#with presumably 'photographic' memories

[photography-poltergeist]

This

Yeah no Michael Afton didn't resemble his father so much his own sister couldn't tell the difference between them.

For Henry to be like "my brave volunteer" and imply Michael was never supposed to be here.

I call bullshit on that.

There's no way in the fire that's supposed to destroy everything Freddys related and tie up all the loose ends. That Henry didn't know he had Williams son hired.

Having a random night guard not connected to any of this be killed really goes against everything in this game.

There's no way Henry didn't know.

There was never a way out planned for Michael to escape.

[kinkandkreep]

♡︎ 𝐂𝐖: 𝐍𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 '𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

♡︎ 𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐮𝐩 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭

♡︎ 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭

ʰᵉʸ ʰᵉʸ ʸ'ᵃˡˡ! ʲᵘˢᵗ ᵃ ᶠᵃⁱʳ ʷᵃʳⁿⁱⁿᵍ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ʷᵉ ᵈᵉˡᵛᵉ ⁱⁿᵗᵒ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᶜʰᵃᵖᵗᵉʳ, ⁱ ᵗᵒᵒᵏ ᵐᵃⁿʸ ᶜʳᵉᵃᵗⁱᵛᵉ ˡⁱᵇᵉʳᵗⁱᵉˢ ʷⁱᵗʰ ⁱᶻᵃⁿᵃ'ˢ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ ˢⁱᵐᵖˡʸ ᵇᵉᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ⁱ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜᵃⁿᵒⁿⁱᶜᵃˡ ᶠᵃᶜᵗˢ ᶜᵒⁿᶜᵉʳⁿⁱⁿᵍ ⁱᵗ, ᵈᵘᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᵃᶜᵗ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ⁱ'ᵐ ᵃⁿ ᵃⁿⁱᵐᵉ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵃˢⁱᵈᵉ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵃ ᶠᵉʷ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ᵘⁿᵃᵛᵒⁱᵈᵃᵇˡᵉ ˢᵖᵒⁱˡᵉʳˢ, ⁱ ᵃᶜᵗᵘᵃˡˡʸ ᵏⁱⁿᵈᵃ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ᵇᵉ ˢᵘʳᵖʳⁱˢᵉᵈ ᶠᵒʳ ʰⁱᵐ. 🙃 ˢᵒ ʸᵉᵃʰ, ⁱᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵉᵗᵃⁱˡˢ ⁱ ᵍⁱᵛᵉ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃʳᵉ ʷᵃʸ ᵒᶠᶠ, ᵃ.) ⁱ'ᵐ ˢᵒʳʳʸ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵇ.) ᵗʰᵃᵗ'ˢ ʷʰʸ. 😂 ᵃˡʳⁱᵍʰᵗʸ, ʷᵉˡˡ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ᵗʰᵃᵗ, ⁱ ʰᵒᵖᵉ ʸ'ᵃˡˡ ᵉⁿʲᵒʸ! 👋🏾

Mikey hasn’t returned home.

Ken left a little while ago, after you assured him many times that you would be alright on your own and wouldn’t lash out and do anything drastic. 

“Though you’d be well within your rights to,” he’d said, causing a small, strained, albeit genuine smile to curl your lips. 

With a final hug and firm, comforting squeeze of reassurance from the tattooed man, you were finally left alone with your thoughts. Back to the front door, you let your eyes roam around your living area, gaze momentarily catching on each of the photos of you and your husband strategically scattered about the space. 

‘Now, how do I make that son of a bitch pay?’

Deciding to take advantage of the time you have alone before Manjiro presumably returns, you make the decision to do a little redecorating. 

You’re not entirely sure he’ll notice- especially not now, as entranced as he is with that whore of his- but you hope that at least to some degree, the subtle changes will cause a cold, looming shower of dread to trickle over his being. 

You don’t want to be too direct just yet, having decided that this learning process for Manjiro cannot be rushed. No, you’re going to take your time, and maybe even have a little fun. 

It’s strange, you think. How the initial shock and sorrow wore off so quickly, only to leave burning rage and bitterness in its wake. 

Perhaps it’s because subconsciously, you knew all along the truth. Perhaps it’s because deep down, you always knew something like this would happen. 

Despite yourself, you can feel tears threatening to build at the latter thought, and so you quickly push it away. 

You’ve not shed a tear for that piece of shit yet, and you’re not about to start now.

Continuing your journey around your living room, you begin removing certain pictures from their frames, replacing them with others. 

The photo of you and Mikey at the beach when you were a bit younger? Replaced with a photo of you and Ken from that same day. 

The photo of you and Mikey smiling big and bright on his CB250T the day he got it out from the shop following a minor accident? Replaced with one of you and Takashi smiling at each other at his workshop.

You smile fondly as you recall the memory associated with that photo. Takashi had made your wedding dress, and at the time that photo was taken, you’d been discussing the details with him. 

Several other photos are taken down and replaced as well, until you arrive at what is perhaps the most poignant one of them all. 

It’s of you and Manjiro on your wedding day, looking so young and in love, who’d have ever thought that it would ever come to this?

The picture was taken by your friend Shuji from high school. You remember with a chuckle how much of an absolute menace he used to be when you were younger, but it brings you pride, the thought of the respectable young man he’d turned out to be. 

He ran a freelance photography business, and when you’d approached him about being the photographer for your big day, to your surprise, he’d jumped at the opportunity, even offering to do so for free.

You still paid him, generously in fact, your heart warmed by his thoughtfulness. 

It almost pains you to hide that wonderfully taken photo away, but if you’re to make a point, the photo’s got to go. 

It is replaced with one of you and Manjiro's adoptive brother, Izana. 

The picture catches you and him mid laugh at something most likely he’d said, one of your hands gently clutched in his, nails partially painted. Izana holds the nail polish brush in his left hand, his head tilted back as he guffaws. 

You recall that day like it was yesterday, though it’s been quite some time. 

Your friend group had just recently celebrated the grand opening of Izana’s first nail salon in Shibuya. The man was so ecstatic, he practically vibrated with excitement for the entirety of the event.

It was a little unusual, given how collected Izana always was, but you were all extremely happy for him and his success. 

As part of the event, Izana and his team gave out free manicures to the first 10 people who entered the store and inquired about their services, then offering nail services at a discounted price to the next 15. 

You hadn’t expected him to approach you and offer to give you a free manicure, as you were just there to show your support, but with how skilled Izana was, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

As you sat in one of the plush, high-end massage chairs and awaited your service, you studied Izana as he went about tending to some of the other patrons and his staff members before dedicating his full attention to you. 

Izana had a somewhat rocky childhood. He has a Filipino mother and Japanese father. Because of this, he moved back and forth a lot, never quite settling down and stabilizing in any one place. 

Eventually, once he was a little older, he did settle in Japan with his dad following his mother’s death. Growing up, Izana was left to his own devices most times, and this allowed him to get into some less than savory situations. 

Thankfully, he eventually straightened out and found his passion in nail artistry. He painted his nails in his younger years to express himself, finding later that he wanted to help others do the same. 

That led to now, and as you continue to observe your good friend turned brother-in-law, you can’t help but smile at how far he’s come. 

Izana is undoubtedly good looking too, but you’ve never known him to be with anyone. The thought strikes you as a bit strange, but you decide to leave it alone. 

After a bit, he finally makes his way back over to you, apologizing for the delay and laying out his tools. 

You decide to get something simple yet seasonally appropriate. It was the spring time when Izana opened up shop, and if you recall correctly you got a simple olive green nail base with white and yellow daisies painted on top. 

Izana worked thoroughly and efficiently, and the finished product had been so delicate and pretty you’d gone back for that same design before the season was up. 

The two of you chatted throughout the duration of your service that day, laughing and reminiscing. You couldn’t stop gushing about how proud you were of Izana, missing his fond gaze and lightly flushed cheeks. 

Now, in the present moment, you feel yourself smiling widely. Despite the unfortunate circumstance, you felt much lighter after having gazed upon the happy faces of those most important to you.

With the final photo in place, you head into the bathroom, preparing to freshen up before heading to bed. It’s late, and you’re frankly more than a little tired and worn out. 

After completing your routine, you head into the bedroom, switching into pajamas and sliding underneath the covers. 

You’re just about to drift off when you hear a key in the front lock, the hollow sound of the front door opening and footsteps followed by the low creak of it swinging shut. 

It’s Manjiro. 

The footsteps move through the living room, pausing at odd intervals. 

You hope it’s because he’s noticed the photos. 

Eventually, the steps begin making their way upstairs. You notice that they’re slow, even; almost like Manjiro’s trying to be as quiet as possible. 

He stops right outside the shut bedroom door, probably figuring it odd that door is shut in the first place. 

If he’s out and you’ve gone to bed, you typically leave it open in anticipation of him. But this time, you’ve shut it, almost as if you’re passively, subconsciously shutting him out as well. 

The doorknob twists slowly, before stopping entirely. You hear Manjiro make his way to the bathroom, the sound of the switch flicking on and the door starting to shut before it pauses. 

Again, you hope he’s taken notice. 

You removed your wedding ring before you got in the shower, setting it in the most obvious place and neglecting to replace it before you left the room. 

If nothing else, this should cause the greatest alarm for Manjiro. 

You never take your ring off. In fact, up until this point, you hadn’t removed it since the day Manjiro slid it onto your finger. 

It’s silent for many seconds, before you hear the door swing completely shut and water begin to run. 

You’re still tired however, and for as much as you’d like to gauge Manjiro’s expression when he enters the bedroom, you feel your eyes droop and shut, and after some minutes, you’re off to the Land of Nod. 

It’s a shame you don’t stay awake for just a bit longer, because when Manjiro exits the shower room, he has your ring clutched tightly in his hand. 

Carefully making his way over to your sleeping form, he gently coaxes one of your hands out from underneath the covers, slipping the ring back into place before leaning over to place a single kiss on your forehead. 

“I’m sorry, __.” 

ᵃ/ⁿ: 👀 👀 👀 ʷʰᵃᵗ ⁱˢ ᵈⁱˢ ʷᵉ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ʰᵉʳᵉ? ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ ʰᵃˢ ᵇᵉᵍᵘⁿ ʰᵉʳ (ᵗᵒᵏʸᵒ) ʳᵉᵛᵉⁿᵍᵉ(ʳˢ) ᵖˡᵃⁿ. ˢᵒᵘⁿᵈˢ ˡⁱᵏᵉ ˢʰᵉ'ˢ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ˢᶜʳᵉʷ ᵃʳᵒⁿᵈ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵐⁱᵏᵉʸ'ˢ ᵐⁱⁿᵈ ᵇᵉᶠᵒʳᵉ ᵃⁿʸᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ᵉˡˢᵉ. ⁱ'ᵐ ᵉˣᶜⁱᵗᵉᵈ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ⁱᵗ. 😈 ⁱ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᵃ ᵍᵒᵒᵈ ᵐⁱⁿᵈ ˢᶜʳᵉʷ ⁱⁿ ᶠⁱᶜˢ, ᵉˢᵖᵉᶜⁱᵃˡˡʸ ʷʰᵉⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵉᶜⁱᵉᵛⁱⁿᵍ ᵖᵃʳᵗʸ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ᵈᵉˢᵉʳᵛᵉˢ ⁱᵗ. ˡᵉᵗ ᵐᵉ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ʷʰᵃᵗ ʸ'ᵃˡˡ ᵗʰᵒᵘᵍʰᵗ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᵃⁿᵈ ʷʰᵉʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵏ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ'ˢ ᵍᵒⁱⁿᵍ. ˢᵉᵉ ʸ'ᵃˡˡ ˡᵃᵗᵉʳ! 👋🏾

[1moreff-creator]

If Min had lived past CH1, where do you think her character could potentially go?

What do you mean if? /j

That depends a lot on the context of her survival, frankly. Does she still see Xander's attempt to murder Teruko and just... survive somehow? Does something else save Teruko and Xander dies without Min being the blackened? Does Xander die before the attempt? Or are the CH1 victim and killers completely swapped? If so, who are the new ones? All of these lead to pretty different possibilities for Min's character. But there's still a couple of things that could have been interesting to see.

Yay an excuse to ramble about Min! :,D

For starters, my guess is that she'd be decent enough in trials; at the very least, she'd act as third brain cell alongside Teruko and Charles. She'd definitely have joined Charles and Levi in talking about how strong jockeys are, for example. Also my heart says she'd have been in the Teruko Teaher CG in some way, such as an teacher's assistant.

Her secret would have also been a hell of a time. Assuming the two CH1 deaths still had each others' secrets, someone must have had Min's, which would have certainly been... honestly indescribable. It just depends too much on who exactly gets it.

However, "You always treated the competition with ruthlessness, but poisoning them to win was a bit far, wasn't it?" would have certainly been an excuse to bring the XF-Ture backstory to light, and combined with MonoTV's own XF-Ture comment, I'm pretty sure hell would have followed. Just complete pandemonium; the poisoner has ties to the same company that seems to be connected to the killing game, yeah everyone's gonna start calling mastermind and shit's gonna hit the fan.

I could see a world where the cast in CH3 becomes completely divided over the Extremely Suspicious Min, with Eden for example being one of the ones to stick up for her (baking squad I will always miss you). I could also see Rose doing it (baking squad I will always miss you), because they could bond over the companies ruling over their respective lives, so Rose would trust that Min had nothing to do with the other shit XF-Ture had going on. Hell, since I'm talking about it, Min would have probably also tried to cheer Rose up about the tape thing, because of her whole "mistakes are to be corrected" thing (BAKING SQUAD-)

And all that means Min would have quite an interesting reaction to Eden or Rose dying, and vice versa. No ship shall remain undoomed in DRDT, after all!

On the other hand, holy shit the beef between her and David. The guy that's always defending the son of a bitch who tried to kill Teruko? Xander, the one Min always disliked anyways? It would be basically on the same level as Teruko's beef with David, which would be a sight to see. Throw in Xander surviving too, and you have the ultimate Yaoi vs Yuri throw down on your hands.

But a lot of this is character interactions, what about Min herself? Well, I imagine she'd grow into reaching similar conclusions to Bonus Episode 1, about what she'd like to do in the future and being a teacher, especially since I imagine the trials would be made in a way that her talent would help so she'd gain more confidence in her abilities. Obviously all of this development would happen right before she dies, or right before the final trial if she's a survivor.

Yes, even though I'm immensely biased when I say this, I think Min could have worked as a survivor. In a very similar way I think Rose could be a survivor now; experience horrors beyond imagination, and slowly get better until the point they're willing to fight their fates (aka company contracts) by the time they leave the killing game, paralleling Teruko's own growth. For Min, those horrors wouldn't be photographic memory, getting betrayed and (presumably at some point) watching close friends like Eden die. Rather, they would be losing everyone's trust between the poison secret and the XF-Ture thing, having some breakdown over mistakes in trials (again similar to Rose), worrying that she'd die before her life really began, and... watching Eden die. In case it isn't obvious, I really miss the damn baking squad T_T

Also, the poison secret (god this post's structure is a mess). I haven't been talking much about it because we're actually missing quite a few details. I've talked before about how I imagine she likely non-lethally poisoned people after the Ultimate Contest for Eminent Students (or asked someone from XF-Ture to do it for her), but obviously that's speculation. That's important because, for example, I don't know how much the actual lethality of the situation would affect the way Miss Anti-Murder Preacher J would react to it, even though I imagine she'd be pretty pissed no matter what. Veronika would be all over Min for the details though.

Her reaction to Levi and Arturo's secrets would have been cool to see. Arturo doing anything for a better life would probably get her to feel sympathy for him, at least, and again depending the lethality of her poisoning, she probably wouldn't be able to really hold it against him without hypocrisy.

Speaking of Arturo, do we think Min would make a good doctor's assistant? She was reading an anatomy textbook in her introduction. Maybe helping Arturo take care of Levi after Trial 2 would be the start of her becoming more confident in her abilities.

Also she'd be real good friends with Charles. No elaboration on this, I just know it in my heart to be true.

One dynamic I'd like to see is with Hu. If Hu learns about Min's past, and Min's desire to leave it all behind (as per the pinned comment in Bonus Episode 1, Min is "Someone who wants to move on from the past"), I could see her reaching out as someone who also has a past she'd rather pretend doesn't exist. There would certainly be a good deal of character development for both of them, just in time for one of them to die of course. Incidentally, the whole "moving on from the past" thing could rope in Veronika as well..

And I could probably ramble about this forever. To be extremely fair, all DRDT characters have so much depth and there's so many interconnected themes all over the place that I could do this for any of them; go on ad infinitum about all the possibilities for growth and exploration that their interactions with the cast and the motives could provide. So I'll cut myself off there.

(I will also add as an observation that (because I'm predictable) I have considered writing a "Min survives CH1" canon divergence fanfic before. Don't count on it happening, just know it can)

Thanks for the ask! Always happy to have an excuse to ramble about my girl :,)

[vidavalor]

Hi! If it's not a bother, I would love to read your thoughts on the picture of Crowley & Az from Hamlet existing in Heaven. I have never been able to get my head around that & your posts always get me seeing things in a different way. I'd be interested to know what you think. Thank you!!!

Hello there. 💕 It's never a bother and thanks for the interest and kind words! You also get a bit of a semi-related, bonus meta, as thinking about this scene for you ended up being how I came up with structuring the thoughts I had for the Jim Sorting Books post. There is hot chocolate today since the photo comes from a Gabriel scene. *gets the angel mugs* You'll need it, most likely, as my thoughts on those photos, while short, are a bit dark.

You mentioned the Hamlet photo as the part that stumps you and I'd agree with that being the most intriguing inclusion here because it brings up the question of how these photos were taken. They all look to be taken in the same way but cameras, as we know them, didn't exist in 1601. While we could get into the ideas of Heaven having different technology, it's the Hamlet photo you're talking about that I suspect could contain the answer. I'm not sure if it's this but I don't think I've seen this possibility mentioned. Apologies if it has been.

In 1601, Crowley and Aziraphale are facing the stage in The Globe, right? That image of them is taken from the perspective of someone with a clear view of them-- someone on stage or just behind it at The Globe. If you look at the other images from St. James' Park, Crowley in 1862 and Aziraphale in 2008 are looking in the direction of the observer, like they feel like they're being watched. Maybe it's not always by people with literal cameras, exactly... Michael said they went through the "Earth Observation Files" to get these photos to give to Gabriel and I think what they mean by that is that they combed through people's memories.

I think these images weren't taken with physical cameras the way we know them but they're images from the minds of people, human or supernatural or both, who observed Crowley and Aziraphale at different times. The Hamlet photo is someone's mental image of Crowley and Aziraphale from seeing them there in that moment. All of this kind of Heaven's data is aggregated from the minds of angels or from humans, likely those who have since died and are in Heaven.

Something I think might be a clue to this is how Crowley quickly goes through the minds of everyone around them to see if anyone is actually looking at them before they swap bodies back in S1. He's scanning the minds of every person in their general vicinity and noting on what their attention is focused in order to determine that they are suitably alone enough to swap bodies back unobserved.

1601 was also a Reece Shearsmith scene about the theatre (a performance; people observing) and its related mirror in S2 is The Blitz, Part 2, where Reece Shearsmith returns and is now playing Furfur, who seeks to gain photographic evidence against Crowley and Aziraphale. The 1941 photo parallels the photo trio from S1.

Furfur has to take a picture with a camera-- a chronologically slightly ahead-of-its-time Polaroid-- to present to Dagon as evidence. This presumes that his own mental observation of Crowley & Aziraphale or that of any of the Zombie Trio's own, wouldn't be seen as enough evidence in Hell. That makes sense, since the demons we've met basically all have Swiss cheese memories from their experiences with Heaven. They wouldn't trust anything but the hard evidence of an image taken with an external device.

I kind of like the idea because it also goes along with the theme of recognition. Even if Crowley and Aziraphale were trying not to be observed, the idea is that the images of them do exist in the minds of others and there are plenty of images that aren't of them being stalked. They also just exist in the observation files of everyone they've ever met throughout all of history.

That Hamlet photo is one that both Crowley and Aziraphale would probably actually want, even with its dubious provenance, and they have maybe one picture of the two of them together from all of history at present. I'm pretty sure that Gabriel has the Hamlet photo in whatever pocket dimension locker he also used to stash his suit when he fled Heaven (you know he stashed the suit lol)... so, I guess, at least Jim knows what he's giving his friends for Christmas this year?

Also hey @tickety-boooo? How did we miss this scene that basically *is* our theory?! Check out the three photos-- one each of all the ways they are presented to us, with the one Gabriel pulls closer being the one of them in the private formation with Crowley on Aziraphale's right. 😲

[aceghosts]

DEAD MAN WALKING

Series Summary: In February 2005, Captain Hunter Delaney is tragically killed in action on a BSAA mission in Northern Canada. After their death, scientists and BSAA agents related to the mission start to die. Albert Wesker intends to find out who is killing them, hoping to use this stranger to his advantage. Rating: Mature Warnings: Canon typical violence, Body Horror, and unethical experimentation on humans. Mentions of a corpse, death, and torture. This is a horror fic with eventual romance; you have been warned. If I need to tag for anything else, please let me know.  Words: 3,341 words.  Author's Note: Chapter title comes from Placebo's Infra-Red. I didn’t mean to take this long between the first chapter and the second chapter. Good news is that I hope to have another chapter out for you at the beginning of November.  AO3

CHAPTER 2: FORGET YOUR RUNNING, I WILL FIND YOU

A few months later…

Albert parks the black Mercedes in front of the two-story brick house. Hidden out of the way in this idyllic neighborhood, the quaint home was perfect for someone portraying himself as a simple family man. It was a terrible hiding place if you were Dr. Jeremy Fuller, a man stupid enough to steal from Albert Wesker. Perhaps, Jeremy wanted something familiar, knowing he was living on stolen time. From time to time, animals had been known to crawl back to their hovels, seeking comfort in their impending death. Jeremy must be like them; he certainly was as pathetic as a dying animal. Stepping out of the sedan, Albert closes the car door behind him, striding toward the front door.

Wait…He stops in his tracks, eyes narrowing behind dark shades. The red front door is open, showing no signs of forced entry. Had Jeremy already left with his family, hoping to avoid Albert? Or was poor, naive Jeremy simply setting a trap for him? Albert quietly tuts, shaking his head. Jeremy was only prolonging his suffering. The more annoyed Albert was, the more he would draw out Jeremy’s demise. He silently stalks towards the front door, hand slipping beneath his long, black coat, resting on his Samurai Edge.

Pushing the door open, Albert keenly listens for the sound of movement inside the home. He only hears the slow drip of a faucet, most likely from one of the upstairs bathrooms. The home is unnaturally quiet, devoid of any life. As he steps inside, Albert glances around the doorway, noticing the small unusual details, particularly that there were no signs of a frantic exit. Men’s dress shoes and a leather messenger bag are left by the door, presumably by Jeremy in preparation for his day at work. Albert kneels, inspecting the bag more. Jeremy’s laptop is still there. He must not have run, not at least without the laptop. Now, Albert had only one question: where was Jeremy?   

Starting his slow ascent up the stairs in the foyer, Albert eyes the family photos on the beige wall. Each photo is of Jeremy and his family, Jeremy looking so proud. He scoffs at Jeremy’s foolish pride. Relationships were weaknesses to be exploited. Albert used spouses, children, siblings, and grandparents to advance his agenda. People were so easy to manipulate, especially when they had someone to care about. One of the photos, a photograph of Jeremy and his family at breakfast, brings a memory back to Albert’s mind.

—

Albert unlocks the door to the Birkin home, stepping inside. Will gave him the key the moment Will and Annette had moved into the house. Albert pulls his boots off, dropping his bag beside them. Hearing the sounds of Sherry’s laughter, Albert heads towards the kitchen, wondering what mischief Sherry and William have gotten into now.

As he reaches the kitchen, Will turns, spotting and smiling at him. “Hey Al! Here for breakfast, huh?”

“Uncle Al!” Sherry exclaims, excitement shining brightly in her blue eyes. She runs over, hugging him tightly. After Will and Annette, Albert was Sherry’s third favorite person. She spent almost as much time with him as with her parents, which wasn’t much.

“Good morning, Sherry,” Albert greets her, petting Sherry’s head as she fondly releases him. He shakes his head. “No, I’m here to make sure you go to the lab today. We have more work to do.”

Will groans. “We would have more time if you didn’t have to play pretend with S.T.A.R.S.”

“That isn’t my choice. Spencer needs a man inside,” Albert replies, sliding a chair out and taking a seat next to Sherry, as she sits, vibrating with excitement, “We won’t have to do this much longer.”

“I hope so,” Will grumbles from the kitchen.

“Albert.” Annette greets him coolly as she strides into the kitchen.

“Annette.” Turning to Sherry, Albert asks, “How was school this week?” He catches Will giving him a ‘You got yourself into this’ look as Annette smirks.

Smiling brightly, Sherry launches into a long-winded explanation of how she aced her test, beating everyone in her class. As Albert takes in the simple domestic scene around him, he can’t help but feel slightly at peace here with his friends and their daughter.

—

A low growl escapes Albert as he shakes the silly memory from his head. He never asked Will if he regretted marrying Annette and having Sherry. Something like that would have been an off-topic subject for lifelong friends. Besides, Albert knew the answer. Annette and Sherry had been a weakness, costing Will his life. Even if Albert longed for the companionship of another, no one would be his equal, especially not after his transformation.

As Albert makes his way to the master bedroom, he passes the other rooms of the home, occasionally glancing towards the bedrooms. Jeremy’s son’s bedroom, Alan, looked as if he planned to return that afternoon. So did the daughter’s, Lizzie’s, bedroom. Interesting.

Reaching the master bedroom, Albert silently pushes the door open, surveying the room. No one waits for him in hiding, the bedroom completely empty. On the neatly made bed, Albert spies a yellow legal pad, a ballpoint pen lying beside it. Striding over, Albert picks up the pad, noting the deeply indented words marked on the paper. Narrowing his eyes, he notes that it is Jeremy’s handwriting, hastily scrawled, almost as if it were under duress. It appears to be a list of names, with the final name circled: Dr. Charles Griffin. Placing the legal pad down, Albert questions what Dr. Griffin had to do with this. As far as Albert was concerned, Dr. Griffin was an annoyance. An idiot masquerading as a genius. Dr. Griffin, delusional, believed his work would change the world. That honor would belong to Albert alone.  

Looking to his left, Albert notices the door to the master bathroom is slightly ajar. He approaches the bathroom, the damp carpet squelching under his feet as he nears the door. Albert raises a blond eyebrow, slowly pushing the door open. The tan bathroom tiles are slick with water as the tub faucet drips. Turning slowly, Albert finds the body of Jeremy Fuller, hands zip-tied behind his back as he kneels in front of the tub, face submerged. Fury rises in Albert as he stomps over to the dead body. Grabbing Jeremy by the collar, Albert pulls him out of the water, confirming it’s really the man he was looking for. He is going to kill whoever did this. If someone killed Jeremy, they were most likely after his sample. And Albert Wesker did not take kindly to thieves.

He releases Jeremy, who flops back face first into the water as it splashes over the edge of the tub. Stomping out of the bedroom, Albert swipes the legal pad from the bed, hoping that he isn’t too late to recover what belongs to him. If it was, this thief should hope that someone else gets to them first.

—

SLAM! His gloved fist dents the desk, pure fury pulsing through Albert’s veins. Everything, all of it, was gone. Jeremy’s monitors and towers were riddled with bullet holes, rendering whatever information Albert might get useless. The refrigerator, containing some samples, was a hollow husk, a grenade thrown in it first before someone deemed it appropriate to riddle it with bullet holes. It was all gone, including the stolen sample. A low growl escapes him, anger threatening to consume him. No. Albert was smarter than this. There had to be a clue about who had destroyed Jeremy’s lab.

As he heads back towards the stairs to the main level, he catches sight of a small door, slightly ajar. Pushing the door open, Albert finds a monitor hooked up to the security cameras, focusing on the outside of the property. He smirks, knowing that this might be the clue he needs. Flipping through the footage for a few minutes, Albert finds who he thinks might be responsible. The monitor’s grainy footage shows a tall figure approaching the property. They look up towards the camera, dark bangs peeking out from the red hood of their black and red sweatshirt. Most of their face is covered, most likely to protect their identity from anyone who would come after them. Someone like Albert Wesker. The figure is too far from the camera to make out any real identifying features. It’s also several feet up, well above anything that a normal human could reach. The stranger will most likely use their gun to destroy the camera.

Within the blink of an eye, the figure crosses the lawn, now in front of the camera. The stranger leaps up, face coming close to the camera. He briefly notices their faded green eyes, freckles splattered across their face, and a scar on the bridge of their nose, peaking out from underneath the mask. Eyes narrowed, the figure reaches for the camera, and the footage suddenly ends. Interesting. If the footage is correct, this individual shows a heightened capacity for speed and jump beyond any human. Were they infected? Possibly. He couldn’t decide either way until he had absolute proof. However, he did always wonder if there were others like Alex and himself, especially with abilities like his own. Most who underwent the transformation of their viruses were monsters, slaves to their own madness, and whoever held the other end of their leash. A small flicker of hope lodges itself in his chest, feeling slightly more optimistic. But he could not get too optimistic; he needed more proof.  

After copying the footage of the mysterious stranger, Albert heads back up to the main floor. He walks towards Jeremy’s messenger bag, wondering if he may find more information there. Kneeling by the bag, Albert rifles through it, finding Jeremy’s work cell phone. He smirks as he flips it open. The cell phone beeps, indicating someone left a voice-mail. Albert presses play, an unfamiliar voice speaking aloud:

“Jeremy, where are you? Dr. Ortiz is going to have your head on a pike! Please tell me you didn’t take up that psychopath, Griffin, up on his offer. I know he’s your old boss, but he isn’t worth it! Especially with those samples of that dead BSAA Agent!” Albert hears shouting in the background, presumably Dr. Ortiz. “Fuck, just get in here Jeremy!”

Dead BSAA Agent? Samples? The mystery thickens, and Albert wonders how this mysterious stranger fits in with the dead BSAA Agent. Revenge for a lost loved one, perhaps? But what need would they have to destroy Jeremy’s work? And what role did Dr. Griffin play in all of this?

—

Illuminated by the glow of the screen, Albert flicks through the Umbrella archives, courtesy of the Red Queen. Umbrella has little on Jeremy or Dr. Griffin. Jeremy appears to be one of Dr. Griffin’s known associates, an interesting coincidence. Umbrella has little information on his work but indicated that it would be a strategic move to recruit Dr. Griffin and his team. In fact, they appeared to be recruiting him when Raccoon City fell, taking Umbrella along with it. How unfortunate for them. His file did note that Dr. Griffin may need to be dealt with, especially if he refused their offer to take another opportunity at one of their competitors. The end of the file notes Dr. Griffin and his teams’ attempt to work on something to rival the Progenitor virus. An interesting note, clearly still unsuccessful.

Steepling his fingers, Albert wonders if Dr. Griffin finished his work on the virus. Was he successful? And how did this stranger relate to it? Were they cleaning up Dr. Griffin’s mess, on his or his employer’s payroll? Or were they working for someone else, a simple pawn on the chessboard? And what role did the dead BSAA agent play in all of this? No matter, Albert would make the stranger an offer they could not refuse. And if they did refuse? He would make sure they were removed from the game permanently. However, he needs to find the individual, and Dr. Griffin was his only lead.

A preliminary search shows that Dr. Griffin is under the watchful eyes of the BSAA. Interesting. What had the good doctor done to bring the BSAA down on him?

Getting into the BSAA files was easy. Agencies, like the BSAA, were always behind when it came to security, and like every other major player, Albert had his own men within the BSAA. Finding Dr. Griffin’s file, a photo of the man appears. Dr. Griffin frowns in his photo, pretending to portray a serious yet misunderstood genius. He snorts; Will was a genius, not this fraud. Dr. Griffin’s file lists his work, noting that he may be a serious threat. Albert smirks; Dr. Griffin is nothing compared to him.

He moves on to Dr. Griffin’s work, much of which is mediocre. Yet, Dr. Griffin’s current research sparks his curiosity as Albert pulls up a video, a recording of one of Dr. Griffin’s test subjects. A man in his late twenties-early thirties paces around the cell, clearly in distress.  “What did you do to me?” He wheezes, swaying as he paces back and forth. Something grumbles, and the man groans, hunching over as something ripples along his spine. Albert leans closer, inspecting the subject closer. Is-Is something moving beneath his skin? Fascinating. “WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?” He screams, a melodramatic shriek of pain. Another howl escapes him, and the subject mutates, bones cracking and skin ripping as he evolves. The subject writhes as his body transforms, movement eventually ceasing. A few seconds later, the subject moves, imperceptible to the human eye. His movements increase, the subject rising to its feet, two long appendages protruding from its wrists. The mutation marred the subject’s face, his body distorted from the transformation. It had turned him into a tyrant, not dissimilar to the ones Albert had worked on at Umbrella. The Tyrant looks up at the camera. With a quick motion, it whips one of the appendages, causing the video feed to cut out.

Disappointing. Dr. Griffin’s virus clearly needed more work, more than Dr. Griffin could ever hope to achieve. He pulls up the report regarding the BSAA’s capture of Dr. Griffin. The report lists five members as part of the team who arrested Dr. Griffin:

Agent Arthur Edwards-Alive Agent Patrick Hoffman-Alive Agent Natasha Russell-Alive Agent Kevin Zhu-Alive Captain Hunter Delaney-Deceased

Albert raises an eyebrow. Is Captain Delaney the dead BSAA agent that Jeremy’s colleague referred to in his voicemail? He searches Captain Delaney, pulling up their file, only to be greeted with a familiar pair of faded green eyes. In their file photo, Captain Delaney wears a confident smile, proud of their work. Albert snorts. What a fool. The BSAA was exactly like the entities it swore to fight. It was bloated by corruption, infected with spies from numerous organizations. His thoughts return to Captain Delaney, noting the two scars on their freckled face. Across the bridge of their nose runs a deep scar, only to be outdone by a large, gnarled scar on the left side of their lip. The scar on their nose seems similar to the one of the mysterious stranger.

Captain Delaney’s file notes that they had a promising career in the U.S. Air Force until a B.O.W. attack in Belgium in 1999. Thanks to the Captain’s leadership, their team made it out alive with a few civilian survivors, but something changed in Captain Delaney. Reports from their superiors note their warnings about bioterrorism, starting to become a pain in Leadership’s side. Captain Delaney seemed smart enough to recognize the potential threat that bioterrorism would become. Yet, they decided to play for the wrong side, leaving the Air Force to join the BSAA in 2002. If the U.S. Government was willing to let them go during the beginning of the war on terror, Captain Delaney must have kicked up quite a stir. What had occurred during the mission with Dr. Griffin that led to Captain Delaney’s untimely death?

Scrolling down to the mission reports, Albert opens Agent Arthur Edwards’ report, Captain Delaney’s second in command. Agent Edwards writes in his report: “Captain Delaney was infected by Dr. Charles Griffin with the prototype of his virus. Dr. Griffin informed the team that there was no hope for curing Captain Delaney. Captain Delaney’s infection progressed, and they started to mutate. To protect the team and ensure no further infection, I acted, terminating Captain Delaney. Due to my quick actions, no other members of the team were infected.”

Infected? Interesting. The figure in the grainy video showed no similarities to Dr. Griffin’s previous test subject. They appeared in perfect health, seeming mostly human. That was assuming that it even was Captain Delaney infected with the prototype virus. Glancing over at the yellow legal pad, Albert notes the names. All scientists who worked on the virus that killed Captain Delaney. This stranger was after Dr. Griffin’s team and most likely, Dr. Griffin, himself.

He mulls over the idea of this stranger being the dead Captain Delaney. Albert could not discount the physical similarities between the deceased Captain Delaney and the stranger. It would also mean there was another like him and Alex. Would they be as strong as he was? As fast? Albert’s mind races with many possibilities, eager to meet another tyrant like himself. So many of the other tyrants were rudimentary, animalistic creatures acting on pure instinct. None were the next step of humanity’s evolution like him. He smirks, knowing it was imperative to find this individual as soon as possible. The BSAA would have no idea what to do with a subject of this value, and Albert could not risk the chance that a rival corporation would get their hands on this individual. Albert would do whatever is necessary to gain the loyalty of this individual, possibly being too rare to eliminate if they were like him.

Taking out his cell phone, Albert dials a number. The phone rings a few times before the Lady in Red answers. “Wesker?” Ada Wong asks, her voice controlled. Yet he notes the slightest hint of nervousness. Did she think that Albert had finally come for her, to end her once and for all?

“Ada Wong,” He greets pleasantly, in control, “Long time, no talk.”

“It’s been a while,” She replies, slightly on edge.

While Albert would love to play with Ada, something more important was at stake. “I have a mission for you.”

“What do you want, Wesker? I’m already working on another mission.”

“I’m willing to double what your current employer is paying you. This mission is a priority. And,” Albert stresses, ”You owe me.”

Ada swallows nervously over the phone. “You must be desperate if you’re willing to up my fee,” She tries to play off her fear, but Albert knows she will obey, “What is this mission?”

“I need you to find someone. They may be dead.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “You need me to retrieve a dead person? What’s the catch?”

Clever girl, he thinks. Ada was always able to look past the bigger picture. Yet, it was a double-edged sword, especially when it came to that annoyance, Leon Kennedy. “This dead person may have killed someone: a Dr. Jeremy Fuller. I need you to bring them to me. If you bring this dead person in quietly, you will receive a bonus. I’ll also overlook your little indiscretion.”

“Deal.” No hesitation in Ada’s voice.

“Good. I will send you the information. I expect you to bring me results.”

“Don’t worry, I always deliver.” Ada hangs up, leaving him alone in the silence of the dark room.

Anticipation rises in Albert at the thought of Ada bringing Captain Delaney to him. If Albert was right about Captain Delaney being alive, they would be of great value to his research, but an even greater ally. He would make them one, no matter the cost.

Writing Taglist (Opt In/Out): @bbrocklesnar, @tommyarashikage, @voidika, @alexxmason, @sergeiravenov,

@clicheantagonist, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @imogenkol,

@carlosoliveiraa, @theelderhazelnut, @strangefable, @direwombat, @cassietrn,

@derelictheretic, @cloudofbutterflies92, @spookyrares,

[otomemories]

Could Neji Kokuto be mixed race?

Ps: This is just my own personal fan theory!♡

We all know that Neji is more Westernized than your average anime character－ he tries to make homemade corn tortillas from scratch, reads Goethe, and hates Japanese cultural values. But is he really just a colossal Europeeaboo, or could Sui Ishida be hinting that he’s actually something other than pureblood Japanese? (Warning: spoilers ahead!)

Is it even possible? If it were true, wouldn't he or someone else have mentioned it? Well... we do get to hear some stories mentioned about him being ostracized and teased in middle school, and see him labeled universally as 変人 (weirdo) in Puppet, but it's completely unclear whether this attitude towards him could be partially attributed to him being mixed, or if it's entirely a result of Neji's general off-putting vibes and inclination towards gender nonconformity. On one hand, if he was half White, I think it’s a bit suspicious that we could go an entire game (and a one-shot) without someone bringing it up, especially considering how stigmatized being mixed race is in Japan. But on the other hand, Jack Jeanne upholds a very “say something without actually saying it” attitude when it comes to its writing and general approach to controversial topics, so it really wouldn’t surprise me. This seems to be a fairly popular headcanon among fans, so let's look at some of the potential evidence.

1). He’s canonically bilingual, and his Japanese is… rather strange

And no, I’m not just talking about the general “Neji speaks with silly voices” phenomenon. I’m not a native Japanese speaker, but even I can tell that his vocabulary, and even the way he constructs his sentences grammatically is often very peculiar in nature. It sounds much more like Japanese found in books than the way Japanese is actually practically spoken, and I would even go so far as to say that it could sound mishmash as a result of being exposed to multiple languages growing up. Speaking of multiple languages, it’s established in-game that he is some degree of bilingual (although we’re not sure exactly how fluent he is). It’s safe to say by examining the lyrics he wrote for both Ms. Robin and Over the Wall, however, that his English (and potentially… Spanish?) is pretty advanced! It’s far from perfect, of course, (thinking about “Sorry! My negative!” forever and ever….) but it’s still leagues above the average Japanese speaker’s, and that could have to do with him hearing it often growing up. Of course, we also know that he is canonically a speed reader with a photographic memory, so it is possible that his language proficiencies and quirks alike can just be attributed to the presumably thousands of books he read over the course of his life, coupled with a potential lack of social interaction with his peers in early childhood. But I believe his lexical background is just a bit too diverse to be easily explained away.

2.) He has a significant relationship with Catholicism

This is the big one for me. Catholicism in Japan was recently clocked in at under 500,000 members- that’s only around 0.3% of people! Christianity didn’t rank much higher, at just 1.5%. Yet, western religion appears both in Neji’s scripts and in his casual dialogue over and over, but not in the typical “Neon Genesis Evangelion” way in which Japanese artists tend to include empty biblical imagery just for fun and for aesthetics. He writes with too much intention and specificity for someone who merely read a few famous passages of the Bible in his spare time. He writes as if he has first hand-experience.

Biblical symbolism in Mary Jane and Oh, Rama Havenna could be a post in and of itself, right down to the naming (not to mention the short play from his second affection event where he, you know, compares and contrasts being a director with the book of Genesis). I'd love to go on and on detailing every religious reference Neji alludes to, but for the sake of brevity I'll list only one: Domina and the lyrics to Intense Confessions at the Confessional.

Intense Confessions is about "criminal guilt" and a "critical libido" (or, for lack of a more eloquent phrase, Catholic horny guilt) that stems from a constant pressure to remain in a state of mental purity at all times. Domina is a Catholic character built around the theme of feeling crushingly guilty over one’s own unsavory actions, but continuing to commit them anyways. This much is illustrated by the rehearsal event he shares with Kisa in his office just before the Winter Performance. If you're heading towards Neji's route, you get to see this theme paralleled directly with Neji himself at right around the same time in the story via his fifth affection event. We see him feel disproportionally ashamed of his own carnal desire, going so far as to threaten to call the police on himself and even request physical abuse... just for getting a bit aroused while improvising a scene with some dirty talk in it with Kisa. This type of dramatic reaction is very common in people who have grown up indoctrinated with western puritan ideals from birth (for example, from a potential member of his family that was born abroad). If he grew up hearing this preached to him as the gold standard, that also explains why he compares his childhood self to Rukiora, someone uniquely revolted by any form of promiscuity. It also coincides with the first two lines of lyrics.

いわれなき罪かぶり 罰が待つ夢を見た Shouldering unjustified blame, I dreamt of waiting for my punishment けがれなき御心に この願い投げつけた Through The Lord's untainted will, I cast out my desires

Furthermore, what adds an additional layer to the song is that the priest himself can be seen confessing and repenting right alongside the sinner he is supposed to be working to "cleanse." It's also a satirical commentary on believers' tendencies to take advantage of the concept of unconditional omnibenevolence and forgiveness as an excuse to sin as much as one wants, as long as they atone later. We all remember Domina's iconic catchphrase: "I'll just confess to God later..."

何もかも赦されて Anything and everything can be forgiven I(愛)にまた誘われて 同じことくりかえす Lured in by the I Am (by love), the cycle repeats once again

Unfortunately, this is an all too prevalent, yet rather hyper-specific phenomenon within the church. It's hard to believe that he would feel inclined to write such an emotionally weighty song about this concept if he didn't feel personally victimized by it, or at the very least, had personally encountered it. Thus, the most obvious explanation would be that he has spent a considerable amount of time surrounded by religion, and considering how staggeringly uncommon that is in Japan, I can't help but think that somewhere in his family tree, someone brought these beliefs over from America or Europe. In general, the karmic cycle of "sinning and being issued a befitting punishment" is central to his character. If the sheer frequency of how often he writes about this topic isn't enough to convince you that he has hands-on personal experience with it, the intensity and specificity surely is.

3). He just looks like he’s drawn that way!

Well, this is easily the most subjective of my bullet points, because of course, no one from any nationality has naturally purple hair! But there are a few elements to his character design that feel purposeful to me. He has a lot of motifs in his general appearance that remind me of what Japanese people tend to associate with westernness- his style, thicker eyebrows, hair that is distinctly textured to be naturally fluffy, wavy, and feathery, and a complexion with a much more reddish-pink undertone compared to the rest of Quartz (even Suzu, who is much tanner, has a more yellow base for his palette!) The thing that sticks out most to me, however, is that Ishida goes out of his way to draw Neji with pronounced double eyelids. Again, this feels purposeful- even his official plushie is distinctively stitched with them, while the others aren’t! Of course, it’s possible for pureblood Japanese people to have a very dramatic eyelid crease like this, but it’s rather uncommon. When you line him up with the rest of Quartz, he really sticks out (well, aside from him... just sticking out anyways, that is).

As we all know, most of Neji's backstory is a mystery; we know next to nothing about his mother, his grandparents, and even many circumstances regarding his father. Part of me hopes these holes were left intentionally blank so that fans could speculate on his lineage, and even better, so that they could be elaborated on in the sequel! The possibilities are endless, so right now, there's no way to know for sure. But Jack Jeanne is still very much an active franchise, so whatever the answer is, I'm sure we can all look forward to it!

[reallyintoscience]

Okay but. Hob's a human with a presumably human-standard memory. And there's the thing where your memory of a real place or person can be overwritten by your looking at photographs of it or them, until you no longer remember anything as it was but only the representation of it. 

A Hob who no longer has clear visual memory of his first few hundred years, not the everyday stuff. Maybe some major events he remembers clearly, his Stranger, some of his deaths, moments of social change. But not what it was like to walk down the street, what things smelled like, what houses were like. It's blurry. 

And then it's the age of movie, and it's not blurry anymore, people are making representations of his past but he knows there's something wrong with it. The colours are wrong somehow but he can't say why. But that's the new framing he has and it does get into his own recollections, turning his history into the drab thing this current era would make of it. It's immensely frustrating and he can't express it to anyone. 

His Stranger comes back, and he's just as Hob remembers him at least. And suddenly, his dreams are bright with his true history. 

[mrpuzzlessimp420]

Mario Simulator (Joke Fic)

Chapter 4

Warnings: Attempted Murder/Murder, Brainwashing, Kidnapping

Ships: Marware, BatteryAcid (Mr Puzzles x Orange Juice)

Tomorrow is another day,

and the day after that is another day, and the day after that is another day, and the day after that is another day.

SMG3 repeated this to himself as the days went by, trying to real himself out of going insane, but it only further contributed to his insanity.

What started as a couple of failures of plans led to thousands, no billions. Why was he even doing this in the first place? He honestly couldn't ever remember due to how long it had been since that fateful kidnapping and blackmailing.

At some point, they tried matchmaking Orange Juice to someone else but unlucky to them, they chose that Box Club Leader which did not end up well. He still had nightmares from that piece of cardboard sealed in a jar of orange juice. That club leader was a freak... and not in a good way.

They also tried framing the object head for theft but turns out trying to find the correct bag to place it in in a flood of the same black bags was extremely difficult and they ended up getting Boopkins suspended for it. Eh, he was annoying anyway.

He glanced over to his partner in crime, who was violently stabbing a photograph of Orange Juice, his face getting more and more deranged and ecstatic. The bed underneath him was scarred due to the slashes and stabbing.

They were in SMG3's bedroom right now, which acted as their plotting room as they couldn't risk going in the broom closet in fear of being caught.

He sighed, he hoped this would have ended by now. There wasn't much else to try to plan except...

"Hey, Mario?" Mario turned to face SMG3, his face quickly changing from murderous to curious. "What if we try brainwashing?"

"Oooh that sounds very good! But how would we be able to do that?" Mario asked, using his singular brain cell for once.

"Hmmm... I think I have just the thing..." SMG3 said, searching his bedroom until he found a singular remote.

"The YouTube Remote?" Mario asked, tilting his head.

"No, you silly, it's a different remote. I bought it on the black market once. I think the seller called it the "Edit" remote or something like that, I don't know the seller was extremely sketchy and I couldn't even see their face." SMG3 explained, showing off the object in his hand which was black with yellow accents.

"It can basically edit things so I can presume it can overwrite people's memories". He tossed the remote in the air, trying to act cool but missed catching it, leading to it falling on the ground. Luckily, it didn't break.

"Can I use it, pretty please? I swear I won't mess up!" Mario battered his long eyelashes as he went into puppy eye mode.

"Fine. But only after I explain to you how we're going to do it." SMG3 stated, picking up the remote once again and dusting it off.

"Okie dokie!" Mario said, his face excited as he hoped this plan would actually work this time.

"First of all, since it's the whole school assembly tomorrow we'll hack into the school computers and create a live stream of you using the remote and saying what you will overwrite. After that, we will stop the live stream and erase all evidence that we hacked into the school system!"

"Before that, we'll lock Orange Juice somewhere so he can't go to assembly so he can feel so much pain when he finds out everyone hates him"

"And after that, I finally get to be with my true love!" Mario added on, dreaming of his future.

"Yup, and I don't have to do this anymore." SMG3 sighed, grateful that this might end soon

"Thank you so much S-M-G-3!! I wouldn't have done it without you!!" Mario exclaimed, hugging SMG3 a bit too tightly as SMG3 felt his bones crack inside of him.

"Yeah, you wouldn't have" SMG3 patted Mario's head as he ignored how much pain he was in right now.

"All we need to do now is wait for tomorrow," SMG3 said as he lay on his bed, Mario still stuck to him as he felt himself fall into a soft slumber.

The sun beamed on Mario and the Mario recolour as the day approached forward. With both of them waking up shortly after, SMG3 ran down the plan to Mario again, knowing that he probably forgot again.

After they both got ready for the day, they rushed out to the school entrance, earlier than usual as they needed the time to get this done right. They could not deal with another failure.

The first step was getting Orange Juice locked somewhere. The best choice was the Broom Closet as it was soundproof so he couldn't scream for help. Not many students were in the school right now which helped with not getting caught and one of those students was Orange Juice himself as he liked helping get the teachers ready for the school day.

What a goody-two-shoes, Mario thought as he walked in the direction of the object head in question who was right now talking to one of the science teachers, Dr Robotnik. Or was it Dr Eggman? Mario could never remember any of the teachers' names, let alone this one.

"Excuse me Orange Juice," Mario said, butting into the two's conversation, putting on his best innocent act. "I was told by one of the maths teachers that you were needed in her classroom to help out away new supplies with her."

"Oh really? Well, why don't you show me the way? Sorry about this Dr Robotnik, I need to deal with this first" Orange Juice politely said, his charisma and charm leaking out of him like a disgusting pest. He disgusted Mario with how nice and kind he was. As if he was perfect.

Mario, still having his act of sweet innocence on, led the object-headed teenager to his doom, the broom closet. The door was already open and all he needed to do was to push Orange Juice in and lock the door with the only keys it had.

"I don't remember the Broom Closet being open at this tim-" Before Orange Juice could finish his sentence, Mario shoved him in and locked the door quickly before he skipped off to find where SMG3 was.

The second step was hacking into the school computers which SMG3 had already done by the time Mario had found where he was, in the empty classroom Meggy was forced to be in during her Catering classes.

Now all they had to do was wait for assembly.

30 minutes had passed and assembly had just started. SMG3 pressed the record button and Mario got in place ready to say his lines. The spaghetti-loving man pressed the overwrite button on the remote before anyone could do anything about the hacking attack.

"Orange Juice is a horrible horrible person. He has cheated on Mr Puzzles countless of times and kicks puppies for fun. He enjoys content farms and has made several in the past. He also doesn't like Chappell Roan which is very homophobic of him."

The live stream then quickly ended as SMG3 erased any evidence of them tapering with the school system.

They both hoped this worked as if it didn't, they would be in so much trouble.

It has worked. Everyone hated Orange Juice. He was the talk of the school gossip. Mr Puzzles, dramatically broke up with the object head as he cursed the ever-living shit out of the confused man.

But Mario wasn't finished. No. Sure, he could just be with Mr Puzzles now but that wasn't enough for him. He needed to kill that disgusting glass of orange juice and show him that he should have never messed with the Mario. Ever.

So he waited until the day was over and everyone had gone home, even the teachers. Expect for Orange Juice who was in detention for the entire day, even the night.

Freshly sharpened knife in hand, he walked in a stalker-like motion to the door of the detention room. His prey sitting nervously at a lone desk.

His heart beat loudly as he slowly turned the handle of the door, knife behind his back.

"Hello Orange Juice~" Mario said sinisterly, which actually did sound sinister for once as the writer could afford a voice actor. Though since it's in text, you can't tell.

"Oh uh hi? Um, is my detention over?" The teenager asked, looking as if this was his first experience of detention ever.

"Hmm... I'm not sure..." Mario stated, his free hand pointing to his cheek. "Your life sure will be soon" He revealed the knife from his back, his free hand stroking it masochistically.

"W-What?" Orange Juice said, startled and afraid as Mario walked slowly closer to him, menacingly.

"G-get away from me you... You psycho!" The object-headed teenager exclaimed as he pushed the table in front of him to the ground in an attempt to distract Mario and ran towards the door of the detention room and into the halls.

"Oh how I love the ones that run, they give such a thrilling chase..." Mario stated lovingly, as he started stalking the halls, waiting until Orange Juice had run out of energy or into a dead end so he could do the final blow.

Orange Juice ran, ran for his life. His day was not going great so far, to say the least. Firstly he was locked into a broom closet, then everyone started hating him for no reason and he got detention. Now he's getting chased by a sociopath. What's next? Is he going to get indoctrinated into a cult? Wouldn't surprise him at this point!

He turned the corner, his breath rapid and uneven. He had to find an exit. Why was this school so big? It was like hell trying to find a decent exit at this rate.

He suddenly tripped on a shard of glass while running, what would be his left cheek shattered as he fell. Glitch, now he was losing blood? This was not a good time to do so! Especially since that rapid animal is chasing after him.

Picking himself up quickly, he ran and ran, his left hand stopping the orange juice from spilling onto the floor any longer.

Back to Mario, he was drooling like a dog with rabies, his excitement and anger increasing by the second as he searched and searched for that man stealing man.

He dug his knife into the walls of the building, the scratchiness making him feel even more alive. By the Glitch Productions above, this made him feel so much more alive than ever before. The adrenaline, the prey versus hunter mentality, the chase. It felt all so good.

After so long, Mario finally caught up to Orange Juice who had locked himself into a corner with nowhere to run to.

"Looks like the mouse has nowhere to go? Hm?" He asked, his knife glistening in the singular light illuminating this area.

"What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?" Orange Juice's voice was full of panic and prey instincts.

"You don't know? How naïve.." He pushed Orange Juice further into the corner, knife pointing to the throat of the fellow teenager whose breath hitched at the action.

"Maybe I'll be your saint this time and tell you myself." The knife dug into the object-head's throat slightly, the sour blood peeking itself through and onto the floor.

Mario kicked Orange Juice into the wall, his foot firmly planted and keeping the teenager in place. While doing this he took his knife away from the other's throat and grabbed both of his hands on it.

"This wouldn't have ended this way if you had never stepped in the way of me being with my one true love, Mr Puzzles"

He made a downward motion with the knife towards Orange Juice's heart and...

KILL HIM [SUCCESS]

KILL HIM [FAILURE]

KILL HIM [SUCCESS?]

[shitouttabuck]

ok stay with me here but: (loose) anastasia (1997) au

evan buckley: the missing, presumed dead, youngest child of the beloved/beloathed buckley family, all of whom were murdered when he was a kid—all except his older sister. except he’s alive, with the unfortunate downside of total amnesia, and nothing to tie him to anyone except a broken something that just reads: buck. so buck grows up alone, and it sucks, especially because it’s not all he’s ever known. he might not have his memories but he knows he's known what love is. home, love, family. there was once a time i must’ve had them too. home, love, family. i will never be complete until i find you.

maddie buckley: only daughter of the buckley family, fell in love with a bad man who tried to kill her whole family to get to her. got away and got safe. doesn’t know if doug’s alive. her brother’s probably dead. surviving’s not the same as living, and she’s been doing it for so long. but… have you heard… there’s a rumour in los angeles. she’s got the best and the brightest protecting her, and all that buckley family money. spreading them both thin could mean doug worming his way out of the woodwork but if there’s even a chance evan’s really out there? she’s already decided.

eddie diaz: conman, but more importantly, dad. there was a war, and then another one, and his wife left, and somewhere in there his parents took his kid from him. he does not have the money to fight them with lawyers, but he’s stubborn and not particularly respectful of the law and he’s heard that maddie buckley’s protective service team has means and money that allow for a) duking it out in court with his parents or b) getting his kid back in ways that are more uh legally grey. and it just so happens the rumours are that maddie buckley will do just about anything and pay just about any sum to find her long-lost brother. blond-haired, blue-eyed, missing at age 10—nearly two decades ago. he could look like anyone, now. sure, there’s the distinctive red birthmark over his eyebrow, but makeup and tattooing go a long way these days. oh, and conveniently, his partner in literal crime, however mild, has an old inside link with someone on maddie buckley’s bodyguard team. chim never shuts up about henrietta wilson—hen, he calls her—particularly when eddie’s fumbling a job and having to improvise and he feels the need to point out just how competent his previous partner steadfastly was.

if eddie and chim are holding illicit auditions for evan buckley lookalikes, and this massive beautiful man stumbles in apparently already having gone to the trouble of dressing for the part? who is eddie to look that gift horse in the mouth? the quicker they see this con through, the quicker he’s together with chris again.

except buck thinks eddie really believes he’s maddie buckley’s missing brother, and buck is warm and ridiculous and so genuinely curious about eddie’s own family, on this journey to find his own, and eddie can’t help but share christopher, and buck listens with bright eyes and holds the photographs so carefully in his big hands.

cons are never victimless, and eddie knows getting chris back takes priority over any moral quandary of identity theft here.

but buck asks about chris’s favourite things and stays up late on their crosscountry train to come up with plans for an accessible skateboard for a kid he’s never met. buck tells eddie he wonders if maddie’ll recognise him, and he hopes she does, because he’s never had anyone see him and know him before. buck asks eddie if he thinks they’ll stay friends, once they’re both reunited with their families. it’ll be nice not to have to miss anyone again, he tells eddie one night, quiet. missing who you don’t remember is one thing. missing who you know?

he trails off and falls asleep not long after, but eddie lies awake in the bunk below him for hours. his moral compass has always swung with whatever cognitive dissonance necessary to justify his actions because the final truth is: heart over mind. and chris has always been his whole heart. so falling in love with your mark has got to be the stupidest, most dangerous thing you can do.

even this is okay; he can handle breaking part of his own heart. but he didn’t realise he was holding so much of buck’s too, and now? he doesn’t know that he can survive breaking any of that.

[puntointerrogativo]

I’ve been rotating the Loumand divorce in my head - I get why a lot of people find the finale sequence rushed, I wouldn’t have minded a few more minutes spent on it either, but it did work for me because we’d been watching their relationship crumble before our eyes for a good while by then.

To me it goes back to…I’d say the end of S. 2 ep. 3? The Dubai moments in season one are so performative and deliciously ambiguous, especially put into a D/s context. The reveal is, well, ominous. But Assad and Jacob had great chemistry when we first see them together, and then it sort of…fizzled out. And they’re both too good as actors for it not be a choice. They keep stumbling into each other’s traumas and hang ups, always slightly out of step.

One moment we are shown where the chemistry comes to life is the Arun bench scene. They click, it works! But I was expecting the momentum to carry them them forward -in a sort of the birthing pains are over, now things are starting for real way. Yet it never really happens. They keep being out of sync, detached. Neither of them is being entirely himself: Armand has declawed himself to lull Louis into a false sense of security, Louis is pruning away the pieces of himself that don’t fit the Maître paradigm. When there are attempts at connection one of them zigs instead of zagging, and they’re left wanting. We can see the cracks in the foundations but it’s impossible to tell what would have become of their relationship because the coven makes Armand choose (or Armand had already made his choice, since they’re apparently still debating what version they’ll go with.)

And I do find it believable that Armand -with all his history weighting on him- would not feel sure enough of Louis’ love at that point to sacrifice the familiarity and safety of the coven. By the time we come to the restaurant scene -which is…not without its own ambiguities- it’s too late, the choice had been made.

Then we come to present day Dubai and again, the distance is palpable. They have their moments, they can make a great united front against Daniel. They bicker, they finish each other’s sentences. But it’s clear something isn’t clicking, the happy facade is brittle and shallow, there’s a whiff of desperation to it all. The fight about the mixed up photographs was what really rang the bell for me. Because why would Louis’ first reaction be to accuse Armand of doing it on purpose? When you mix that up with Armand’s tendency to be controlling it’s pretty clear trust’s in short supply in that household. It solidifies all the little clues and wtf moments. And right on cue ep. 5 happens and. Well.

From then on it’s fairly clear Armand is and has been clutching at straws desperately trying to keep the relationship from disintegrating completely. What’s less clear is why Louis oscillates wildly between resentment and holding onto the happy couple narrative almost as desperately as Armand. Having someone mess with your memories to hide days of torture and implant ‘all I do is for your own good’ straight in your head should be more than enough motive for divorce, right?

And that’s made exceedingly clear in the tower scene. That relationship has not been about Armand, or even Louis, since Claudia’s death. It’s punishment, for all 3 of them.

Louis wasn’t struggling with the end of a 77 years long relationship or even only with Armand’s conditioning: he was struggling with the trap he’d built for himself.

The finer details didn’t matter for the divorce, it wasn’t about Armand’s motives or his aims because it had never been about Armand in the first place: if Armand directed he wasn’t simply an hapless coward but an active participant with power over the whole ordeal. He was guilty to a degree where he was no longer the lesser evil to be used to punish the presumed instigator.

And personally I think it wasn’t even about Lestat saving Louis in itself: reasonable doubt. Perhaps Louis sparing his life didn’t cause Claudia’s death. It was about Louis extending a bit of grace to himself. It was Louis seeing an out and jumping on it double quick. So long and thanks for all the fish. Buh-bye I’m outta here.

(Also, there’s no way Santiago voluntarily subjected himself to Armand’s direction after having ousted him as coven master. I’m not swallowing that and I don’t think Louis did either :)

[wickedsrest-rp]

Name: Diego Moreno Martín Species: Spellcaster Occupation: Freelance Photographer Age: 25 Years Old Played By: Zee Face Claim: Froy Gutierrez

“Don't just smile for the camera—smile because it makes the world a little brighter.”

For as long as Diego could remember, the good name of the Moreno family had been sullied by unsavory rumors. Growing up, Diego was unsure how much stock to put in them—to believe them outright would be scandalous, at best. Except. There were the hushed meetings that he was not supposed to hear, there were the odd visits by relatives whose names Diego did not recognize from the family archives.

And so, Diego clung to the truth—at least, the truth as he understood it. Whatever their reputation, magical potential brimmed in the Moreno family. Old, dangerous magic tempered, presumably, by formal, dedicated training. What Diego might have lacked in raw talent was supplanted by his willpower. Magic benefits from a conduit. To that end, Diego was indulged in his pursuit of an ideal. However, that conviction would be a forebear to dissonance.

While his particular skill in protection magic was subtle, nothing so flashy as sparks or flame, Diego himself, as he grew, became known within the Pacto Áurico for his colorful personality, his frequent walkabouts, and his persistent intervention in the lives of others. Why read about the world in the book? Energy could stay in one form, of course, but it begged to change, to be worked into action. Diego was much the same. He chased the new, the exciting, the alive. Better to live a life among the people, helping as only he could.

It was no wonder, then, when Diego refused to live his young adulthood in yet another gilded cage. He argued, aggressively and successfully, until the bars were bent from the sheer force of it. And if Diego questioned why his family was so willing to let him spread his wings and leave Spain? No matter. New York was a welcome change from the traditional attitudes that had stifled Diego. Despite its reputation as a cold and uncaring city, it was easy to find warmth, to find like-minded spellcasters who wanted to protect their communities, not hide away from them. It helped that New Yorkers, more than most, were willing to look the other way when it came to the supernatural. And if extending a ward scored him a free bagel, that was between him and his local bodega.

Encouraged to pursue interests beyond his magic and eager to commit every new experience to memory, Diego took to documentary photography. There was beauty to be found in the everyday—ephemeral moments that he could capture and truths that people revealed when they thought no one would care enough to notice. After graduation, he traveled, learning more about the sprawl of America through the way light caressed the faces of its people. He expanded his repertoire, booking weddings, graduations, anything that caught his eye. And if his eye occasionally caught something he was not supposed to see, if Diego had to stretch his magical muscles to explain how he had gotten a particular shot, it was an easy marriage between the work he loved and the work he had been born into.

But, in the end, Diego did not need much convincing to return to the fold of the Pacto Áurico. When he received the letter, sealed with the Moreno family crest, it was simply good to know that he was still needed, no matter how menial the request. Observation for a seemingly routine ritual felt a bit insulting, as if years away had dulled his power. Even so, if he was truthful with himself, it was hard to be on his own as much as he was, surrounded by people living their lives in more than snapshots. Besides, a Moreno—a true Moreno—would put family above all else. While Diego had never taken that belief to mean he should enable the worst impulses of his family, it would do him no good to hide from the rumors. To put them to bed, to find the truth, he would go home, if only for a time.

But truth could be stranger than fiction. When the ritual went wrong, in the way that it was always doomed to go wrong, Diego operated on instinct, time enough only to protect the weakest from the blast. The raw magic hit him in strange waves—deep in his body, first, before it laced across his skin. Mental, before the physical. In the aftermath, he felt radioactive—sick and energized. The thought struck him, quick and fierce: How dare they make him a part of this—make this, whatever it was, a part of him. But there was no time for blame. Earthquakes, especially magical ones, brought aftershocks.

Diego felt it better to look for a solution, be a part of the solution, than putter about the manor, waiting for cosmic retribution to take its due. Leaving was easier, the second time. Traveling was second nature. However, it soon became clear that his magic, once steady and reliable, was growing unpredictable. The full picture would take time and, Diego feared, ample darkness to develop. But there was no deluding himself. If Diego could not find out the truth of this matter, it seemed, he himself would become part of the problem to be solved.

Character Facts:

Personality: Friendly, honest, impulsive, intense, nosy, observant, offbeat, stubborn

Diego is honest to a fault. His poker face is salvageable, but, if asked a direct question, he struggles to believably lie. If the truth is fantastical, he will often play it off as a joke—a joke is not technically a lie, right?

Growing up surrounded by spellcasters and magic, Diego has a tendency to look for a magical solution before a practical one. The consequences of the ritual have complicated this impulse. The potential for danger is worrisome, but so is the potential for embarrassment.

Despite specializing in protection magic, Diego was cross-trained in self-defense and boxing. Better safe than sorry. He would prefer to use his words (or a spell), but he does not shy away from a fight.

While Diego is not technologically illiterate, he has a very narrow view of what role technology can (or should) have in his day-to-day life. Computers are for word processing, complex mathematics, and sending proofs to your clients. Hacking is fake.

Traveling and freelance have left very little time for relationships of any kind. Diego is happy to flirt for the glimpse of a smile, but he becomes easily flustered if the attention is returned.

[haee-elia]

spence-tober: day 16 - wildlife photographer

pairing: wildlife photographer!spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: in which there are two people, a charity auction and ball, and a set of photographs

word count: 1403

warnings: none? very fluffy and flirty, slight plot twist at the end

spence-tober masterlist

It was amazing, completely and utterly amazing how this set of pictures could transport you. Could make you feel as though you were there when it was taken. Could invoke the feelings and memories of the fur and majestic mane that you could swear you felt on your fingertips right this very second. 

But alas, you were not in wild Africa where the picture of the small family of lions was taken. You were dressed to the nines (tens if you do say so yourself) in a deep navy blue one shoulder dress that came down to the floor. Hidden by the floor length dress is a sensible pair of black heels, your favorites as they didn’t hurt your feet in any way. 

Your hair pinned up and out of the way so it wouldn’t get in your eyes where you’re all dolled up with a natural face of makeup, although you did put on false lashes to give your eyes that larger pop of attention you so desired.

To summarize, you looked damn good and you knew it. 

But the feeling of the sequin and sparkly fabric against your skin reminded you of where you actually were, in a nice warmly lit ballroom surrounded by rich people who wanted to seem as though they are charitable. 

As you admired the photo next to the sleeping lion family, you heard and glanced to see a man had walked up near you to also gaze upon the pictures. He, like you, was dressed for the occasion in a nice classic black tux matched with white accents. He’s taller than you and his hair is unkept and the ends fly around his face. 

You bite your lip and decide to take a peek, slightly leaning forward as if to look at the photographs closer but you glance up at his face instead.

There’s a hint of some scruff and a wisp of a mustache on his face. His cheekbones are just as chiseled as the diamonds you saw the older rich women wearing and his chocolate brown eyes are addicting.

You don’t look for too long because he glances at you and you quickly glance away, feeling quite caught in your admiring of the man next to you.

“You’re a fan of animals, I presume.” The man speaks next to you. 

It takes a second to realize he’s the one your speaking to, “Oh, uh, yes. I think wild animals are quite beautiful, majestic even.”

A smile curls on his full lips, “I agree.”

You return the smile meekly and introduce yourself to him, telling him your name and then asking him his own.

“Spencer. My name’s Spencer. Spencer Reid.” He answers you, “What are you doing here tonight?”

Both of your gazes switch to the next picture, a photo of some african painted dogs sunbathing in the hot African sun. 

“I’m a curator for a museum. They sent me to watch over their bids tonight. Transports done so I get to enjoy the rest of the night.” You inform Spencer.

Spencer nods, consuming the information you’ve given him, “And you’ve decided to spend the rest of your night admiring photos of wildlife?” He inquires.

You nod, “There’s something just,” You can’t quite put your finger on it, “so captivating about being able to capture moments like these in the wild. I’d assume you’d have to have extreme patience and tranquility to manage photos like this.”

“Thank you.” Spencer says next. You look at him with a confused expression before his eyes meet yours and then trail off towards the photos again. You follow his gaze and meet where they are, on a golden label plaque which lists the photographer for the photos.

It says Spencer Reid. 

You look back to him, “You took these photos?” You question, you’re sure your eyebrows are lifted in shock.

He nodded, an amused expression on his face, “I did. Just got back a few days ago, can’t you tell by the shadow.” Spencer runs his hand across his chin, rubbing at the short and sparse hairs.

You shake your head, amused as well, “I think it suits you.” You compliment, then turning your attention back to the gallery wall.

“Thanks.” He says in reply, rubbing a hand across his chin and face, a smile appearing on his face. 

Before you two can continue on with your conversation, a portly man in a suit a size too big waltzes over and claps Spencer on the back, congratulating him.

“There’s the man of the hour!” His voice is scratchy which you can guess is from the cigar in his free hand. “Congrats on the award Reid.”

As quick as the man appeared, the quicker he left as he saw another person he seemingly needed to bother with his presence. 

You look over to Spencer once again, impressed, “An award as well? Congratulations Spencer. I can certainly see why.” Turning your attention back to the setup of the photographs, admiring the perspective and view of the animals pictured.

He blushes under your compliment. “Thanks. Again.” He tags on.

You almost chuckle at his face, “Oh come on, you certainly can’t be so flustered after a compliment? I assume you���ve been getting those all night.” You tease slightly.

He looks you up and down and you muster your courage not to shiver under his gaze, “Not all have come from as beautiful women as you.” 

You shake your head a little, amused, “Smooth, Spencer. Very smooth.” You comment, a sly smile on your lips.

Spencer shares your smile, confidence radiating off of him at your comment, “I try.”

You get an idea in your head and bend down slightly at the table in front of the picture wall, taking the pen attached to a clipboard and adding your information to the papers below.

“You’re placing a bid?” 

Spencer’s tone is slightly more surprised than you thought it would be at your action. You stand straight again and look him in the eye.

“Of course,” you say, “Have I not been clear in my compliments all night? Your work is beautiful.”

“The animals do all of the work for me.” He brushes off almost instantly, “And you really didn’t have to do that. I have many of these photos on my website for much less than you just bid.” Spencer glances down at the paper you’ve just added to and his eyes stutter slightly at the amount you’ve just bid.

“I should have known you’re a humble man. Well, your patience with the animals and the joy from your craft is beautiful to me.” You muse, “It’s all for a good cause at the end of the night.” You brush off his concerns. 

“Your compliments are simply too much.” Spencer says with a hint of playfulness in his tone. There’s a matching mischievous look in his eye. “Is there a bid for your arm tonight? So I can repay your kindness, of course.”

“Of course.” A smirk draws its way to your lips and you swear you catch Spencer looking at them. “I’m afraid not.”

“Perhaps a bid for a date with a lovely museum curator?” He trys again, the same mischievous glint of his eye has been brought down to smile and stance, as he stands facing you.

“Out of luck on that one, as well. Not sure the museum would approve of auctioning off its employees.” You joke.

“Oh, but it’s all for a good cause at the end of the night.” Spencer parrots your prior words, joining in with your joking.

“I’ll be sure to tell them that.” You quip back, a smile playing on your lips. Then you glance at Spencer’s wrist, where a nice watch sits.

“Speaking of the end of the night, I regretfully have to end mine. Thank you for the company Spencer.” You thank him.

“Of course, keeping you company has been the best part of my night.” The smooth phrase flows past his lips, easily. 

“Silver tongue.” You tease once more.

“Guilty.” He responds, putting his hands up playfully.

You go to walk past him on your way to the exit, but stop in your tracks just a few steps from him. You don’t turn back to him, rather keeping your front still tuned to the exit and your face forward.

“See you at home, Mr. Reid.”

“I’ll be right behind you, Mrs. Reid.”

a/n: i love this one! i actually had no idea where i was going with this prompt/au until this hit me. originally this was going to be another meet cute, but i've grown quite tired of writing meet cute after meet cute.

[embossross]

The Devotion of the Girl in the Mirror

Chapter 5 >> Chapter 6 >> Masterlist

✣ Pairing: Rindou x AFAB fem!Reader w/ a chapter cameo of reader/yuzuha

✣ Warning: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI

✣ Series: part of the In the Belly of the Beast fic universe

✣ Chapter CW: ptv sex, oral (blowjobs & eating out), choking, degradation and praise, cock worship, edging and orgasm denial/control

✣ Story CWs: BDSM dob/sub relationship; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.); genre typical drug use, alcohol, smoking

✣ Synopsis: A story of two lonely people find love for better or worse. Or, dom!Rindou is sweet on his girl. Or, on paper, you and Rindou have nothing in common. But sometimes chemistry defies logic, and with every conversation, you find yourself more bewitched until all you see, smell, or hear is Rindou.

✣ Word Count: ~10.8k

A great clenching of his bowels catapults Rindou into consciousness. Nausea and the certainty that he is going to puke chases soon after. Rindou stumbles to his feet in the direction of the bathroom only to discover the door is not there. The pressure in his head increases, a high vibrancy of pain accompanied by a vertiginous warping of his vision and equilibrium.

He vomits right on the carpet.

When his stomach is empty, Rindou takes stock of his surroundings. He is shirtless, wearing an unfamiliar pair of YSL sweats. The bedroom is twice as large as his with a sitting area opposite the bed and subdued paintings of hunting dogs and long-dead kings peering down from the walls. By the puddle of bile seeping into the fibers of the carpet, a meowing British Shorthair pokes around curiously until Rindou shoos it away.

This is Ran’s bedroom.

Regaining his bearings, Rindou makes his way to Ran’s bathroom. He helps himself to Ran’s toothbrush and drinks water straight from the tap until his guts gurgle miserably and he vomits again, this time into the toilet. The process repeats itself one more time before his hangover recedes enough to risk leaving the bathroom. He grabs a hand towel to throw over the mess he left on the floor in a quick detour before he hunts for his brother.

It is some indiscriminate hour of the day. The curtains are drawn tight in every room, blocking the sun or moon from view, and Rindou can’t find his phone in the master bedroom where he slept, which should concern him more, but he is too disoriented to worry. Ran isn’t in the kitchen or dining room, his study or living room, so Rindou checks the guest bedroom.

A long, thin lump shaped more like a body pillow than a man though much too tall, hides beneath the comforter in the guest room. A grandfather clock with the chimes removed shows the time to be near one, presumably in the afternoon. Too early to wake Ran without a fight.

“Oi, where’s my phone?” Rindou barks. He wants to ask why he’s here because somewhere between vomiting the second and third time, Rindou realized he has no memories of how he came to sleep in his brother’s bed. He remembers the sight of your teary face in the bathroom – it’s crystal clear unfortunately – remembers finishing the bottle of bourbon in the car, remembers driving – oh fuck and he should not have been driving black out last night. Shit. The memories grow glossier as the hours progress, the scope of his mental vision shrinking like a burning photograph, until eventually there is nothing but emptiness left.

He wants to fill in the blanks of his hazy memory, but admitting to Ran that he blacked out like a sorority girl after her third vodka cranberry is too harrowing, so Rindou asks after his phone instead.

The lump that is his brother groans and shifts but does not emerge from beneath the covers. Rindou grips the railing at the foot of the bedframe and gives it a weighty shake until Ran’s head pops out. His eyes are covered by a sleep mask, hair a mess.

“Phone. Where is it?” Rindou says.

“Go away,” Ran hisses, or at least that’s how Rindou interprets the garbled words as Ran burrows back beneath his blankets.

“I need my phone now, dickhead. Come one, where is it?”

Only Ran’s arm appears this time, feeling around on the bedside table until he finds a paperweight, which he promptly flings at Rindou’s head. It is well-aimed and thrown with enough force to knock him unconscious but too slow by half, and Rindou easily dodges aside.

“Ran –!”

“Coffee! Coffee first!” Rindou tries to interrupt but Ran talks right over him. “Coffee!”

Resigned and more than a little annoyed, Rindou returns to the kitchen and brews a pot of instant coffee. No sugar, no milk. Exactly the way he knows his brother hates. While rifling through Ran’s cabinets for a mug, his stomach flips again, so Rindou decides to eat a late breakfast.

Thirty minutes later, Rindou sits, chowing down on a fried omelet, leftover onigiri found in the fridge, and a bowl of steamed rice when his brother finally emerges from his den. Ran beelines to the coffee and drinks the first cup without pause before pouring a second. This one, he bothers to treat with milk and gomme syrup for taste. Ran follows Rindou’s example then, starting on his own breakfast, expertly carving up a grapefruit as the first caffeine blast hits his system. Rindou can see the moment sleep fully leaves his brother’s eyes.

“Well, good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty,” Rindou scoffs.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to mock. I did, after all, let you sleep in my bed last night. You’re welcome for that.”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks. I threw up on your floor by the way. Probably want to deep clean that,” Rindou returns.

Ran cranes his long neck heavenward as if searching for divine intervention. “Little brothers…the gift that never stops giving.”

“Anyway, I’m gonna head out. Just hand over my phone,” Rindou says.

“Can I trust you with this?” Ran asks seriously, unearthing the phone from the pocket of his silk pajama pants.

“Uh…yeah?”

“Convincing,” Ran grimaces, but he tosses the phone Rindou’s way anyway. “She didn’t call or text by the way.”

Rindou ignores this unasked for information in favor of scrolling his notifications: a few nonurgent business emails, a call from Mochi he should return, and an update on an MMA match he follows. When he flips to his calls log to check what time Mochi called, he sees a slew of outbound calls, 34 to be exact, all to your number. He slumps in his seat and groans.

“Don’t tell me you blacked out,” Ran sneers, missing nothing as he watches Rindou over his cup of coffee.

“Piss off.”

“I gave you so much advice last night, too. Some of my best work, and you went and forgot it. Well, don’t think I’m going to repeat everything for your benefit now. You’ll have to settle for the Cliff Notes version.”

“I don’t need advice,” Rindou snaps.

“Oh, don’t you? Why don’t I fill you in on what you forgot? I got home from work this morning around 7 AM, and what did I find? My baby brother sleeping on my front step. No idea how long you were there by the way. I figured, okay, he just needs to sleep it off. But, oh no, you spent the next two hours talking my ear off about your girl problems. Crying intermittently, I might add. Really moving stuff if you’re the type for it. I had to take your phone after the ninth time you tried calling her. It was getting pathetic.”

The timestamps on his outbound calls show the last attempt was logged at 7:45 AM true to Ran’s accounts. If anyone but Mikey blew up his phone that much, he would block them on principle. Considering the lack of reply, you probably did just that.

Rindou doesn’t remember any of it.

“The long and short of my advice, by the way, call her. Today. Tell her you’re so sorry and want to be with her, just her. No wait, tell her, you’re sorry, and that you just got scared because you’ve never felt this way about a woman before. Tell her you love her and that you want to be with her and only her. That no woman can compare! That she’s more beautiful than Lady Kiritsubo, sexier than Kyoko Fukada and Naomi combined, more bewitching than Lady Murasaki, that you would not stop at the murder of 130 men but would fell 10,000 if only to look upon the moon of her face. Are you writing this down? This is good stuff,” Ran says.

“I’m not saying any of that stuff,” Rindou groans.

“Fine, not sure why. That sweet girl of yours would just about cream herself if you compared her to all those literary figures, but whatever. For some reason, she likes you, so I’m sure whatever you say will move her,” Ran allows.

“I’m not going to say anything to her.”

The knife contacts the cutting board with a sharp knocking sound that rings out in the otherwise silent kitchen. Juices from the grapefruit drip off its serrated edge. The British Shorthair, whose name Rindou remembers is Tortoiseshell, leaps onto the counter and winds her bushy tail along Ran’s arms in an affectionate gesture, like she can sense Ran’s growing ire, neck going red and heat rising higher by the second.

“And why the hello not?”

“Because she told me not to call her,” Rindou says simply.

“Sure didn’t stop you yesterday,” Ran says, but Rindou waves that away with the excuse that he was drunk. Ran sights like his personally pained by Rindou’s stupidity. “When she told you not to contact her, she meant don’t waste my time. I promise you, she did not mean, don’t call me and give me everything I want and am asking for. Tell her you’re a one-woman man from here on out, and it should work out just fine.”

“But I’m not. I’ve never wanted to be a boyfriend or whatever. That’s not what this was, and she understands that,” Rindou says.

“So, you don’t want to be with her?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Then, you want to be with her but not as much as you want to be with other women? There’s something other women are giving you that she can’t?” Ran tries.

“Not necessarily.”

“Then, what? Because I’m getting mad like I’m the girl you’ve been stepping out on. You’re not making sense. She does all the freaky stuff you’re into. She’s the best lay of your life,” Ran says, brushing aside Rindou’s threatening glare. “These are your words, Rin. Not mine. You said so last night. You also said that she loves you and that you love her.”

This time, when his stomach flips, Rindou knows better than to blame it on his hangover. He almost accuses Ran of lying, but he can read Ran’s facial tics and mannerisms as clearly as directives in an instruction manual, all concise, clinical language and the steps in sequence. There is no lie hidden in Ran’s hands as they wave about, punctuating this or that point, only frustration at Rindou’s stubbornness in the tilt of Ran’s chin.

He remembers the track of your tears down your face. How they stubbornly clung to your jaw line, refusing that final plummet until new tears slid down and forced them away. Overcrowding. The memory is so clear in the way memories can be, meaning it is false and true at the same time. In his memory, there is only the facsimile of a public toilet, and the edges fade to black like they do on film. The counters of your face are so familiar to him, so easy to trace, but an aura of white, hot light shines around you, transforming you into an angel, the kind built for God’s bloodiest wars. The details of your hair and clothes are wrong, but not the tears. Those are clear enough that he can imagine wiping them away with his thumb here and now.

As Ran carries on, Rindou downs an entire bottle of water without coming up for air as if by blocking one sense, he might drown out whatever Ran says next. The words – about how Rindou pledged his love for you last night – reach him regardless.

Neither brother speaks for several minutes. Both busy themselves in their respective breakfasts and eye the lined marble of the tabletop like its trajectory of cracks map to the elixir of life. Rindou tries to deaden his mind, to ward off thoughts second and feelings first.

Eventually, Ran sighs and sits down at the counter opposite him. All that remains of the grapefruit is the sticky rind and guts clinging to the forgotten knife.

“Do you remember our time in family court before we went to juvie?” Ran asks. “I was so pissed they were locking us up. I didn’t wanna leave Miki behind or what we’d built in Roppongi, but I was so damn pleased when we walked into lockup that first day. You and I together. Felt like it was just another neighborhood, just another street war, and we were going to win it.”

Rindou smiles faintly at the memory. He remembers their first days with less fondness, but he also left nothing behind when they were sentenced away. All he claimed in the world was his brother and his own body, and they couldn’t take either away from him. It was hardly a punishment at all.

“I never told you, but Izana said something to me a couple months in. Something I never forgot…He asked me why I didn’t…why I didn’t tell them it was all me. Try to take the fall for everything and get you off,” Ran says.

“What are you talking about? They had us on everything. With witnesses. You couldn’t have gotten me off.”

“Probably not,” Ran admits dully. “But maybe…maybe I could have told them that you never wanted any of it. That I was kicking your ass at home and forcing you into the gang life. Maybe they would have believed it, been lenient.”

“No one would have believed that,” Rindou scoffs.

“Maybe. Probably not. But the point is…the point is I didn’t even try.” Ran lets the words sit between them for a long moment, eyes on his plate but mind turned inward to the sins of his past. “Because it had always been you and me. We didn’t need a gang so long as we were together. And that’s exactly how I wanted it. Us against the world. I’ve lost things. But I chose this, all of it, for better or worse. You? I watch you sleepwalking through life, and I can’t remember if you ever really chose anything, or I just dragged you along behind me. I wonder if you’re just on a bullet train, and it’s moving too fast for you to get off, and you’ve been on it so long, you figure you might as well ride it to the final destination, just speeding along, doing what you’ve always done.”

When Rindou tries to swallow, all the moisture in his mouth evaporates, and his throat stutters over a rough, empty path to his gullet. He struggles to even look at Ran. His entire being shrinks away from his brother only to find that sentiment waits for him wherever he retreats. Ran’s sincerity, the power in these hypnotic, never before spoken words, cows him into submission. He breaks free only through an extreme display of will.

“You’re telling me I should quit? Settle down with a wife and kids and become what? A salaryman?”

“Fuck no! No, you don’t up and quit. We’re in this for life,” Ran says, flicking his fingers in Rindou’s direction as if to signal that he finds his brother’s lack of intelligence exhausting. “I’m saying that you have a chance to make a choice and change things for yourself right now. I’m saying that opportunities like this don’t come around all that often, get rarer every year we get closer to the grave, and I’m saying that if you let this chance pass you by, I’m going to blame myself forever.”

“I’m never drinking again,” Rindou groans because it is easier than searching for a grain of sincerity to match Ran’s earnest sermon.

Thankfully, Ran depletes his stores of sincerity in the same moment, tossing his parting words over his shoulder, “I’m going back to bed. Your clothes are in the dryer. You puked on them, too, by the way. You really are the greatest house guest. Can’t imagine why we don’t do this more.”

Ran disappears back into the dark, tunnel-like halls for a few hours of much deserved sleep. Rindou stays at the table for another long half hour, not thinking. In fact, he uses every ounce of his brain’s considerable powers to avoid thinking altogether. By the time he leaves, he is an expert at meditation.

--

In the days that follow the explosion of your relationship – less plane crashed into the side of a mountain and more nuclear holocaust – Rindou descends into his own nuclear winter. The days are short as snow blankets the city. It weighs down telephone lines and cartwheels down slanted roofs. Pipes burst from the cold. Rindou foregoes his car and walks to the store, no gloves or hat, hands wind-chapped and roughened to hewn wood. Boots left to dry in the entryway, he steps into puddles of melted ice whether he comes or goes.

The roads clear quickly, and he returns to work. Then, he returns home.

Amidst the wreckage, Rindou wiles away the hours with thoughtless labor. His bottom line thrives. Not that anyone but Kokonoi notices enough to comment on his newfound dedication. All the inroads he made with his fellow executives in the last several months dry up, the waters of goodwill between them polluted by the radioactive dust typical of any nuclear fallout. He finds his colleagues too loud, too vulgar, too happy, too miserable, too much, too much, too much. And so, he avoids them entirely.

He goes through the motions, relying on pure muscle memory to wake his empty husk of a body in the mornings, to carry it to the gym, to navigate rush hour traffic, to feed it just enough to survive. Little else reaches him. He does not touch another human being.

The days repeat with so little variation that when Rindou lies down to sleep at night, he struggles to remember what he did that day. He tries to retrace his steps and form something coherent from the detritus, but the effort exhausts him, and he often falls asleep without making any progress.

Like he is bunkered down in a fallout shelter, he lives but does little else.

Weekends pose the most harrowing challenge. He sleeps as many hours as his body will allow, which for the first time since adolescence means half the day. When he blinks awake to a messy bedroom in the evenings, he turns to video games to pass the time. Music irritates him. The notes are discordant and false. Sometimes, he reads. Not your books, never those, kicked into a dusty corner under his bed, but books on dinosaurs, the deep sea, space, anything long ago or far away from here.

In one chapter on Newton’s second law of motion, he reads about the earliest understanding of “inertia,” how scientists billed it as the resistance to motion, assuming that stillness was the natural state of any object. He reads that the word “inertia” is derived from the Latin “inertem,” meaning, amongst other things, inactive, helpless, and weak.

He notices his foot has fallen asleep, that he has not sat up from his slump on the couch in hours.

Yet another weekend, he surrenders himself to the authority of the television. He skips past sitcoms with their long-married couples, dramas with their tender romances, sports with their screeching optimism, and finally settles on documentaries. Despite his sleep-saturated body, he drifts off to one, waking up to a scientist crooning to his captive jellyfish. The scientist explains that the jellyfish he raises are biologically immortal, that after reaching sexual maturity, they are able to regenerate to the polyp stage once again, return fresh and renewed. They could continue forever and ever this way. The documentarians fawn over the jellyfish as an elevated being, their cells key to humanity’s future immortality. He half-hallucinates, half-images the documentarians talking to him from the screen, promising him that there will be no end to this, that they will inject him with jellyfish venom and return him to this purgatory again and again and again.

He turns off the TV and dreams of drowning.

The temperature rises as March dawns, the sun beating heat down on the back of his neck for the first time in as long as he can remember. And that’s not all. He remembers the child throwing a tantrum outside the konbini as he walks to work, he remembers a joke Sanzu tells to no laughs before a meeting, he remembers the taste of a cold beer breaking on his tongue.

Spring draws near and winter thaws, and with it, Rindou lets himself feel for the first time in nearly three weeks. He misses you terribly.

The memory of you is a blistering wound, barely healed enough to touch, but he tries, remembering every time he made you laugh, every time you made him laugh in turn. He remembers soft flesh yielding in his hands when he gripped your waist and the equally soft flesh of your inner thigh. He remembers your bottomless appetite for new experiences, how you wanted to experience the world with him at your side. He remembers until the past and present merge into a stagnant stream, until the only thing he can’t remember is why he refused monogamy so insistently when it means an eternity without summers.

There is no autopilot, nothing natural at all about texting you after so long apart, but he chooses to anyway. His fingers move key by key, every word carefully considered and chosen, and then he chooses to push send. He moves.

It is as simple a message as he could manage: Can we talk?

That night, for the first time in a long time, Rindou does not dream.

--

Rindou is well-acquainted with the exterior of your apartment block. It is a relic from when architecture built out rather than up. Each apartment has its own front door and step. The building is an ugly white block of cement and plaster, but the neighborhood has planted symmetrical stripes of shrubbery between each apartment to liven it up, and you say that in the spring when the flowers bloom, the block is transformed in a vibrant display of every imaginable color: soft blue nemophilas and sickeningly yellow canola flowers, plump purple tulips and tender pink plum blossoms. Now, with the frost barely thawed, the flower beds lie dormant.

A minute passes after he knocks on your door, and he wonders if he dreamed your response last night when you invited him over to talk. At his feet, a cat meows. Rindou makes eye contact, and the cat flees into the bushes that separate your stoop from your neighbor’s. He watches for some sign of the cat, but the bushes don’t so much as rustle on your quiet street.

Maybe he dreamed the cat, too.

Just as Rindou decides to shoot you a text, the door opens, and then there is you. You, just as he remembered, all light and life and color. A lifetime’s worth of tension plummets off his shoulders at this measly, first sight of you.

Voice clear and lovely and unavoidable as the chiming of a temple bell calling him home, you usher him inside, past the entryway and up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. You chatter away about how you are in the middle of laundry, and would he mind if you do chores while he talks?

Under normal circumstances, he would closely observe your childhood home, looking for clues to the person you once were in the wear of the tatami and pictures framed on the wall, but the mere nape of your neck enthralls him and fixes his gaze. You shine like a beacon, the kind of light that doesn’t merely attract but blurs and blends the shadows until he can see nothing else.

Your clothes hang drying on the balcony, which is too cramped for two to stand comfortably, so he opts to hang back in the attached living room, while you fold your clothes into a basket. Rindou realizes that the task gives you the perfect excuse to avoid eye contact, which you have gracefully evaded since he arrived. It is a worrying sign perhaps, but it means he can study your face shamelessly as you work. There is a layer of grease atop your scalp and no makeup to cover the shadows that border your eyes. He looks no better, of course, but at least he’s been sleeping, and he frowns at these signs of neglect. Even so, he could get drunk on watching you unhindered like this.

The tension of all that is left unsaid writhes until you can’t help but break the silence, always the first to snap.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” you ask.

“I know you asked me to leave you alone, but I don’t want to. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” you confess quietly.

Something stronger than relief blooms where there has been so much pain, and Rindou spits out his response, words tumbling into one another without pause.

“Then what are we doing? Let me take you out!”

“Rindou, we can’t just go back to how things were,” you sigh. “I don’t mean that I won’t. I mean that I can’t. When things started between us, I thought I was just down for the ride, and I had no expectations of you or us, but then…everything just kind of snuck up on me, and when we were together, I felt so safe and cared for, like I never have before, and it was wonderful. Then, with a snap of your fingers, all of that just went away, and I was left with nothing, and it sucked. Trust me, I’ve thought about calling you a hundred times a day because it’s been so hard. But if I break now, I’m going to have to start moving on all over again from scratch, and I can’t do that. I need to just…get it over with.”

“Well, I don’t want to just get over it.”

The sun beats down on his brow through the glass, and a base sheen of sweat bursts from beneath his skin. The way you express yourself, honest and eloquent, as if inviting him to truly understand you, will never not amaze him, never not leave him scrambling for something half as true to share with you in turn. Words have never been his weapon of choice; he leads with his fists, his wits if pressed, the allure of fresh banknotes, but never his words, and now, they are the only thing that may save him. He had hours to prepare something to convince you to give him another chance, but the words sounded so stupid in his mind that he threw out every option as fast as he could imagine them. His memory has been shaky lately or he would recite the speech Ran wrote for him verbatim. His brother had been right. He should have written it down.

So, it is with no plan and with brains scrambled like a cracked egg that Rindou continues, “You’re not the only one who things snuck up on. You’re the best part of my day. Even now, as shitty as things stand between us, you’re still the best thing in my life. I never wanted to be a boyfriend. But I’ve had lots of time to learn that I want to lose you even less. A lot less. If you need me to give up seeing other women, to commit, or whatever else, then I’ll do it. If it means you can feel safe with me again, I’ll do it.”

“I’m not trying to trap you, or change you,” you sigh.

“Too late! I’m fucking trapped! And I don’t care. I want you way more than I want my freedom.”

Finally, you turn away from the laundry, back to the horizon, and look at him. You are guarded, no fake smiles to reassure or disarm. You are, however, listening, and Rindou lets himself hope that somehow, somehow, he has found the words powerful enough to undo the damage he wrought.

“That all sounds really nice,” you admit, “But you obviously don’t want to be my boyfriend, or we would have had this talk a while ago. It took you weeks to realize you want me.”

For such a smart woman, you could say the stupidest things, and Rindou is incensed enough at the very idea of not wanting you that he tells you as much. A spark of fire, something finally more impassioned than dull resignation sparks in your eye at the insult, but he plows forward before you can snark back.

“I knew I wanted you from the moment I first saw you. And I always miss you the second you leave my side. What it took me weeks to admit was…well shit, that I can’t live without you because I love you.”

A gust of wind weaves its way between the taller buildings that flank your apartment to blast past the balcony just as your fingers fumble removing a white tee-shirt from the clothesline. The shirt flies out on an updraft. As if dancing with the wind, it whirls in tight circles just out of reach of your outstretched hand, a brief white flag before the wind dies down and it plummets to the street.

You lean over the balcony, like you might leap to follow it, but finding no escape in that direction, you turn to face Rindou’s love confession head-on, just as he once faced yours. He had expected the words, “I-love-you” to hurt, to tear open his throat on their journey out and to ache like a rotting tooth. After all, people lost their minds for love. They died for love. And when love was gone, they cauterized the wound, all decayed flesh and mindless bumbling through the motions, like living zombies. Love hurt or some shit, right?

Yet, he doesn’t regret telling you now, even as you stand quietly without returning his feelings. A million possibilities for heartbreak manifest in front of him, but Rindou feels stronger than he has in weeks. There are so many secrets that still divide you, but this one fundamental truth is undeniable, unretractable. Never again will he be able to claim he’s never loved. This love will forever be a part of his history, and Rindou embraces the fixedness of the path that lies before him, one that is forever imprinted upon by your shared love.

“You’re making it nearly impossible to refuse you,” you sigh out.

“Good. You shouldn’t,” Rindou agrees.

The screen door squeaks as you close it behind you, stepping close enough that he can faintly sense your body heat and lavender scented detergent emanating from the laundry basket. You stand together at a precipice. Your mouth twists to the side in what he recognizes as fear.

“I’m scared,” you whisper. “If we do this, and I get hurt again…I can’t –”

“Do you remember our first date, when you told me all about your favorite story? The one with the girl whose brother kills her?” Rindou blurts out. He doesn’t know where he is going with this. Inspiration hovers three steps ahead of his brain.

“A Smiling Death’s Head?” you ask uncertainly.

“Yeah, you said you hated that one version of it because the woman dies for a man who won’t choose her in return. You like the one where the woman is brain and risks everything – her honor, her family’s honor, her life even – for love, and the man she loves is willing to do the same. I’m thinking, that’s us right now. I’m here, baby, and I’m choosing this even though you might hurt me now. I don’t care what shit there is down the road, I’m choosing you, and I want you to do the same. Be brave like the women in your books and take this leap with me, please.”

Like a sunflower to the sun, your whole body leans in his direction as you say, “That might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’d tell you not to get used to it, but who knows? This is the first time I’ve ever been in love. Maybe I am a romantic. You’ll have to choose me to find out.”

Pure joy knocks you off balance and tumbling into his arms. In seconds, you are tangled together. Your thighs clamp tight around his hips and your chin tucks into the notch between his neck and shoulders. His nose buries into the crook of your exposed throat, breathing in the balmy scent of sweat and sun. Just as naturally, your arms wrap around his waist as he holds you aloft. There is no space between your bodies. Nothing has felt more right since he first drew breath upon entering the world.

He has made his choice, and now you have made yours.

Rindou carries you into the open kitchen, sitting you on a high countertop, where neither of you need loosen your grip on the other. In fact, as he no longer needs to support your weight with his hands, he is free to tighten the embrace, wrapping two big arms around your back to clutch you even tighter to the heat of him.

Together like this, you both breathe through what feels like two blissful eternities that make the time spent apart seem like the passing of a few errant seconds. Time stops when you are gone, and it races when you are near. Rindou doubts he’ll ever return to the days of idly passing the time again. Not so long as he has you.

It is one of the happiest moments of his life. Not the happiness of a victory, but the absolute relief of a stay of execution, a sparing of the hangman’s noose. You are so unbelievably warm and soft as you cling to him. Little noises escape your mouth and get lost against his chest. It takes him a moment to recognize those sounds are words: “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

The fabric of his shirt sags from the weight of your tears as you weep, and he hates to imagine how exhausting the last several weeks have been as you ran yourself into the ground to avoid your heartbreak. He promises to care for you even when you can’t, or won’t, care for yourself. And now is as good a time as any to get started.

“No more tears,” Rindou cajoles, loosening your embrace just enough to draw your head up and look into those pretty eyes.

“I know I’m being ridiculous,” you hiccup-laugh. “I’m just so happy.”

He pinches the fat of your cheeks between his fingers, squishing your face into an adorable pout that stops the tears in their tracks.

“Now that I’m back, you’re going to be a good girl and listen to me, right?” he coaches.

You attempt a nod around his grip on your face, an eager half bob at the command.

“Good. First things first, you’re going to tell me everything I’ve missed while we were apart. And, I mean everything, baby. What’s going on with school, your mom, your friends. I want to know how Naoto’s work event went, how things are at the library, what you’re reading. If you read the nutritional information off a cereal box, I want to know about it,” Rindou orders.

“Yes, sir,” you slur through his fingers, and somehow you manage to sound perky and enthused despite your pinched lips and bloated cheeks.

“And you’re going to start taking care of yourself now that I’m back. No more all-nighters or studying until you collapse. You get seven hours of sleep every night minimum. You eat three meals a day. And you take at least one hour every day to do something fun, I don’t care what.”

“But sir!” you protest.

“That’s an order. Blink twice if you understand me.”

As your wet lashes bat down twice, Rindou notices the dreamy film that descends over your eyes, that recognizable, sleepy slide towards subspace as you relax your brain and surrender entirely to his will. All it took was the sound of his voice to affect you. And that’s not all. When the fingers of his other hand, the one not manipulating your cute little face, shift slightly on your neck, not even a full caress, you suck in a powerful breath like the touch might shatter you to pieces.

He vows to never take this, the power he commands over you, for granted again. Because as ardently as you react to his slightest touch, he is just as devoted in the hunt for those same reactions. He drinks up your sighs and pleasures and delicious little nose scrunches like an alcoholic at an open bar.

The sun filtering into the room is dimmer now, lighting up the dust mites as they float past the window. Rindou massages the base of your neck with a firm hand. Like a kitten, you purr and cant into the touch. He could stay like this until nightfall, until forever. Based on the little shivers that wrack your spine, the pathetic whimpers you can’t suppress, you are less contented, calves winding around his hips in a suggestion he only pretends to ignore.

“I have to tell you something,” you murmur, lips trailing his neck until they reach his ear. “I have to tell you, I was bad while we were apart.”

Rindou hides his smile in the base of your neck, continuing to stroke you like a beloved pet, “Were you now? I find that hard to believe.”

“I was, Sir. I came three times without permission. Twice on my own and once at the club,” you report.

Technically, you had his permission at the club when you came on Lady’s fingers as he nodded along with the audience, but he doesn’t tell you that, too amused by the eager way you tattle on yourself in the hopes he’ll spank you clean through a dry orgasm, thighs flexing around his waist as you imagine it. And he might punish you yet, but not today. Not when the weight of you in his arms feels like returning home after an odyssey, and unlike Odysseus, Rindou would have forgiven you anything – any infidelity, any betrayal, any treason – in his relief to find peace here once again.

“Hmm, you have been bad,” Rindou plays along. “And what do you think I ought to do about that?”

“Whatever you think best, Sir,” you offer, trying and failing to perform meekness as your excitement grows.

Rindou untethers you from his body, making sure you are seated securely on the counter beside an overflowing drying rack before he slides down, down, down to the floor, dragging your sweatpants along with him. You loom over him like a mountain in your half-naked glory, built like you were hand-crafted by a divine power for his enjoyment, designed to be worshipped. He belongs on his knees.

He lifts a foot to his mouth, tongue teasing past the toes, where he knows you are most ticklish, and pressing steady kisses to the arch. Slowly, he laps higher, passing your ankles, laving the muscles of your calves, and dedicating special attention to the sensitive skin behind your knees. An unstoppable giggle breaks free at the tickle, but your eyes warn him this is no laughing matter. His descent is achingly slow. Every centimeter he rises on your left leg must be repeated on his right before he will go higher, drawing out the torture until your breath goes shallow. It is an unhurried kind of worship that relaxes as well as arouses. There is a voluptuous surrender in the way he lingers on your legs, ignoring where you most want him as if time presents no obstacle to his exploration. All the while, he maintains eye contact, violet eyes transfixing you in place.

At your inner thighs, Rindou can’t resist, and he sucks twin hickeys onto each side. It’s the silken softness of your skin there, where you are never exposed to the sun. It’s the way your cunt smells, so close to his face as he marks you. You haven’t shaved in a few days, but the fine hairs hardly detract from the pillowy flesh. His cock aches for you.

Your panties join your sweatpants on the floor. For a solid minute, Rindou can do nothing but stare at your pretty pussy, so familiar and so missed. His hot breath dances over the sensitive skin, and you squirm, begging for the return of his mouth.

He smothers your cunt and himself in the process with open mouth kisses. Wet trails of his spit glisten in the wake of his lips. He uses his fingers to pinch at your hood until your glossy, little clit peeks out for him. The kisses he lays there are purposeful, devotional.

“Rindou, sir, please,” you whimper.

“You want me to eat this pretty pussy the way my pretty girl likes it?” Rindou asks.

You nod eagerly, and Rindou makes a show of considering it. The kisses he just gifted you were merely playful, a pantomime of what you really needed. Even as he toyed with your clit, your hips bucked greedily against the anchor of his hands at your hips, begging for more pressure, more, more, more.

“I was going to reacquaint myself with this perfect body from your toes to your eyelids. If I get distracted here, who will play with the rest of your body? Who will play with your pretty tits? Do you still want me to lick this cunt?”

“Yes, sir,” you answer swiftly.

“Well, since you’re being so polite,” Rindou hums, rubbing a firm hand up your inner thigh until you arch. “I’ll do it, but only if you play with your tits just the way you know I would. You’ll have to be my hands, baby.”

It is an uncharacteristically kind decision, but Rindou can’t summon up the will to call you belittling names or deny you too badly. You may be a pathetic, needy cockslut, but he is the one who couldn’t survive three weeks without the hug of your cunt, so what does that make him? At least, for today, he is simply too drunk on your body to degrade you the way you deserve.

Even without his firm hand, you are still an obedient little thing – one of the things he loves most about you – so you hasten to show off, tugging your tee-shirt up over your breasts and grabbing handfuls of your own flesh. He loves the way your fingers leave marks from how hard you grope and squeeze them. Rindou slips a hand in his pants, so that he can thumb at the head of his cock, watching the way you touch yourself. The foot he previously licked plants right on his shoulder to keep you spread open for him. Then, he dives back into your pussy.

With his tongue, Rindou laps out the wetness that collects at your entrance and smears it up to the top of your mound. It is messy. You practically flood his mouth at first contact, and he relishes that familiar tang. He buries everything – from his tongue to his nose – between your folds, lapping and sucking until your thighs quiver. With your clit, he is merciless, all pressure and speed as it has left the defenses of your clitoral hood and now beckons to him, an engorged button for him to tweak and nudge and suction into the hot wetness of his mouth.

You express your approval of his efforts by overenthusiastically abusing your tits. When you pinch your nipples, you tug that extra amount until they’re sore. When you squeeze them, you grope your tits like a pervert, hard and merciless. When you caress the undersides, you follow up with a stinging slap to the center that alights your nerves and brings tears to your eyes. It is masterful, a work of pure artistry, for an audience of one. And what an appreciative audience! Rindou shucks off his jeans, so he can palm the head of his cock as he watches the student become the master. He taught you this, this brutality, this unrestrained use of your body, and he wonders whether you spanked your ass raw in his absence, pretending your little hand was larger, meatier, his.

The toes on his shoulder clench, and he knows you are going to cum. All of those signs particular to you and your pleasure are committed to his memory and on display now as he worries your clit with his tongue.

So, of course, Rindou pulls back from your cunt, breaking a strand of spit that connects him to your pussy with his hand.

It is adorable the way your hips arc, humping at air like that might give you the stimulation you need to fly over the edge. As soft as he feels towards you in the new dawn of your shared love, Rindou can’t help but laugh at the pathetic display. It is easy to bat your hand away when you move it towards your own pussy, funny how the pitiful moue of your lips trembles at being denied. You must be out of practice to think for a second he would let you rut yourself to orgasm without permission. An out of practice needy hole in need of discipline. He can’t even feel disappointment. It’s simply too pathetic. Too pathetic and too intoxicating.

Nothing in his long life of vice compares to the knowledge that your pleasure belongs to him. His to control, his to provide. Like a headrush, a heady sense of his own power and gratitude for it stuns him into stillness. Rindou has always liked this power, enjoyed the needy pleas of the women he fucked and the way they would surrender beneath his hands, hoping, praying, that he might let them cum. He would snicker and mock their desperation even as the blood rushed to his cock. But there is an opposite side to the coin as well, a kind of self-flagellation because even as he denies you, he is simultaneously denying himself. Because the only sight better than your miserable cries at an edge is the glorious sight of you coming undone, brain blitzed and tongue heavy and breasts heaving and stomach clenching and…

“I didn’t tell you to stop abusing those tits,” Rindou warns.

He simply watches and you spring back to action, drawing the meat of your breast as high as it will go to try to tongue at your own nipple. When you aren’t satisfied, you spit and use the slick to rub aching little circles over each nipple. Your neck arches back at the feeling. Rindou can see when a zap of pleasure rolls through your body in the way your throat swallows, in the way your untouched hole spasms around nothing. He jerks his cock rapidly, splitting his attention between your performance and that clenching hole.

Two minutes pass after your first edge before Rindou decides he can safely return to your clit without immediately sparking an orgasm. Rindou licks his fingers, messy and thorough, before guiding them to your entrance. There is a nudge of resistance as he sinks two fingers inside as it’s been weeks since he last used you here, and he imagines that same tight pressure massaging his shaft, suffocating him at the root.

Sunk inside to the second knuckle, Rindou maneuvers until he finds your front walls, and then he plunges his fingers repeatedly into that spot as you shake and moan. He doesn’t even need to touch your clit now as it all but vibrates at the internal stimulation. One hand plants on your belly to hold you in place as he picks up speed, fingering your tiny cunt expertly until your squeals are as loud as the wet gushing from between your thighs and the sound of blood pounding in Rindou’s head.

Rindou works a third finger inside you, so that you won’t shatter when his cock breaks you open later. Then, he kisses up and down your stomach to where your cunt is stretched open by his fingers and only just grazing your clit with his passing tongue. Your head lolls like a broken doll, waist twitching one way then the next. Your twitchy little hole tells him that you will cum soon, fluttering like a vice around his fingers. He leaves it to the last possible second, so that he almost worries his mistimed it before abandoning your pussy again.

This time, you don’t try to alleviate the ache but bite down on your own fist in a childish cry of grievance at what is taken from you. He can literally see your hole clench around nothing, an enticing invitation for his neglected cock. An invitation he has ignored long enough.

Rindou stands, lifting you off the counter and depositing you knees-first on the cold tile. His cock hovers at face level, hard, demanding, weeping from missing you too long.

He smacks the meat of your cheek with his cock. A few heavy blows that bounce the head off your lip, leaving it stained with his essence. Whenever Rindou jerks off, he is vicious with his prick. His hand would blur from how fast he jerks it, but in contrast, you are always so delicate to start, all kitten licks and starry eyes at his cock like it is a rare book or something equally valuable to you. It is not so different from the worshipful way he learned your body. He craves that show of devotion from you, its own kind of commitment ceremony more powerful than swearing oneself in front of a priest or signing some stupid papers. He wants to see you pledge yourself to him in the basest ways imaginable.

“No hands. No tongue. No mouth,” Rindou says, voice too tight for the command to land as one, but you listen anyway. You are perfect like that.

The skin of your cheek is soft as you rub yourself against him like a cat. You twist under his cock, so that it rests heavy across your pretty features. A fan whirs overhead, but Rindou can clearly hear the deep breath you take through your nose as you soak in the smell of him. Laid out like this, his cock is nearly as long as your face.

Despite the limitations he imposed, you find a way to shift his cock, so it stands to attention between his stomach and your face, which you then rub up and down in time to his heartbeat. You have eyes only for his cock, so close to your nose that it crosses your eyes. The understimulation combined with your debauched face is the worst kind of torment. He has known hell in broken ribs, in a child’s empty belly, in the devastation of the drug trade he peddles. He has known hell. But he has never known a hell that lived so close to heaven as this.

“Go ahead and add your hands and tongue. Still no mouth,” Rindou urges.

Your hand is gentle when it grips him at the base and strokes. His skin stretches forward as you skim up, up, up the length of him. He jumps when slim fingers ghost over the head.

Both hands begin to work in tandem, stroking in opposite directions, different rhythms, so that every centimeter of him is caressed. Like you want to tempt him to sink into your mouth, you open wide and let his tip sit on your tongue. The pink little muscle writhes against the underside where he is most sensitive. Too often when he uses your mouth, he chokes you on the length of him until you flounder, wild-eyed and proud in your accomplishment. This, letting you take the lead and showcase all your skill and study of him, may become a guilty a pleasure for him though. As you trace your tongue up the vein lining his shaft, he realizes you know his body every bit as well as he knows yours.

“Please, can I suck it, sir? I want to make you feel good,” you plead.

“You’re already making me feel good. And besides, you look too pretty like this,” Rindou murmurs, gliding a hand down your spit-stained cheek.

“Like this, sir?”

There is nothing submissive, sweet, or innocent in the way you lick a wet streak from base to tip. So terribly slowly that by the time you kiss the plump head of him, his eyes have rolled back in bliss.

Then, like a secret, you whisper into his cockhead,” I love you, sir.”

By you, he is undone.

Most likely, Rindou thinks, he lowered you gently to the ground then, but this is pure speculation as one moment you are on your knees, and the next you are on your back, legs wound his waist, and his cock bullying its way into your pussy.

It is like coming home when your hips meet with a loud smack, as close as two people can be, cock pressed up and into your stomach. He is gentler when he pulls out, making sure your walls can accommodate him. Your heels dig painfully into his ass at the slow slide. They tighten as if to keep him there when he sinks back in deep.

The only way he could possibly fuck you after everything you shared today is deep. Not too hard or fast, but penetrating, inescapable thrusts that make you wail when he bottoms out.

A cunt is a cunt, he always thought. There is only so much variation in depth, in tightness, in slickness, in heat from one woman to the next. And that’s true of yours, too, except when he’s inside you, he’s not only feeling your walls massage his cock, he’s also smelling the natural perfume that emanates from your neck and thighs. He’s tasting the sweat off your delicious breasts. He’s soaking up the cries and moans that you offer him like a votive.  Yes, you are deliciously obedient and hot, but you are also just you, and that is manifold times more addictive than the drugs he sells for a living.

His balls draw up, and Rindou is shocked to realize he could cum already. He empties his mind, counting his breaths until the urge to fill you ebbs away to more manageable levels. Still his balls ache fiercely.

You fare little better as each thrust breaks you open. His hips grind into yours, pressing him tight to where you folds spread open, where your clit is engorged and primed. Your hands rub through layers of sweat on his back to press him even closer. Nose-to-nose, so you trade breaths and groans through open mouths.

“Please, can I cum, sir?” you ask.

“You wanna cum?” Rindou grits out.

You grasp his wrist, the one not supporting his bodyweight off the floor, and guide his hand to your bared throat. Instinctively, his fingers curl around your pretty neck, not pressing, just there, like a favorite necklace.

“Make me cum,” you say.

Your hand folds over his own and flexes until he begins to squeeze, cutting off your air supply. A little smile of pure contentment curls your lips as you ease into the sensation of being choked. Without air, your brain panics, the cock digging its way to your center begins to feel less welcome, less safe, more startling and therefore unignorable. And then, your brain slackens, and his grinding cock becomes the center of your universe. Just feeling remains and nothing else.

It is a wonder you still trust him enough to let him do this.

A wonder. That’s what you are.

“Cum for me, baby,” Rindou prays, lips to your ear. “Cum as hard as you can.”

His hand loosens to allow a windfall of air to flood your lungs and short circuit your brain. The sudden relief compounds the way he speeds up his thrusts, so that your cunt is filled just the way he knows you need it.

You start to cum sometimes on the second stroke. The little bit of slack he had to maneuver inside you disappears. It is a vice that wraps around his cock. Your pussy pulses haphazardly, like a clenching fist, and he floods your womb with cum.

Lips meet in a messy kiss. Off-center and desperate. But neither of you have the brain power for artistry. His cock is too busy with the aftershocks, managing seven hot spurts into the haven of your cunt after the initial torrent. And you are practically crying into his mouth; a short but obliterating orgasm that wracked you to your core and left you devastated in the aftermath.

This must be what people call ‘making love.’

--

Sometime in the aftermath, Rindou remembers that you share the apartment with your mother, and that he cannot make a bed here on the kitchen floor with a soft cock buried in her daughter’s cunt. First, impressions count after all.

On autopilot, he takes you to the shower, where you both clean up, bodies limp against one another. At no point do you stop holding hands. Even when you pee after. You remain tethered to each other every step of the way.

Your mind wakes up just enough to direct him to your bedroom afterward. The bed is only a twin, but he prefers it, the way it forces you both to stay wrapped up entirely in each other’s arms. You practically lay across his thigh as you both fall into a deep sleep.

An hour or two after judging by the angle of the sun seeping through your window, Rindou wakes up. Vaguely, he notices for the first time his surroundings. The duvet on your bed is threadbare and patchy, but the sheets are surprisingly soft. The room is mostly neat with dirty clothes tucked away in a hamper and clean clothes folded away, though the desk in the corner is piled haphazardly with books and looseleaf notes. A pen must have rolled off your desk earlier because the wheel of your desk chair is lodged atop it. The walls are painted a delicate eggshell yellow, and there are no embarrassing childhood posters there but rather tacked-up photos of you and your friends, you and your mom, you and him.

Rindou finds it hard to swallow when he sees the photos, looks away.

“Morning,” you rumble sleepily into his skin.

He kisses you soundly before correcting you that it is sometime in the early evening. It doesn’t matter either way. Time has abdicated its power. Whether it’s six in the evening or six in the morning, he will stay in this cramped bed, holding you. Short of the police breaking down the door or a zombie apocalypse, nothing could compel him to stop.

“I didn’t dream it,” you murmur to yourself.

“No,” Rindou confirms simply. He has never been a man of many words and now that the time for speeches has passed, he finds himself exhausted of them. He prefers to listen anyway, missed your songbird voice in his ear.

“And you’re not going to regret it?” you say.

Rindou shakes his head.

“I can introduce you as my boyfriend now?” you question.

“Mmmhmm,” Rindou hums, placing a delicate kiss to the crest of your ear.

Your fingers curl tightly around his hand, and you say urgently, “Please don’t cheat on me. I think it’ll kill me.”

“Shh, stop worrying. I won’t even look at another woman again, okay?” Rindou promises.

This little bout of insecurity passes, unable to survive the absolute security of his deep-voiced assurances. Then, you proceed to tell him all about your time apart. Rindou hardly speaks a word, soaking up the way you effortlessly create a full-bodied narrative of details and characters and feelings. You talk mostly about schoolwork and the library, your friends weaving in and out of the periphery of your stories. Occasionally, he asks a question, sparking new stories that outrun the clock until the sky is dark outside and your voice scratchy from overuse.

It takes Rindou by surprise when you say seemingly out of the blue, “Earlier, when you said you would never even look at a woman again…I don’t think you have to take it that far. I mean, unless you want to, but I’m not asking you to.”

“Thanks, that would have made leaving the house kind of hard,” Rindou laughs lowly. “But seriously, I won’t touch anyone but you. You have my word.”

You squirm out from the cocoon of his arms, and he unconsciously chases your body heat. Once you are sitting up, sheets tumbling over your peaked nipples, you say, “I don’t mind if you do, a little.”

Now it is Rindou’s turn to sit up.

“You don’t mind if I touch other women a little?”

“Oh, this is so embarrassing,” you groan at the disbelief in his voice. “I just mean, when we first met and you flogged that woman…I thought that was so hot, watching you. And I could see us wanting to go to the club again sometime, as a couple, and it would be okay with me at least, if you wanted to umm, do a scene with someone else. I think I might even like it. Or, umm, so long as it’s not sex, I think it would be fine even if I’m not there so long as you tell me all about it,” you say.

“What does sex mean to you?”

You think about it for a moment. “Anything that gets your dick wet.”

A beat later Rindou starts to laugh. He laughs until his stomach hurts, while you beat your fists into his shoulder and insist it’s not funny. But it is funny! It is funny that he wasted so many weeks thanks to his stubborn pride when you weren’t even demanding his forever faithfulness, leaving the door wide open to all kinds of sins and debauchery so long as he what? Maintained open communication?

All you ask is that he gives up sticking his dick in other women and in exchange he gets…everything. He gets everything.

When Rindou finally catches his breath, he eyes you like the marvel you are and says, “I really don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“Funny, I feel the same way,” you smile. “So, I don’t want you getting your dick wet with anyone else, and I want to know what you do with other people. I may change my mind down the road, but I actually thought about it a lot after everything that happened, and I think that’s my boundary. So, until I do change my mind, that’s the rule. What about you? What boundaries do you have for me?”

Rindou has put little thought into it, assuming a vanilla-style definition of monogamy would be your future together, but half the answer comes instantly, “I control your orgasms. No cumming without my permission.”

“I like that,” you agree.

“And no dating anyone else. Watching you with Lady was fucking hot, and I wouldn’t mind sharing you with other doms if you are interested down the line, but no cumming and no going out with them.”

“Oh, no dating for you either! No dating and no falling in love. And you can’t do scenes with the same woman over and over without me. I don’t want you developing feelings for anyone. I didn’t think of that,” you say.

Rindou nods. “It sounds like we’ll both have to work out the details as they come along. But I’m open to changing the rules as we go because all that really matters is that we’re together, and you’re happy.”

“You’re going to make me happy?” you tease.

You smile beatifically, an angel on earth. A sun to his sunflower, a planet to his moon sucking him into your orbit. Rindou never believed he could make anyone happy, but he knows now that he is going to try until there’s no fight left in him.

“I’m going to make you very happy,” he vows.

It is a rebirth, and it is a start. And you both think in that moment that you hope there is no end to the bright future that lies in front of you.

This is love.

A/N: editing this was a saga, so sorry if i missed anything!

Easing in her slender forearm for a pillow - Matsuo Bashō

[icenineporcupine]

On the casually insane antics of Illusionist!Gale…

I don’t usually wax poetic about the blorbos on main, but I keep thinking about one specific aspect of Gale’s act II romance scene that makes me completely feral.

Sure, it’s impressive that he can project a pretty aurora into the sky, and recreate his rooms in Waterdeep from memory. And maybe somebody with better knowledge of 5e spellcasting rules has a really mundane explanation of this and it’s nbd (if so don’t tell me XD)…

… but purely based on what we’re being shown, Gale just blithely conjures an illusory copy of The Art of the Night — and with enough detail — that he can then use it to simultaneously cast a second spell (when he has Tav place their hand on the diagrams in the book) that transports two souls into the Weave? And is presumably maintaining concentration on both? While also blowing Tav’s mind?

It’s one thing to be able to cast/maintain two spells at once; but that’s not even the whole of it; he’s casting the second spell using materials he imagined into existence with the first…

Maybe my Tav and I are just hopeless smitten nerds (we are), but that’s some Inception, dream-within-a-dream fuckery. Gale mentions he can’t create such elaborate illusions very often, and it’s fair to assume that he was referring to the scale or the grandeur of it; but the multi-channel processing is so much more galaxy-brain, imo? And at that level of detail?? Babygirl’s got photographic memory in that terrifying tadpoled head of his, on top of raw magic talent.

And let’s not even get into the combat implications of being able to just pull entirely functional spellscrolls out of thin air, even if only on occasion. At that point, what’s the actual difference between illusion and reality? God!Gale may not be an emotionally healthy ending for him, but with illusory talent like that, it’s easy to understand how quickly the lines blurred for him—even without a heavy helping of hubris dumped on top…

[Karlach voice, rubbing the back of my neck] Anyway, what were we talking about….?

[skylerskyhigh]

I have a headcanon where Leon has photographic memory. Like, the small bits and pieces from canon point to this.

First, and the main evidence, how did Future Leo know how to draw the key? He's seen it, at least as far as we know, once. Yet he can draw it from memory? How did he even know that it was the key to unlock the Prison Dimension? Presumably, he would have seen it again. But even then, to be able to draw the details of it by memory is difficult.

Second, when the bros get captured by Big Mama, Leon saw the yokai open the door to her vault once. Yet he can immediately repeat the action, and know the right painting, just by looking at someone doing it once?

There's also the small things. Like, Leon immediately recognizing his sword during "Portal Chopped".

I don't remember any more instances but it would make sense for Leon to have photographic memory.

[bridenore]

HD fic recs : Muggle Life (part 1)

Here are a few recs where either Harry or Draco are living a muggle life. This is part one of three and focuses on shorter fics (up to 30k). Listed in alphabetical order, as always.

An Aching Soul by @writcraft [14k]

I can’t help but wonder if Potter’s really as fine as he claims to be. There’s something strange about seeing the vanilla hero of the wizarding world eye-fucking someone across a crowded bar before slipping off into the shadows

Draco Malfoy escapes to the Muggle world to avoid his parents, memories of the war and Harry Potter. However, some things prove harder to escape than others as Draco realises when his favourite Muggle haunt is rudely invaded by a post-war Harry who is struggling to cope with grief, growing up and the battle with his inner demons.

Be not defeated by the rain by hereticalvision [22k]

Exiled from both Britain and the magical world, Draco Malfoy makes a living by identifying illegal magical artefacts on behalf of the Yakuza in Kyoto.  He’s almost put his past behind him when Head Auror Potter shows up in Japan chasing a Celtic relic, and Draco’s life is once again thrown into utter turmoil.

Coins by Inell [5k]

Coins make a certain jingling sound whenever they are tossed onto the top of a wooden bureau.

Develop, Stop and Fix by @onbeinganangel [15k]

In his five years in New York City, James Black has earned significant fame as a photographer. In fact, he’s attracted the attention of London curator D. Black. Harry Potter uses a fake name and runs away. In a way, so does Draco Malfoy.

How do these stories connect? It’s quite simple: they’re one and the same.

Doing the Lambeth Walk by @blamebrampton [26k]

There are only three traditional choices for the cashed-up hero after victory. Harry Potter is too young to settle down and provide the wizarding world with a happy ending, and has too acute a sense of humour to spiral downwards into a spectacular flame-out. That leaves a life of good works. Choosing to lead it in Muggle Brixton comes with its own set of challenges, including Malfoys in the biscuit aisle.

Exposure by GallaPlacidia [26k]

When Seamus uncovers Draco Malfoy’s camboy profile, he, Harry and Ron decide to anonymously book a private show so as to humiliate him later. Fascinated by Draco’s confidence, Harry keeps booking private shows under the disguise…

Self prompt: Draco is a camboy. Harry betrays him.

Full by shushu_yaoi_lj / @orange-peony​ [16k]

The door opens and the bell goes ding.

Draco’s eyes immediately fly to the entrance of his bookshop, his heart beating madly in the hope that it’s him.

Hush, darling by @magpiefngrl [23k]

Draco is in trouble. To get out of it he needs to seduce Harry Potter.

In Plain Sight by @pennygalleon [4k]

Harry doesn’t tire of this. It’s a sense of belonging he’d never even dared to dream of having back when he was living with the Dursleys.

So it’s probably too good to be true…

It Takes a Village by Saras_Girl [24k]

Eighth year isn’t exactly going to plan. Harry is definitely not running away, Draco is definitely not impressed, and it’s almost definitely not going to stop raining.

Leave the Past Behind by sesheta_66 [25k]

When Harry is sent undercover to get Draco’s testimony against two suspected Death Eaters, he finds Draco living as a Muggle with no memory of his past. Harry, determined to find out who did this to Draco, finds himself enthralled by the magic of the Isle of Skye and fascinated by the stranger he thought he knew.

Leave Your Field to Flower by @emmagrant01 [12k]

Draco Malfoy is like all the other Survivors of the disaster – except for one called Harry Potter.

Let him lead me to the banquet by @harryromper [16k]

The worst part is Harry’s got no idea why Malfoy keeps sending him invites. He’s never replied to a single one. And if the whole dinner is as exclusive and sought-after as the Prophet keeps breathlessly reporting, then presumably the only reason Malfoy wants him there is in his capacity as the Chosen One. So, really, he can fuck right off. Harry doesn’t care about Draco Malfoy’s redemption tour. And he’s certainly not going to help him with it.

Lift Your Open Hand by @firethesound [18k]

With Draco Malfoy as his assigned partner for the next six weeks of Auror training, Harry had been prepared for things to go poorly. But getting themselves accidentally bonded to each other in the first twenty minutes of their very first assignment seemed going above and beyond, even for them.

Look For Me In The Sun by @wolfpants [8k]

Harry and Draco are on the run in America after a mysterious string of werewolf-like attacks in the Muggle community causes the Ministry to  impose new and harsh anti-werewolf legislation. Giant trees, crashing waves, seedy motel rooms, and the long and winding coastal road awaits them, but will they ever be able to go back home?

Magic Tricks by talithan [5k]

When Draco agreed to accompany his flatmate to a Muggle magic show, he did not expect Harry Potter to be the magician onstage. Since then, nothing has gone according to plan.

Moneymaker by @dictacontrion [16k]

As a top trader, Draco has power and money, suits and cars, houses and good champagne - everything a person could want. So when Auror Potter comes looking for help, Draco can’t think of anything that might persuade him to lend a hand.

Well…maybe one thing.

Nine Days in Coventry by @sitaz [16k]

When a de-aged Draco Malfoy is discovered in Knockturn Alley, the Ministry appoints Family Liaison Officer Potter as his emergency guardian. Whisked away to a Muggle safehouse, Draco does not cope well, and Harry learns just how hard life can be when a five-year-old declares war on you.

Nobody’s Ever Died Of A Broken Heart by Frayach [10k]

Harry staggers under a burden of grief, trying both to remember and to forget

Normal Is the Watchword by lamerezouille [29k]

This story is about love and family and yes, maybe it’s not supposed to be about Jamie exactly, but Draco and Harry are very stubborn and Jamie’s just a kid, you can’t expect him to completely extract himself from a story he’s actually living, right?

Qui Vivra Verra by camomiletea [22k]

“It’s just- It’s a bit funny is all. Draco Malfoy working in a coffee shop.”

“Patisserie,” Malfoy corrected.

The one where Harry is a sad tourist and Draco feeds him croissants.

Reading Malfoy by @femmequixotic [15k]

After thirteen years of hiding himself away in Muggle London, Draco Malfoy shows up again in the wizarding world–with a wickedly amusing memoir in hand. Harry doesn’t want to read it. Really. He doesn’t.

Rich Friend by iota [18k]

As far as Harry can tell, Draco Malfoy is still rich as hell. He’s just not a wizard anymore. Featuring: Draco Malfoy trying to make it as a Muggle pop star, Harry Potter as our confused and horny hero, bad driving, good music, and the mysterious magic of falling for someone.

Sourdough by academicdisaster [17k]

Draco writes romance novels and doesn’t leave his apartment much. Harry  bakes bread and sells it to Draco. Draco is quite weird. Harry might  like that.

Trust In A Broken Thing by SqueekaCuomo [23k]

If the ring was broken, that could only mean one thing… Harry Potter was dead.

Twelfth Night, or Harry Potter Is A No-Good Tosser by lotus_lizzy [8k]

There is only one thing a 13-year-old can do to protect his father, and that’s to sneak, snoop, and bury my nose into things where it most certainly does not belong. But Harry Potter is up to no good, and with my father’s probation almost at an end, I have to make sure Mr Potter doesn’t ruin it. It would help if my dad would stop giving me so many chores, though.

Twelve Hours by @eidheann [14k]

The last thing Harry expected to see while leaving the takeaway was Malfoy dumping his garbage into a bin on the kerb of a Muggle neighborhood.

The Weight of a Wanting Heart by @femmequixotic [11k]

After nearly two decades hidden away in the Wiltshire countryside, Draco Malfoy’s surprised to see a familiar face come into his local.

When You Kiss Me (What A Lovely Way To Burn) by @femmequixotic [22k]

A drag fairytale of New York in which Draco wears red lipstick and Potter can’t get enough.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!