharp hiss from him as you smeared around the fresh drops of precum that had dribbled out. “You could get anything you wanted with a voice like that. Since when are you this shy, baby?”

“Please,” he repeated. His eyebrows furrowed together in pure desperation, and combined with the view of his eyelashes resting delicately on his cheeks, you could’ve caved in a heartbeat. “Please, I need it. Can’t wait anymore. Don’t wanna wait anymore. Please, please, please.”

He was borderline babbling now, each word growing more and more frantic and sending another ripple down your spine.

“There we go. See how pretty you make it sound?” you cooed. “Let me show you how nice I am to good boys.”

You scooped up the final piece of the popsicle before it could melt completely, tossing its stick on the counter and curling your fingers around Minho’s dripping cock. His thighs shot up as you took him back into your mouth all in one go, sinking down as far as you could take him. The strawberry slush dissolved against your tongue, cooling the inside of your mouth to create an icy blend of saliva that was far too much for his hypersensitive body to handle.

Instantly, his voice rang out through the kitchen without an ounce of restraint. Your lips curved into a smile, swallowing around his length and making his head loll to the side in a fit of pleasure. His jaw went slack, spilling out a string of moans that were nothing short of angelic, a perfect contrast to just how filthy he’d become for you. Sticky with sweat, juice, and drool.

You slid up and down his cock with swollen lips, building up a merciless pace and creating sounds that made Minho’s brain go haywire. His fingers clawed helplessly at the smooth surface of the countertop, so frantic to find something to hold onto that the prominent veins in his forearms began to bulge out. As much as it gave you a power rush to have him so fragile on your tongue, your protective instincts kicked in.

You’d barely even pulled off of his length for a second before he was whining in protest, disoriented eyes fluttering open, hips stuttering in search of your mouth again. 

“Don’t hurt yourself, kitty,” you murmured. 

Delicately, you brought your hands to his thrashing ones, soothing their erratic movements and guiding them to rest on your head.

All it took was you licking a long stripe up his cock for him to immediately latch onto you. With a grateful whimper, he tangled his fingers in your hair, small palms pawing rhythmically and blunt nails digging into your scalp as you began working your mouth again. The slickness that coated his length with every bob of your head pushed him to the edge alarmingly fast, you could tell by the way he began squirming again. You slid your hands under his shirt to grab hold of his hips, pinning them down against the countertop to keep him steady as you drew out his climax.

“More, c-close, ‘most there,” he slurred. “Ah, ah, ah!”

“Is it really that good, baby?” you swirled your tongue around his tip, sinking your fingers deeper into his flesh to stop him from bucking. “Even the popsicle lasted longer than you.”

Minho couldn’t find it in him to bite back, not when you followed up your taunt by closing your lips fully around him and sucking at the head of his cock. He bent forward with a hiccup, leaning so far down that you could feel droplets of his sweat splatter onto your skin.

“Please,” he gasped without any hesitation left. “Going crazy, a-ah!”

Instead of outright granting him permission, you tongued at his slit, encouraging him to let go. It sent a jolt of electricity straight to his core, serving as the final catalyst to release the pressure that had been piling up in his stomach. Despite how sharp his cry was, tinged with a cute rasp from how much he’d exerted his voice, he came gently on your tongue. Soft and delicate, just like him. You continued sucking intently at his tip as his high washed over him, feeling every tremor of bliss pass through his thighs trembling around your head and his hands gripping your hair like his life depended on it. 

His airy moans faded into weak little mewls with each soothing circle your thumbs drew into his hipbones. When the final spurt of his cum had spilled onto your tongue, you let his twitching cock fall from your mouth, leaving him dazed and panting on the countertop. 

You were careful not to lose a single drop of his seed resting heavy on your tongue as you rose from the barstool to full standing, coming face to face with Minho. He looked utterly spent—eyes half-lidded, face flushed and glistening with sweat, puffed lips still parted with every pant that slipped past them. He blinked slowly back at you as your hand gripped his jaw, squeezing at his cheeks to urge his mouth further open.

A soft vocalization built in his throat, quickly muffled as you locked his lips with your own, spilling his own release into his mouth. Your tongue slid against his, catching the bittersweet taste of his cum combined with the popsicle’s residual flavor. You savored the kiss for a moment longer before pulling away, watching his throat bob as he drank down the mess of fluids. All his attempts from before to appear uninterested seemed so laughable now, with how eagerly he took it all. For good measure, he stuck his tongue out lazily once he finished, showing you that he hadn’t let any of it go to waste.

You gave his cheek an approving pat.

“You like the taste of your milk, kitty?”

Minho sputtered, ears burning an even deeper red than when you'd had him in your mouth. You swiped your thumb gently over the corner of his lips, pushing a stray drop of his seed back into his mouth. Despite the embarrassment setting his skin on fire, his tongue still flickered over the pad over your finger in a kittenish lick, swallowing it hungrily down with the rest. 

“You’re insane,” he finally mumbled.

“Yeah?” You leaned in again to brush your lips playfully over his, allowing the traces of strawberry lemonade to waft over his senses. “Guess you've rubbed off on me.”

[averagewriter-inthedark]

Kiss the Queen🃏 | Kaz Brekker blurb

Masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Kaz Brekker x crow!reader (romantic)

content warnings: profanity, sexual tension, fluff, banter, typical SOC themes, mentions of Kaz's aversion to touch | female!reader (she/her)| no use of Y/n | wc: 1.5k

Premise: After a long week Kaz Brekker still has paperwork to deal with before he can rest, but leave it to his wife, his Queen of the barrel, to remind him no king can rule a kingdom when he's exhausted his limit

note: I rewatched Shadow & Bone this weakened and gosh I just love (and miss) the Crows. Fuck Netflix for cancelling this show on a cliffhanger and scrapping the SOC spin off.

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

“You look tense, my love,” her teasing voice penetrated the once silent room where Kaz was nose deep in paperwork and doing everything he can to not throw it in the fire just to not deal with it. A bottle of whiskey opened with a half drunk glass, a window open to let in the night breeze. Flames from the fire illuminating the space to fill in the gaps the dimmed lights were unable to reach.

It was past midnight. The club was at full capacity with patrons gambling their life savings and drinking until the sun rose. Kaz was exhausted, and her interruption did nothing to ease that.

“I’m always tense,” came his grumble, elbows perched on the desk to lean his head on his gloved hands. Though his eyes were closed, he could hear the shuffling of cards she held along with the echoed tap of her boots against the wooded floors. Approaching the desk to seat herself in the chair directly in front. 

“Those can wait till the morning you know.”

“And give the lawyers the satisfaction of charging me another day for not completing them on time?” He rebuts, lifting his head to glare at her amused expression, grabbing his glass to chug the rest of its contents. “I think not.” 

After pouring whiskey into the now empty glass, he reaches for another in his desk drawer reserved for her, filling it to the desired amount he knows she likes and slides it over. 

“Shouldn’t you be at your table?” He gestured to the deck in her hand. Flicking each card back and forth with precise accuracy. 

“Decided to take a break. You know what those are right?”

Kaz glared at her jest, “I don’t pay you to waste my labor hours by bothering me when I’ve got important work to do.” 

“You don’t pay me at all,” She smirked, tapping his glass with hers before bringing it to her lips. The alcohol burned her throat, but she welcomed it with a hum. “Not anymore that is,” Her eyes sparkled, and Kaz knew what was coming next. “Since you put my name on the deed.” 

His attention drew to the jewelry on her left ring finger. The black diamond encrusted with white ones and forged with a white gold band grinned at him. Sparkling under the flaming light, causing Kaz to match her smirk when she added, “or was it when you first realized you were going to marry me.”

“Rather presumptuous of you to assume, darling.” 

“Is it presumptuous of me when it’s true?” she challenged, setting her glass down slowly as she watched his eyes follow every movement. Lingering on the jewelry. When he didn’t answer her smirk widened to a full grin, resuming her shuffling of the cards as she leaned back in her chair to cross her legs. Again, he observed each motion. Particularly drawn to her legs which were exposed by the pinstripe skirt she wore along with his favorite pair of sheer stockings. 

“Kaz, you’re exhausted,” she turned serious, eyes filled with worry he’d tease her for but knew better than to attempt when she obviously was concerned about him. “You reek of it--what good would it be for the lawyers if you mess up the paperwork because you can’t process what you’re reading.”

Kaz groaned under his breath, turning away, “I don’t appreciate your lack of confidence in me.” All he received was a dramatic eye roll.

“Forgive me, dear husband, that your wife wishes for you to be at your best when making crucial decisions about our financial assets rather than risk an error.” Kaz couldn’t stop the smirk from forming at ‘dear husband’. 

Rising from his chair, Kaz grabbed his cane and approached the front of his desk. Putting himself in the middle between the furniture and his wife, who cheekily brushed her foot against the side of his leg. Careful not to touch him, but enough to rustle the fabric and make him blush

Bowing slightly, Kaz lowered his tone as they locked eyes, lips curling up when she visibly shuddered, “I don’t make errors.”

Her bottom lip went between her teeth. “You don’t make errors?” Her tone took a provocative edge causing heat to rise in Kaz’s veins. Filling his chest until it competed with the fire warming the room.  

“Never.” They’re eye contact remained as she slowly maneuvered her leg from its crossed position to lower on Kaz’s side, so he was basically standing in between her legs. Even when her skirt dragged upward, revealing more skin, his gaze never strayed. 

Her shuffling ceased, “You know I’m right.” 

“Never said you weren’t.”

“Will you take a break then?” She implored with a tilt of the head. 

“Will you get back to your table?”

“Only when I’m assured my husband won’t let his stubbornness override his wellbeing.” 

Kaz huffed, but it wasn’t full of irritation. Not with the way he smiled, causing her own to widen. “You really don’t let up, do you?” 

“Isn’t that why you married me?” She leaned forward; chin tilted up which sent a wave of arousal down Kaz’s spine considering it made her head level with his waist. “Because I never let up. Because I always get what I want.”

Kaz married her for a number of reasons and that certainly was one of them. Her beauty may have been captivating, but it was her mind that drew Kaz like a moth to a flame. Her relentlessness, her skills. The way she could render a man unconscious without blinking, and bring warmth to his once cold, cynical heart. 

Kaz never thought he could be capable of giving or receiving love after losing Jordie. That all changed when he met the woman who managed to tear down the double-bricked walls he built and become the beacon his heart pumped for. 

Her hands fiddled with the deck, until she found the card she was looking for. “You know what truly makes the king,” she flashed the king of hearts between her middle and pointer finger, “so powerful?” Kaz stayed quiet, wanting to hear what she had to say. “It’s because he has an even powerful queen,” with a sleight of hand the card went from the king to the queen, “standing beside him. To pick him up when he’s down. To draw him home when he feels lost.”

Standing to her full height, their chests are barely an inch apart, and Kaz’s breath hitches at the intensity of her stare. “The queen doesn’t let her king fall deep into a hole he cannot crawl out of.” Another flick of her wrist, and the queen is joined by the king. “Otherwise, they cannot rule over their kingdom efficiently.” 

Kaz smirked at the cards, “Lovely trick, dear wife. No wonder your tables are the ones bringing in the most coin. Who taught you that?” Her expression matched his, but there was some underlying annoyance at him trying to change the subject. She didn’t let him though.

“Please, Kaz,” she pleaded while placing the cards back in the deck, voice becoming soft that it made his heart skip. “We can afford one more day if it means you are well rested. You may not make any errors, but it was a hard week, and I’d feel better if you took time to recoup before diving headfirst into the next task we ought to deal with.” 

Kaz sighed, but it was him admitting defeat. Though he wasn’t really fighting to begin with. “I’ll give you four hours.” He’d sleep for four hours then get up right before dawn to finish the paperwork. 

“Five,” she stated with a knowing look he couldn’t fight. “Five hours. I’ll close up the club and count today’s earnings.”

Kaz licked his bottom lip, thinking about the offer. “Four and a half.” She simply narrowed her eyes, and he had to hold in a chuckle. She wasn’t letting up.

“Five.”

“Five it is,” he said with a dramatic huff. “You have a deal, Mrs. Brekker.” 

“Wonderful.” The woman waved her hand, and the queen of hearts reappeared, Kaz letting his chuckle escape as the theatric amused him. “Kiss the queen then, Mr. Brekker.” The card was placed on her mouth. Lips touching the side depicting a crow while the queen faced Kaz. 

Kaz hummed, leaning forward until his lips touched the smooth surface of the card. The thin material as their barrier, noses lightly touching but Kaz had come a long way to feel her touch and not have the waters consuming him. It was still a working progress, but there were moments like this he was grateful for. 

Reeling himself back, Kaz watched her place the queen on top of the deck, giving it a good shuffle before stepping away from him to head for the door. “Five hours, Kaz.”

He raised his glass, gulping the remaining liquid and smirked to her when she faced him with one hand on the doorknob. “Five hours, darling. Now go bring us some more money. Have to keep this kingdom flourishing if we want to maintain it.” 

Pulling open the door, the Queen of the Barrel sent him a wink with that dazzling smile he fell in love with. “Don’t worry, baby, there’s a reason I’m the best.” 

[ladyaldhelm]

This post is a very long rant about Generative AI. If you are not in the headspace to read such content right now, please continue scrolling.

....

....

It has come to my attention that a person who I deeply admire is Pro-AI. Not just Pro-AI, but has become a shill for a multi-billion dollar corporation to promote their destructive generative AI tools, and is doing it voluntarily and willingly. This person is a creative professional and should know better, and this decision by them shows a lack of integrity and empathy for their fellow creatives. They have sold out to not just their own destruction, but to everyone around them, without any concern. It thoroughly disgusts and disappoints me.

Listen, I am not against technological advancements. While I am never the first to adopt a new technology, I have marveled at the leaps and bounds that have been made within my own lifetime, and welcome progress. Artificial Intelligence and Machine Learning models certainly have their place in this world. Right now, scientific researchers are using advanced AI modeling to discover new protein configurations using a program called Alpha-Fold, and the millions of new proteins that were discovered have gone on to the development of life saving cancer treatments, vaccine development, and looking for new ways to battle drug-resistant bacterial infections. Machine learning models are being developed to track and predict climate change with terrifying accuracy, discover new species, researching new ways of dealing with plastic waste and CO2/methane, and developing highly accurate tools for early detection of cancers. These are all amazing advancements that have only been made possible by AI and will save countless millions of lives. THIS is what AI should be used for.

Generative AI, however, is a different beast entirely. It is problematic in many ways, and is destructive by its very nature. All the current models were trained on BILLIONS of copyrighted materials (images, music, text), without the creator's consent or knowledge. That in and of itself is highly unethical. In addition, these computers that run these GenAI programs use an insane amount of resources to run, and are a major contributor to climate change right now, even worse than the NFT and blockchain stuff a few years ago.

GenAI literally takes someone's hard work, puts it into an algorithm that chews it up and spits out some kind of abomination, all with no effort on the part of the user. And then these "creations" are being sold by the boatload, crowding out legitimate artists and professional creatives. Artists like myself and thousands of others who rely on income from art. Musicians, film makers, novelists, and writers are losing as well. It is an uphill battle. The market is flooded right now with so many AI generated art and books that actual artists and writers are being buried. To make matters worse, these generated works often have inaccuracies and spread misinformation and and lead to injury or even death. There are so many AI generated books, for example, about pet care and foraging for plants that are littered with inaccurate and downright dangerous information. Telling people that certain toxic plants are safe to eat, or giving information on pet care that will lead to the animal suffering and dying. People are already being affected by this. It is bad enough when actual authors spread misinformation, but when someone can generate an entire book in a few seconds, this gets multiplied by several orders of magnitude. It makes finding legitimate information difficult or even downright impossible.

GenAI seeks to turn the arts into a commodity, a get-rich-quick money making scheme, which is not the point of art. Automating art should never be the goal of humanity. Automating dangerous and tedious tasks is important for progress, but automating art is taking away our humanity. Art is all about the human experience and human expression, something a machine cannot ever replicate and it SHOULDN'T. Art should come from the heart and soul, not some crap that is mass produced to make a quick buck. Also developing your skills as an artist, whether that is through drawing, painting, sculpture, composing music, songwriting, poetry, creative writing, animation, photography, or making films, are not just about human expression but develop your brain and make you a more well rounded person, with a rich and deep experience and emotional connection to others. Shitting out crappy art and writing just to make a quick dollar defeats the entire purpose of all of that.

In addition, over-reliance on automated and AI tools is already leading to cognitive decline and the deterioration of critical thinking skills. When it is so easy to click a button and generate a research paper why bother putting the work in? Students are already doing this. Taking the easy way out to get a grade, but they are only hurting themselves. When machines do your thinking for you, what is there left to do? People will lose the ability to develop even basic skills.

/rant

By the way if any tech bros come at me you will be blocked without warning. This is not up for debate or discussion.

[tothosewholisten]

Forever Healed | TUA insert

Chapter: 08

<<previous chapter | next chapter>>

Masterlist

Tw: dead animal and copious amounts of blood

…

“Welcome to The Umbrella Academy, Number Zero.”

“Number Zero, get up.”

“Go to your room Number Zero.”

“Do what you're told, Number Zero.”

“Number Zero! Come here.”

“Stop crying Number Zero.”

“You aren’t a baby Number Zero.”

“No dinner for Number Zero.”

“You're not good enough Number Zero.”

“Stop misbehaving Number Zero.”

Phrases I've heard Reginald say time and time again. I hated that girl Number Zero, whoever she was.

My name is Y/n L/n, and Reginald Hargreeves knew that. But I hated him too because he made me like this. A freak of nature and it was clear he hated me too.

Not once would you ever hear praise and the words ‘Number Zero’ in the same sentence.

So I never understood why he adopted me if he couldn’t stand the sight of me. But deep down I knew why, it was the same reason why he adopted all of us children he needed our powers not us.

He would make me do whatever he wanted without concern or consequence. And nobody would dare tell him no, cause he did the same thing to everyone else around him.

I slept on the cold table for what felt like years, as my mind drifted to days I'd like to forget.

..

17 YEARS AGO

I stood alone in the middle of an unfamiliar room anxious for what was to come. There was no furniture or even windows except for a small wooden desk, and the only glow in said room came from the desk lamp.

Today was my first day of training, Reginald explained to me. And I was a scared twelve-year-old who’d just arrived at the Academy.

He stood in front of me, stopwatch in his bony hand. But he wasn't the only person in the room. There was another man I did not know, and all I can remember about him was how tall he was.

“Begin.”

My stance was shaky as a withering tree when Reginald uttered those words. I didn't know what to do, I just kept standing there. But the man didn't.

He inched closer and closer so I moved back, extremely terrified when it clicked in my head what the man was about to do.

“Do it.”

The man’s steps wavered, but he followed instructions. He raised the gun in his right hand and he shot me.

The sound of the bullet leaving the gun made the room shake and my screaming body instantly hit the cold wooden floor.

Then I heard the stopwatch start.

The bullet hit me directly in the heart. The man must've been some type of trained killer because of the way he would hit me with great accuracy each time. As expected I was still conscious but too scared to move, so I sat there paralyzed and cried. I cried because It hurt. I cried for my mother. I cried because that was all I could do.

Nobody in the room moved; they were waiting for the thing to happen.

And they didn't have to wait that long. At first, it felt like gears were turning in my head. But from the perspective of Reginald the somewhat dark room was illuminated by the swirls of bright light coming from my chest. Then I could move my feet and fingers and I could blink.

I sat upwards from my uncomfortable position as the bullet that had just been in me popped back out. And the spilled blood surrounding my body reversed back into my chest as well as my old bullet wound was completely healed.

I was as good as new.

“Again.”

..

“Number Zero, get up.”

Every day felt like a constant battle. I was beaten, mangled and killed every single day in new sick ways that he came up with.

“We have a lot to work on, Number Zero. You have missed years of training already. You cannot play anymore.”

I went to bed everyday yearning for it to be over but I kept coming back each day for more. I learned to fight from getting my ass kicked. He tested my durability and timed me, by telling me to break my bones and rip off body parts, just to see how long it would take for them to heal.

“You need to be better, Number Zero.”

“I'm trying!” I screamed but it fell on deaf ears. I'd never fought anyone before, he expected everything to be engraved in my head by day five. And when it wasn't he started taking things away.

“No dinner for Number Zero.”

..

I was angry. I threw tantrums, destroyed my room and hurt myself. Which never mattered to him.

“Stop misbehaving Number Zero.”

By thirteen I did what I had to but I tuned the world out. My thought process was whatever happened to me just happens and I'll always be okay.

He turned me into a shell of my past self. Who could kill whoever he needed and get back up whenever pushed down. And I don’t think anybody knew the extent my private lessons were going and I wasn't going to tell them either way.

..

“Number Zero! Come here.”

It wasn't only myself I had to heal, he tried to have me heal others too.

I'd found myself again in the same room where I was first trained. This time accompanied by a dog, I don’t remember what breed he was but he was cute and fluffy and I wished I could keep him.

The same man from before with the same gun stood against the wall.

“Begin.”

The dog was let off his leash and ran towards me. He licked my face, he wanted to play, he was a nice dog.

My happiness didn't last for long, because the man got off the wall and headed towards us. I hugged the small dog hoping that if I held him hard enough he wouldn't do what he was assigned. But that man always followed instructions.

“Do it.”

The fluffy dog was taken out of my arms. He barked in protest and tried to run back over to me but he never made it. He was shot right in his stomach. I burst into tears, trying to run out of the room.

“Stop crying Number Zero. You aren’t a baby.”

Reginald grabbed me and made me face the dying dog. He threw me towards him yelling a command.

“Do what you're told, Number Zero.”

I tried, I honestly did, but I couldn’t do it. No one told me how he just expected me to know how to heal the dog. I've only healed my mother and I wasn't even sure how I did that.

My hands were covered in the dog's blood as I sobbed. I thought if I just thought about it hard it would happen, and yes my hands did flicker but the dog still laid there dead.

“I can’t,” I whispered

I wanted to save that dog. I looked up at the disappointed Reginald, not knowing what to do.

“You're not good enough Number Zero.”

The dog's life force was officially gone. He was the first thing I let die.

I screamed and kicked trying to get my hands back on the dog but I was dragged out of the room.

“Mission one failed,” Reginald said out loud while writing in his book.

..

PRESENT DAY

“Miss Y/n, are you listening?” The ape snapped his fingers in front of my dazed face. I was still on the table in the operations room, and judging by Pogo’s restlessness I'd been here for a while.

I gasped while grabbing onto my head, which still felt partially bashed in. “How long have I been here for?” I asked him.

Pogo’s hairy hands went into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a tiny pocket watch. “Well, Master Diego dropped you off here around Nine pm yesterday and now it’s about a quarter till Nine am. Almost Ten hours Miss Y/n.”

“Ten hours and my head hasn’t healed yet?” My clasped hands moved from my head to my hair as I tugged and worried. “What’s going on with me, a—are my powers not working??” I started to hyperventilate. Without these powers, I'm sure that I’ll succumb to my injuries and die.

The ape shook his head. “Your powers are working just fine, don’t worry my dear. I've been here ever since Master Diego found me and told me of the situation. Your head is healing, yes, but very slowly.”

I didn’t want this to be the end, there was still so much I could do, but then again I've never actually put any thought into how it would go.

Being bludgeoned by a man with a kid’s mask on is not how I'm leaving this world.

I take a deep breath to calm my nerves just as Vanya taught me a while back. Oh shit. “Where’s Vanya?”

Pogo looks away from me. “After the attack on the academy yesterday, your other siblings minus Master Luther deemed it was too risky for her to stay. Because she cannot protect herself like the rest of you..”

“They kicked her out?” I begrudgingly stood up from my seat. “Why do they always do that? I saved her. It's okay now, and she would’ve never gotten hurt if she wasn't looking for me.”

“Miss Y/n please, I don't advise you to leave you aren’t healed. Please sit back down, you can find her later.” He was right, even just standing up took the wind out of me.

Maybe my age was finally catching up with me and this is how my life will continue. I took a seat back down as I finally registered what I was wearing by looking down, I no longer had my jacket. Just jeans and my black shirt.

“Oh! I think Master Diego hung up your jacket back in your bedroom.” Pogo said, sensing my confusion. “It’s a miracle that thing had no blood on it or tears, I know how much that jacket means to you.”

“That’s very nice of him? I didn't know he had it in him.”

“Of course my dear, everyone worries for you. You always took beating after beating with no repercussions. It always amazed me. That being said, you need to be careful.” He explains.

I scratch at my freezing skin. “What?”

“Because you need to take it easy, yes you are formidable but that doesn’t mean you can go around just injuring yourself.” The monkey's accent enunciated every word.

I laugh. “Reginald used to think so.” Pogo stops mid-thought at the mention of him. He looks at me with sorrow in his big eyes. “Never mind that.” He says boldly.

“You took lots of hits yesterday even before getting your head caved in. Other areas of your body heal faster but the brain is such a febrile thing. You need your brain to be able to connect with your powers, being shot once is one thing. But being hit with such intenseness, you're glad your brain was still able to do it. Other times in the future you won't be as lucky, my girl.”

Thank God I stayed awake. No literally thank God, whatever grass field I woke up in felt like death.

“Stay here for maybe five more hours and it should be healed.”

My tense body shivers as I speak up. “Pogo I can’t wait that long, who knows what I missed I need to get back out there.”

“No, I’m prescribing you to stay here and heal your injury.” The short man said.

“Vanya has been kicked out, people just attacked our house, I haven’t seen Klaus and Five forever and who knows what the idiot patrol is going to do next!” I ramble while on my fingers everything that's been going on recently.

He looks up at my disgruntled figure.

“Pogo, please.”

He sighs. “There is a slight alternative, however, it's never been tested and is probably quite painful.” Pogo turns from me to rummage in a few shelves.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I'm afraid you're not going to be happy when you figure out what it is, Miss Y/n.” He yelled from the other side of the room. “I'm sure I've heard worse, Pogo.”

The man returns with an old wooden box covered in small detailed vines. “Your father was always worried that any moment could be your last. For example, If you were too weak to activate your powers or didn’t on purpose.”

“Once you were around fourteen, he started to work on your blood by gathering samples. He did things to alter the samples to create the perfect healing serum or just a boost for your powers.”

I told Pogo I'd be ready for any news but this had been terrifying. “When did he have time to even do that?”

“All of your checkups here in the operations room.” Pogo tilts his head down. “That’s when he would take samples.”

“That is so fucked.” I yell. “How could I have never suspected something was happening when I would be in here almost every day?”

“None of this is your fault, your father just wanted to make sure you're safe. Even if his measures were a bit forward.”

I shake my head at him. “Pogo, this wasn't out of love at all, don't you realize he only did this because he needed me for his purpose? So that I couldn’t get free of this. He only needed me alive for my powers, not because he cared.”

“I assure you your father meant well, somewhere in his heart. But now is the time to use it to speed up the process of your head healing.” Pogo lifts open the top of the box revealing a velvet inside. And rows and rows of tiny indents in the velvet that held little vials of liquid. This liquid looked exactly like my powers, even though it was made out of my normal-colored blood.

It makes me shudder thinking about what he did to it, and me. But I know I had to get it done if I wanted to get out of here. “Okay, so we just inject it into my arm? And I walk out of here after?”

“Not exactly..” says Pogo. “We don't know what could happen, it’s never been tested on anyone. But my best guess is to inject it right into the injury so it will spread there.”

“You mean you're going to stick a needle into my head?” I look at him in horror.

“Why yes, unless you want to take my instructions to wait here for five hours.”

“Grab the needle.”

..

After a bunch of hesitance and worrying Pogo had me lay down on the table fully. He walked up to my indented head with the syringe and without warning stuck it in my head. “Pogo!” I cry out.

The ape didn't respond, instead, he put the box back on the shelf where he got it. “How do you feel?” He asked.

At this point I didn't feel anything different from the splitting headache my broken head was giving me. “I feel the same-“

Then it started to hit me. It felt like a mix of adrenaline and crack all at once.

My powers shined around my head, the healing felt like it was moving faster than I could compute it. It made my body feel like it was on fire, and I signaled that to the ape by screaming out in pain. But it didn't last long because like I said, my powers were moving fast. I blinked and my head felt as good as new.

Pogo stared at me in shock at the display he just watched. “It’s a miracle!” He grins. “How did it feel?”

My eyes darted across the room trying to put into words, outside of my head, how the sensation felt.

“Well I wouldn't recommend it, but it got the job done. Hopefully, I never have to take that again. But thank you Pogo” I reply standing up while my wobbly legs try to position themselves correctly.

“I need to do something that's going to contribute. Either find Five or Vanya or talk to everyone else.” I mutter under my breath.

He stuttered wanting to say more and try to convince me any way he could but my path to the door was clear.

“Thanks again, Pogo!” I shouted over my shoulder. I wasn't even sure how the rest of the mansion would look after the attack, I just wished everyone was okay.

…

Aug 14 update:

If you'd like to be added to the tag list for rest of the series (starts at chapter 10) say taglist in the comments!

[contentloadingandstuff]

Gym Headcanons - Lisa & Ningguang x Male!Reader

A/N: I hope you'll like this one! All the others WIPs are staring daggers at me though... CW: Nothing notable.

Going to a gym? Lisa will pass, thank you. 

All the sweat and all the effort could, if she had to exert herself at all, go towards other things than gaining muscles. What would she use them for anyway? Her strength doesn't come from raw, brutish power, but rather from her brilliance and knowledge. 

For Lisa, getting some gains would be a bad thing as far as her appearance is concerned. She feels great as she is - of healthy weight with some delectable fluff on her belly, thighs and butt. A girl's got to have some meat on her bones, doesn't she? It's perfect for touching and resting your weary head on those plushy thighs. She won't ruin that especially since you're far from complaining about her assets. 

Even if she won't train, Lisa will care for her diet, and will keep an eye on yours too if you ask her to. She'll buy more of her natural yogurts, fruits, granola and other healthy foodstuffs. You'll be in good hands - Lisa will buy you shakes and foods with lots of protein to help build that dazzling body of yours. 

If at any point you find yourself tempted to cheat, she’ll gently remind you of your goal and help you resist. 

She's a vegetarian herself, but will not, to any extent of the word, force her views upon you. She just dislikes the taste of meat, especially when it's fried. The heartburn she feels after is straight up awful. Still, she won't object to making you hearty meals with all the love she has. After all, she has all the time in the world. 

Although she wouldn't ever come to the gym herself, it's different with you there. Lisa will gladly tag along to keep you company whenever she can. She won't hesitate to do her research, helping you in maintaining the proper position and form as you train. Need a break? She'll pass you the water and take away the weights (according to her ability). Feeling tired or bored? Lisa will be there, keeping a conversation or reading out loud to you - this way you train both your mind and your body. She'll get you whatever help she can offer. 

Is she accompanying you to gawk at your bare chest, your tensing, sweaty muscles, hear your masculine groans of exertion as you lift inhuman weights and give it your all? See you doing what men do, pushing yourself to the limit to become bigger, better, faster and stronger? Perhaps. Is that an invalid reason? Not at all. 

After a certain amount of these trips, the mage will start eyeing the exercise mats with increasing curiosity. Of course she wouldn't do any actually tiring exercises, but it wouldn't hurt to stretch a little, would it? Being flexible has a few uses Lisa can't think of, most of which involve you~

The first few times would render her limbs and joints crying in pain as years of “rust” come off. It would surely leave her grumpy the next day, but it's alright - you'll do your duty and massage her pains away, won’t you? 

When going at them, Lisa likes to do stretches that let her poor back get some lovely relief. Every time she begins the cobra stretches of the day, she can't help but sigh in satisfaction. The first one's the best, no doubt about that. On the other hand, those exercises that require her to lean down are the cause of her pains rather than the relief. Toe touches aren't easy, and things like forward folds are the stuff of nightmares, the mere thought of which is enough to make her spine ache.

Ningguang isn't one to work out either. She’s on a strict diet, planned out for her by the best dietitian and cooked by the best chef Mora can buy. Each of her meals has its calories counted to the letter, and - should the situation demand it - Ningguang is capable of counting them herself. Even when there's no label, she's able to judge it with impressive accuracy. 

It's thanks to this attentive lifestyle that she can flaunt her wasp waist. Even if a person's worth is more in merit than appearance, impeccable beauty can go a long way too. Oftentimes just her looks alone can charm an interlocutor, leading to favorable outcomes. 

Eating this little has a downside, coming in the form of low energy levels. She can push pencils all day long, but even short jogs can find her out of breath after a while. Ningguang gets tired and sore fairly easily, making it no surprise that she avoids straining herself. 

She avoids training, but that doesn't mean she simply sits around looking pretty. Each of her mansions is equipped with a rich and well stocked gym for use at yours and hers leisure. Before you came they were mostly gathering dust, but your interest in training reminded her of that purchase. It was nice to see they finally had a use. 

Sometimes, on a slow day, Ningguang will bring out her sport gear and join you in the training room. Most of her time she'll do stretches or use the treadmill, since these don't increase muscle mass that much - the high class canon of beauty doesn't include muscle girls, nor does she see the appeal if truth is told. She's the Tianquan, not some… sea captain. 

Besides, that would be threading on your territory. Why be muscular if you're the muscle man here? If you're strong, then she'll be swift and agile. Perfectly complementary, wouldn't you say? 

When it comes to date ideas, a gym date is a unique one to be sure, but she doesn't mind. It gives both of you a chance to show off your hard earned physiques and spend some quality time together. Ningguang enjoys you spotting for her, even if she won't do the exercises by herself. The attention is always appreciated. 

She wouldn't admit that to anyone, but she enjoys goofing around with you. Using her as a dumbbell or doing push-ups with her casually sitting on your back is both amusing and quite flustering - getting a first hand experience of your strength never fails to get her a little red. But don't tell anyone, or else…!

Sometimes when she needs to think, Ningguang visits you and simply enjoys your presence in silence. There's something hypnotic about you going about your business and the repetitive motions of the equipment. Many times she watched you in silence, only to mutter a silent ‘got it’ before getting up and thanking you with a kiss. Each time after she left the room you were left fairly confused. Confused, but happy to be of help nonetheless.

Thanks for reading!

[another-lost-mc]

haiiii <3 i hope u're doing well! if u don't mind, can i request hcs for the brothers on how they would react to a mc (i don't mind whether it's female or gender-neutral so up to u!) who's a high achiever in human world but struggle a lot and probably fail their classes in devildom? thx so much!! feel free to ignore if u don't feel like writing this <3

When High Achiever!MC Struggles at RAD Headcanons | THE DEMON BROTHERS 2.4k words | SFW | gn!Reader | Hurt/Comfort | Fluff A/N: I resonate a lot with this prompt because I struggled with perfectionism as a student. It would've been a disaster if I was suddenly dropped in the Devildom and expected to do well somehow. lol

You stare at the paper in your hands. Your professor hands back this week’s quiz stating that the class scores are excellent, for the most part. There are a few muffled giggles around you, and you stare at the failing grade circled in red and resist the urge to cry in front of your classmates.

In the human world, you were an excellent student. You studied hard, completed your homework every night, finished all your assigned readings, and always left yourself an extra day or two to proofread your written work for errors and accuracy.

In the Devildom, you still do all those things but it doesn’t matter whether it’s a quiz or an assignment - your marks are horrible. Not just horrible by your standards, either.

Some of the professors approach you quietly after class and suggest remedial classes or private tutoring to help you. Other professors, the ones who are less sympathetic to your struggles, sneer when they hand back your work like you’re a perfect example of how humans are so weak.

The walk home from RAD is a blur. The demon brothers chat animatedly around you, but you aren't paying them much attention.

“We’re gonna order takeout for dinner tonight,” Mammon grins when you walk through the front door behind him. He waves his credit card in your face. “My treat. Whatcha want from Hell’s Kitchen?”

“I’m not hungry,” you mutter when you brush past him. You move through the clump of demons in the hallway and head to your room. Your bag slips off your shoulder to the floor, and you fall face-down on your bed and finally let yourself cry.

You don’t know how long you sob into your pillow, cursing yourself for your failures and wishing you never came here, until there’s a soft knock on your door and a familiar voice calling your name.

LUCIFER

Lucifer knows about your poor grades. Your professors have spoken to him and Barbatos more than once, since they’re the ones in charge of overseeing the student exchange program at RAD. Compared to the other exchange students, your consistently below-average or failing grades are a concern.

He’s going to consider your poor marks as a reflection of their program’s efficacy and not a personal failure on your part. Solomon and the Angels score higher in classes than you, but that makes sense - they’re all more familiar with the fantastical concepts you’re learning about for the first time.

He looks over your recent tests and written work to figure out the best solution. It’s obvious that it’s the overwhelming amount of Devildom knowledge and history you’re lacking, not your technical writing skills or your ability to comprehend the stacks of textbooks on your desk.

He reminds you as gently as he can that you’re part of an experimental program, and it’s not perfect. He asks for your input because your unique perspective and experience can make the program better for future students. It’s your chance to help improve the school’s image, and Diavolo’s reputation, so that hopefully the three realms can truly have a harmonious future.

In the meantime, he tries to keep a better eye on your well-being and your academics. It’s a difficult task because his time is already split between student council responsibilities and keeping his brothers in line. He knows that his brothers cause as much mischief for you as they do for him.

He offers you the use of his private study where you won’t be disturbed if you want peace and quiet. You don’t have to ask permission, either - you can use it whether he’s there or not. He shows you his collection of records you can listen to if you’d like to play some music while you study. (He puts the dangerous cursed records away where you won’t accidentally use them.)

If there happens to be a new kettle and a porcelain tea set and tin of your favourite tea on a shelf nearby, it’s just a coincidence. You’re welcome to use them as much as you’d like, though - he insists.

MAMMON

Mammon has a hard time believing that your grades are as bad as you say they are. You’re so smart, and he knows you work so hard. You’re the one shooing him away from your room when there’s an essay or big test coming up, telling him that you need to focus. He doesn’t like it, but he understands. The worst part is, you do all that and his grades are still better than yours - and he’s not even trying!

He’s going to blame everything and everyone except you for your academic difficulties. Diavolo and Barbatos should’ve anticipated this when they designed the exchange program, the professors shouldn’t be such assholes about it, Lucifer should’ve been helping you more, his brothers should leave you alone…

(He ignores your snarky comment about how demons shouldn’t be kidnapping random humans to begin with.)

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a solution or a quick-fix to offer you. If such a thing existed, he would’ve gladly bought and paid for it by now. He knows he has a carefree approach to school, so he’s not going to pretend he’s got good advice for you.

No, Mammon is going to focus on being your friend instead. He’s going to keep those bully classmates off your back and keep you company between classes. He’s going to visit your room and make sure you take breaks and let yourself have a little bit of fun, because he doesn’t like seeing you stressed and unhappy. He’s going to remind you every way he knows how that he fuckin’ adores you no matter what your grades are.

LEVIATHAN

Leviathan isn’t surprised that you’re struggling. He thinks there’s too much homework, and he knows a lot of the content and history already. It’s no surprise that a normie human like you might be flunking out. 

Since he’s taken some of RAD’s classes online, he’s giving you his notes and study guides. There’s some online study groups he’s going to invite you to in case you'd like to talk to other students learning the same material you are.

Watching you struggle reminds him that it would be so much easier to do everything online. If you prefer to learn or connect with your classmates virtually, then he’s going to advocate for more investment in RAD’s remote learning capabilities. Wouldn’t it be fun to stay home together and do that instead?

He tries not to bother you when he knows you’re stressed about a test or a project, but he misses his Henry when you lock yourself in your room all the time. He hates that you’re so unhappy with your grades. So what if you’re not exactly a booksmart here in the Devildom? You’d ace every test if it were about things that actually mattered, like TSL or your favourite anime series.

He’s not as motivated to do well in school, but he is motivated to help you, in his own way. That usually means inviting you to his room so you can do homework together between matches of Super Smash Devils. Games are a great way to relieve stress, after all!

SATAN

Satan is aware of your poor grades, but he’s not going treat you like Lucifer does and make you go to him like some sort of supplicant begging for help. He’s going to invite himself to your room, or drag you to the library, or drag you to his room, and you’re going to succeed with him as your tutor.

He knows that a proper foundation is crucial to helping you learn about Devildom history, culture, and magic. Satan is going to look over your work and go over the basics with you after he figures out how the school’s curriculum is failing you.

Perhaps exchange students should be placed in modified introductory courses?

That might be a solution for future students but for now, he’s taking you back to basics. He guides you through the fundamentals you’re missing so that the more advanced topics actually make sense. He soothes your frazzled nerves when you struggle with remembering certain historical events. When you start to improve, he praises your correct answers so that he can finally see the radiant smile on your face, the one that he loves so much.

When you're both in desperate need of a break, he invites you to join him on his bed, or on the sofa in the library. He has a book open in his lap -a lighthearted story, something easy to follow - and reads to you. You can hear the smile in his voice as you drift off to sleep.

(Later on, when one of his brothers find both of you asleep, Satan's arms wrapped gently around you, they throw a blanket over both of you and dim the lights.)

ASMODEUS

Asmodeus is going to gather you in his arms and hold you close while he brushes away your tears and tells you how much he adores you. You’re too hard on yourself. He thinks you’re focusing too much on all the things you struggle with and not enough on the things he admires about you. 

He can see what happens when you get frustrated and depressed about your grades. You don’t smile as much anymore, the dark circles under your eyes become more prominent, your clothes fit a bit looser and it hurts him when you treat yourself badly like this. You didn’t do anything wrong and it's not your fault.

It just so happens that he loves pampering you any chance he gets, so don’t be surprised if he’s dragging you away from your desk for a mandatory R&R break in his room. You wince when his fingers dig into the knots in your back and shoulders, but he can feel the moment when you finally stop fighting and let yourself relax.

He’ll talk to you about school, but only if you bring it up first. Otherwise, he’s keeping your mind off things by talking to you about something he saw on Devilgram, or he’s asking your opinion about a new Majolish collab he’s designing.

Oh, how about a shopping spree tomorrow, just the two of you? No objections! He’ll let you choose where to go for dinner since he’s not picky. Afterwards, there’s a new boutique he wants to check out - the clothes they have are stunning, and he’s in the mood to spoil you.

BEELZEBUB

Beelzebub won’t lie and say he understands what you’re going through, because he doesn’t. Not exactly. He struggles with school sometimes, but that’s because 90% of the time he’s distracted by hunger or food, and the rest is him getting caught up in his hectic club schedule. 

You’re kind to him and so thoughtful when it comes to asking what he’s like for dinner, or if he wants some of your leftovers. He doesn’t always have the right words to say like Lucifer or Satan, and he’s not as adventurous as Mammon or Asmo, but he’s going to work hard to distract you and support you the best he can.

His biggest concern is whether you’re eating enough, and he’s not going to let you skip meals or rush from the table after a couple bites. He reminds you that being hungry and undernourished is going to make it even harder to focus. He makes a conscious effort to control himself when you're cooking - he doesn't want to stress you out even more.

He also asks you to join him when he works out. He wants to make sure you’re taking time to care for your body. He doesn't care whether you do some yoga or light stretching on a mat nearby, or if you want to listen to music while you walk on the treadmill - he watches you out of the corner of his eye while he trains. When you're both finished (or when you're done and he pretends he is too), he makes sure you both get a proper snack from the kitchen.

BELPHEGOR

Belphegor surprises everyone when he aces a test after rushing through the answers and napping for the rest of class. He doesn’t realize how it makes you feel only a few seats away from him, scribbling as fast as possible even as the professor slides the paper out from under you, and you end up with a barely passing grade to show for it.  

He’s not going to dwell on his feelings about the exchange program. What he is going to do is share his criticisms loudly, and meanly, with his oldest brother and Diavolo whenever he gets the chance. It’s their fault you’re here, stuck trying to learn thousands of years of history and culture about a place you’ve just learned exists. Of course you’re struggling - they’re asking too much of you.

He’ll offer to help you study, if that’s what you want. You don’t have to rely on Satan for that, you know. But what he considers more important, what he wants to focus on, is helping you with your disturbing lack of sleep.

You might not know this, but he knows how late you stay up at night trying to study. He knows how your mind is constantly racing with thoughts of failure and self-loathing and regret. You get up before your alarm after a restless night of tossing and turning. You sleep so badly, he can’t sleep properly either.

He’s going to start visiting you shortly before your usual bedtime, and he’s going to keep you company while he helps you put your books away. (Stop trying to argue, it’s for your own good.) He’s going to push your pajamas into your arms and nudge you towards the en-suite to change and shower and whatever else you need to do to get ready for bed.

When you come out looking cozy and a bit more relaxed and so damn cute, he’s going to ask which bed you’d prefer to sleep in - yours or his? Because he’s going to ward off the negative thoughts while you fall asleep, and he’s going to give you happier dreams. When you wake up tomorrow, you’ll understand what he already knows: none of that other stuff matters, so long as you have each other.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some Law-Related Vocabulary

for your poem/story (pt. 3/4)

After-born - born after a certain event (as a father's death or the execution of a will)

Aliunde - from another source

Alluvion - material (as clay, silt, sand, or gravel) deposited by running water

Bona fide - characterized by good faith and lack of fraud or deceit; being real or genuine, sincere

Brain death - the final stopping of activity in the central nervous system especially as indicated by a flat electroencephalogram for a usually statutorily predetermined period of time

Cas fortuit - fortuitous event (i.e., an event of natural or human origin that could not have been reasonably foreseen or expected and is out of the control of the persons concerned)

Choice of evils defense - a defense to a criminal charge based on the assertion that the criminal act was committed to avoid the commission of an even greater evil

Civil fruit - the revenue derived from property especially by virtue of an obligation (as a lease)

Death with dignity law - a law legalizing the self-administration by a terminally ill person of life-ending medication prescribed by a physician; also called "right-to-die law"

Defalcation - failure to account for or pay over money that has been entrusted to one's care; a failure to meet a promise or an expectation

Embracery - an attempt to influence a jury corruptly

Evidentiary harpoon - evidence consisting especially of a police officer's statement that is improper and is knowingly offered by the prosecution to prejudice the defendant in the eyes of the jury

Ex aequo et bono - according to what is equitable and good

Excited utterance - a statement that concerns a startling event (as a physical assault) and that is made by a person while under stress caused by the event

Featherbedding - the unfair labor practice of causing an employer to pay for services which are not performed (as by requiring more workers than necessary)

Feticide - the act of causing the death of a fetus

Fishing expedition - an investigation that does not stick to a stated objective but hopes to uncover incriminating or newsworthy evidence

Flagrante delicto - in the very act of committing a misdeed; also: in the midst of sexual activity

Flat rule - a generalized rule applied without consideration for specific circumstances; called also "per se rule"

Gift inter vivos - a gift made during the lifetime of the donor and delivered with the intent of surrendering immediately and irrevocably dominion and control over the property

Hedonic damages - damages deemed to compensate for the loss of enjoyment of life resulting from a wrongful act

Inadvertent discovery - unexpected finding of incriminating evidence in plain view by the police

Mental cruelty - conduct by one spouse that renders the other's life miserable and unendurable and that is a ground for divorce

Mens rea - a culpable mental state

Noscitur a sociis - a doctrine or rule of construction: the meaning of an unclear or ambiguous word (as in a statute or contract) should be determined by considering the words with which it is associated in the context

Pecuniary - consisting of, measured in, or relating to money

Peonage - labor in a condition of servitude to extinguish a debt

Perils of the sea - perils that are peculiar to the sea but are of such an extraordinary nature and power that one cannot guard against them using ordinary skill and prudence

Quashal - an act of quashing something

Riparian - of or relating to or living or located on the bank of a watercourse (as a river or stream) or sometimes a lake

Scintilla - a small trace or barely perceptible amount of something (as evidence supporting a position)

Silent witness theory - a theory or rule in the law of evidence; photographic evidence (as photographs or videotapes) produced by a process whose reliability is established may be admitted as substantive evidence of what it depicts without the need for an eyewitness to verify the accuracy of its depiction

Vulture fund - an investment company that buys up bankrupt or insolvent companies with the goal of reorganizing them so they can be profitably resold as going concerns

Wrongful conception - a malpractice claim brought by the parents of a healthy but unwanted child usually against a physician or health-care provider for alleged negligence in performing a sterilization or abortion procedure and sometimes against a pharmacist or pharmaceutical manufacturer of contraceptives; also called "wrongful pregnancy"

Youthful offender - a young person (as one within a statutorily specified age range) who commits a crime but is granted special status entitling him or her to a more lenient punishment (as one involving probation or confinement in a special youth correctional facility) than would otherwise be available

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read them!

More: Law-Related Words ⚜ Word Lists

[basshole-astard]

[AMERICAN POLITICS]

i know everyone is worried about KOSA being a censorship bill, and that's fair. but do you know what really, REALLY concerns me about this bill? the fact they want to install age verification systems at the device/operating system level

(transcript with highlights below cut)

this will almost definitely track your data - note how it doesn't say how much, just that it's going to have to collect some, and that's worrying. to me. best case scenario we need to give our devices our government ID. worst case scenario it's tracking app usage and browser history and who knows what else. they don't say! how convenient.

but, based on Sec. 6(d)(5) "consider indicia or inferences of age of users, in addition to any self-declared information about the age of individuals." and Sec. 10(a)(1)(D) "using indicia or inferences of age of users for assessing use of the covered platform by minors", nevermind Sec. 9(b)(4)'s own admission that some data will be collected, that's.... that's data tracking.

and i know websites already do this, but i feel like a government mandated software for age verification that will track this data is a step too far.....

read the text of the bill here, if you want. genuinely the amount of legaleze is - as far as i can tell - only going to PROBABLY cause censorship, not GUARANTEE it.

but you know what KOSA does guarantee? stated plainly and clearly in their intents of what this bill will do? data tracking.

so if you're contacting your senators about opposing this bill, please consider not only voicing your concerns about censorship, but also about the privacy violations. thank you.

contact your senators here

highlighted text in image bolded

SEC. 9. Age verification study and report.

(a) Study.—The Director of the National Institute of Standards and Technology, in coordination with the Federal Communications Commission, Federal Trade Commission, and the Secretary of Commerce, shall conduct a study evaluating the most technologically feasible methods and options for developing systems to verify age at the device or operating system level.

(b) Contents.—Such study shall consider —

(1) the benefits of creating a device or operating system level age verification system;

(2) what information may need to be collected to create this type of age verification system;

(3) the accuracy of such systems and their impact or steps to improve accessibility, including for individuals with disabilities;

(4) how such a system or systems could verify age while mitigating risks to user privacy and data security and safeguarding minors' personal data, emphasizing minimizing the amount of data collected and processed by covered platforms and age verification providers for such a system; and

(5) the technical feasibility, including the need for potential hardware and software changes, including for devices currently in commerce and owned by consumers.

(c) Report.—Not later than 1 year after the date of enactment of this Act, the agencies described in subsection (a) shall submit a report containing the results of the study conducted under such subsection to the Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation of the Senate and the Committee on Energy and Commerce of the House of Representatives.

[penny-anna]

im not gonna reblog the post bcos I think OP has been dunked on enough at this point but I'd just like to say as someone w a classics degree that the beloved 'not to me, not if it's you' quote isn't actually about an incestuous relationship. Orestes & Pylades were cousins and some ancient authors did depict them in a romantic relationship but Euripides wasn't one of them.

you could argue that Ancient Greek authors just took it for granted that a close relationship between two men would be read as romantic but i don't think that's true given that ancient authors disagreed on the question of Achilles & Patroclus. Ancient Greek writers did sometimes depict men being friends with each other.

u can argue the relative merits of romanticising Ancient Greek depictions of incestuous relationships but in the name of factual accuracy Euripides' Orestes isn't about an incestuous relationship. it genuinely is a quote about two guys being bros!

if you want to moralise it I'd be much more concerned about the fact that the whole play is about matricide lmao

ETA: i forgot to say, Orestes & Pylades also don't really fit the model of a socially acceptable Ancient Greek homosexual relationship due to being the same age. this isn't a subject I know a huge amount about but given that Ancient Greek writers debated who was the erastes vs the eromenos (top vs bottom) in Achilles and Patroclus's relationship my impression is that didn't expect to see romantic relationships between men that didn't conform to that model in a literary context.

[actorindisguise]

Our worst moments don’t make us monsters

A mouthwashing reborn fic

Summary: The world felt numb after months of suffering. She couldn’t tell if it was from the anxiety she was feeling or from the concerning amount of painkillers that she took, but either way, it was better than feeling that project of a monster kicking inside her womb, making her weep inside her room every night.

CW: NSFW, MDNI!!!! SOOOOO MUCH ANGST; 4K words

TW: SA; noncon, suicidal thoughts; suicide attempt; alcohol abuse; alcoholism; p in v sex; hurt/no comfort.

AN: I think this is all, guys. Please tell me in the comments if I’ve forgotten anything!

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE!!

YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME.

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚

The world felt numb after months of suffering. She couldn’t tell if it was from the anxiety she was feeling or from the concerning amount of painkillers that she took, but either way, it was better than feeling that project of a monster kicking inside her womb, making her weep inside her room every night.

Anya would finally get the peace she has always wanted. Nothing could bother her now.

The need to sleep was everything she could focus on, and just like that, Anya drifted off to a world where only the dead knew.

“You want me to give him the painkillers again?” Jimmy’s voice echoed, anger tinted in every word.

What? No. This can’t be. This isn’t possible.

When Anya finally opens her eyes, there he is, standing in front of her while pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You’re the fucking nurse of the ship. Why can’t you do anything right?” It was like a punch in the gut. She couldn’t think, the only thing on her mind being how the hell am I alive.

“Sorry, I-” she stops herself before finishing, saying something completely different from what she was going to say in the first place. “You know I hate the sound of him swallowing, Jimmy. It makes me sick to my stomach, but I can give it to him, don’t worry-” the sound of an annoyed groan stops her.

He’s mad. She needs to leave.

“I’ll give him the fucking pills, but just so you know, you have grown useless since… Since that,” he points aggressively at Curly on the medical bed, making Anya flinch more of instinct than fear, “happened to Curly.”

The tears welling in her eyes weren’t from just fear, no. They were more from confusion than anything else, as to why she was back in this situation with Jimmy and not rotting by the side of Curly’s bed.

This has happened before. She knows it has.

She reluctantly handed the bottle of painkillers to Jimmy and left the room, not knowing what to do next. Everything felt familiar. Strange, even, like a deja vu but with much more details and accuracy.

She can hear Swansea talking to Daisuke. He doesn’t seem drunk. No, he seems… Sober. Annoyed at something Daisuke did. Anya follows the source of the noise and finds Daisuke with a… pack of sweetener?

No. This is too confusing.

Somehow, a smile makes its way to her lips. Simpler times. Swansea spots her standing on the doorway and waves at her, nodding curtly in her direction. Daisuke turns around and beams at Anya, waving both of his hands at her while saying something she can’t quite understand. Something about Swansea being too much of an old man, probably.

The deep breath she takes comes out a bit shaky, but neither man seems to notice.

It’s better to keep it this way.

She walks towards them with new-found vigour, ignoring the strange feeling inside her and sitting by Swansea, offering him a small, tired smile before listening to the conversation they were having.

As the hypothetical night falls, Anya finds herself unable to ignore the weird feeling for much longer. She wanted to think about it, but somewhere private.

Her room was not a place she could be since the incident, but mostly because she couldn’t lock her door. All she could think was I would do anything for a lock, and that’s when she remembers: there’s a lock in the medbay. She could even talk to Curly, if she’d like.

He wouldn’t tell anyone about what’s happening.

Anya excuses herself and stands up quickly, feeling dizzy for a few seconds. The feeling is ignored as she keeps walking, her only thought being I need to talk to Curly.

The walk is short, but it feels long with the rapid thrumming of Anya’s heart in her chest, her once calm breathing now ragged, almost reduced to a pant as she finally reaches the medbay.

The door opens for her, making it easier for her to enter the room and finally lock herself inside, sitting on the floor by Curly’s bed and pulling her knees to her chest, searching for comfort in the position she has spent many nights in.

Anya couldn’t tell what was going on. Everything was so confusing, nothing was making any sense at all. She got lost in her own thoughts for a while, before getting pulled out of them by a familiar, pained grunt.

Curly.

She could feel his eyes lingering on her face, but she couldn’t understand why.

Does he even care? He cared more about Jimmy than her all those months ago.

“Why are you staring at me…?” Curly’s eyes held some weight to them, maybe guilt, worry, even. But she couldn’t stop the tears rolling down her cheeks when she heard a very harsh cough. Curly was in pain, and it was all her fault.

“This all has happened before, Curly. I’m confused,” she sobs and sniffles the words as if they pain her, and if Curly could, he would frown at her and ask her what’s wrong. But he can’t, because he has grown useless inside this ship. The well known captain, now a vegetable on a medical bed, unable to talk, eat, sleep or drink on his own. All because of her.

“I thought I would finally have what I wanted, but I’m back here!” Anya all but cries at Curly, trying to hug her knees as her eyes grow puffy and sore, when a confused hum makes her look to her side. Curly is staring at her, as if waiting for her to elaborate.

Even like this, he does what he can for his crew.

The rest of Anya’s night is spent crying by Curly’s side, muffling every single noise she makes because she’s afraid Jimmy will do it again. Afraid that he’ll come inside at any moment, threatening to hurt her even more if she dares to tell a soul about what happened. About all the sick things he has done to her, the uncomfortable positions he has put her just so he could pull at her hair and take everything he wanted, not letting anything go to waste.

The way she’s sitting brought her comfort once, but now, with her belly slightly bigger, she finds herself unable to fully hug her knees, remembering there’s a human being growing inside of her against her own will, resulting in even more tears and sobs coming out of her mouth.

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚

When she wakes up, it’s because of the loud banging on the door, startling her out of her sleepy state.

“Anya, are you okay in there? Do you need help?” She hears Swansea’s voice and takes a deep breath in, not even realizing that she had stopped breathing. “I’m alright!” The answer is meek, shy, even.

She rubs her eyes and stands up, washing her face on the sink by the medicine cabinet and unlocks the door, greeting a very worried looking Swansea.

“Captain Jimmy told me to get you. He said we’re discussing something important.” He says as he shrugs his shoulders, “I hope it’s about the payment.” He chuckles and crosses his arms, walking towards the lounge, where she could already hear two voices.

“Maybe there’s something huge down there,” just by the excitement she could tell it was Daisuke who was talking, “better! Maybe it’s spare parts, so me and Swasea can repair the ship! We’ll be out of here in no time!”

Swansea huffs and rolls his eyes, “I can repair the ship, you’ll only get on my way, boy.” Daisuke’s boyish giggles warm Anya’s heart and she remembers that he’s just a kid, he doesn’t deserve to be here with them. “But I don’t want to open the cargo. If we do, it’ll only get us even more underpaid.” And Swansea finally sits down by Daisuke’s side, leaving Anya to stand or sit besides Jimmy. She doesn’t make a move to sit.

“If it’s food, we’ll be able to survive for a few more months. Just enough time for the rescue team to find us.” This time, it’s Jimmy who talks and Swansea rolls his eyes again.

“It’d be good if it’s more medicine, you know… Curly’s painkillers are almost over, but-” She’s interrupted by Jimmy giving Anya a once over, wetting his lips as he looks back at both men sitting in front of him and he stands up, clapping his hands together with a loud smack.

“Alright, who’s coming to the cargo hold?”

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚

They were all apprehensive, to say the least. The four of them stood in front of the cargo hold, Jimmy with the scanner in hands finally revealing the room code to unlock it. He enters it on the security device by the door and it works, opening the door.

Anya stares blankly. There was so much cargo, but she already knew that. So many shelves full of boxes, all of them with the same size, shape and color. A maze of the product they were taking somewhere and were being underpaid for it.

“This is… a lot.” The shock on Daisuke’s voice is clear as they finally enter the room, eyes wide, looking at every box on the shelves.

Swansea rolls his eyes and sighs, crossing his arms when he says “If you hadn’t said that, I wouldn’t have noticed,” irony tinged in every word. Daisuke’s eyes shine and he chuckles, “You’re welcome, Swansea! I already knew your old man’s eyes didn’t work well, heh.”

Swansea huffs and glares at Daisuke, who pretends to not notice the death stare he’s receiving and continues to walk towards the shelves, grabbing a box and trying to make it seem that he doesn’t struggle with it’s weight, even though it’s obvious that he’s not strong enough to hold it for more than 5 seconds.

Anya stills at the doorway, a storm of everything that has happened before she woke up flooding her mind as she stares at the boxes, all of them filled to the brim with the same thing, that was gonna be – hopefully – helpful. Which she knew was not. “Wait! Maybe we should open it outside of the cargo hold…?”

The quietness in her voice results in nobody answering her and she looks down, finally entering the room as she rubs her arms, self conscious about everything.

“How are we gonna open this beauty?” Now it’s Daisuke that goes unanswered, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He all but beams at the grimace on Swansea’s face as he puts an arm over Jimmy’s shoulder, raising his brows in a funny way. Anya quietly chuckles and Jimmy looks over at her.

Swansea stands by her side with an annoyed but slightly fond look, shaking his head as he goes to take the box from Daisuke’s hands, earning a yelp from the boy and a giggle from Anya.

“Give me this thing,” he brings it to the platform near the door and places the box carefully on the floor, cracking his back right after standing up straight. “Ugh, my back is killing me.”

Anya follows Swansea and rubs his back, seemingly worried by his words. “If you’d like, there’re still some painkillers in the medbay-”

She’s immediately cut off by Jimmy’s annoyed voice, “That’s why the painkillers are ending, Anya!”

Swansea offers Anya a small smile and glares at Jimmy, not saying anything to either of them as Daisuke finally arrives beside them all, a screwdriver in hands as he jogs happily towards the box and crouches.

“Let’s see what we have here!” Is what he says as he cuts the tape that was closing the box with the tool he has in hands.

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚

Swansea’s laugh echoes through the whole ship. It’s loud, raspy and disbelieving at the product they have been carrying this long.

It was Dragonbreath X Mouthwash.

“Mouthwash? Seriously?” Jimmy’s incredulous voice is what makes Swansea’s laugh crack, looking at him in disbelief as Daisuke has a curious look on his face.

“Let me see this,” he takes the bottle from Jimmy’s hands and reads the ingredients for the product, reaching the bottom of the list and laughing even harder.

“This thing has 14% ethanol!” His disbelieving laugh still rings in Anya’s ears as she inspects the bottle as well, raising her brows in confusion when she reads the sugar percentage once more.

It never fails to amaze her.

“The amount of sugar in this eliminates all its disinfecting properties, too…” She puts it back inside the box and looks over at Daisuke, who’s even more confused when Swansea opens the bottle.

“13 years of sobriety, down the drain.” And he takes a big drink from the bottle. Anya already knew this would happen, but she still doesn’t know how to react when he does that.

“Daisuke, I’m gonna teach you how to drink like a man!” And the boy's eyes all but shine with excitement. “Hell yeah!” Is all he manages out as he grabs a bottle from inside the box, opens it and takes a swig.

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚

Anya was turning left towards the medbay when she sees Jimmy walking past a fallen – and obviously drunk – Daisuke, not paying him any mind as he clearly tries to stand up.

When Jimmy is finally out of sight, she walks towards Daisuke and crouches by his head, placing a hand on his hair and stroking it gently, as if not to startle him as he looks up at her and grins goofily.

“Anya! It’s so good to see you here! Have you seen Swansea? I wanted to go grab more mouthwashes with him!” His words slur together and the smile on his face never falters, even when Anya frowns at him and shakes her head.

“No, Daisuke. Maybe you should rest before finding him, hm?” Her tone is firm, but with unending kindness. When he nods, she helps him up and takes him to his made up bed on the lounge, since his bedroom was consumed by the safety foam.

Anya only leaves Daisuke’s side when he’s fallen asleep, softly snoring and hugging a pack of sweetener, making her smile fondly at the image in front of her.

If the… thing inside her was born, she’d want it to be like Daisuke.

She makes her way into the medbay, closes the door and sits on the floor by Curly’s bed once more. The only place she has found comfort in was the place that she had decided to take her own life in.

How ironic.

She looks over at Curly and sighs audibly, her head being supported by her hand as she stares at the man in front of her.

Anya doesn’t seem to notice when Curly turns his head and looks back at her, groaning to pull her attention towards his voice and out of her head, resulting in an startled Anya looking up at him, wide eyes filled with worry as she stands up.

“Are you in pain, Curly?” She knows he won’t answer her question. She knows he can’t answer her, but she asks anyway, feeling the need to at least try to engage him in small conversations.

He only squirms in response, shifting the bed sheets under him and she smiles sadly, walking towards the medicine cabinet and grabbing a bottle of painkillers, opening it with a quiet ‘pop’ and shaking a pill onto her hand.

She puts the bottle away, takes a deep breath and walks back to Curly’s bed, looking at him with fondness and pity. “This’ll only take a second, okay?” And she opens his mouth, taking a deep breath and helps him swallow the pill.

The sound of him choking makes her want to vomit and cry at the same time, but she holds it all in for Curly’s sake.

He’s already suffering enough.

When he finally swallows, the relief Anya feels is so big that she lets out a big, deep breath that she didn’t even know she was holding in. Curly does the same, but his breath is followed by a rough cough and a deep inhale.

She sits back by his side and tries to hug her knees, being able to hug them until her hands almost meet.

She used to be able to hug her knees entirely before Jimmy.

She sighs again, but this time, it’s pained. A sound that anyone who’s able to hear identifies it as a request for help. And then, it kicks, eliciting a sob out of her.

“It… kicked, Curly.” Her single sob turns into two, three, endless cries of desperation when she realizes once more that the baby she’s carrying is real, not a dream or hallucination. It’s real.

Her night is spent just like the others: sobbing quietly until she falls asleep, still worried that Jimmy might do it again, and again, and again.

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚

When Anya wakes up, it’s still dark. She’s not wearing her uniform, no – she’s wearing her favorite pajamas. A green, loose shirt stamped with tiny dinosaurs and some pants to match that were ripped to shreds on the night that Jimmy raped her.

She looks around and realizes that she’s not in the medbay, she’s in her room. And she can hear footsteps – slow and heavy, as if not trying to wake anyone up.

Then, she hears it: her door opening slowly. A familiar shadow appears by the side of her bed and she tries to move, but she can’t. She’s frozen in place, breathing rapidly and gripping her shirt tightly.

There he stands, a serious expression on his face as he enters her bedroom and closes the door as quietly as possible. Jimmy.

When his eyes finally land on her small, desperate form, he smirks. He knows she won’t try to do anything to stop him because she’s weaker than him. He can tear her apart with his own hands if he’d like, but why hurt something so precious like this when you can just… Take what you want from it?

Anya tries to scream, to no avail. No sound comes out, only a pant that she identifies as the beginning of a panic attack that would only worsen as time passes by.

He walks towards her slowly, sitting on the edge of her bed and placing his hand on her covered, trembling thigh. Jimmy looks at her like she’s a piece of meat, all ready for him to eat it all up and not let any single part go to waste.

Anya moves her hands to grab at his wrist, but Jimmy is faster and uses a single hand to hold both of her hands together, making it impossible for her to free herself from his punishing grip.

He looked at her thighs and licked his lips, tightening his grip on her pants before ripping them to small pieces, inch by inch. By now, Anya was sobbing, hard, begging Jimmy to stop what he was doing.

When he finished his work, he just stared at the big hole he had made on the crotch of her pajamas and smirked, because now only her panties and his pants separated them.

Jimmy swiftly takes his cock out, pumping it a few times before he goes to lay down on top of her, who tries to resist and manages to pull her hands free for a second before having them restrained together once more.

“If you don’t stop with this shit, it’ll be way worse for you, doll. Understand?” Jimmy’s tone is harsh, scaring Anya even further as she gulps and nods, tears still streaming down her face as he smirks and teases her panty-clad cunt with the wet tip of his hard dick.

He chuckles darkly when Anya lets out a strangled gasp and he moves to sit on his haunches, using his free hand to push her panties to the side, exposing her most intimate parts to him, who only spits on his own hand and strokes his cock for a few seconds before lining up with her entrance, bottoming out with a single, hard, painful thrust.

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚

Anya wakes up gasping for air, her hands clutching tightly at her uniform and tears strolling down her cheeks.

This time, it was just a nightmare, but a few months ago, this was what caused her to have a human being growing inside her womb.

She can’t stop shaking as she stands up, sobbing quietly as she walks to the door of the medbay and locks it, having decided that this was enough for her, she couldn’t take it anymore.

When she grabs a new bottle of painkillers, she hears a knock on the door and a young voice calls her out.

Daisuke.

“Anya, are you okay in there? Why can’t I open the door?” He seems worried, and Anya doesn’t want to worry him even more, but her words betray her.

“The door is stuck. I can’t get out.” She mentally slaps herself at that, knowing that it would only worry the poor boy even more, when she hears him talking to someone outside of the room.

“Anya, Jimmy’s here! We’ve come to rescue you!” Daisuke’s voice trembles as he yells at her through the door, trying to show confidence in this situation and failing.

She takes a deep breath and when she’s about to answer, she’s interrupted by a familiar voice, Jimmy’s voice. “Hey , I heard the door’s stuck.” Anya refuses herself to answer, putting her hand over her mouth to muffle a sob.

“Hey, Anya! Can you hear me?” She can hear the stress in his voice and she gulps. “Yes, Jimmy. I can hear you.”

Jimmy’s sigh is audible enough for Anya to hear when he speaks again, “The rest of the medicine stock is in there with you, too.”

Of course he’s worried about the medicine, and not her.

“Fuck, this can’t be good. Did you really try hard to open it?” It’s as if he’s trying to make her guilty of the situation that only started because of him, really. For the first time, Anya quietly laughs incredulously.

“Are there any tools around? Is the med kit heavy?” This time it’s Daisuke who talks, trying to actually help, unlike Jimmy.

When they go unanswered, Jimmy sighs once more. “Anya, is the door stuck?” There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence before she reluctantly answers, her voice shaky. “No.”

Daisuke’s confused voice is the first thing she hears after her answer. “What? What do you mean?” She sighs and walks towards Curly’s bed, sitting on the floor by his side.

“Anya, look, we’re all stressed here, but you can’t just throw a fit at anything. Open the fucking door.” Her tears haven’t stopped since she has woken up, and this time, she can’t hide her sob.

“You were right… You were right this whole time. I should’ve done this since the beginning.” She can hear Daisuke’s breath get quicker, lighter.

“I have always believed that our worst moments don’t define us, Jimmy. These moments don’t turn us into villains.” Anya manages to open the bottle of painkillers with shaky hands, and outside of the room, they can hear a small ‘pop’.

“Do you think I wanted this, too?” She sobs once more and stares at the pills inside its container. “Don’t get mistaken. This isn’t my worst moment. Far from it, this is my best moment.”

“Anya, what’s happening?” Daisuke’s trembling voice reaches her ears and she lets out a shaky sigh.

“Open the door.” Anya can hear the panic in Jimmy’s voice as she looks at the door and then at the pills once more.

“I’ll take care of this.” Before she swallows the whole bottle, she can hear Daisuke yelling. “Anya? What does this mean?”

She looks over at Curly, who was watching everything from the beginning and breathing raggedly. Anya offers him a soft smile as more tears run down her face.

“Goodbye, Captain Curly.” And she chugs the whole bottle down, sighing and just waiting for the medicine to work on her body.

After a few moments, the world felt numb after months of suffering. She couldn’t tell if it was from the anxiety she was feeling or from the concerning amount of painkillers that she took, but either way, it was better than feeling that project of a monster kicking inside her womb, making her weep inside her room every night.

Anya would finally get the peace she has always wanted. Nothing could bother her now.

The need to sleep was everything she could focus on, and just like that, Anya drifted off to a world where only the dead knew.

“You want me to give him the painkillers again?” Jimmy’s voice echoed, anger tinted in every word.

What? No. This can’t be. This isn’t possible.

꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚

AN: Maybe I’ll make this a series? Idk. We’ll see what fate has for me :)