#Captivating sequence of words | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cinnamonest · 5 months

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Beleaguer

"Failed escape attempt" yandere series - Diluc

WARNINGS: dark content, fem reader, noncon, captivity, belting/spanking, manhandling, humiliation, darling has a somewhat defined personality, hair pulling, implied forced impregnation at the end, forced fem/housewifization + thinly veiled if not wholly unveiled misogyny, swearing, there's a lot going on here and none of it is holy

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‘Fill cap to line. Causes intense drowsiness and loss of motor function within 5-10 minutes. Soluble. Do not operate heavy machinery if taken within the last 24 hours.’

You blinked a few times, focusing your vision. Your mind could be deceiving you, after all. But when you looked again, the vial in your hand read the same words as it did moments before.

You'd merely gone to set the oil back into the cabinet when the force of pushing one knocked over another further within, coming across the bottle in the very back in the process of fixing the mishap.

You grasped it firmly in your hand, merely blinking in disbelief as you read over the words again and again.

“Oh my God.”

You spoke aloud to yourself, standing alone in the spacious kitchen, the words slipping out on their own in a low whisper.

Daily life as you now lived it brought a sort of mind-numbing stillness to it. Life was repetitive and uneventful. You woke at the same time, performed the same mindless tasks, the same chores, the same interactions. You said hello and good morning to the same maids every morning (you'd lost the willpower to continue being cold to the staff a long time ago), you came down and went through the same routine, wore the same clothes, had the same conversations.

The only thing that ever changed was a few different foods on rotation from week to week and the names and faces of the strangers that came in and out of the lower rooms - although they were all one and the same to you, their attitudes and the way they treated you and looked at you was as though each was the same individual with merely a different face.

And consequently, you'd reached a state of numbness, you went through the tasks mechanically, without thinking, perhaps intentionally shutting down your mind to make acceptance easier. Disconnected, unreal, everything melted together and the days and the people were all one long continuous sequence of occurrences.

It was easier that way. Resisting brought anger, frustration, tears, misery. Allowing the numbness to take over allowed some escape from the reality itself.

Which was likely why reading the words themselves felt like a shockwave through your body, as if suddenly the world regained its colors, you could feel your heart beating and your lungs fill with air. Like a sharp and sudden awakening from an endless, empty, dreamless sleep.

You felt a sudden wave of shame immediately following the shock, chastising yourself for even allowing that numbness to take over, like you might have felt angry with yourself in the past for oversleeping or spacing out and missing something important.

You recognized the handwritten label stuck to the bottle, having gone to the same place for something or another in the past — the alchemist’s lab in the city. That essentially meant it had to be highly effective.

Not only that — the fact that the seal was broken and about a third of the liquid gone, would mean it was very likely the same substance used on you more than once. If so, “drowsiness” was an understatement — it would knock you out cold for hours at a time.

You heard yourself breathing in ragged, quick breaths, you stumbled and steadied yourself against the counter, looking up and around you, suddenly aware of the world around you, everything felt real. The emotions came flooding back — humiliation, resentment, fury.

This was a way out. A miracle.

In your sudden awakening, your mind, sprung back to function, as if the wheels were once again turning, took only a mere minute to formulate a plan. It wasn't really difficult at all — in fact, there was perhaps not a single moment more perfect for you to have stumbled across this opportunity. You were, after all, just about to fill glasses, the final step in your meal preparation.

You set the vial down and ran over to the other cabinet — wiping your hands on your apron to rid them of any residue from cooking — and opened it up, swiping a bottle of juice and returning to the center of the kitchen. The corners of your mouth pulled upwards beyond your control into a grin as you went about the process.

Have a taste of your own medicine, bastard.

You smirked even wider, practically beaming as you popped a tablet out of the packaging, dropping it into one of the glasses. It made a fizzing sound as it grew smaller and smaller, and you watched with wide eyes as it disappeared. Just to be certain, you bent your head down and gave it a sniff, but there was no distinguishable smell or color that would give it away.

And you were certain that, if this was in fact the same drug that you'd consumed, there was nothing about it that tasted unusual.

And once it was complete, for yet another moment you merely stood, staring, grinning and trembling, processing this sudden turn of events. It would be easy, right? The sun was already about to set, the staff were no longer in the fields except for a few security guards that patrolled here or there. It would be easy to spot and avoid them.

You just had to get Diluc to drink this, wait for him to pass out, and run, right? Sure, traversing the road barefoot might be difficult, but that would probably be the extent of your hardships, provided you could get out.

Get out, get on the road, make a straight shot for Mondstadt, go straight to the knights and tell them everything that had happened to you. Maybe you could steal one of the horses they kept for plowing to make your getaway. Your chest burned at the thought of getting your revenge — no, your justice. You deserved this, you deserved freedom — and he deserved whatever consequences would come his way.

…No. You realized, albeit with frustration, that getting revenge wasn't really an option. He had power and money, and you knew all too well how good such people were at evading consequences.

You would just have to run. Staying in Mondstadt certainly wasn't an option. You'd just go… somewhere. Specifics didn't matter as long as you got away from here.

And sure, you'd made a few attempts to get out before, quickly foiled and harshly punished. But you'd never had an advantage like this before. He couldn't chase you down if he was out cold.

You took deep breaths, trying to calm down. It would all be over soon.

You finally managed to wipe the mischievous grin off your face. You knew you couldn't afford risking him getting suspicious if you were too outwardly giddy. Instead, you tried to maintain only a small smile, the numb, dopey smile you'd trained yourself to wear. Nonetheless, you shook your head and settled the plates and glasses onto a tray, carrying them out to the little table that sat tucked away in an alcove in the hallway connecting the main hall to the kitchen. He preferred to eat here when it was just the two of you, with plain cups and plates, rather than the massive dining room with all its ornate tableware — that was only for formal occasions, you'd discovered, whereas this was out of sight from the constantly-bustling staff.

You set the food and drink out — careful to be mindful of which cup was which — then stood, returned the tray to the kitchen, then the vial to the cabinet and, with a spring in your step, turned and made your way down the hall.

You were careful to make sure everything was as it was supposed to be. Straightened your posture, ran your hands down the front of the dress to smooth it out.

You began the short journey from the kitchen to the study, footsteps light and soft, short steps that slowed your pace. No heavy steps that thumped against the hardwood, no letting your weight fall onto each foot all at once, and no slouching. Nor any other such improper, inappropriate behaviors.

It really was a beautiful building, though, so you thought to yourself as you glanced up at the ornate windows. You'd been here before, on your own volition, back long ago, of your own volition. You'd walked by it plenty of times, and once or twice had taken a moment to stroll around the vineyard, figuring it would do no harm, as you were never noticed.

Now, it was a sort of beautiful prison, such an elegant architecture for such a suffocating place.

Upon reaching one particular door, you raised a hand up and gave a gentle knock. A voice came from behind the door.

"Mm?"

You took another deep breath, calming yourself down, trying to mentally switch the ‘on’ button for your sweet obedient wife act you hoped you had mastered well enough by now, complete with an upward shift in octave and sing-song-y touch to your voice. "It's me."

You heard a chair scoot backwards, heavy footsteps, and the door opened. "...Hey." A hand rested on your head. "Food ready?"

"Yes sir." You gave a soft smile.

"That's good... thanks." He patted your head, and seemed to stifle a yawn. His voice was drained, nearly a mumble.

"Are you ok?" You tried your best to make your voice sound soft and concerned, furrowing your eyebrows in a way you hoped looked worried, pushing your lower lip out a bit.

"Just tired. Lots of work today. I'll just eat and then we'll go to sleep."

Oh yes, you will.

Fighting the urge to grin, you slowly made your way back together down the hall — remembering to keep your footsteps light, forcing a sort of soft, feminine gracefulness to your manner of walking, lest you be reminded to do so.

Every little second, every step, every word was practiced and poised. Now, having reawakened to your resentment and defiance, just acting it out made you feel sick.

There was, nonetheless, a residual sense of dread, a nagging pit in your stomach that went deeper than the surface-level nervousness.

There was a major disadvantage — this would not be the first time you tried something like this. Granted, not with this particular substance, but you had once managed to make him horribly sick for well over a day with rat poison, and once again with liquid pesticide meant for the vineyard. Both incidents were purely for the purpose of amusement and spite, which you’d reveled in despite the unfortunate consequences you’d suffered.

The first time, he'd been totally unsuspecting, and the second time he'd been too distracted and busy to notice anything even if you had let something slip. You could curse yourself now in hindsight — if you hadn't committed those first two offenses out of sheer spite, you'd be able to pull this off much more easily. But now, he’d learned you would do something like that, and if the slightest thing was wrong in the taste or appearance of it, he'd get suspicious immediately. You weren't even sure if a single sip was enough to do anything, considering how diluted the substance now was. You’d just have to hope he’d drink the whole thing.

You did your best to make idle conversation as you walked, talking about whatever you did that day, as if it was ever any different from any other day. Your nerves felt electrified, your body tense and stiff as you sat back down and took a bite of this and that, trying to contain your anticipation, trying to look at him out of the corner of your eye rather than directly. He didn't say much, but that wasn't abnormal, only slowly taking in bites of this and that. It felt like an eternity of waiting.

Come on, get thirsty, drink it...

Finally, his hand reached out to the juice. You felt your breath hitch.

Come on, come on!

You stopped moving, anxiously waiting for him to drink.

So caught up in your excitement that you didn't realize you were letting it show on your face, that you had ceased your own motions to stop and stare intently.

It took him stopping and looking up at you with confusion in his expression, for you to feel a spike of panic as you realized the mistake.

"...Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Hm?" You immediately tried to correct the behavior, going back to cutting at something on your plate with a smile, hoping the way you stiffened wasn't visible. "Sorry, I just… I spaced out a second, what did you say?"

He was silent for a moment.

"...Nothing."

Ok. Good save.

You popped a bite of food into your mouth. Besides, despite being an overall intelligent man, he had a tendency to be rather dense sometimes, surely he wouldn't pick up on something like that.

You were fine for now— what is he doing.

You noticed an odd look spread across his features, eyebrows furrowed a bit, as if thinking something through.

Then, he stood up, glass in one hand, and grabbed yours with the other. He swapped your drinks and sat back down, looking up at you with a neutral, cold stare.

Oh.

His gaze didn't falter. He set his elbows on the table, and rested his head on interlocked fingers. "Is there a problem?"

Oh no.

"N-no, I was just... why did you...?" You felt your body go cold, and try as you might not to, you knew panic must be showing on your face.

"It's the same thing, isn't it? So it's fine."

You couldn't miss the suspicious tone to his voice even if you'd tried to ignore it.

"...Right." You smiled, but you felt your lips tremble a bit. You could save this, for now, even if it didn't work out in your favor. You looked at the food, but you could still feel his gaze on you, so, hoping to pacify his suspicion, you brought the cup up to your mouth and tilted it as if you were drinking, closing your upper lip to the glass so that none of the juice actually got in your mouth. Then, after a moment, you pulled it away, swallowing to further the deceit.

He seemed satisfied by the action — right? It looked like he bought it, right? — and looked back down, resuming eating. There was a tense, awkward silence, so you attempted to fill in the empty space.

"D-did you, um, do anything fun today?"

"I wouldn't call anything I do 'fun,'" he muttered. "Just met with a bunch of people, one after the other... there's lots of business partnership contract renewals around this time of year, so they have to come here for that process."

"Mhm." You couldn't care less, but feigned interest. You knew Diluc well by this point, and knew how to appeal to the things that would soothe him the most. One of the most important factors in that was listening to whatever it was he had to say, no matter how boring (which, really, most things having to do with his work were). He liked to feel listened to, didn't have anyone else to go to, you supposed. Lots of stress, high expectations, and no solid support figure probably was the root of his psychological issues. — said issues were something you had spent a lot of time contemplating and trying to figure out in your spare time, given their now inherent effect on your own life.

But you presumed that most men without stress and some kind of serious issues generally did not go around abducting women they barely knew and forcing them to live in their homes. At least, not to your knowledge.

You had often wondered why someone like him wouldn't choose someone who was already that ideal, someone who already exemplified those traits… but as time went by you began to understand that that simply wasn't good enough.

That there was an allure to someone like you, to someone like him. That your very existence as you were on your own upset the man — you'd noticed that within the first few minutes of interacting with him, back when you first started coming to that damn bar you now wish you’d never set foot in. The displeased expression and dismissive tone at your vulgarity and defiance and aggression. You'd thought, back then, that the man disliked you —and he did, in a way.

But for someone who seemed to have such distaste for you, he sure did fail to ever leave you alone. There was some impulsive need to say something to you at some point in each encounter, as if he couldn't allow you to go about your night without at least one look of disdain or passive-aggressive comment. The only thing that seemed more irksome to him than your existence, was the fact that you always bit back, always said something in return, and thus your interactions had only fueled your and his disdain for each other further and further.

The mistake you'd made in your original assessment of him, that you’d slowly come to understand with time, was that he was not a person who simply avoided things he disliked, like most people — he was hellbent on fixing whatever irked him, remediating whatever was perceived as wrong.

You had not been an exception.

Now in the present, as you tried to focus on maintaining your calm act, he kept on talking about this or that. Some people who came by today, some guy who keeps trying to get him to sign some agreement he doesn't want to, this isn't a particularly good crop this season, but he's seen worse, blah blah, nothing you cared about.

You continued eating, which soon turned out to be a mistake — your throat was dry, food wasn't helping, and you desperately wanted something to drink, but you could do nothing but raise your glass up and pretend you were actually drinking your juice. You thought, for a moment, he seemed to look at the glass, and fear he realized the amount wasn't going down ran through your mind, but you tried to calm yourself. If you started imagining things in your paranoia, you'd only increase the chance of him noticing your panic.

There was obvious suspicion a few minutes ago, sure, but there had been plenty of times he had falsely suspected you of things in the past, and was generally willing to believe you once presented with contrary evidence, even once becoming, albeit reluctantly, apologetic when realizing you'd done nothing wrong.

Finally, although you were suppressing the urge to cough at the dry scratchiness of your throat, you finished eating, and, like you knew you were supposed to, stood with a forced little smile and grabbed your plate, extending a hand for him to give you his as well, and took them both back to the larger kitchen area through the open doorway, barely hearing his ‘thanks’ as you scurried off.

You set the plates down, immediately turning on a faucet and cupping water in your hand, before drinking it down to soothe your throat.

Alright, so things didn't turn out quite like you were hoping, but that was ok. There was plenty of the substance left. Just wait a few days, do it again, and control yourself better next time so as not to strike any suspicion. Easy.

The maids would take care of washing plates off, but you needed to dispose of the remainder of your drugging attempt just in case. There was only droplets of juice left in his, and, of course, yours was full. You washed his — well, originally yours — out first, running some water over it, thinking it would be odd if one was washed out and not the other, and you didn’t want to take any chances.

You heard him walk into the kitchen behind you, and unease creeped back up into your chest. But that wasn’t so bad, right? He’d think you were trying to help the staff out, and he’d think that was good, wouldn’t he?

You hummed a bit, and set his glass upside down in its proper place, reaching out to yours and preparing to pour it down the sink drain, when his hand latched around your wrist. You went stiff.

"You should finish it."

Any confidence that you had successfully eased his suspicions might as well have been poured down the drain as well.

"...Hm?" You forced a smile, albeit twitching. “O-oh, I just didn't... finish all of..." You were painfully aware that your voice trembled, and, in a last effort to appear like you weren't nervous, forced yourself to turn your head and look at him.

"You didn't drink it at all." His face was flat and cold, eyes ever so slightly narrowed, but his voice was dark, quiet, knowing. "It's good for you. Don't let it go to waste."

You couldn't argue that you didn't like it — it was the same thing you drank every single night. Nor could you confess why you didn't want to do so. Of course, drinking it was technically an option. You'd just pass out and be forced to deal with the consequences once you woke up — although the cynical part of your mind thought maybe passing out wouldn't be too bad right about now.

Now, the expression on his face grew darker, fully obvious as a look of accusation, and the tone that followed matched.

“Unless there's something wrong with it.”

Your mind scrambled, unable to think of a way out. Your smile widened and twitched, and your body shivered, trying and failing to force a look of happiness, but the crushing feeling of defeat was beginning to settle in. "I... ah, hah, I, um..."

His expression and voice didn't waver, in contrast to your cowering. Looking down on you with something like frustration, perhaps disappointment. There was the slightest edge of a quietness in it, as he continued, "If there is, then tell me."

The last two words came out firm. A command.

"I... I..." You swallowed, visibly shaking, no longer able to hide the fear on your features. You bit your lower lip, and, feeling your eyes burn, your resolve broke.

You hung your head, and replied in a quiet voice, wavering on the verge of tears.

"...I'm sorry."

He released your hand, but snatched the glass out from it, immediately dumping the mixture down the sink. You reached up, wiping away the watering in your eyes that were threatening to become tears.

"Where is it?"

You stiffened at the firmness in his voice. You tried your best to look up, questioning in a pathetic whimper. "...Hm?"

"The— I don't know, whatever you put in there. Where is it?" There was a rising frustration in his tone.

You hadn't thought about that part. Of course, how could you not realize he'd do that if he found out? There wouldn't be another opportunity to try again. That realization left a sting of despair in your chest, you chastised yourself for not saving a smaller portion hidden away. If you'd been smart, you would have prepared for this possible outcome, and saved some so that he would think he'd taken it all. Dammit.

For a moment, you were silent.

"Tell me."

You tensed up, biting your lip.

You were afraid, but it also made you angry. The commanding, authoritative tone, as if he owned you, as if he had any right to tell you what to do. There was a time where you would have responded to anyone who spoke in such a way to you with equal aggression, if not outright violence. Your pride swelled in your chest, digging its heels in at the thought of being obedient, sickened by the notion of giving in.

At your hesitation, he said your name.

It was a low tone, a clear warning in response to your defiant silence. You jolted, and scurried over to the other side of the kitchen, trying to bite your lip, hands trembling as you opened the cabinet and pulled out the container and turned around, hanging your head and standing stiff with fear and humiliation as he took it from your hand and read the front of the package.

He sighed, but as he did, some of the tension seemed to roll off his frame. "...Oh. That." He caught the confused expression you had at those words, and elaborated. "I thought it would be—” he cut off and took another heavy breath, whether out of exasperation or relief or both, you weren't sure. “I thought you were trying to poison me again… or kill me.”

"No," you shook your head rapidly. “I wouldn't… do that…” Granted, you may have very well have chosen take the chance if it was an option, but such honesty would be ill-advised when your current objective was to deescalate the situation you'd landed yourself in, and hopefully quell any further anger before it emerged.

Yes, this was practical, you told yourself — and more importantly, told your wounded sense of pride. You were just being practical, strategic.

Besides, the sedative was the only thing you had available, anyway… well, had had available, since it was now certainly going to be taken from you.

You stood perfectly still as he moved, pulling a key out of his pocket, mumbling something about how he had no idea how that even got there, as he unlocked what you had come to refer to in your mind as the "forbidden" cabinet — where all the various dangerous things lay, such as knives, skewers, rat poison (moved there after the previous incident), bleach even.

You were aware that he and all the staff members possessed a key, as you'd sometimes catch maids or other workers accessing it for various purposes, so you assumed it was there solely to keep those things out of your reach. It had started out as a few knives, but the collection had slowly built over time due to your creativity with what remained at your disposal.

“And here you were actually starting to improve,” he mumbled. The words were heavily laden with exhaustion, frustration.

You clenched your fists. The words crawled under your skin, bothered you viscerally, knowing there was truth to them. Thinking back, over the past few weeks, you'd become more complacent and behaved than you'd ever been prior — part of it had been an act, sure, but a creeping dense of paranoia made you wonder if you’d been settling into it, if it had been starting to become natural. You rejected the thought, insisting otherwise to both him and yourself.

“That's— that's only because I've been here so long… you're wrong…”

Even though the words were spoken weakly, the mere act of disagreement was not within the boundaries of complacency and acceptable behavior. It was not normal for your good wife act. The defiance was slowly bubbling up to the surface, and you could tell from the way you say you saw his jaw visibly clench, that he noticed that as much as you did.

He narrowed his eyes as he turned his head towards you, before shaking his head and returning to putting the offending substance away. He was moving some of the things around to make space for the new object, placing it inside before locking the doors shut again, back turned to you.

But then, there was only more silence as he reached up to rub at the side of his temple with one of his hands.

You hoped for the best, that perhaps the lack of murderous intent on your part would serve to significantly lessen his anger, or that due to contrast, he would view trying to sedate him as a petty offense. Trivial. Overlookable.

“But why would you even want to knock me out…?” He trailed off, looking to the ground in pensiveness. And then, the worst thing you feared happened — the exact intent seemed to click with him.

Your gaze cast to the floor, you could just see him move out of the corner of your eye, walking back towards you, but in fear, you couldn't bring yourself to look up. You saw his feet facing yours as you looked down, and a shadow cast over your hanging head. He was standing right in front of you, and, perhaps out of pride, or perhaps accepting it was inevitable anyway, you forced yourself to look up, eye-to-eye, his own narrowed with disdain.

“…You were going to put me to sleep so you could run off again.”

You stiffened. “No,” you immediately rushed to your own defense. “I just—”

“Yes, you were. Don't—” he huffed, finishing his sentence with gritted teeth, “don't lie to me.”

“I'm not!” Your words that time came out more angry than fearful, your own frustration with everything beginning to balance our your fear.

“I just said—” he cut his words short and took a deep breath, reaching up to rest his face in his hand in a gesture of exasperation. His next words were not as intensely angered, more of a tired frustration laden in them. “You really never learn, do you.”

The words, simple as they were, had a strong effect.

Your fear and anger dwelled in your heart in a state of coexistence — you’d been tamed enough that avoiding pain and consequence was your usual priority, with the anger, the inherent defiance in your spirit, taking a secondary place. But with the right choice of words, the right circumstances, that same defiant spirit that he so very much hated, that he worked so hard to erase, would come bouncing back. A routine you’d been through more than once by now.

That same spirit of defiance had slowly been rising, had been your whole reason for your attempt, but with that, the switch flipped. Your hands balled into fists at your side.

“Learn what?!” Your voice came out louder than before. “Goddammit, I—”

The irritation on his features grew. “Don't raise your voice. And for the millionth time, watch your mouth.”

“I'll do what I want!” You leaned your upper body forward in exertion. “You’re the one that never lets me go anywhere! I wouldn't have done it if you didn't keep me locked up like an animal!”

His head snapped up fully at your voice, eyes narrowing into a glare.

“Don't get an attitude with me.”

Your eye twitched. That was one of your many rules that you so despised, the one you were most frequently found guilty of violating. Commands you were held to for no other reason than the desires of someone else, a projection of an ideal you were so brutally forced to conform to. Don't raise your voice, don't get a bad attitude, don't walk so loud, don't slouch, don't curse, don't make that face, don't talk back. The “don't” commands were bad enough, but the expectation of the inverse, the image you had to conform to, was even worse. To be nice, to sit there and smile and do whatever was instructed without so much as a complaint. Those were the good traits that you were supposed to have, that you were to be instilled with — as if a wild animal to be caught and domesticated.

A dam holding back your emotions seemed to break. You finally raised you voice fully, nearly yelling.

“It's your fault for making me stay in here in the first place, you bastard!” You snarled. “You keep acting like this is normal and it's not! You kidnapped me, dammit! You're mad at me for breaking your stupid rules when you're the one committing a fucking crime!”

You were speaking with such forceful anger you leaned forward with the exertion, panting heavy breaths, hands curled into fists. Your fury reached a peak, throwing aside all regard for whatever line your next words may cross.

"And you know what? I don't belong to you, I'm not your — I'm not anyone's goddamn dainty little fucking housewife! I don’t have to listen to a damn word you say, you bastard, you—”

You hesitated to finish your sentence, about to deliver another onslaught of curses, but stopped short when you tilted your gaze up, and your eyes met.

His eyes narrowed, staring at you with something like abject disgust, irritation, exasperation, but the silence was what amplified your dread the most. A single second of heavy, tense quiet passed, and then you saw him reach down to his waist, grasping at the front of his belt and unfastening it before pulling the other end, rapidly pulling the whole thing out of the loops.

“Come here.”

A very firmly-spoken command. Your stomach felt as if it flipped over on itself, a sudden cold feeling across your flesh, a learned response. You took a step back, drawing your hands up to your chest in a defensive reflex.

You hesitated, feet spread apart as if to move, but in what direction you weren't certain. Your eyes darted to the left and right, and froze as your gaze settled on the arch leading to the hallway.

Which he must have noticed, given the look he shot you. His voice grew quieter, more foreboding. “Don’t you dare run. Come here. Now.”

You had not yet fucked up quite this badly before, not done something to this magnitude — poisoned him, yes, and had outbursts, yes, but never back-to-back, the offenses stacking on top of each other. That outburst just then was the most vicious one you'd had since you woke up here, and you would be given far less lenience now than then. The thoughts of past punishments for even mild transgressions crossed through your mind. The blood drained from your face, your heartrate picked up faster.

It was stupid, really. So, so stupid, so futile, and had you really thought about it, you would know how pointless it was. But in the moment, you weren't operating so much on reason, so much as the dread in your gut and instinct.

For that reason, you turned in the opposite direction, bolted through the door to the hall, and took off running.

"Wh—” You heard the sound in his throat cut off as you bolted, clearly taken aback by the choice of action, but soon followed by a throaty groan of frustration you could hear all too well.

You didn't even really know where you were going. Nor what you planned to accomplish. The building was large, there were plenty of hallways to run down and turns to take — you turned left at the end of the room, then took and immediate right, unable to remember the structure enough to coordinate any plan of action as to where to run, just following the need to run away.

The doors were always locked from the inside and out now, one set of locks to keep intruders out and the other to keep you in. Breaking glass windows was a risk you didn't want to take, and it would alert anyone nearby to your location immediately and would only serve to greatly increase any potential consequence. Thus, for the time being, perhaps you were looking more for a place to hide. Maybe if you could just do that, find a place to cower and wait out the brunt of his anger, he would calm down by the time you came out.

Well, really, you knew that probably wasn’t doable, but it was nice to at least think for a moment.

And a moment was all you got.

You hesitated as you reached a spot where the hall split into two different corridors, and that one moment of hesitation was enough to close the gap between you. You squealed and flailed as a hand forcefully grabbed at your hair, pulling you back.

“Ow!” You squirmed, the balls of your bare feet thumping on the hardwood as they stumbled to regain your balance. “Let—let me go! Ow, ow, that hurts—”

“Hold still.” The command was firm, a foreboding voice that made your heart race.

The fabric around your torso pulled taut against your skin as he took a fistful of the back side of it, other arm harshly wrapping around your waist before you felt your weight lift upward, feet leaving the ground.

You thrashed, but even doing so to the best of your ability had no effect. His grip didn’t budge.

You grunted as you were effectively slung over his shoulder. He started moving forward, footsteps heavy and frustrated. “Gh!” You squirmed, flailed, all to no avail.

Your resistance began to falter in realization of the futility of fighting the now-inevitable, groaning in miserable anger and weakly bringing your clenched fists down on his back as you were, with seemingly little effort, carried down the hall, taking a turn and ascending up the staircase. It was only a short distance from the top to the bedroom door, which opened in a swift, furious motion, likewise slamming shut behind you.

You grunted as you were thrown down onto the mattress. You put your hands down and pushed yourself upward, beginning to try and crawl away, but a hand caught you by the back of your shirt again, pushing your upper body down. You made a rough, irritated noise in the back of your throat as you squirmed, but soon your hands were pinned behind your back, leaving you face down with your hips in the air.

You inhaled a sharp gasp of air and stiffened when you felt the skirt end if the dress hike up, the waistband beneath pulled down, cool air on your bare flesh.

“Wait wait, no, I'm sorry—”

You instinctively jerked forward, squirming, heart beginning to pound in your chest. You had had enough experience to know that this was far more painful on bare skin, as if the humiliation ritual of it all wasn't bad enough.

You felt like a petulant child, begging and whimpering. You tried to move, but the hand pushing down and your knees being positioned right on the edge of the bed effectively forced you into holding the position, with no way to move.

“Then you should have thought about that before you decided to do what you did.” There was no trace of mercy or empathy in his voice. “This is entirely your fault.”

“But I—”

You cut off with a squeal, body lurching forward as sharp pain came down on the sensitive skin on your ass, the smacking sound echoing in your ears. Your jaw clenched, muscles tensing. He wasn't holding back either, one strike was enough to make your eyes begin to water.

“This wouldn't have to keep happening—”

Another strike on the enunciated word. You hissed a sharp breath through clenched teeth and groaned, hips reflexively jerking forward in an attempt to pull away, to no avail.

“—if you could just—”

Another strike. You winced and stiffened, groaning and straining your muscles pulling against the firm hold forcing you in place.

“—give it up—”

And yet another.

“—and learn to behave.”

Another and another and another, three in quick succession. You yelped and jolted at each, a miserable sound coming out of your throat. Unable to maintain enough pride to hold them back, tears streamed down your face.

“Stop, stop…” you whimpered. “It hurts…”

But the only reply you got was calloused and merciless.

“It’s supposed to.”

The next strike was harder than the previous ones. You squealed, taking deep, gasping breaths. Your legs trembled.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, I won't do it again—”

“You said that last time.”

Your heart sank. You didn't have any reply other than to whimper in misery and anticipation, turning to a throaty cry of pain as you were struck again.

“It's for your own good. You would be happier if you just give in. But you insist—”

The leather came down hard. Your shoulders wracked with a sob, completely breaking the last of your resolve to hold back your reactions.

“—on being stubborn.”

The belt came down again, your body jolting and face contorting with the pain once more.

It was the final strike to drive you over the edge.

"I'm sorry!"

You couldn't speak further for a moment, having to take a few heaving gasps. Your shoulders jerked with a sob, sniffling, tears streaming down your face.

The only thing outweighing the stinging, striking pain itself was the tight feeling in your chest of humiliation and bitterness. It was intended as such, of course, to hurt not only your body, but your pride as well.

Your body trembled, heaving breaths and whimpers filling the following quiet. Perhaps your misery was finally deemed worthy of mercy, as despite your tensing in anticipation, no further sudden pain followed, only the lingering, hot sting on your bare flesh.

There was only a heavy sigh.

“Are you done being a brat?”

You sniffled, nodding your head against the sheets. “Mmhm…”

There was a momentary pause, perhaps giving you the opportunity to catch your mistake on your own. After you failed to do so within a few moments, the hand around your wrists tightened, a wordless threat. A brief panic surged through your mind, but you realized where you'd erred within a second.

Still, even though you opened your mouth, taking a breath to speak, some last little spark of stubborn pride flickered up, bitter and spiteful, and for a moment, you refused to give in to it, the one rule you so deeply resented more than any other.

And then he said your name — a foreboding, low tone, a warning.

Thus the brief moment of dignity was extinguished in a single word. You practically blubbered out the words, distorted by your sniffling and slurring.

“Y-yes sir…”

Finally, the grip on your wrists released.

“Good.”

You slumped forward, trembling hands reaching out to pull yourself further onto the bed before you went limp on your stomach and still, head spinning and exhaustion setting in as you came down from the high of the expense of so much energy and stress. As your head cleared, you became aware of the discomfort of wetness on your face, reaching up wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand. The sting was bad enough that you didn’t even bother pulling your clothes back into place to cover yourself, not wanting the fabric to brush against the now-sensitive skin.

There was a long moment of quiet. You weakly turned your head, seeing the pensive look on his face, eyebrows furrowed and looking at the ground. Something about it felt ominous, made your stomach shaft to churn.

“This keeps happening in a cycle,” he muttered, a low voice, almost as if speaking more to himself than you. “You start to improve, and then you regress again.”

Had you not been so utterly weary, not to mention bearing the lingering sting to your backside, you might have gotten defensive, snapped at him over referring to succumbing to the spiritual torment of your life as improvement. But now, spirit already broken as it could be for one day — at least, so you believed in that moment — you only closed your eyes, trying to ignore him. Maybe you could rest your body, at least a little, before the inevitable disturbance of a different form of exertion.

But when you squeezed your eyes shut, as always, the thoughts came rushing through your mind, emotions and recollections all at once, too intense for you to bear. Thinking through everything over again, your mistakes that led you to where you were now — not so much the events of the last hour, and more the grand scheme of things, how much you regretted ever making eye contact with him, or ever setting foot in that damn tavern.

Each and every day, you replayed the final conversation you two had had, sitting there in his own bar after everyone else had gone home, with you insisting on drinking more until you were content. After so much time — or perhaps due to the effect of the drugs, or the alcohol — you'd forgotten what the whole of the conversation was even about, only your response to one of those half-muttered comments about how this or that behavior of yours was unattractive, how you'd never get married if you kept it up, or any of the other things he said that irked you so.

You'd glared, snapping at him.

What makes you think you get to tell me what to do?

The only other thing you remembered — no, it was perfectly burned into your memory, crystal-clear despite your intoxication at the time — was the way he'd frozen, the look on his face when you'd said it, the glimpse you'd caught of it for a mere second. Slack-jawed, eyebrows furrowed, staring down at you with some amalgamation of disbelief, fury, and pure, unadulterated disgust.

Well, it wasn't the only thing you remembered — he'd walked away for a moment, you'd nearly drifted off in drunken haze, and something was shoved into your hands, you drank it without question (like an idiot, you often reprimanded yourself) and then, the next memory was waking up in his bed.

It played over, and over, and over, as you lay there shivering, cold and exhausted. As much as you resented him, you couldn’t help but feel enraged with yourself, each time you thought back to each interaction. That you didn’t recognize that something was wrong, that the degree of quiet malice he seemed to hold for you was unnatural, obsessive, dangerous. You’d just shrugged it off as just being his nature. Such an idiot, you thought to yourself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

A heavy sigh pulled you out of your thoughts.

“…”

Whatever he was actually now thinking, though, he didn’t say aloud.

Instead, predictably, his hands grabbed at your thighs, pulling you back across the bed. The same familiar knot of dread began to twist in your chest again.

You groaned, a sound of combined exasperation, pain and exhaustion. Your voice came out weak. “N-no, don’t… it’ll hurt too much…” Despite your verbal protest, you couldn’t actually summon the will to do much more than a weak squirming with your body as the dress was pulled up. Your attempts to hold your arms down proved futile as they were easily grabbed and maneuvered to allow him to pull the clothing off entirely, throwing it onto the mattress.

“It’s not going to hurt you,” was his only reply, an assured and matter-of-fact tone, like it was an objective, predetermined truth that you were foolish to contest. His hands moved to your hips, pulling on them to pull you back into your prior positioning. “It only hurts because you don’t relax enough.”

You might have remarked that the two back-to-back statements were quite the contradiction, but in the moment you were too lost in a combination of daze and panic to be too sarcastic. The pull jolted your mind back into full clarity. You tried to push yourself up on your hands, but his hand pressed to your back again, holding you in place.

“Wait, wait—”

You cut off in a shrill wail, toes curling and legs kicking out reflexively as the sting of the stretch set in. Your back arched in a reactive attempt to get away from the sudden intrusion that felt like it was splitting you apart, cleaving your body in half.

"Just—just hold still," his grip on your wrists tightened as your hands attempted to jerk back. He moved one hand to the other, taking both your wrists in one hand so he could reach down to your hips with the other, grabbing at one with a bruising grip and holding you still in place before sliding out, then back in, a second time, then a third.

You gritted your teeth, tears forming in your eyes anew as your body tensed up. The friction burned, the stretch ached. "It hurts," you whimpered, speaking through your teeth gritted in pain. "You-you're tearing me apart..."

"Just relax. You’re too tense.”

“I can’t just—gh!”

His arm shifted from pressing you down to wrapping around your torso, pulling your upper body back up from behind, while also preventing you from pulling yourself forward, and instead pulling your body closer against his, bouncing you back and forth on his cock. Each movement brought your ass bouncing back against his hips, a harsh sting on still-sensitive flesh.

"A-ah, ah…” you clamped down on reflex, trembling hands reaching behind you to push him back, but you were so weak it did nothing. “Wait, wait…” Your words came out slurred and strained.

Suddenly, to your surprise, the movement actually stopped. There was a moment of pause, and for that moment, you actually believed maybe you were receiving whatever semblance of mercy the man was capable of.

You heard his heavy breathing in your ear, felt him let his head fall downward for a moment, as if in thought.

Then, his hands moved once more — this time, one grasping at your waist, forcing your back into an arch, the other reaching up, palm against your throat and his fingers curling to grasp your jaw.

“Fight me off.”

With that, he pulled back, and slammed forward again. You squealed, every muscle tensing and spasming at the ripples of sensation it sent through your nerves.

“What? I don't— what are you—”

Another harsh, slamming thrust cut you off.

“Remember what you said before? When you first came here?” His words were spoken in a low, dark tone, dripping with vengeful spite. His fingernails dug into the flesh of your face. “You told me you didn't need anyone.”

The hand on your hip tightened its grip as you pulled your hips forward, jerking you back as his own hips snapped forward, the motion ramming into you in full all the way down to the base, the flesh of your ass pressed up against his hip bones.

“You said you were strong, that you didn't need protection.” The grip tightened, painfully pressing down. “You said you could take care of yourself.” His fingers curled further into your skin. “Remember that?”

Even in such a flat tone, his voice felt utterly mocking. The defiance you'd thought he'd already drained from your spirit began to surge back up in full force, a burning rage filling your chest.

“If you're so strong,” he continued, words muddled with heavy panting breaths, bouncing you back and forth with increasing pace, “then you should have no problem—” he took another heavy breath, next words coming out as half-spoken, half-hissed through clenched teeth, “fighting me off.”

You stiffened, eye twitching, a rough throaty sound of fury coming from your mouth as you began to squirm, to no avail.

“Come on. Prove it.” His voice grew more intense, lower, harsher. “Push me off. Do it.”

You practically growled, an animalistic sound, savagely reaching up to claw at the hand gripping your jaw, pulling your body forward with all the strength you could muster.

But it was nothing by comparison. As if fueled by your resistance, he only slammed into you faster and harder. At that point, the fluids leaking from your body lubricated the movements, the pain ebbing away, replaced by a warm, tight sensation, pressing against the spots in your body that made you melt, the sheer stretch becoming pleasurable.

“Or maybe you're wrong.” He jerked your head back to the point that the side of your face touched his, his heavy panting warm against your ear. “Maybe you should accept that you're weak.”

The grip on your jaw caused his palm to dig into your throat, not enough to choke you fully, but enough to cause discomfort.

“You need someone to— you need me.” His head titled ever so slightly downward, his hair brushing against the back of your neck.

Trying to turn your head away proved futile, the iron grip keeping it just as firmly locked in place as your body.

“You're so naive. The weak are supposed to be self-aware.” He spoke through clenched teeth, intense anger seeping into his voice. “But you had to go and act so tough—”

A harsher thrust than any of the ones preceding it, so hard you gagged on air, unable to even scream.

“—and be so goddamn mouthy all the time.”

Your strained, animalistic noises continued, pulling your body forward with every single ounce of strength you were physically capable of.

You didn't move. It felt as if you were trying to pull yourself out of steel chains, pure futility. Your arms trembled with the strain, and yet you didn't budge.

“As if I couldn't just reach over and break you any time I felt like it.”

Your toes curled, muscles tensing in pleasure-pain, each movement ramming into a spot that sent sparks of pleasure up your spine, whilst also causing the flesh of your backside to slap against his hips, sending jolts of pain through your body all at once.

“As if any of those guys you were such a little bitch to couldn’t have done the same.”

Sweat coated your skin, running down your back. The bed creaked, violently slamming against the frame. He pulled you so close that your shoulder blades pressed to his chest.

“Do you have any idea how easy this is? I'm not even trying.”

The words felt like a knife to your chest. In the past, you'd been irritated by you inferior physical strength, but admittedly you hadn't stopped to really think more deeply about the matter of your inability to free yourself, in the bigger picture of things.

A heavy, cold feeling began to seep out of your heart, through your chest, into your blood. A dawning realization of your total powerlessness, of your weakness. It was harrowing, brutal, and unforgiving.

You took heavy, gasping breaths. The intensity of every sensation was too much, driving you to a brink of what felt like madness. The ache in your body, the chill in your blood, the pleasure and the sting and the despair.

Your resolve broke. You went limp, panting, eyes watering with bitterness and fury, hot tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes, weak voice coming out as a blubbering whimper, broken up by the incessant thrusts jerking your body back and forth.

“I-I’m, I'm so, sorr-eee…”

The only reply you got was a single word.

“Good.”

You closed your watery, burning eyes. If you couldn't escape in reality, you could at least escape in your mind, desperately trying to block out the thoughts and the shame and the bitterness, trying to focus on sensation, feeling, the way you trembled at the pleasure. The way the sharp sting and the heat of the pleasure began to blur together, the pain itself only intensifying the rising tight, warm feeling inside.

You threw your head back to rest against his chest, whimpering like an animal. Your hands now only weakly reached behind you, grasping at his torso, neither pulling nor pushing. Each movement grew move intense, somehow even harder and harder still, inhumanly fast, flesh slapping against flesh, the sound amplified by the slick and sweat that coated the skin where your bodies conjoined. Your body began to quiver.

The climax that came over you was not the strongest you'd ever had — your body was far too exhausted and pained to even summon such a thing — but the high shot through your body nonetheless, waves of intensity rushing throughout. You let out a long, high-pitched sound as it peaked and ebbed away, mind slipping into a state of nothingness, a fog so thick you might as well have been unconscious.

You barely felt the motions stop, the way you were lowered down to rest on your stomach. Your attention was only briefly pulled to the surface of your consciousness with the sudden sensation of emptiness, the way your insides spasmed to clench on empty space, the chill that set in as the sweat began to cool over your body, and finally the shifting of the mattress as weight settled onto the other side, sitting beside your limp form.

And then, as your consciousness swayed, one faint little thought kept you from slipping away.

Something was different. You were limp and numb from the stupor, mind lost in a haze, but a faint sense of alarm slowly drug your consciousness back to alertness. Something was different, something was wrong.

You shifted, muscles reflexively clamping down on the now-empty space, and stiffened as you felt something fluid ooze out of your slit, drooling down your flesh and onto your thigh.

“Did… did you… cum… inside me…?”

You turned towards the figure blurred by the residual tears and dizziness. You could make out him sitting there, the bright red hair and the flesh tone of his unclothed upper body, see him running his hand over the top of his head, pushing sweat-drenched strands of hair back.

Your stupor had left your eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, but they immediately snapped back fully open as the next words registered with your ears, spoken in a fully nonchalant, matter-of-fact tone.

“This will be good for you.”

You sat up — a movement that took effort, nearly falling back down on hands still trembling with aftershock, and looked up at him with panicked confusion plastered on your face. “…Huh… what?”

Now you could make out his eyes, looking into yours, continuing on in the same blunt voice, as if speaking of a trivial matter.

“…I was waiting. I thought it would be a bad idea to give you a kid before you showed some improvement.” After a moment of pause as he sat more upright, he continued, “But thinking about it, that could be part of the reason you're so badly behaved to begin with. You're… imbalanced or something.”

He held a hand out palm-up in a casual gesture.

“So, it will calm you down.”

You stared, slack-jawed and wide-eyed in disbelief and horror.

“That's—” you twitched. Your voice was hoarse, each word hurt, as if dragging broken glass down your throat. “You're insane. You can't— you can't do this to me. I can't do that!”

“You're being overdramatic.”

“Overdramatic?!” You pushed the heels of your hands into the mattress to propel yourself backwards, crawling away from him as if it would do any good. “No, you don't understand, I… I can't…!”

Your breathing began to speed up, right alongside your heart rate. Panic consumed your train of thought. The implications of the very notion were, for you, world-ending — it would change everything, it would debilitate you and any hopes you had of ever leaving. Even beyond that, just the mere thought, the mental image the idea created, made you shudder.

You looked down. Between your legs, some of the cum had begun to ooze out onto the sheets.

Right, you could extract it all, to the best of your ability, and hope for the best. Your legs were trembling so badly you weren't certain if you could support your own weight, but nonetheless, you tried to make your way to the edge of the bed.

“No, no, I… I need to go wash off—”

“No, you're not.” His hand latched onto your arm, roughly pulling you back. You fell onto your side with a grunt.

You stiffened and whimpered as you felt two of his fingers wipe the inside of your thigh, collecting the semen that had slipped out with gravity and your movement, and pressed the fingers back inside of you, not wanting any to go to waste.

“Don't move around so much.”

Panic turned into aggression, like a cornered animal. Your nose wrinkled up with the furious expression that crossed your face.

“There is no way in hell I'm—”

Your words cut off once more as his hand latched onto your jaw, eyes narrowing.

“…Do you want to do this over again?” He tilted your head up, forcing you to look him in the eye. “Because I have no problem with that, if you keep mouthing off.”

You froze up again. The despair took hold. You didn't have any more fight left in you. It wasn't worth it, you couldn't handle another round with the belt.

You bit your lip, shaking your head. It wasn't until he sighed, and gave you an irritated look that you recognized your mistake once again.

“…No, sir…”

He closed his eyes, seemingly content with the rectification. “Good.” He pulled you down further, until you were lying on your side. “It's late enough to go to bed. You need sleep.”

You lay motionless, aside from the still-lingering shivering, watching as he shuffled off the remainder of his clothes and turned off the nearby lamp, plunging the room into near-darkness, before laying back down, turning back towards you, pulling you close.

His arm wrapped around your back, keeping your body pressed to his. Your face rested against his collarbones.

He shifted a bit, causing his hand to just barely brush over your backside — you stiffened, sucking a sharp breath in through your teeth.

“Mm, sorry.”

The half-hearted, sleepy mutter was all you got — an apology you knew was only for the momentary accidental touch and not the pain itself. That would be deemed deserved and justified, should you ever complain, and would probably earn you the same punishment again.

Your face scrunched up with misery, as if about to cry, but your body couldn't produce any more tears.

“Night.”

You felt the rumbling in his chest against yours. You swallowed the lump in your throat before you replied, voice barely more than a whisper.

“…Goodnight…”

There was still a little bit of light coming in through the window — it wasn't even really fully dark yet, the last few rays of purplish twilight visible in the sky.

You wondered if you'd ever see it from any other view than the estate ever again — but pushed the thought away, as you didn't like what you thought might be the answer, nor the way it made you think of the conversation that transpired moments prior.

You closed your eyes, shifted around a bit and — wincing at the fluid that drooled down your leg — tried your best to rest.

#bro really saw an autonomous female existing and said 'not on my watch'#genshin smut #diluc x reader #.dl

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waltricia · 19 days

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Regardless of whether anyone actually reads this, I need to show appreciation for the writing, blocking, and editing of the last scene of 3x03, “Forces of Nature.”

Recently, I noticed that the LW line “this author is captivated” was very specifically placed over a shot of Colin and I knew it was intentionally done to convey the double meaning of the narration being about her and him.

Since then, I’ve realized that the same thing is happening throughout that entire LW narration. And it is fucking BRILLIANT.

So, first of all, this is the transcript of the narration:

“This author believes that all of man’s greatest inventions are nothing more than a distraction from what is most natural to us. Our instincts. The innate animal impulse that is inside even the most sophisticated of us. For when all is said and done, our nature will always win out. It seems Lord Debling’s instinct has led this man of nature to the most surprising pick of the season in Miss Penelope Featherington. Suffice it to say, this author is captivated. For in the battle between man and nature, it is quite clear that the battle is in fact between man and himself.”

Now I’m going to break it down with captioned stills so that you can see which words line up with which frames and I’ll explain what I believe it all means.

“This author” - When it’s first said, it’s on Pen. The second time it’s on Colin. I think there are several meanings here. Firstly, she’s Whistledown and she’s published. He will be, assuming he publishes his travel journals or whatever. Secondly, I think it highlights how they will be united, in the Whistledown storyline along with everything else. There’s a third meaning, but I’m going to get back to it later, once we get to the second use of “this author.”

This is the Innovations Ball, so on the surface, LW is speaking about man-made technology versus the natural world. But with the introduction of “man,” the shot immediately cuts to Colin, so the second layer of the narration is about him. All of Colin’s invented personality traits are a cover, hiding his true self- his sensitivity and his feelings for Pen. Obviously, this echoes what she wrote about him in 3x01, but it’s different. The context is the same, but this time, she’s not speaking directly about him, and really, she may very well not be thinking about him at all in writing it. After all, she still doesn’t know about his feelings for her. But we know. And the feeling of what she’s saying this time is less jarring; more, fittingly, natural. Because he’s starting to confront all of it as well.

In this shot, Colin has been walking across the room to get to Pen. There were people on his right, obstructing his view of her, but as LW says “natural,” Colin passes those people and, though we cannot yet see Pen, we can tell from Colin’s face that he finally clearly can. She is what is most natural to him.

He comes up to her and says that he has a question for her. The narration starts again. But on this shot, it’s only the one word, “our.” Aside from this just being romantic, I think it highlights that the narration is about both of them. But I also think that it’s not just about them. It feels to me as if, metaphorically, it’s written by both of them. Hence, my emphasis on the importance of “this author.”

We cut to our first close-up of Colin in this particular intimate sequence of close-ups. And we’re really in his perspective now, as he’s struggling to manage his feelings.

Again, he had been masking, trying to be like the other “sophisticated” gentlemen.

But a shift is occurring within him.

And this where I really hope there is at least one other person out there paying attention because all of the elements are coming together to tell us something incredible here. We have our beloved Julie Andrews delivering the line with a profound heaviness. We have Kris Bowers’ “Call Me Simon” coming to a close, sounding like a clock striking midnight. And we have the decisive sentiment of the words themselves. I'm convinced that the words “done” and “win out” being said on Pen speak to the finality of Colin’s feelings. If there was uncertainty before, it is gone now and there is no turning back. He is in love with Pen.

But before Colin can say anything else, Debling steps in and takes Pen away to dance.

Side note: Amazingly, I can back up my theory with this shot and another one of my theories:

I had said, when the trailer came out, that when true red shows up behind Colin, that indicates his love for Pen. This is the first time we see that happen.

But anyway, back to Whistledown…

Debling is the literal “man of nature,” while Colin is the metaphoric “man of nature.” Both have picked Pen.

We’ve finally come to the second “this author” and here’s the third thing I wanted to say about it: Possibly my favorite thing about this sequence, is that it acts as a vehicle for the representation of the Polin role reversal. From one end of the Whistledown narration to the other, Pen and Colin literally and metaphorically switch places, seamlessly. They exchange their physical places in the room. She’s the wallflower, then he’s the wallflower. She’s the author, then he’s the author. In a metaphorical sense, they’re both writing this Whistledown piece. This whole sequence serves to show us how Colin and Pen have really been equal this whole time. They’re just star-crossed. It’s like what Luke has been saying in interviews, Colin and Pen keep missing each other. They have brief moments where they eclipse each other and then they slip right past until the next time they orbit around to each other again.

Ok, here’s the final stretch, and it is a fucking fascinating maneuver:

The battle isn’t between Colin and Debling. In fact, Debling doesn’t signify at all here. I’d say there are actually three other battles being referenced: Colin and himself, Pen and herself, and Colin and Pen. The first “man” of that sentence is said on Colin, while “nature” is said on Pen. So in the battle between Colin and Pen- for there is a battle, as Cressida will mention in 3x04 when she says “Eros and Psyche, battling it out”, and also there will be more blatant battling in part 2- the real battles Colin and Pen are facing are the ones within themselves.

Of course I’ve already written about Colin’s battle with himself.

The reference to Pen’s battle with herself is particularly interesting to me. At first, I didn’t see it and I didn’t understand why that bit of the narration was spoken over the Pen and Debling dance instead of over Colin. Then I realized that the second “man” of that sentence is said directly on top of this shot where, again, it’s not about Debling; it’s her face we’re seeing. Then, Debling spins her and the “himself” is on Pen too. And I know I’m right about this because the shot was in the trailer and I watched it so many times. And I noticed that Sam Phillips is very specifically looking away from the camera in this moment. I figured it was because we had to know that the moment was about her. And I was right.

Pen’s journey is her reconciliation with herself. Colin and Pen really have the same inner battles. They both need to drop their masks. That’s why the mirror scene is going to be so important- it’s about exposing and embracing the bare parts of both of them. They are already equal and united. They just need to see it.

Ok that’s it. I’m done. I got it out. And I literally can’t add any more images to this post. To anyone who will have read this fuckin novel I just wrote, thanks for sticking around. These ballroom sequences are particularly difficult for the cast and crew to do, and there is obviously so much complexity in this one, so I feel like it should all be acknowledged. Someone has to acknowledge it, and if that has to be me, I will gladly continue using up my Friday afternoons to do so.

To the cast and crew, to the captain of the season 3 ship, Jess Brownell, to the director, Andrew Ahn, and writer, Eli Wilson Pelton, to everyone’s favorite choreographer/movement director, Jack Murphy, to Luke, Nic, and Julie fuckin Andrews, I see you and I love you. Please keep doing what you’re doing. It’s all worth it. ♥️

#my obsession with this show and specifically this episode is unlike anything i’ve ever experienced before #forces of nature #innovations ball #hawkins ball #polin #lady whistledown #bridgerton #bridgerton season 3 #netflix #andrew ahn #jack murphy #jess brownell #eli wilson pelton #obsessive bridgerton things #bridgerton analysis

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bradshawssugarbaby · 5 months

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Blue Skies and Green Eyes (Jake Seresin x Reader)

A/N: so I decided to just write an air show meet cute for Jake, Bradley and Bob because, even with a poll, how could I ever choose? So, here's the first of three, I guess? 😅

pairing: Jake Seresin x reader

content/warnings: pure fluff, air show inaccuracies because the last time I went to one I was 9, and it was in a cornfield, reader has a named niece and nephew, no physical description of reader given other than an allusion to them being tall.

word count: 2.1k

On the sun-soaked beach, your niece and nephew climbed over one another eagerly on the blanket you had carefully arranged, vying for the best spot to witness the spectacle unfolding overhead. The air show, a cherished tradition passed down from your father to you and your brother, had become an annual pilgrimage for your family. Determined to keep the legacy alive, you eagerly took charge of the tradition when your brother couldn't make it to your nephew's first air show.

For the past seven years, this had been your unique tradition with them. As the jets roared to life in the sky, the kids engaged in a lively dispute, each competing for an unobstructed view of the aerial acrobatics. Your brow furrowed as their bickering escalated, prompting an eye roll from you. Seizing the opportunity to diffuse the tension, you chuckled and settled between them, effectively creating a barrier that halted their squabble.

“Hey!” They both protested, shaking their heads in dismay.

“If it's the only way to prevent a full-blown war between you two, then I'm planting myself right here,” you declared with a playful smirk.

Mia, your spirited niece, responded with a pout and crossed arms, while Aiden, her older brother, countered by sticking his tongue out at her, a mischievous grin adorning his face as he comfortably claimed his spot beside you.

“Aiden,” you warned, catching his silent final shot at his sister out of the corner of your eye.

“Sorry.”

A warm smile adorned your face as you, along with the children, gazed skyward, captivated by the mesmerizing display of aircraft maneuvering through a series of intricate twists, turns, and loops. Aiden erupted in cheers and enthusiastic whistles, his excitement bubbling over as a FA-18 Super Hornet executed a flawless barrel roll high above. Engrossed in the spectacle, he fervently waved at the aircraft above him, a hopeful gesture that the pilot might catch a glimpse and reciprocate in some way. Beside him, Mia eagerly pointed upward, her eyes widening in sheer wonder as the plane effortlessly navigated a knife-edge flight, leaving her with an awestruck expression that mirrored the spectacle unfolding before her.

As the airshow continued, the sky became a canvas for more daring aerobatics. Another set of aircraft roared onto the scene, executing synchronized maneuvers that left trails of smoke swirling against the azure backdrop. Aiden and Mia's attention darted from one spectacle to another, their faces alive with awe and exhilaration. You couldn't help but share in their enthusiasm, reveling in the joy of witnessing these aerial feats with the same awestruck gaze you had as a child yourself, completely fascinated by the skill executed in every move.

Suddenly, a squadron of jets soared in tight formation, their wings almost touching as they painted the sky with precision. The deafening roar of engines filled the air as the pilots skillfully executed a breathtaking sequence of loops and rolls, creating a symphony of motion that left the onlookers breathless.

Aiden, his eyes glued to the spectacle, whispered in amazement, "I want to be a pilot one day, just like them!"

Mia, equally captivated, nodded in agreement, her imagination ignited by the incredible display unfolding above.

“Do you think we could meet them?!” Aiden asked excitedly as he turned his attention to you.

“I don’t know, honey, they’re probably really busy,” you explained with a nod of your head, knowing that the chances were unlikely to be in your favour.

“Can we try?! Please?”

You looked at Aiden’s pleading face, and then to his sister, who had decided to match his facial expressions, their innocent faces making nearly impossible for you to say no to.

“Fine, we can try. But I’m not making any promises, guys. You know, they’re really busy, and they’re actual military pilots, they’ve got lots of stuff to do.”

The children both cheered the moment you agreed to their request, and you could tell that the last portion of your reply was falling on deaf ears. You huffed a mock dramatic sigh as you squeezed both of them into a tight hug, laughing softly.

After the airshow had concluded, all Mia and Aiden could talk about was how you were taking them to try and meet some of the pilots. You felt an anxious knot in the pit of your stomach, nervous that you’d be unable to fulfill their wish. Holding both of the children’s hands, you approached the airfield fence where the pilots could be seen chatting after the show, their planes merely feet away from where you stood. A group of pilots who appeared to be in their early to late 30s stood together, laughing cordially as they spoke. One of the pilots, a tall blonde with an air of pure, unbridled confidence to his stance took notice of you as you stood with Mia and Aiden. He waved his hand to say hello, and Aiden practically squealed in excitement, jumping up and down on the spot.

The blonde pilot raised his hand to his colleagues, appearing to excuse himself for a moment. Suddenly, you noticed Aiden’s attention turn to the side. You and Mia followed his gaze, noticing that the blonde pilot was now on your side of the fence that separated the three of you from the military aircraft in the field.

“Hi, did y’all enjoy the airshow?” The aviator asked, flashing a charming smile at you as he lifted his sunglasses to rest on top of his perfectly coiffed hair.

Aiden nodded his head in a stunned silence, starstruck by the man standing before him. The allure of the charismatic Navy pilot was undeniable. His tall, athletic frame exuded confidence, and his sun-kissed skin bore witness to countless hours spent in the cockpit under the Californian sun. Those stunning pale green eyes seemed to hold the vastness of the sky, hinting at the adventures he'd encountered soaring through the clouds. Jake's charming smile had a magnetic quality, drawing you in with its warmth and openness. The subtle southern drawl in his voice added an extra layer of appeal, creating a melody that resonated with the thrill of the airshow and the laid-back atmosphere of the beach.

“We did,” you said after a moment’s hesitation, trying to not appear like a lovestruck teenager as your eyes briefly met with his.

The pilot knelt down to Aiden and Mia’s level, smiling at them both with the same charming grin he gave you a moment ago.

“Do you kids like planes?”

“I do!” Aiden and Mia both responded in unison.

“That’s awesome to hear! My name is Jake, I fly planes for the US Navy, see that one there?” He beamed proudly as he gestured towards one of the grey aircraft parked in the distance, “That’s my plane. All of our planes have our names on them so we know who’s is who’s, and our callsigns, so we can just use one word to talk to each other on the radio.”

“What’s your callsign?” Aiden asked, tilting his head as he looked at Jake.

“Hangman. Like the game, where you have to guess letters to find out what the secret word is, do you know that one?”

Aiden nodded his head and grinned. You couldn’t help but admire how patient and friendly Jake was towards Aiden and Mia, taking care to answer their eager questions with thorough answers and explanations, leaving nothing unanswered. As he spoke passionately about his experiences as a Top Gun graduate stationed at Miramar, you couldn't help but be captivated by the combination of his professionalism, adventurous spirit, and undeniable charm.

“Do you have a rank?” Aiden quizzed, tilting his head.

“Of course! Lieutenant Jake Seresin, US Navy,” Jake grinned, “And what’s your name, little guy?”

“I’m Aiden, and this is my sister, Mia,” Aiden explained, before introducing you as somewhat of an afterthought due to his excitement.

Jake looked up at you, a genuine smile forming on his lips. His green eyes stayed on you, and you could feel a sense of curiosity in his gaze. He turned his attention back to your niece and nephew, his hand resting on his knee as he looked at them both.

“Nice to meet y’all! Maybe, if your aunt says it’s ok, you guys could come back here one weekend, and I could give y’all a tour of the planes, let you meet some other pilots? Sound fun?”

Jake's offer had your niece and nephew practically buzzing with excitement. Their pleading eyes and enthusiastic pleas tugged at your heartstrings, mirroring the eagerness that now danced in your own eyes. You exchanged a glance with Jake, whose genuine smile hinted at an underlying warmth.

"Well, Lieutenant Seresin," you responded with a playful grin, "it seems like you've just won yourself two eager co-pilots for that future tour of yours."

The prospect of spending more time with Jake and experiencing the world of naval aviation up close had ignited a spark of anticipation within you. As he continued to chat with Aiden and Mia, effortlessly captivating them with tales of high-flying adventures, you couldn't help but appreciate the sincerity in his demeanor. The beach, once a stage for the breathtaking airshow, now held the promise of more extraordinary moments to come.

With a subtle twinkle in his pale green eyes, he stood up and straightened his posture to his full height, easily taller than you by more than a few inches. He turned his attention back to you, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

"You know," he began, his pale green eyes locking onto yours, "meeting someone as captivating as you wasn't part of the airshow program today. Consider me pleasantly surprised."

A warm flush crept across your cheeks as you chuckled at his smooth remark. Jake continued, his voice carrying the lilt of his unmistakable southern drawl, "I was thinking, maybe when I'm not up in the skies, we could grab a coffee or a drink. Talk about something other than planes and maneuvers, you know?"

The subtle invitation hung in the air, and you found yourself nodding, unable to suppress a growing smile.

"I'd like that," you replied, your eyes meeting his with a shared sense of anticipation.

“How about you share your number with me? That way, we can figure out when to meet up again. And it saves you from having to try and track me down on a Naval base."

Feeling a mix of excitement and anticipation, you retrieved your phone, fingers tapping out the digits as you exchanged contact information. Jake reciprocated, a grin playing on his lips as he entered your number into his phone. The exchange felt like a subtle promise, a digital tether that connected two individuals eager to navigate beyond the boundaries of the beach encounter.

With phones back in pockets, there was a shared acknowledgment that this exchange wasn't just about convenience but a mutual interest in seeing where this connection could lead. As the warm sunlight cascaded down over you, your niece and nephew’s muffled giggles and whispers in the air, and the promise of future messages and potential meetings lingering, it left you both with a sense of excitement for what lay ahead.

"Well, it looks like it's time for me and these two little aviators to head out," you remarked with a playful glint in your eyes.

The prospect of saying goodbye brought a hint of reluctance to the moment. With a gentle nudge, you encouraged Mia and Aiden to express their gratitude.

"Come on, you two," you said with a smile, "let's thank Lieutenant Seresin for the amazing day." The kids, still brimming with excitement, turned to Jake, expressions eager.

With genuine appreciation in their voices, Mia and Aiden chorused their thanks.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Seresin!"

Jake chuckled warmly, crouching down to their eye level. "Y’all can just call me Jake, you know. No need for all the formality, I’m only Lieutenant Seresin if my CO is around." He winked at them, his easygoing nature resonating with their youthful enthusiasm.

As the kids bid their farewells, Jake turned to you, his gaze holding a hint of something more. "Until next time, I suppose," he said, his tone carrying a mix of sincerity and anticipation.

You smiled, reciprocating the sentiment. "Absolutely. Until next time, Jake."

With a final exchange of glances and well wishes, you, Mia, and Aiden left the beach, the echoes of the airshow and the promising connection with Jake lingering in the warm California breeze. Armed with plans to coordinate with the kids' parents for a tour with Jake, and plans to schedule a date with him, you hoped this encounter marked the beginning of a connection that extended beyond the sandy shores of Coronado Beach.

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immediatebreakfast · 29 days

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Unitentional or not, the importance of the gothic feminine put on Jonathan's shoulders in this part is worthy of many words. There is so much symbolism that is mostly reserved for female gothic characters on Jonathan that it's no wonder some parts of his unwanted survival game with the Count.

Jonathan can't feel, nor believe that he is safe in his room anymore thanks to Dracula being downright daring with his supernatural antics to an almost alarming degree. So, as a good gothic heroine, Jonathan defies the orders given to him, grabs a source of light, and explores the place where he is held captive.

I went back to the room, and taking a lamp, tried all the doors.

The door sequence, and realization of how truly isolated Jonathan is from any kind of human being is painted in strokes of Bluebeard's wife, even calling how a key could change Jonathan's fate, and showing what is beneath the opulent wing of the castle in which he tries to sleep.

However, what comes later is something very important.

Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love-letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last.

This is such a eye opening detail for Jonathan's relationship with the feminine, and his role as a gothic heroine. He can't stay in his room, a private place where he is supposed to be safe, because everything is now haunted by Dracula's patriarchal and masculine presence even when he is not there; the room is tainted, and it's a reminder that Dracula will violate Jonathan's boundaries again if he wants to.

So, when Jonathan recognizes the tell tale signs that the only unlocked door in the castle is not only "neutral" ground by how old it is, but also can be seen through feminine lens he is utterly relieved, and thinks that in there he will finally have a moment of peace. Jonathan embraces this thought of that little oak table existing outside a realm that the Count has not touched, one that instead has seen women fall in love as explicitely compares his shorthand diary to a love letter.

Of course, this clear dissobedience of the Count's orders will have consequences, the novel wouldn't be gothic if it didn't. Yet, what matters is how these consequences will affect Jonathan, will they shatter a fundamental view that he has? Or will they make worse his mental downward spiral?

#We finally know Jonathan's gender #A solicitor who is a fair gothic lady #I still can't find an academic paper on this part of Jonathan's character that doesn't try to paint it in a derogative way #Some of the ones I had the displeasure of reading were bordeline transphobic in some parts #dracula daily #dracula #jonathan harker

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shalotttower · 2 months

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To Make a Home Out of Bones

Title: To Make a Home Out of Bones

Fandom: BTD2 (Boyfriend to Death 2)

Characters: Ren Hana x Reader (female)

Summary: You were free. Free for real, and you couldn't believe that, staring at the open door. And then, by some twisted scenario, decided to keep him. It's tragic, really.

Word count: 2300+

Notes: yandere!Ren Hana, captivity (past Reader and finally in present not Reader :D) Reader is sensible though and there's nothing crazy going on on her part apart from the captivity scenario, mostly tired vibes/attempts to process what happened, unhealthy coping mechanisms, past torture, past manipulation, possessiveness, past dubious consent, past non-con, Reader doesn't know about Strade.

You don't talk. You never talk nowadays and it feels almost liberating, not having to converse. Ren doesn't look as intimidating as he used to. Maybe it's because of the collar, or maybe it's because he doesn't wear that damned jacket anymore, the one which seems to change his whole being into something unhinged and cheerfully vicious whenever he puts it on.

Is this what he felt, watching you tied to a pole?

No, hardly.

There was a very tangible sense of power in your captivity.

You, however, don't feel powerful at all.

You feel like an old tree: splinters, rotten wood, and bark waiting for the storm to come and snap the trunk in the middle.

Freedom is strangely anticlimactic.

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You don't know how long you've been here, stopped checking a wile ago because it didn't matter ─ to be dragged back from the basement on Wednesday or on Saturday. Days became a sequence of events, not dates, once you realized Ren planned to keep you indefinitely.

Have breakfast, tell him it was good. Do the laundry. Watch TV, let Ren cuddle up to you, ignore the presence of another in the same room. Smile every time he says something nice and expects to hear it back. Let your eyes glaze over during sex, try to remember what it felt like to have someone touch you without making you bleed. Wake up to a sleepy fox curled up on top of you. When Ren dreams his ears twitch.

It takes approximately five minutes for him to settle for sleep, tangled limbs and pointy nose buried in the crook of your neck, and he's surprisingly light for a grown man. With how tough Ren seems (or wants to), there's some sort of innate clinginess about him that contrasts so much with the image in your head: smiling through bloodied teeth while nailing your leg. At first you thought being nice was a way out of this, but kindness is a double-edged sword here: soon you realized how utterly you misjudged him ─ and how truly screwed you were.

Because Ren, while cooking you tasty meals for "being good" and letting you watch TV, likes kisses and hand-holding, and cute things. But Ren also likes the way you sob no less, and that's where the miscalculation happened. Being nice only guaranteed with some unsteady sense of security that he wouldn't kill you yet. That was all. He's sweet, snuggly, affectionate until he isn't, and no amount of good behavior or praise will stop him from breaking your fingers if he feels like it.

Your routine had been simple for months. Easy. Unbearable.

And now all the world which was limited to one single house for god knows how long expands again, but you don't really feel it, even after reaching the small front gate.

You could leave him there, you think. In the basement, and no one would ever know. Lose the key, never come back, just-

Not go back. And all of this will be behind you. You'll never have to see him again, never have to smile for him, never have to hear that shaky sound he makes when he cums, or witness his face turn from carefree to confused, and then to understanding, then to annoyed.

A death like this seems fitting for him. Cold concrete and silence; starvation is an awful, terrifying way to go. You noticed that Ren doesn't really like to be alone, and there's almost poetic justice in leaving him in the basement to slowly rot away.

Your fingers curl around the iron handle and with something akin to astonishment let go of it, then fall limply to your side. You're free, yet you stay rooted to the spot, because frankly speaking where does one go from here? Your rent must be long overdue, and your face is probably everywhere, plastered on missing person posters.

'Hey guys, I'm not missing anymore', you imagine saying to your co-workers, 'sorry for disappearing, I guess. Do you still need that Excel sheet done?'

Your employment contract had probably been terminated. The bank account should be fine, Ren took you right before the paycheck, and there's mom's house to crash at until everything goes back to normal, but that surely means cops getting involved, and lawyers, and media. Just the thought is exhausting.

'How did Mr Hana treat you? Were you intimate? Yes or no? Please, tell us more, miss. How do you feel? What about Mr Oleander, did you know him?'

The wind picks up, blowing leaves and ruffling your hair.

Ren will go to jail. Obviously — kidnapping and killing people equals prison time. The problem is that it doesn't bring you any kind of satisfaction. You don't want Ren here, but you also don't want him peacefully living his sentence while you pick up the pieces of your old life. There's no closure in that, but again...can there be any?

You sit down on the porch; cold wooden boards creak under your weight. Ren has a nice little suburban house.

What now? You have no fucking idea, just vague notions of an unclear future, and nothing substantial.

What now indeed.

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He fed you regularly, that's true; you stand at the basement door and watch him eat.

Ren allowed you free roaming within the house premises, an access to TV, books, hygiene products. Reading manga together felt almost domestic, yet...you keep him there. In the basement.

It's strange, seeing him like this, but he doesn't look surprised at the new turn of events, he looks almost resigned. A mirror of yourself in a sense, you think with a finger hovering over the button. Ren's ears are flattened, tail tucked between his legs, a submissive, harmless thing. You could let him out, allow him roam the house freely just the way he did. But you don't.

It sounds straight off foolish, and what's more important ─ scary. There're so many possibilities. That the remote won't work, that you'll be too slow to react, that he'll sneak into your room at night. Ren can be very quiet when he wants to. So you keep him there, and avoid him like plague unless necessary — feeding duty twice per day plus bathroom visits.

No chatter, minimal contact overall, but Ren starts talking anyways.

"You look tired," he says cautiously in between the bites.

He does it a lot, tries to gauge where you two stand every day or what's on your mind, and you suspect it's the result of past experiences, something that's hard to unlearn. Something connected with that body in the freezer. Upon finding it you initially assumed (not without a reason) that the corpse was his doing, but when Ren undressed before you for the first time, realized that it might not be entirely true.

The cuts, the burns, the marks and deep, jagged lines formed a familiar pattern. Someone had put a lot of time and effort into giving him those.

"I could make coffee. Or tea."

And that's another thing. He doesn't fight you, or attempt to lash out. Instead he makes those little offers here and there whenever you come down the stairs — dinner, help cleaning the dishes, washing clothes. He has been compliant and eager to please to the point of it being almost unnerving.

You don't reply, and that seems to bother him, judging by his expression. Understandable: silence is normally a bad omen, especially in situations such as this one.

"Are you going to-" he starts again, but you cut him off.

"Push the tray over."

Ren's ears twitch at the command and you briefly wonder if he expected something different to happen. The tray makes a metallic screech over the concrete floor, stopping right in front of your feet.

"Thank you," he says.

'Thank you for breakfast, thank you for lunch, thank you for dessert.' 'Thank you for the nail gun, thank you for holding my hand while I screamed, thank you for fucking me after.' You hate the words now, the way they used to roll off your tongue (thank you, Ren, thank you), because they never meant gratitude at all and felt bitter, like a moldy fruit.

Ren's eyes are trained on your face. There it is again: the strange uneasiness which settles in your chest whenever he stares with focus sharp enough to burn holes through flesh itself. His gaze travels lower to your arms exposed by rolled up hoodie sleeves. You had no clothes here except for cutsey underwear and pajamas which Ren insisted you wear, but those are long thrown away somewhere in the trash, so the only things available are his. There's also...other stuff you found in the locked bedroom on the second floor: cargo pants, combat boots, tank tops, all neatly folded. Far too big for you both.

"Is it mine?" Ren asks and leans forward.

"Is there a problem?" you ask back, then regret it.

Questions mean opening a door to unwanted dialogue. His cheeks turn a little pink.

"No. It looks good on you."

Your stomach churns in discomfort at the compliment and the carefully concealed delight Ren won't voice out loud, but drops indirectly from time to time. Not only this, but the familiarity, the implied "you're used to wearing my things by now" which, in essence, is true. It's either that or walking around naked. Ren must notice your reaction, because he quickly averts his eyes to the floor. Silence settles over the basement like a thick, heavy blanket of snow.

Stop feeding me with submissive bullshit, you want to say. I know what you'd do if not for the collar, I've seen it from the first row. Stop pretending to be harmless when we both know you aren't.

Ren fiddles with the hem of his shirt. The change is so drastic. He was a little scary at first when you met, then downright terrifying, and now...now he's just a whole another person.

You pick up the tray without a word and leave. Ren's ears droop once he realizes the conversation for today ended before it even started. But there will be tomorrow. And the next one after, and the next one, and the next one. He'll keep trying to talk, and you'll keep ignoring him until he finally stops.

You don't know what to do with him. You don't know what to do with yourself either.

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There's no distance wide or far enough to allow you proper sleep. You toss and turn under the covers despite exhaustion pulling at your eyelids and eventually settle for a late night movie or two. Ren's DVD collection is...well, to put it bluntly, weird for someone like him. Cheesy and romantic movies take around thirty percent of his library, while the remaining seventy is filled with horror flicks and anime. You go through the titles: Sailor Moon, Cardcaptor Sakura, Tokyo Mew Mew. Some of those you watched together, curled up on the sofa, others Ren had recommended enthusiastically whenever he caught your glances.

'It's really good! I think you'd like it.'

'This is my favorite.'

He remembered the details about each series, all the names, plot twists. A die-hard fan to the point you wondered why didn't he try cosplaying himself instead of dressing you up. He'd pass as some sort of a fox/cat character easily. Maybe he did cosplay before, who knows? It wouldn't surprise you.

The clock ticks 2 AM. Your mind goes back to the basement door and what lays behind it.

Ren knows that you sleep terribly. You know he does too ─ that's one more trait you two share except for the scars.

You click on the first episode of "Arcane Moon Whispers". The opening plays through the old speakers — happy, cheerful music; you wonder if he can hear it downstairs. The basement is soundproofed, but Ren has sharp hearing. It became clear early on, in the way his ears would twitch towards the noise of your footsteps when you still wore the collar.

The plot unfolds in front of your eyes: a magical team fighting evil with the power of friendship, love, and hope.

'They have an entire arc dedicated to time travel,' Ren explained while showing you the box sets, 'it gets a bit confusing halfway through but it's fun!'

It's been three weeks now. Three weeks since your freedom began and yet Ren lingers in your head as strongly as ever, like a ghost haunting your dreams and waking hours alike. It's frustrating to say the least: having him locked away yet seeing him everywhere — in the kitchen cabinets full of sweets he likes, in the bookshelf full of manga he read out loud sometimes until you couldn't bear it anymore and had to tune his voice out, and in the drawer you pull open every morning.

Ren is like a stain.

It makes you sick, actually. It makes your chest ache with something that feels dangerously close to guilt but can't be it. You're not guilty for what you've done, keeping him there is reasonable, understandable, and Ren...he deserves everything after what he put you through first.

You tried so hard to be nice to him.

You were nice.

But nice isn't enough when someone wants you hurt. Isn't enough to stop a knife. Nice is a useless commodity.

A few more episodes later you're still wide awake.

#shalott fanfiction #yandere #btd2 #btd2 fanfiction #ren hana #ren hana x reader #I wanted to make it longer #it was longer in fact #but I really disliked the way the rest turned out #dislike is a weak word tbh lol #freaking hated it #so after like three days of trying to write an ending and deleting stuff #just gonna post it like this

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lilliumrorum · 4 months

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What does he have that I don’t? (Part three)

<<Previous | Masterlist | Next>> Synopsis: You step away from sparring, needing a moment to tend to yourself after fantasizing about your captain. Later on, your heart battles with the choices that present themselves.

WC: 4.1k

Content/Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Soft Price, fluff, Cheating, Pining, Masturbation, Oral (M!Receiving), Cum play (I think), Johnny is a whore

Notes: Part four is already in the works!! Been extremely busy the past week but I’m free now! Sorry!

Acknowledging your want to avoid interactions with Simon or Johnny, your captain chose to engage in a sparring session with you. Rather than responding to your form with frustration or criticism, he adopted a gentle and supportive approach. Using his hands, he skillfully adjusted the positioning of your arms, accompanied by encouraging words like, "There, Sergeant. It's easier when you move it this way."

Yet, your focus on Price's teachings was short-lived, disrupted by the growls emanating from Simon as he engaged in a sparring match across from both of you. The sounds of his physical exertion filled the air, creating a contrasting backdrop to the magnetic tension with him. Despite the distracting noise, the intertwined dynamics of the sparring session and the compelling gaze heightened the sensory experience, making the moment charged with both anticipation and the raw energy of the ongoing duel.

A palpable intensity hung in the air as Simon's burning gaze fixated on you. It felt like an unspoken invitation, a magnetic force compelling you to meet his eyes. The unrelenting pull was palpable, beckoning you to turn and lock gazes with him. In that charged moment, the dialogue between your eyes and Simon's created a captivating dance of emotion, the unspoken language of feeling weaving its intricate threads in the shared space between you.

"eyes off the lass, we've got to focus Lieutenant, otherwise yer gonnae lose!" Soap teased.

Simon vigorously shook the lingering thoughts of you from his mind, a steely resolve taking root in his eyes. Emitting a determined grunt, he plunged into the sparring session with Johnny, channeling a heightened determination. Every motion unfolded with exacting precision, as though his dedication had materialized into a palpable force pushing him onward. The resonance of their sparring mirrored the fervor of Simon's commitment, underscoring the undeniable intensity and unwavering determination propelling him through each exchange.

In the heat of their sparring session, Simon and Johnny intensified their exchange, throwing fists back and forth with a rhythmic precision. The air crackled with noise as each punch found its mark, and retaliatory strikes followed in quick succession. The tempo shifted abruptly as they transitioned into a sequence of grappling, both of them attempting judo takedowns with calculated determination. Bodies twisted and turned, each striving for the upper hand in a contest of strength and technique. The training room echoed with the sounds of their efforts, the clashing of limbs and the determined grunts blending into a symphony of martial prowess. The takedown attempts added a strategic layer to their dynamic exchange, showcasing not only their striking abilities but also their proficiency in the art of sparring.

“You’ve got to focus too, love.”

Your gaze shifted to your arms, both wrists in your captain’s skilled hands.

The fragments of the dream began to weave themselves into your conscience. It wasn't that you disliked the events within it; rather, an uneasy feeling persisted, making it increasingly challenging to be around him. The dream's influence seemed to seep into reality, leaving you a heated mess. But his hands were around you. His hands were around you.

His tongue roamed your aching clit as his thick, scarred fingers pumped in and out of your sopping wet core.

“You taste… god… I can’t get enough..” He muttered to himself.

You tried to move away, the pleasure becoming all too much. You were shaking, mind turned to mush as you watched your Captain feast on you like a man starved.

“Stay still, I need to taste you.” He demanded. He wasn’t taunting, teasing or anything of the sort. The only thing that seemed to give him pleasure was pleasuring you. You snaked your hands down to push him off, overstimulated from cumming two times already. A quick hand wrapped around your wrist, firmly securing it and pushing it against the mattress.

“Do that again and I’ll have to tie you up, sergeant.” His words held an element of truth.

But you couldn’t help it. His mouth felt like heaven, and the friction his mustache gave off made it feel ten times more euphoric. You could feel the scratching of his mutton chops on the insides of your thighs, squeezing them closed every time he hit that spongy spot inside of you.

Your free hand fisted the sheet, looking for something to being you back down to reality, something to ground you.

“Not Stoppin’ till you cum. One more, darlin’ I need it. Give it to me, please.”

You felt the familiar sensation slowly making its way to you, causing your walls to flutter.

“John!”

“That’s right, ‘is me. I’m doin’ this to ya.”

Legs quivering with an unparalleled intensity, your entire body tensed up, muscles flexing as you inched closer and closer to the edge.

“John! John it’s close! I’m close!”

”Just let go. I want you to cum. Cum again. You can do it.” His hand moved up from your wrist and into yours, fingers intertwined.

Your saccharine voice flooded his bedroom, no longer caring if anyone else had heard you. He stared up at you with his deep blue eyes, taking in every part of your body as he continued his ministrations on your cunt.

“John! Oh- God!!” You cried out as your hand squeezed his.

He rose up from the center of your legs and you swore you’ve never seen a sight more beautiful. His face flushed from lack of air, beard and chin covered with your slick, and a cocky grin plastered across his face.

“Thas’ it. My good fuckin’ girl. So good for your captain, always followin’ his orders.”

“Your good girl, just for you John. All for you.” You babbled, drunk off of the intoxicating orgasms he had gifted you.

“I think it’s time for your reward, dear. What do you think?” He teased.

His hand freed itself and moved to his trousers, his tent evident as he cupped it through his pants.

“Yes! Yes, please!” You begged, hoping that he would finally give you his cock.

“Alright then.”

“sergeant? Sergeant are you alright?” He whispered, his face adorning a worried look.

“Uh- yeah! Of course I am!”

His eyebrow quirked up, almost as if to say ‘You sure about that?’

“Actually… is it alright if I go to the ladies room?”

He leaned in close to you, an action Simon found suspicious. He glanced at your former lover.

“If it’s about him, you’re free to go back to my room, love.”

You thought about it, maybe that was exactly what you needed. Not because of Simon, no, but because of the lustful thoughts that plagued your mind. Christ, you couldn’t even meet your captain’s gaze without becoming a flustered mess.

”I think I’ll do that. Thank you, Price.”

He nodded in response, shifting his attention to Kyle, who had just returned from his exasperating run looking like a sweaty mess. Your figure slowly retreated, and simons eyes trailed you as you walked back to the building. The urge to follow you, to discover the contents of your conversation with Price, gnawed at him intensely. However, he found himself restrained; the watchful gaze of his captain bore into him like a hawk, preventing him from acting on his curiosity.

Simon harbored a desire to figure you out, pledging to find out the truth one way or another. As he watched you disappear, a noxious and festering feeling took root in his chest, intensifying the urgency of the said desire. The need to understand what unfolded between you and Price fueled his resolve, overshadowing the ominous sensation that clung to him. Despite the rotting unease, Simon steeled himself for the impending investigation, ready to confront the secrets that held themselves in the air.

Who were you going back to? Why did price just let you walk off like that? How is that fair to everyone else? Was he seeing you?

The suspicion that Price might have a more intimate connection with you added complexity to Simon's internal turmoil, intensifying his need to uncover the truth.

“I’m gonnae win Lieutenant! Knew I’d be be quicker than yae!”

The challenge from Mactavish was enough to spur him from his thoughts for now, but John was going to be under his scrutiny for a while.

You felt like such a disgusting person, having your hand slowly creep under your pants as you laid there in his bed.

Everything smelled just like him too, turning you on tenfold. The way his abs laid under that thin (yet still existent) layer of fat was delicious. You’d imagined what it would feel like pressed against the back your thighs as he bottomed out inside you. The impact of his heavy balls smacking against your ass as he groaned into the crook of your neck.

You tried to curl your fingers the way John did in your dream, but they were too short and failed to reach the right spot. Your hips rocked desperately at your hand, your fingers trying their best to pleasure you. The pleasure never came.

You started rubbing your clit, hoping for some kind of release, yet got none.

“Fuck!” You cried out in frustration, craving your orgasm now more than ever.

You wished it wasn’t a dream, that he really did fuck you like your life depended on it. Slamming his hips into yours, his pubic hair touching your clit with every thrust. Rutting into your cunt like there truly was no tomorrow.

John price was your craving, akin to an unhealthy obsession, maybe even an addiction. You knew that he he would probably be extremely uncomfortable with the obvious age gap, but what was so wrong with it? It’s not like you were a child (Even though he calls you kid). You were an adult, and should be treated as such. You were young, so what?

Simon was much older than you as well. John was just more… mature. Something about him left your legs shaking and your panties wet whenever he entered the room. He had undeniably aged like fine wine. Having glimpsed old pictures of him and his former teammates on the walls of his office, you acknowledged his attractiveness back then. However, the passage of time had only enhanced his appeal, making him even more alluring now.

A sigh escaped your mouth as you gave up, retracting your hands from your pants, exhausted after working for half an hour at an unachievable goal.

Dressed in comfortable yet suitable attire for John's room, you strolled to the kitchen. Driven by hunger and determination, you explored the fridge for leftovers or ingredients and simultaneously checked the cabinets for spices to enhance the flavor of your culinary creation.

Exploring culinary options, the idea of preparing a Shepherd's Pie caught your attention, enticing your taste buds. Envisioning layers of savory delight, you imagined a foundation of seasoned ground lamb cooked with onions, carrots, and peas, bathed in a rich, flavorful gravy. Crowned with a lavish layer of creamy mashed potatoes, baked to a perfect golden hue, the dish promised a harmonious blend of tender lamb, hearty vegetables, and velvety mashed goodness. Enhanced with aromatic herbs such as rosemary and thyme, the kitchen would be filled with an alluring fragrance as the pie bubbled away in the oven.

The anticipation of savoring each forkful, experiencing a medley of textures and flavors from the silky mashed potatoes to the robust lamb filling, made opting for a Shepherd's Pie an irresistible decision, ensuring a truly delightful and comforting meal for you and John.

You quickly got to work, washing your hands before grabbing the ingredients.

With the vision of a delectable Shepherd's Pie firmly planted in your mind, you eagerly gathered all the essential ingredients. The aroma of fresh rosemary and thyme filled the air as you skillfully seasoned the ground lamb, sautéed onions, carrots, and peas to perfection. The kitchen buzzed with the comforting sounds of preparation as you crafted a rich and flavorful gravy, ensuring every spoonful would be a taste sensation. With precision, you layered the sumptuous lamb mixture into the dish, topping it generously with creamy mashed potatoes.

The symphony of colors and textures hinted at the delightful feast awaiting. As the Shepherd's Pie slowly baked, the kitchen became a haven of anticipation, the air thick with the irresistible scent of a home-cooked masterpiece. Finally, with the golden crust achieved, you triumphantly pulled the Shepherd's Pie from the oven, ready to savor the fruits of your culinary labor.

With the Shepherd's Pie masterpiece now complete, your attention turned to the presentation. Carefully slicing through the golden crust, you revealed the layers of savory goodness within.

Placing generous portions on each plate, you artfully arranged the creamy mashed potatoes and flavorful lamb filling. A sprinkle of fresh herbs on top added a final touch of elegance. The vibrant colors and enticing aromas transformed the plates into a visual and olfactory delight.

Perhaps a side of crisp green salad or a drizzle of gravy adorned the edges, enhancing the aesthetic appeal. Each plate was now a feast for the eyes as well as the stomach.

As you meticulously set the beautifully plated Shepherd's Pie on the table, a fleeting thought crossed your mind about what John might think of the lunch you made.

The table now adorned with a visually appealing and inviting meal, the curiosity about how Price would perceive your effort added an extra layer of anticipation to the dining experience.

You heard the door unlocking, silently shaking out of nervousness and excitement, hoping he would like your meal. Silently, you shook off the nerves, hoping that Price would appreciate the effort you put into preparing the Shepherd's Pie.

The aroma wafting through the air was a prelude to the meal you crafted, and as the door opened, your anticipation and hope for a positive response intensified.

“Love? What-” He took in the scent of the pie, eyes darting to the plates and then to yours.

you wondered what he was thinking.

After Price wrapped up the training session with Gaz, exhausted from sparring with the both of you, he decided to head back to the room for a brief respite.

Even though he was seasoned by years of military service, his plan was simple – a quick snack and a moment to unwind. Yet, there was an underlying hope that you would be awake when he returned to the room, providing an opportunity for a meaningful conversation after the rigorous training session.

Upon opening the door, he was met with the delightful aroma of a dish from his youth. The fragrance alone was captivating, and seeing you standing by it with a smile, eagerly awaiting his reaction, intensified the pounding of his heart in his chest.

he envisioned a life away from all of this, out of the hands of war. He had a family with you, came home to you every night. There was something so domestic about you cooking for him, and it made him an even bigger sucker for you.

“Sorry if you didn’t want the lamb being used, I wanted to surprise you. I’ll pay you back if needed!”

Pay him back? You just made him a delicious lunch and you think he wants you to pay him back?

“No dove, ‘was going to go to waste sooner or later. Really appreciate your Cookin’” He exerted himself while settling into the dining chair.

”Thought you would be hungry after sparring with both of us, you should really take better care of yourself, John.”

“Jus’ like a wife.” Those words ran to his lips before he could stop his tongue.

Your face contorted into an unreadable expression, eyes widening at the sentence that slipped from his mouth. He covered it up with an awkward laugh, hoping to make the situation less uncomfortable.

“I’ll… be right back.”

He was frustrated. Why would he go and say something so stupid? Why did he even think of it? The idea crossed his mind, but you had no interest in being with someone like him.

He watched as you sped down the hall and into his bathroom, unable to read your face. He reluctantly stuck his fork into his slice, taking a small bite and savoring the delicious taste.

Hopefully you’ll think he was joking about what he said. He wasn’t though.

Imagining a life together, he pictured you eagerly embracing him after deployment, showering him with affectionate kisses. You practically dragging him to your living room as you told him all about what happened while he was gone, asking about the others.

He wanted you out of this hellhole. You were far too kind for a life like his.

“So? How do you like it? Does it taste alright?!” You inquired.

Your unexpected entrance disrupted his thoughts, causing him to jerk in his chair before responding.

“You make a hell of a pie darlin’.”

“I tried to make it tasteful, first time I ever made it.”

“That’s an excellent first try, I’ll say.”

Observing him for a moment, you watched as he scooped up more bites with his fork before settling down to savor the meal.

“You weren’t lying, I did cook good.” You laughed.

He raised his head and let out a quick ‘mhm’ before eating again.

“Dear, if you’re going to live here… even if it’s temporary… you’re going to have to pitch in.”

”Oh- oh my god I’m so sorry I would’ve-“

His raised finger brought your sentence to a halt.

“By cooking. Cook for me and you can stay as long as you’d like.” He was joking, but part of him wasn’t.

"Lieutenant, what's yer take? Shall we give a shot at conversin' with the lass? I'm up for havin' a blether with her."

Johnny had harbored feelings for his Lieutenant's lady, hidden until last night. Her warm smile and the small talks she initiated, often mentioning what Simon said about him, stirred something within him.

Every aspect of her aroused him. While he had no desire for a relationship with her, the thought of mind-blowing sex lingered in his mind.

"Wot you gonna say to 'er?"

”Gonnae seduce her with ma irresistible charms.” He joked.

Simon wasn’t laughing. It could work, perhaps you three could work out something. A threesome was definitely enticing.

"Not the worst idea you've 'ad."

Johnny thought about it, your lips wrapped around his hardened cock, moaning around it as Simon relentlessly pounded into your cervix. Your tits jiggling with every thrust of his hips.

“Would be fuckin’ hot, wouldinnit?”

“Not wrong.” He grunted.

They both strolled in sync back to your (now Simon’s) shared room, prepared to release some tension after being thoroughly worked over during sparring.

"For noo, let's focus on jist us, aye Lieutenant?"

Simon grunted in response, turning his key and unlocking the door.

“Where dae yae wannae have me?”

“On yer knees.”

You and John had decided to watch whatever you could on the tele, with DVDs of course since the channels had to use satellites and such.

After a couple of hours indoors, you decided it was time to retrieve your belongings from your (Simon’s) room. John offered to join you for support, but you insisted on handling it alone, feeling guilty for staying with him and emphasizing your independence as an adult.

You navigated through the base, reaching your room, and opted for a brief pause before entering. A gust of wind brought some stray dirt to your face, causing you to cough and wheeze as you approached the door.

You knocked, aiming for a swift retrieval of your belongings. Getting no response, you proceeded to enter, unlocking the door with your key as it was locked.

Lo and behold, Johnny was bent over what was once your table, with Simon pistoning into him from behind. He was moaning like a dog in heat, begging your former lover for his release. Desperate pleas paraded from his lips until he locked eyes with you.

“Lieute- nghhh- Fuck! Lieutenant!” Johnny choked out, trying to signal for Simon to stop.

“Thas’ it, keep crying for me pet. Jus’ like that.” He groaned, still not realizing your presence.

Johnny arched his back to look up at him, tapping at his broad shoulders then shoving him away, unable to make a sentence when Simon’s cock was hitting the right spot with every thrust. When he finally did slow his pace, glaring at him, his line of sight synced with his as he gazed you. His hips never paused, now slowly rocking into the scot’s ass. His hand reached to grab his jaw, forcing him to look at you as his orgasm approached.

“Y’wanted to seduce her, here she is. Look at her, pet. Pretty thing, isn’t she?” Simon grunted.

“S-so pretty”

“I bet she thinks yer pretty too, Sergeant. Do ya think he’s pretty, luv?”

You’re too stunned by the sight in front of you to even speak. You just mindlessly agree, not knowing how to respond.

“Tell him, tell him how good he is f’me.”

You want so badly to be mad, but with the lustful way Johnny looks at you with his beautiful blue eyes, you can’t help it.

“Such a good boy, Johnny.”

He whimpers at your words, cock twitching as Simon speeds up the pace. He fists it, but not for long since Simon yanked his hand back.

“Good boys ask, right pet? Ask her. I bet her mouth would feel much better.”

Johnny could barely muster the question, panting out your name breathlessly. You get on your knees and climb under the table, leaving him and Simon shocked. Your eyes lock with the latter and he fucking groans.

“This isn’t for you.” You spit out, taking Soap’s lengthy cock into your palm.

Hel whines, twitching in your hand, aching for his release. You softly stroke him, starting off at a slower pace.

“Faster, Bonnie. Please.”

And how could you not give him what he asked so nicely for?

You tightened your grip on him, bringing your hand lower and tapping the tip against your tongue before taking it in your mouth. You hear a quiet ‘ah, fuck’ fall from his lips.

Simon was now relentlessly pounding into his ass again, causing Johnny to push forward. His hips were now directly against the table, his cock plundering its way into your mouth as you traced his balls with your finger.

“So… good… gonnae.. cum!”

“Ask first.” Simon grunts.

“Can I cum, Lieutenant?”

”Not the right person, ask ‘er.”

“Please, hen.” He gasps, his balls tightening while he spoke.

You let out a ‘Mhm’, choking on his length when taking all of him in your mouth. The vibrations were too much, causing him to cum on the spot. You give him a few more strokes and take him out of your mouth.

“So good for ‘er, Johnny.”

Crawling out from under the table, you decide to do something you’ve never done with Simon. You stick your tongue out, showcasing the scot’s semen and crashing your lips onto his. He moaned as you ran your tongue across the roof of his mouth, tasting himself before following your movements. After tonging each other for what seemed like forever, you pull off of him to catch your breath, glaring at Simon before walking off to the bedroom.

You're not sure why you did it, but it felt good. Soap isn't the problem; it was ghost.

In the intricate web of emotions, you found yourself tangled, unsure of your feelings for Price, Simon, or Johnny. Each connection carried its own dynamic, leaving you in a state of indecisiveness. Price offered stability, Simon, well, your not even sure anymore, and Johnny, a sense of adventure.

Navigating through the emotional maze your brain created, you grappled with the pain of your heart, torn between different affections, as you tried to decipher your emotions for each of them while you packed your bags.

Taglist:@ttsbaby01@waves-against-a-cliff@konigslittleliebling@imjustheretofightforlove@beebeechaos@mikimumiki@splaterparty0-00@negativity4you@heyitsmarimari@fruitymoonbeams-blog@sleepdeprivedkat@nobilitando@yawning-grave81@vlota97@grimmysloane@littlecellist

#john soap mactavish #soap x reader #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #soapghost #john price #ghost angst #ghost x reader #john price x reader

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aethon-recs · 1 year

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Tomarrymort Intermediate Pack — 16 Longfic Recs

As a follow-up to the Tomarrymort starter pack rec list, I put together a list of Intermediate Reads that are best enjoyed with a bit of context about the ship. If you’ve been reading Tomarrymort for a while, or have read everything in the starter pack, this next set of recs is for you.

These recs feature a sampling of different authors than the first list, with an emphasis on underrated fic that I think deserve more recognition (hard to define, but for the most part, I tried to find fics with fewer than 2000 kudos). So I hope that even for the readers who’ve been reading Tomarrymort for a long time, there’s something new in here to discover.

This is Part 2 of a 3-part series (see here for Part 1, and Part 3 will be an Advanced reading list that will feature works of a more challenging nature). In the meantime, please enjoy these additional 1.8 million words of wonderful Tomarrymort fic.

Tomarrymort Intermediate Recs

aurora polaris by @aglassroseneverfades (E, 136k, WIP)

Setting: Post-Canon Premise: If Harry wakes up one day with no memory of his past, upon which he’s greeted by a handsome, doting older man named Gaunt who claims that he and Harry have been in a relationship together for years. Why I rec it: A haunting psychological horror where the truth slowly creeps up on Harry that his domestic life with his devoted partner Gaunt is not as idyllic as it initially appears. The twisting, unhinged depths of Voldemort’s obsession in this fic are so beautifully portrayed. There were chills that ran down my spine as Harry starts to get his memories back and the mystery of what happened starts to unravel. I love the pacing in this fic — there’s no one big reveal; it’s a slowly unfolding sequence that gets delightfully darker and more fucked-up as the fic progresses.

dawn of a death of a dream by @cindle-writes (E, 66k, WIP)

Setting: Post-Canon Premise: If Tom Riddle appears in London the morning of Voldemort’s defeat, with the last thing he remembers from 1944, and quickly realizes that Harry Potter is the key to all the answers that he’s looking for. Why I rec it: A light-hearted take on the identity porn trope, full of playful banter and delightfully charged chemistry between Harry and Tom. It’s usually Harry who’s thrown back through time, so it’s fun to see Tom scramble to figure out what’s going on when he’s pulled forward into Harry’s time. It’s also fun to see Harry try every avenue to prove that this mysterious new Tom is the Tom Riddle, even as he ends up hitting dead ends, and subsequently falls so deep into his obsessive tendencies that he refuses to let Tom out of his sight.

My Lord, Master, My Soul by FletchleyRose (E, 69k, complete)

Setting: Post-Canon Premise: If Voldemort captures Harry after the final battle and decides to break him — not with torture, but with pleasure and softness. Why I rec it: The soft, creepy non-con in here is so memorable and excellent! Voldemort takes a different approach to breaking in his horcrux than what we usually see, and this particular approach leads to such delicious and hot smut scenes between them wherein Harry utterly succumbs to all the softly pleasurable attentions. I can never get enough of darkly twisted captive Harry stories and all the ways that Voldemort keeps Harry isolated and utterly reliant on him. I gasped out loud at the part where Voldemort made it so that Harry can only speak Parseltongue — this exactly the kind of fucked-up content that is so perfect and fitting for this ship.

(never) let me go by @perhaps-sunlight (M, 28k, complete)

Setting: Post-Canon Premise: If Harry returns to Hogwarts after the war for eighth year, and he’s the only person in the castle who can see and talk to the ghost of Tom Riddle. Why I rec it: This fic completely destroyed me. The story unfolds in such a poignant and haunting way — it feels like the most natural thing for Harry to feel such a strong connection with Tom and fall in love with him as the year progresses. The angst in here is so delicately layered and beautifully portrayed — Harry’s feelings are muddled with a growing hope that Tom doesn’t have to move on to the afterlife and the desperation that he feels when he realizes they’re running out of time — such that the emotional beats will end up resonating for a long time after you’ve finished reading this fic.

One Year In Every Ten by @saintsenara (E, 124k, WIP)

Setting: Post-Canon Premise: If a series of gruesome murders 10 years after the war has Harry and the rest of the Aurors completely stumped, and Harry figures out how to bring Voldemort back from beyond the Veil in exchange for his help in solving the murders. Why I rec it: This is a spectacular and richly layered murder mystery featuring incredibly complex character dynamics and gorgeously lavish prose. I am blown away at the sophistication of the storytelling here — we get to delve into Voldemort’s past and so many hidden layers of his character, as well as how Harry has been handling the ‘picture-perfect’ life he’s always wanted after the war (in short: not well) — and in between, following all the clues and disparate threads of a mysterious serial killer case that could be its own standalone casefic! One of the most impressively sweeping pieces of writing I’ve seen in this ship, and there isn’t an element of this fic that I don’t absolutely adore.

Perfect Places by @skaelds (NR, 72k, complete)

Setting: Post-Canon Premise: If Voldemort dies in the Final Battle, and then wakes up in a strange house with no one but Harry Potter for company, and there is no way for either of them to get out. Why I rec it: I absolutely love the trapped-in-a-room trope, and how Voldemort and Harry have to work out their differences if they want to have any hope of getting out. I adore that the entire fic is told from Voldemort POV — his arrogance and his malevolence and his rage and the utter force of his emotions are so palpable. The emotional journey in this fic is so intense from beginning to end, as they eventually come around to an understanding about each other and figure out a way out.

Promises, Promises (part 1) / Dreams in the Dark (part 2) by @mosiva (E, 72k, complete)

Setting: Time-Travel (1940s) Premise: If Harry is accidentally thrown back in time to Tom’s 6th year, and then suffers a bout of amnesia from a memory-loss spell and can’t remember anything about Tom Riddle or why he spent all semester trying to avoid him. Why I rec it: A brilliant fast burn featuring amnesia trope and tons of delicious dubcon. Tom is at his manipulative peak here, as he tries every underhanded technique to first figure out exactly what is going on with that new transfer student Harry Evans, and then when he’s figured it out, doing everything he can to keep Harry within his grasp. I cannot say enough about how hot the smut is throughout this 2-part series — so many layers of dubcon and manipulation that blew me away at every turn.

Sunspots by @crowcrowcrowthing (E, 249k, WIP)

Setting: Alternate Universe Premise: If Harry grows up in the muggle world without realizing he has magic, but he suspects there’s a bigger world out there because he’s had recurring dreams featuring Tom’s horcruxes his entire life. Why I rec it: One of the most unique takes on a book 1 rewrite that I’ve ever seen. First of all, the characters are aged up to college-age, and since Hogwarts starts at 18 here rather than at 11, there’s a lot of character dynamics that are possible to explore with older characters that aren’t possible with 11-year-olds. Secondly, Harry has access to each of Tom’s horcruxes through a magical dreamscape dimension he can access in his sleep, and he has unique and distinct relationships with each of them, including (the main) Voldemort, so there’s a lot of fascinating and multi-faceted Harry and Tom dynamics. Also, the descriptions of magic in this fic are just stunning; it’s clear that a lot of thought went into the magical worldbuilding here that makes you feel as excited and awestruck by the concept of magic as reading the Harry Potter books for the first time.

Tender Reigns Our Night by @noumena-writes (M, 69k, WIP)

Setting: Time-Travel (1940s) Premise: If Harry is sent back to the 1940s, just after Tom Riddle has graduated from Hogwarts, on a mission to stop Tom becoming Voldemort and imperiling the world of magic. Why I rec it: I love the mutually obsessive chemistry here as Harry and Tom quickly fall into each other’s thrall as their relationship heats up. The writing style is so poetic and beautiful, and I find myself rereading many sentences over again just to fully absorb the impact and beauty of @noumena-writes’ words. Even as Harry becomes increasingly entwined with Tom, he’s never blind to who Tom is, and he’s able to strike back with just as much viciousness — their relationship dynamics are so very intense and suspenseful, and the latest plot twist had me completely floored.

The Incantation of the Oak-Priest by @relic--crown (T, 223k, complete)

Setting: Alternate Universe Premise: If Harry and Tom are pulled into an alternate reality where Voldemort never existed and Harry’s parents are still alive. Why I rec it: The richness of the magical worldbuilding in this fic blew me away — there’s a whole system of magic explored here that goes deeper and is far more brilliant and sweeping than what is covered in canon. The relationship between Harry and Tom develops in such an organic, lovely way, and it was fascinating to see all the changes in this parallel universe where Harry’s parents live and what Harry’s life could have been like, were there no Voldemort. Also, the plot! This fic was so intricately plotted that it felt like reading multiple books with a complex, epic plot spanning fifth through seventh years at Hogwarts, ending in a grand showdown like in the original book series, but with a surprising twist.

The Sense of Self by SpitFire97 (E, 87k, complete)

Setting: Time-Travel Fix-It Premise: If Harry and Voldemort find themselves trapped in a strange cycle of reincarnations where they visit different points in time in Voldemort’s past. Why I rec it: A very cool take on a time-travel fix-it. Instead of traveling back to a fixed point in time, Harry and Voldemort are thrown back to various points of Voldemort’s past and relive life through certain people significant to shaping Voldemort into who he eventually becomes. The time travel theory in here is amongst the most complex that I’ve encountered — I love the concept that time is a river where multiple timelines and divergent events end up converging, rather than branching off and creating a bunch of alternate universes. I also love how organically the growing relationship between Voldemort and Harry unfolds as they progress through each cycle and gradually start to develop trust in one another and care and attraction for each other.

These steep woods and lofty cliffs by Rimeme (M, 76k, complete)

Setting: Canon Divergence – Book 6 Premise: If Harry runs away to America after Sirius’s death and disguises himself in the Muggle world for many years before getting discovered by MACUSA and offered a job with the magical government. Years later, he is recruited back to Britain to work for the Ministry, under none other than Undersecretary Thomas Gaunt himself. Why I rec it: A thoroughly enjoyable read from beginning to end — I devoured this fic in one sitting. Harry makes an extremely rational decision here — why not run off from the war if Voldemort is trying to kill everyone you love? But then, when he comes back undercover 15 years later, things don’t quite seem to add up. Britain doesn’t seem like it’s been taken over by a genocidal Dark Lord, but there’s something nefarious simmering under the surface. Voldemort as a very rational Undersecretary Thomas Gaunt is a delight here, with his seemingly very reasonable focus on progressing wizarding society. It was fun to follow along as Harry slowly starts to put the pieces together, and I love how relentlessly Voldemort pursues and seduces Harry in this fic, until he's utterly unable to resist his attraction to a Voldemort who seems to have turned over a new leaf.

These Violent Delights by @heirofdragons (M, 55k, WIP)

Setting: Time Travel (1940s) Premise: If Harry, Ron, and Hermione accidentally find themselves thrown back in time to the late 1940s, four years after Tom has graduated Hogwarts and is working at Borgin and Burkes. Why I rec it: A highly entertaining time travel fic with Harry stumbling back in time to find Tom Riddle in the full dregs of his Retail Hell years post-Hogwarts. Their chemistry is delightfully charming as they prod at each other and do everything to get under each other’s skin (including attempted murder), while growing undeniably attracted to each other. They simply can’t stay away from each other, despite Harry knowing who Tom turns out to be, and Tom knowing that Harry is the one who destroys all his Horcruxes and ends up defeating him in the future.

Three Turns Should Do It by @vdoshu (M, 284k, WIP)

Setting: Time Travel (1940s) Premise: If Harry gets thrown back in time after an accident with the Time Turner in 3rd year, and ends up as a disembodied voice in Tom’s head from the time that Tom is 11. Why I rec it: I absolutely love Tom growing up alongside Harry who is a kind of caretaker presence in his mind, helping make his days a little bit less lonely and helping him navigate the unfortunate circumstances he’s thrown in. This is probably the most extensively researched WW2 era story I’ve ever read; at times I felt like I was learning more detailed history about everyday life during WW2 than I’ve ever read out of a history book. This fic does an amazing job of fleshing out the pivotal events of Tom’s Hogwarts years and showcasing Tom’s humanity, and the bond of mutual trust and love that he and Harry build over the years is so beautifully portrayed. It also does a great job of exploring the question of predestination and whether anyone has the power to change the fate that lies in store for them.

Til Death Do Us Part by @duplicitywrites (M, 117k, complete)

Setting: Voldemort Wins AU Premise: If Harry gets captured by Voldemort and held as his captive, in a world where Voldemort had won the war sometime before Harry was born, and Harry has been fighting against Voldemort his entire adult life. Why I rec it: The emotions that this fic evokes are so moving and heartfelt. The evolution from Harry as Voldemort’s prisoner to Harry as Voldemort’s trusted advisor unfolds in such a beautiful, unrushed way. Harry is in his early 30s when he’s captured, so he’s older than what we typically see in fics where he’s Voldemort’s prisoner, and his maturity and composure really shine through as he starts working together with Voldemort and trying to exert his influence to improve the fate of the wizarding world. He eventually breaks through Voldemort’s shell, and helps Voldemort to grow in so many ways as the story progresses — particularly in his understanding of love and acceptance of death as a part of life.

With a resolute heart by Act_Naturally (M, 84k, WIP)

Setting: Same-Age AU Premise: If Harry and Tom attend Hogwarts together and are selected as Hogwarts Champions for an AU version of the Triwizard Tournament that is structured more like the Hunger Games tournament. Why I rec it: This is a skillfully-written generation mashup featuring an incredibly suspenseful and high-intrigue setting. There’s a dark overhang of dread and anxiety that permeates every character interaction and training session, as we’re informed that most of the champions (8 from each of the 3 schools) will not make it out of the Tournament alive. Yet the chemistry between Harry and Tom builds and builds despite the life-or-death stakes — Harry is immediately attracted to Tom, and Tom admires Harry’s resourcefulness — even while they each realize they may be the death of the other.

#Tomarrymort Intermediate Recs #tomarrymort #tomarry #harrymort #aethon recs #tomarry recs #tomarrymort recs #harrymort recs #hp fic recs #longfic recs #ao3 recs #fanfic recs #tom riddle #voldemort

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galengames · 10 months

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The Day of Reckoning is here!

KICKSTARTER LINK: bit.ly/dckickstart

DEMO LINK: Steam | Itch

Kickstarter LIVE NOW !! The clock has struck launch hour and our Kickstarter is ready for action!

Four years ago, Dual Chroma witnessed a magical birth—a birth of a dream, a world, and a captivating character named Keldrannon. And now, on August 15th, we're celebrating not just Keldran's birthday but also a milestone that was once a distant glimmer in our eyes.

A Reminder of the Plot of Dual Chroma, an epic fantasy visual novel:

Uncover ancient secrets and new budding relationships in this romantic fantasy adventure visual novel with a dark twist. Journey with the Galen’s Empire Second Prince and thwart sinister forces that rise from times long since past. With multiple endings and immersive battle sequences, your choices will shape your destiny— or lead you and the Empire down the path of tragedy once again.

Early Bird Gifts

For those who have been eagerly waiting and are ready to pledge our early bird gift awaits – receive an exclusive letter from Keldran himself, along with two stunning unique wallpapers to enhance your digital spaces!

Share the Magic - Spread the Word!

Join us in spreading the news far and wide—Dual Chroma's Kickstarter is live, and the world of Aradal is waiting for its magi. Help us achieve our community goal of 300 shares across twitter, reddit and tumblr, and we'll unlock an extra layer of magic—three short wedding epilogues that delve deeper into the characters' happily ever afters!

#oelvn #english otome #otome #interactive fiction #visual novel #indiegame #visualnovel #datingsim #dualchroma #galengames

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the-fictional-wife · 1 month

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Finding Happiness (Itachi Uchiha x reader)- 1

This is the start of a series of scenarios for post-war Itachi (yes he lives) finding happiness with you! I miss fluff in Itachi's tag so why not make my own.

I want to mainly focus on the relationship but some chapters down the line will explain more plot also the chapter sequences might not end up in chronological order^^

This will be fem reader heads up so she/her pronouns!

Even though this isn't nsfw, some things in this series won't be exactly appropriate so imma still say MDNI!

////- means pov switch

Word count: 2.0k+

Chapter 1- Grocery Shopping + Cafe Cuties Next Chapter?

“I want to help.”

“You should want to take it easy instead,” you sigh. Itachi was up...yet again to help despite being on mandatory bedrest to help his body regain its strength back. He’s restless; it’s easy to understand; he’s banned from missions, and staying home is rather dull, but...

“Tsunade strictly said you were to rest while on house arrest. That’s the whole point I’m here.” You rest your arm on the cool kitchen countertop to grab a pen and begin writing down a shopping list with a huff.

“....”

At the silence, you turn around with pursed lips to face Itachi only to stifle a laugh when you see his face: eyebrows furrowed, lips just slightly jutted-

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s pouting.

“I would argue three weeks of nothing but bed imprisonment is adequate enough rest, don’t you agree.” Itachi huffs.

After weeks of being detained right alongside Sasuke, Kakashi made the executive decision that Itachi deserved something better than a jail cell: temporary house arrest.

With a babysitter.

You glance at Itachi’s mildly annoyed face, momentarily taking in the sight.

You’ll spare him...for today.

“hm...fine, the sun would do you well anyway.” You finish writing the list and hand it to Itachi, whose eyes blankly rake the paper, then folds it into his pocket.

“Well, let’s go,” You stand at the doorway where a large black seal awaits, designed to trigger the alarm around Itachi’s ankle. Weaving the signs, you both squint at the burst of light before ushering him out the door.

As the two of you walk out of the Uchiha compound, you ponder over the last few weeks with Itachi. You can’t count the heart attacks you’ve gotten from seeing an empty bed and surprise; he was admiring the fish.

He is a quiet, stealthy patient, somewhat akin to an 87-year-old senior citizen. On the more serious end, you think back solemnly; his eyes had often reflected his concession to emptiness. Sunken in and soulless.

‘But now…’ You peer at Itachi from the corner of your eye.

His eyes sharp and attentive; the color is back in his face; sunkissed pink cheeks, his short sleeve shirt giving view to his lean muscles-

‘He’s actually kinda...’

////

Itachi can’t tell if it’s the heat of your gaze or the sun flushing his cheeks.

Your gaze washes over him, a captivating light he yearns to forever bask in. Domesticity is a variable of life he is unacquainted with and…undeniably undeserving of.

And yet, the further you expose him to gentleness, affection, and peace, the more he greedily deludes himself into that he belongs.

Encompassed in a life of peace he’s desperately craved, peace he’s found with you.

Within the shinobi existence, emotions, relationships…living. All become an unforeseeable luxury.

It’s unsettling to desire. To be human.

Itachi silently shifts his eyes toward you, observing as you conceal your face, abashed from being caught. He finds himself smitten.

“You were looking a little pale. If you feel weak at any time, don’t be afraid to lean on me.”

A lie, of course. An utterly endearing one.

‘Perhaps, in this life…’

He capitalizes on the chance anyway.

‘…I can be selfish.’

////

As you head into the village, you feel something creep around your arm.

Neither of you acknowledge it.

+++

Your arm is still intertwined with Itachi’s as you both find purchase in a decently sized everything market. Waving to the cat perched in the front, you read the aisle numbers with its affiliated products: ‘Household items- 1, Toys- 2, Jewelry- 4,...Fruits & Dairy- 5’. After detecting where you wanted to begin, you guys head to your destination, avocados.

Itachi lightly tugs your arm, signaling your attention.

“It’ll be quicker if we split. The potatoes are within eye range; I’ll only be a minute.” Your face scrunches in; reluctantly, you let go with a poorly concealed pout.

“... don’t trust me? I promise I’ll return to you shortly.” With that, Itachi saunters, leaving a lingering graze against your skin.

You pause, leaving the way your heart palpitates unavowed. ‘A kiss would have sufficed,’ you snicker and return to your dilemma with hunched shoulders.

You’re on your fifth avocado before you give a groan of defeat. “I can’t tell which ones are good or not; they all look the same,” you mumble, distracted enough to miss the figure peering closer.

“May I see?”

His gentle whisper tickles your ear, you force the quiver down your spine to still- even when you feel his careless lips making one too many brushes to your ear, you wordlessly nod yes.

His broad chest and feather touch of his hair against your cheek overwhelm your senses as he reaches his arm around your waist to probe at the fruit you have in hand.

You pray he can’t feel the way your heart beats.

“Hmm...this one is ripe. You can tell by the dark color and firmness...good eye.” Within a blink, the weight of Itachi’s presence vanished, and he pulled away.

Ah. That.

“R-right, thank you,” you fumbled over your wording and rushed to the edge of the aisle. “Okay, let’s split from here to make things easier; I do the first half of the list, you do the last. Capeesh?” Fingers bend into a okay sign; you give a shaky grin and rush down to the next aisles, leaving Itachi to fend for himself.

“...” Itachi blinks, idly standing before he lets out a defeated puff of air.

‘...It appears I’ve made a mistake.’ With furrowed brows, he peers down at the list with a harsh, focused stare.

Your mind hasn’t left Itachi as your heart physically pains in guilt; it’s his first time out in weeks, and you flat leave him. Putting your final item in your shopping basket, you haul it down Itachi’s direction, only to find him in the exact same position as before.

Tilting your head, you ask befuddled, “Itachi, what are you doing?...” Oh.

You steer closer, and the pitiful sight in front of you makes your shoulders pull straight; Itachi’s eyes strain, glaring down at the paper an inch away from his face at a poor attempt at reading the words.

He can’t see.

‘How long has he been-’ you quickly shuffle in your bag and call for Itachi’s attention. “You should’ve said something! I had brought your glasses with me, but I completely forgot about it-” Itachi takes it with a grateful upturn of his lips.

“Thank you..” He mutters, drawing his attention back to the list. “We are still missing the tomatoes and bread; I passed them earlier on our way in. Follow me.” Itachi gingerly takes your wrist in hand and leads you down the correct aisle.

Soon after you paid, you’ve collectively decided to grab a bite to eat. “Itachi, you smell that?” You sigh out an exhale; an alluringly sweet smell wafts itself above all the open markets along the sides from a small corner amongst the buildings. A mini cafe.

You brush against the roughness of Itachi’s calloused fingers, only grabbing his pinkie to lead him down.

You’ll pretend like you didn’t see the way he flushed.

+++

Slouching in the seat across Itachi, you flex out the ache in your fingers from the weight of the bags as you wait for your shared order of dangos.

“I’ll assist you with the baggage on our way out.”

Looking up in disbelief, you scoff, “Hell no- you’re still in recovery.”

“Don’t overwork yourself for my sake....”

Hypocrite.

You open your mouth to respond, only to suppress yourself at the sight of the waiter approaching.

The waiter smiles while serving your drink and food, then turns over and carelessly drops Itachi’s tea, droplets splashing onto Itachi’s lap.

With a twitching smile, the waiter laughs, “Oh, how clumsy of me, you should get yourself clean. You mutt; should be easy for a traitor, always covering his dirt.” Your mouth is agape, eyes shifting from Itachi to the waiter.

Itachi remains unfazed, his gaze fixed on the waiter with an air of nonchalance. It’s almost patronizing. The waiter scowls, turning away from the stare-down, muttering his pitiful complaints about Itachi’s mere presence.

“Geez, what was their problem?” You scoff side eyeing the waiter. Itachi sits silently, sipping his tea, looking down at his plate with a vacant stare. “...Itachi, you okay? I’ll go backhand a bitch for you, they had no right to treat you like that.”

Itachi’s eyes shift to you at your aggressive demeanor. “Don’t. I’ve made peace with my past; their hate will only torment themself.”

A lie. For a brisk moment, you noted how his mug trembled under the tension of his grip. You make a tsk noise, propping your head onto your hand, reluctantly letting the situation go.

Glancing up, Itachi discerns how your lips are still pulled into a snarl, glowering in the general direction of the offender.

‘Hm, that won’t do.’

Rolling back the ache in his shoulders, he figures he could relieve your tension. If it’d make you smile,

“…besides…”

He’d be a fool.

You turn back over with an inquiring hum.

“...they just aren’t sigma enough to control themself.” He returns to sipping his tea.

“…”

“....”

“Pfft- WHAT” You break the silence, convulsing with laughter. “I-Itachi, don’t ever say that in your life again- I’m not a good influence on you.” Still unable to break the giggles, you look at Itachi’s soft stare and slowly compose yourself under his unwavering gaze.

You cough in your hand and shift your eyes away.

“Let’s eat.”

You fall into a rhyme of chewing and idle conversation.

“See, now you’re lying! I never laughed when you put your glasses on-” The table shifts from the weight of your knee. You firmly dangle Itachi’s wrist away from his glasses as he attempted to remove them a few seconds ago.

“...you couldn’t even catch your breath.”

“I was just surprised! I’ve never seen your eyes so…beady.” You tremble, holding back a cackle. His prescription, unfortunately, made his lens the size of a brick, but thankfully, Tsunade aided in making it more suitable.

“So now my eyes are beady,” His voice barely whispers, he looks off to the side. A look of dismay washed over your face; you cusp his face between your hands, pulling his gaze back up to you.

“Hey- don’t get all mopey; you know I think you’re cute with the glasses on.” You softly look to reassure him, guilty over your tease...until you notice the subtle twitch in his lips, a poor attempt at maintaining his stoic facade.

He was joking.

Itachi shifts his weight into your palms, eyes closed in total serenity. “Do I?...”

‘Absolutely full of himself.’ You express your annoyance with an eye roll and flop back into your seat, leaving Itachi’s head to hang.

‘...did I displease her again.’ Itachi looks down at the final dango stick and holds it to you.

“Here, a truce for forgiveness.”

“But, that’s your favorite…and we bought that with your budget-” you sheepishly add.

“Please, I insist, I...don’t think I can finish this.” Itachi gives a light smile as he hovers the stick to your lips.

The blood rising to your face makes you dazed as you brush aside bits of your hair and savor the first dango ball on your tongue with a hum.

You swear it tastes sweeter from him.

“Thank you, Itachi; consider yourself forgiven.” You say before opening your mouth for the next one.

+++

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

“All done,” you brush your hands off proudly after putting away all the supplies and produce. When cleaning up the bags, you notice a mini bag that looks different from the rest.

‘Could this be Itachi’s?...’ You gently spread open the bag, eyes widening in astonishment; a beautiful crystal necklace sweetly lying in a small box with a small note tagged onto the front.

It reads,

‘I hope it’s to your liking, I noticed you wear this color frequently. Let this be a mark of our friendship ~ Itachi.’

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

Note: Heyyy haven't wrote anything since like 2021 but I might be back probably, probably not- This is pretty self-indulgent but hope yall still enjoyed ^^

Do I think Itachi would say "sigma" if it meant you'd laugh for him after feeling like he depressed the mood? YES. Live with my canon.

Do I think Itachi actually likes physical touch but is just touch starved? YES. I'm projecting.

Any sort of love is appreciated don't be shy to say hi and good luck to everyone during finals week!

*Also-If you have any tips on writing + writing Itachi please let me know!

#itachi uchiha #itachi x reader #itachi uchiha x reader #reader insert #fluff #finding happiness💗#fem!reader #uchiha #naruto fanfiction #naruto #fanfic #itachi #itachi fanfic

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absolute-flaming-trash · 9 months

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congrats!! #3. Movie Night + Mahito??

Ohhhhh I loved writing this so much, I hope you both like it!!

Warnings: Yandere, Implied forced relationship, Mahito

Word Count: 578

Additional Notes: Some spoilers for the movie Annihilation.

Movie night with Mahito was always a gamble.

While he could get absorbed in a book like nothing else, media was a different story. Unless the images on screen immediately held his attention or sucked him in with a great hook, he would either pester you the entire time with questions, or he would rip the film to shreds with his commentary.

Thankfully you’d managed to pick one out that had him captivated almost at the very start.

Annihilation was a trip, and you had said so when you mentioned the movie to him in the first place. He was doubtful, of course. What could possibly be so interesting about a movie that had aliens coming to Earth? However, as soon as you mentioned DNA and mutations, he clicked his tongue and decided it didn’t sound too terrible.

You were watching him more than the movie itself as it played. He was the most attentive you’d seen in a while, sitting beside you cross-legged on your couch - eyes glued to the screen of your TV. No smile of malintent on his face, rather one of pure intrigue.

You couldn’t help but smile yourself for once. “Still think it’s boring?”

“Shh.” He didn’t just put his hand over your mouth, no, he wrapped his entire hand around your face and pulled you against his chest, muffling your cry of surprise. You didn’t have to crane your neck up to know he was grinning. “You’ll ruin it.~”

In all fairness, he had a point. This was the sequence you enjoyed the most in the film and you figured he would as well as you watched from between his fingers.

The concept alone was, in your opinion, one of the most terrifying put to screen in decades.

“Oh my god! Help me! Help!”

Whereas the characters on screen were shaking with fear, Mahito was practically radiating with excitement as the bear on screen cried out in the voice of its last victim.

“Don’t react.”

Mahito giggled, the line from Natalie Portman’s character adding to whatever sick train of thought he had going on in his head - one that wouldn’t be hard to guess.

Not reacting to a monster like this would likely save the skin of the characters here, but in real life? Not reacting to a Curse never worked.

You’d know. You had tried.

He still had his hand over your face when all hell broke loose on screen. You tapped his hand with one of your free ones in a silent request, and he looked down at you.

“What was that? I can’t hear you.~”

You narrowed your eyes and he giggled again before taking his hand off your face. You weren’t completely freed though, his arm still wrapped around you and keeping your body close to his.

It was deceptively domestic.

“What do you think?” He whispered by your ear as the scene continued to play out. “Do you think the woman who died was aware of what this animal was doing? If her soul became bound to the same thing that killed her?”

You didn’t answer, partially because it was explained later on in the movie, but also because you’d learned that Mahito’s questions on this sort of thing were mostly rhetorical.

He placed a chaste kiss on your temple, something he only did when he was exorbitantly happy. You frowned, keeping your eyes on the screen.

“Thank you, doll, you’ve given me lots of new ideas.”

#riri writes #900 followers event #Mahito #Mahito x Reader #JJK #Jujutsu Kaisen #tw yandere #tw forced relationship #tw mahito

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thatfeelinwhenyou · 9 months

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KINDRED — 09

It’s your final year of highschool, and your only goal is to graduate top of your cohort, as usual. Except as student council president, your advisor can’t seem to leave you alone. What happens when you take Decelis Academy’s top student, their star athlete and put them in front of a camera?

smau + written (2.4k words)

❥･• episode 9 — operation we-don’t-really-hate-each-other

As the production crew ushers you into the room, your heart races with excitement. The once-deserted classroom has undergone a remarkable transformation, now standing as a confessional studio bathed in the warm glow of overhead lights. An intricate web of cameras and meticulous lighting equipment encircles two inviting stools, positioned neatly right next to each other. The aura within is electric, humming with a blend of excitement and tension.

Amidst this carefully orchestrated symphony of activity, the leading producer paces about, her brows furrowed in concentration, as she meticulously scrutinises the script clutched in her hands for what you assume is the nth time. Nearby, a small brigade of cameramen work with precision, each minor adjustment made to capture the most exquisite angles. And it hit you—this is really happening.

You nod attentively as you receive instructions from the crew that they will be filming the opening sequence to the documentary today, asking only a few questions to you and none other than Yang Jungwon.

Fully embracing the captivating allure of reality TV, complete with its intriguing and heart-pounding suspense, the producer resolutely quashes your hopeful plea for a sneak peek at those darn interview questions.

Frankly speaking, you are a bundle of jitters. It was known to the whole school that you were the embodiment of preparation; concepts securely etched into your mind, and meticulously crafted notes that served as your guide through yours exams. But now, standing right smack in the middle of the room, you're like a lost puppy wandering into uncharted waters. Yet, determined to guard your vulnerability from prying eyes, particularly those of Yang Jungwon's, you employ a carefully constructed façade of coy self-assurance.

And then, as if on cue, he materialises—a figure cast in a demeanour that is both effortlessly casual and frustratingly unperturbed. A pang of annoyance mingles with the surge of nerves as he nonchalantly strolls into the room (just five minutes late, as always).

"Yang Jungwon?" The words cut through the air, tinged with a hint of impatience. "Take a seat, would you? We're on a tight schedule." The crew member ushers him with practised efficiency toward the vacant stool at your side. A sharp, involuntary cringe tugs at your features as your gazes inadvertently lock for a fleeting moment. It's like this weird mix of nerves and irritation—a little tug-of-war playing out in plain sight.

"Shall we begin?" The authoritative resonance of Producer Choi's voice cuts through the room, casting a spell of anticipation over the set. Settling gracefully onto her stool, she assumes a poised stance behind the camera. You offer a subtle nod, a silent testament to your readiness that doesn’t escape her notice. Jungwon's eyes, however, roll in a gesture that practically screams his disdain for what he perceives as your pretentious façade of a good-girl persona.

"Alright, let’s kick things off." Producer Choi declares, her tone dripping with intrigue. Her gaze sweeps over you both, the opening chord of this unforeseen duet. "We've got a series of questions lined up, and all you need to do is answer them as best you can."

“First off, let's get those introductions going." With a pointed gesture, Producer Choi directs her attention toward Jungwon, signalling for him to lead the charge.

"Yang Jungwon, age nineteen, Taekwondo athlete," he utters, his words a blend of confidence and haste. He concludes with an almost reluctant scoff, a rebellion against formalities he can't entirely suppress. The edge of his scoff doesn't go unnoticed; his message is clear even as he chooses to ignore your presence. You, however, are not one to be silenced. Rolling your eyes with a mix of exasperation and amusement, you address the cameras with a poised smile.

"Greetings, dear viewers. I am Park Y/N, a final-year student at Decelis Academy and student body president for the Decelis Student Council. It’s an honour to be here.” Your words hold an unspoken challenge, one pointed towards Yang Jungwon and the inexplicable sense of rivalry the two of you built up.

The camera falls silent as Producer Choi brings her decisive hand into play, her frustration tangible. "Jungwon, I need more enthusiasm, and Y/N, this isn't a grand ceremony; there’s no need for the formalities." The faint sound of a stifled laugh brushes against your ears, a reaction you steadfastly choose to ignore. "Let’s try that again."

"Moving on to the next question, could you each briefly describe your after-school curriculum?”

"For me," you begin with a candid note in your tone, "if there's no student council business demanding my attention, I’ll usually be in the library, my unofficial second home. I catch up on lectures and assignments there." You let out a small, self-aware chuckle. "I guess everyone in the school knows where to find me if they need something-"

"Oh, absolutely, she's practically a monk. Always got her nose in a book and apparently, other people’s businesses." Jungwon's voice cuts in with the precision of a finely honed blade, his words tinged with an undercurrent of amusement. The interruption draws a sigh of irritation from you, but you forge ahead. You're quick to retake the spotlight, your voice a dance of resolve and exasperation.

"I suppose you could say that. With free time on my hands, I've come to believe in putting it to good use." A casual shrug punctuates your response, and you cast a sidelong glance at the boy seated beside you, a mischievous smile playing on your lips.

"I mean, why not, right?" You continue, your words a challenge woven in playful nonchalance. "If there's time to spare, I'd rather channel it into something productive." The tilt of your chin conveys an invitation for his response—an unspoken duel of words and wits. You throw him an artful smile, a silent promise of your tenacity to match his.

"If we're talking productivity," Jungwon retorts, his words a measured challenge, "I'm an athlete. So, after-school training is a part of my routine. Not everyone's got their head buried in books.” His gaze locks with yours, and the tension between you is palpable.

It's like a duel of wills—a silent battle neither of you intends to back down from. The intensity is so thick, it's as if you're caught in a staring contest, each vying for the upper hand. The world around you fades into the background, leaving only the simmering tension that crackles like electricity.

The only interruption is a slight cough, and the reality of the situation rushes back as awareness dawns that you're being captured on camera. Reality snaps back into focus, and you're acutely aware of the weight of expectations resting on your shoulders. The watchful eyes of not only the production crew but also the prestigious universities, the very ones your mother has been weaving dreams of, are watching your every move.

Your glare softens, your defiance tempered by a reminder of your surroundings. With a subtle adjustment of your posture, you manage a quiet apology under your breath, a concession to the circumstances.

Jungwon, on the other hand, wears a triumphant smirk, his victory achieved by stirring a reaction out of you, evidently content that he managed to get under your skin.

"There seems to be some tension lingering between you two. Care to elaborate on your relationship?" Producer Choi's inquiry comes with a raised eyebrow and an undercurrent of curiosity clearly dancing in her eyes. The unspoken rivalry that simmers between you and Jungwon has clearly captured her attention.

Unbeknownst to her before casting the two of you, this uncharted territory has presented itself as a thrilling discovery, painted across her face in a delighted smile. The promise of raw content and untamed drama is endless—the very essence of what a reality TV show thrives upon.

"We're exactly as you see it," Jungwon answers, his voice cool and his words laced with a mix of indifference and disdain. He rises from his seat with an air of defiance, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "No relationship, just mutual detestment." His tongue clicks with emphasis, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air. "Are we done here? I've got places to be."

Producer Choi concedes to his request, her words are a concession to the present circumstances. "I suppose that’s enough for today. We'll reconvene after school at your respective activities." Her tone takes on a breezy cadence, but it's clear that her expectations won't be sidestepped.

"As we discussed, Mondays will be separate shoots, but to uphold our end of the bargain, we need both of you together for the rest of the week. Agreed?" Her assumption of authority, coupled with her audacity to steer the situation, is a stark contrast to the formality she adopts when conversing with your teachers. While annoyance simmers within you, you refrain from voicing your thoughts.

The feeling doesn’t seem to be an isolated thought when your gaze shifts to Jungwon, finding his eyes locked on yours. The unspoken words that sit on the tip of his tongue threaten to escape, his teeth grazing his lower lip in contemplation. However, he brushes off the impulse, and his exit from the classroom is marked by a subtle tension, with the cameras following closely behind him—a testament to the intricate predicament you've found yourselves in.

You, on the other hand, leave the classroom after wrapping up a few more questions. Missing your first period was already stressful enough, but there's something about Producer Choi that sets off alarm bells in your head, reminding you of those bossy characters you thought only existed in dramas.

Lost in thought, you walk down the deserted hallway, quickening your pace to make it to second period on time. Your distraction becomes even more apparent as you inadvertently pass by Yang Jungwon, leaning casually against the lockers.

"Park," his familiar voice halts you in your tracks, and you glance back to find him looking straight at you. Was he... waiting for you?

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have places to be?” You mock him, recalling his cold demeanor in the classroom. He scoffs in response, rolling his eyes, “Can we talk?”

"Depends. If you're here to lecture me about Taekwondo again, save it."

“As much as I would love to annoy you with my apparent obsession with my own sport, but no, it’s about the documentary.” Jungwon pushes himself off the lockers and walks over to you. Just then, from the corner of his eye, he spots the production crew turning the corner, and in a fit of panic, he grabs your hand and pulls you away from the building. Before you could even process it, he was already dragging you half-way across the campus.

“Let go! What is it that you can’t just tell me over text?” You manage to yank your hand free, irritation simmering. “It’s already bad enough that I have to put up with that tyrant of a producer; I really don’t need you adding to it.”

"Normally, I'd disagree, but thank fucking God you find that woman as irritating as I do."

“The way she spoke to us? Sure, I signed a contract, but I’m not her puppet.” He places a hand on his hip, an action oddly reminiscent of your grandmother when she would scold you for not visiting her more often. The image loiters in your mind as you stifle a laughter that unfortunately doesn’t go unnoticed by Jungwon.

“What’s so funny?” He raises his eyebrows, and you shake your head to brush him off, but it only fuels his curiosity even more. “I’m assuming you dragged me all the way here to discuss Producer Choi?” His annoyance is evident, as he nods vigorously. It's an unexpected sight—Yang Jungwon, the epitome of nonchalance, riled up by a woman not much older than him. It's kind of endearing, but you would rather die than admit that out loud, so you bury that atrocious thought in the back of your head.

“Speaking of which, she couldn’t even hide her delighted expression when she found out we practically hate each other-”

“Whoa, ‘hate’ is a pretty strong word. If that's your opinion of me, okay, but I definitely don't hate you. Just a minor difference." You spoke without thinking yet again, and although Beomgyu would be very disappointed if he were here with you, the sentiment is out there now.

Jungwon seems taken aback by your confession, hurriedly clearing his throat. "As I was saying, she's clearly trying to stir up drama, as if I'd willingly play along." He scoffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest, his tongue poking the insides of his cheeks.

“I know you’re taking a risk on this documentary, and don’t even bother denying it because I know you’re trying to gain publicity and favour.”

"How did you—did Sunoo tell you?"

"That's not the point; the thing is, I am too."

"And what university would even take YOU?" He rolls his eyes at your teasing, not bothering to argue.

"I'm an athlete, remember? A Taekwondoin on top of that. I have a really important competition next month, and God forbid that I be shown on national television as someone who picks fights with girls. It goes against the sport's values." He explains, trying to get his point across. Sadly, it flies over your head.

"Seriously? My point is that we need to act as if we don't hate—well, dislike—each other. I know we said we'd ignore each other, but now she's making you sit in for my trainings and me study with you in the library. It's physically impossible." He shudders at the thought of having to even step foot into that place, and though you really wish you didn’t have to be around him, Jungwon is right—there's no escaping this situation.

You sort of know you're heading down the deep end when Producer Choi insists on having you and Jungwon sit side-by-side in class, despite the documentary's official filming schedule commencing only after school. The array of cameras meticulously arranged around your classroom, ostensibly to capture mundane "B-Roll" footage, fuels your suspicions. Deep down, you're well aware that their true purpose is to capture any moment of vulnerability or connection between you and Jungwon.

It doesn't require a genius to discern their ulterior motive—they're determined to exploit your relationship for the camera's sake. The bizarre part is, this isn't even a dating show. The intention behind it all remains an enigma, leaving you to grapple with the looming uncertainty that now defines your academic life.

I guess you can say that ‘Operation We-Don’t-Really-Hate-Each-Other’ is a go.

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