#Flimsy Convictions

[wickedzeevyln]

Synthetic Souls and Silicon Hearts

The doomsday clock is set 29 seconds to midnight,wax-dipped lips quivered for a fading kissmasked hearts buried in layers,deep and thickin muck and in grief. Out of toner,Out of ink,smiles no longer print lemon-yellow days. Soulless words ringing hollow tones,emanating out of dry throats,bouncing off flimsy convictions,thirsting for meaning. We surf a sea of faces,riddled with galaxy of…

[doggirlbuck]

the thing is i will never be mad at taylor kelly for anything to do with buck they where #toxic and bad for each other and she somehow brought out the worst in him which is honestly entirely his fault and that whole deal was actually pretty awesome. im mad at her for her lack of journalistic integrity. and the fact that that lack of journalistic integrity put peoples lives in danger and she didnt even seem to feel any remorse or shame about how her recklessness got hen and chimney kidnapped and almost got chimney murdered

[tomatoluvr69]

Guess who’s back back again harvest moon back tell a friend

[black--sun]

He’s not expecting that. He didn’t think Shiro would hand out private details, but he really didn’t expect him to ever date a cop either. Or sleep with. Ichigo only recalls Shiro scorning any kind of authority, especially the few times they’ve interacted with law enforcement. Ichigo’s never had any real animosity toward the police until they put his dad away. And it doesn’t matter that he knows Shiro dating a cop isn’t related to his situation at all, it still feels like a stab in the back. “You’re right. Why would he try to kill you? You probably pay him well.” 

Ichigo crosses his arms, tempted to roll over. That might’ve been a little low. But also a little deserved. 

Back to flirting. Ichigo ignores it the same way he used to back when they first met. Only, now he knows it’s not just suggestive banter to throw him off balance. Shiro is probably serious. “I’d like it if you got back in the car, yeah. But I’d settle for you wearing protection and not standing out in front.” It’s not like he’s being paid to be agreeable. Not like Shiro’s boyfriend. 

He huffs an almost laugh. “Not a chance.” Shiro already has enough money and power to wreak havoc, as if Ichigo would introduce him to a small, private army. 

He isn’t quite grinding his teeth yet, but he also doesn’t have to keep Shiro happy anymore. “Like you need to remind me. That’s just about your life motto, isn’t it?” Now he does roll onto his opposite side.

His eyes coast to the side to find Ichigo, but he doesn't actually turn his head. He can't tell if Ichigo is genuinely asking, or if he's implying he thinks Shiro's wrong. Or maybe he's just trying to figure out who Shiro's screwing around with... Except that implies jealousy and Ichigo wants nothing to do with him.

He shrugs. "He's a cop." Not that he'd succeed if he tried to arrest Shiro. Shiro's pockets run deep and so do his connections. He sells to half the force. "I didn't know that when we first met, but I figured it out quick." And he chose to see him again anyway.

There's enough alcohol buzzing in his system that he catches that ire, but in a lazy, mostly unbothered sort of way. He's usually a pretty happy drunk, as long as he's not too drunk, and right now he's hovered right on that perfect plane. "I'm already a target. I'm gonna be a target the moment we roll up. Unless you thought you'd hide me in your car the whole time. Only way that's happening is if you're in my lap to keep me there."

Ichigo sounds so exasperated already and it hasn't even happened. He snorts. "Good, it sounds fun. I love a good mess. You'll have to introduce me to 'em when we're done." He highly doubts Ichigo has any intention of damage control, let alone damage control that stays out of the way. Ichigo has always enjoyed a good fight and being right in the middle of everything. "I'll jump in where I see fit, if I see fit." It's his nice way of saying no one can tell him what to do.

[mostly-marvel-musings]

How about “nope no nada, no using sex to get me to do things you want, it’s not going to work anymore” + using sex to get our favorite insomniac Mr. Stank to take a break from work and come to bed?

Old tricks

A/N: I was waiting for this prompt, can’t believe it was in my inbox the whole time and I missed it. Leave a comment, heart or reblog if you’ve enjoyed reading :)

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader

Warning: 18+ sex themes, fluff

Tony Stark Masterlist

.

“How long has it been since he last took a nap, FRI?” You sighed, closing the book you were currently reading before stifling a yawn.

Thirty eight hours and counting, Mrs. Stark.

He was at it again. After promising that he would join you in bed early today, Tony Stark was still in the basement, nose deep in inventing yet another device that would potentially save the universe.

Rolling your eyes you threw the sheets off of your legs, rummaging through your closet to find the oldest trick in the book of ‘Getting your husband to obey’.

A set of lingerie was usually your go to but tonight, you decided on going down to his lab wearing nothing but a silky robe that you planned on discarding the moment he would lay eyes on you.

Overriding his protocol with FRIDAY’S help, you entered his lab and were met with an immediate blast of cold air; it fortunately worked in your favour, pebbling your nipples and making them evident against the flimsy piece of fabric.

Your husband stood hunched over his table that displayed varied diagrams and models with a blue glowing light that made his features appear exhausted. He probably was. Not that he would ever admit.

“Hello husband.”

You murmured, hugging the man from behind and wrapping your arms around his middle, feeling his tight muscles against your soft flesh, the contrast making you frown.

Tony sighed, melting against your touch immediately, as his hands stopped working to cover yours in a reassuring way.

“Are you planning on warming your side of the bed any time soon? Perhaps your wife would like some company too..”

Turning in your arms, he leaned in to kiss your lips in a wordless apology before stopping, his strained eyes grazing down your form, taking you in.

“What are you doing, Y/N?”

“What?” You feigned innocence, grabbing his hands and bringing them to the front of your robe, beginning to unfasten the ties.

Letting out a defeated grunt, Tony’s head planted itself against your shoulder, stopping your movements at once.

“Nope. No. Nada. No using sex to get me to do things you want, it’s not going to work anymore.” You grinned because his voice lacked conviction, and the fact that he hadn’t pushed you away meant you had already won.

“Isn’t it?”

You smirked, undoing the belt completely now to reveal what the robe barely covered. Opening an eye, Tony drank your glorious self in, not finding enough reason to resist. With your nipples turned into buds and the glistening between your thighs, he was powerless.

Tony Stark simply wasn’t built to resist your persuasion.

Taking the robe off completely, you stepped back and turned to head out of his lab, throwing the robe over the shoulder with a knowledge that it had probably landed on his head.

“You’re just gonna wander around the house naked now?” He called after you, cock stirring in his pants at the sight of your curves sashaying their way out, just for him as you shrugged in response.

“Maybe I’ll try another good old trick. Perhaps that toy you designed for our anniversary?”

There was a curse word uttered under his breath before Tony Stark shut off his lab for the night and made a beeline in your direction, refusing to let his wife pleasure herself with anything that wasn’t his cock or tongue.

Find Part 2 here!

[crescenthistory]

Hello, I love your writing and recently I’ve been kind of obsessed with Regulus calling reader Amour, so my request would be Regulus x fem!reader where he calls her Amour like a prayer or a mantra while reader kisses his neck, jaw, lips, just loving him. Thank you for your work !

i always write french!black brothers, so regulus will always use the pet name amour for reader in my fics ✊ thank you for requesting babe<3

Words: 2.5k

Warnings: suggestive/steamy (18+, mdni), heavy make-out session, grinding, suggestive remarks, but no actual smut, gn!reader, domestic bliss, established relationship, inappropriate use of the french language, regulus' slutty waist, tooth-rotting fluff

His fingertips trailed up and down the length of your arm tantalisingly; a barely there touch, a brush spelling out the casual love simmering beneath the surface.

With closed eyes you let out a content sigh, leaning further back into the soft cushions of your sofa.

"Alright, amour?"

You could hear the smile in his voice and lolled your head sideways to open your eyes and see it for yourself. Regulus sat comfortably beside you in your shared living room, eyes still trained on the flimsy paperback he had in hand. You both abandoned any professional work you had to get done earlier, and opted for settling into the quiet comfort of the evening, enjoying the radiating warmth and affection from the person beside you.

"Can't think of any complaints right now, no." His eyes flitted up to find the teasing in your own, and let out a small entertained sound.

"No?" Regulus placed his paperback upside down on the armrest, so that he could angle his body more sideways towards you. He already had one arm around your shoulders where he grazed you absentmindedly, but now he placed a purposeful hand on your thigh and squeezed. "What a miracle that is."

"I'll have you know, I am perfectly agreeable," you quipped back, leaning into his touch.

Regulus' eyes flitted slowly between your own as the smile on his face grew steadier. It felt impeccably at home. "You're perfect, alright." His low voice rumbled slightly in his chest on the way out and felt like a soft touch against your eardrums. You sighed again, seemingly melting into him – he readily accepted your weight.

"Not what I meant," you whispered. A steadying hand placed on his shoulder as you mirrored his slow creeping towards you, faces gravitating closer.

"It's what I meant."

The fingertips that had mapped out your arm made their final journey upwards, continuing past your shoulder and grazing a sweet path up to the underside of your chin. With two fingers, he encouraged your chin forward the last few centimetres until your lips met his and you could taste his tranquil smile.

Soft lips meeting each other in greeting for the first time in an hour or two, a coming home of sorts despite having been bundled up beside each other the whole time. Regulus' fingers moved back to splay out across your jaw, settling his pinky on your neck and his middle finger in that lovely spot behind your ear. His grip was firm but still delicate, holding you with conviction and care all at the same time. It brought a smile back to your face as you thought of how his kisses were much the same.

"What's so funny, beautiful?" he murmured against your lips, swallowing your answer before you could give it as he captured your bottom lip between his own.

You fought a giggle at his antics, instead breathing out through your nose and welcoming his continued touches. Your own hands travelled up from his shoulders to his hair, brushing through it and playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. His lips moved leisurely against yours, slightly open-mouthed and sweet.

When you came apart, you kissed his upper lip gently, revelling in the sigh he let out of his own, foreheads pressed together. "I just love you," you whispered.

All at once, the distance between the two of you felt overwhelmingly too large and your body ached to feel his warmth, his touch. You let your arms cross behind his neck, gripping onto his shoulders and pressing your chests flush against each other, while easing one leg out from beneath you to climb onto his lap. Regulus, who had just smiled lovingly at you, let one arm come to hold your hip and help stabilise you as you straddled him, inching as close to him as physically possible. "You love me, hm?" His eyes surveyed yours with a playful undertone.

Once you were settled comfortably in his lap, you nudged your nose into his, humming at the contact. "Allegedly," you said conspiratorially to which he gave a faux gasp.

You were quick to capture that gasp with your mouth.

If the first kiss was two lovers reuniting on the sofa they had been studying on together, then this kiss was a declaration of persevering devotion, a prayer whispered into the embrace of each other. This was deeper, both physically and emotionally as you took advantage of his parted lips to slip your tongue past them, meeting his own with a hum reverberating through you. Regulus groaned in turn, wrapping his arms tightly around your back to pull you even closer, fingers splaying out wide. His back came slightly off the cushions as he leaned against you, chasing your lips with every slight parting, and you couldn’t help the slight giggle that escaped your throat when you noticed.

“You’re acting like you’ve missed me,” you whispered as you parted from the fervent kiss to pepper smaller, lighter ones across his face as you caught your breath. 

“I always miss you, amour.” You glanced at him to see that his eyes had drifted shut for a moment, relishing in your doting affection pressed into every available crevice on his face, paying particular attention to the freckles splattered on top of his cheekbones and temples.

“That simply won’t do.” 

Your heart sang as you found his lips once more, only to find him instantly fighting to deepen the kiss, to have you impossibly more intertwined with him, one hand at last tangling in your hair to angle your head just the way he liked. You took the opportunity to let your own touches travel, dragging your fingertips teasingly down his neck and stroking across his shoulders clad in his sensible jumper. “Mind if this comes off?” you murmured in between open-mouthed kisses, tugging on his collar. 

Regulus wasted no time pulling away and dragging his jumper over his head, revealing his black skin-tight cropped tanktop beneath, though not without lifting a teasing eyebrow in reference to your intentions – which only went higher into his curly hair when he saw how your eyes took in his exposed collarbones and lower midriff. A truly sinful pair of hips on this one.

“Seems like someone’s missed me too,” he said smugly, all the while grasping a handful of the hair at the nape of your neck while dragging your face back towards his. “C’mere, pretty.”

With very little desire in your body to resist his kisses when he looked so domestic and blissed out, you abandoned your marveling of the boy beneath your hands to kiss him even more passionately. Your hands clutched at his jaw for stability when he dragged you back to him, but as soon as you were melting against his measured, satisfied kisses, you let them travel once more.

Your fingertips ghosted across his collarbones, one hand stopping to splay out across his heart and press down firmly enough for Regulus to sigh against you. The other found the v-shape on his hips, tracing them up and down, fingers occasionally hooking into the waistband of his trousers teasingly, a thrill shooting through you at the low groan that escaped him whenever you did.

“Gods, I just love you.” You whispered it against his lips, moving your hands all over his upper body as if you could not get enough; you decidedly could not and knew right there and then that if you were to die in his arms now, it would have been a happy death. “So much.”

“I love you, amour.” His voice was gravelly and breathless, coming apart even beneath such light touches – witnessing the effect you had on him never once ceased to amaze you. 

When you let your lips diverge from his own this time, you did not simply part for breath, instead trailing paths across his skin with the same attention and vigour you had given to his beautiful mouth. He let out a sigh, letting you have your way with him and shower him in the affection that seemed to be painfully bursting out of you, hands settling firmly on your hips to keep you close. “I love it when you call me that.” You pressed a sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth before letting your tongue dart out to kiss at the curve of his jaw, making your way to his ear, no skin going untouched, unloved.

“Call you what? Amour?” His breath stuttered throughout his question. You merely hummed in approval as you kissed the divot at the end of his jaw, feeling his chest rattle as you did so. “I always call you that.” Beneath your lips and fingertips trailing the other side of his face, you could feel his skin moving with the tell-tale signs of his growing smile.

“And I always love it,” you whispered into his ear before catching his earlobe between your teeth. The slight hiss and groan that followed sent sparks through you, and you tugged at his ear with your bite, tasting the metal of his piercings on your tongue. 

“Amour,” he moaned then, and you would be remiss if you did not let one of your hands keep exploring further down, spurred on by his term of endearment for you.

As you moved down the right side of his throat, you kissed and lapped and bit, easily forming evidence of your love across his pale, shimmery skin. The contrast always settled happily in your stomach when you looked at it, purple on white, you on Regulus.

Your hand that had held the other side of his face slid into his hair, grasping a handful at the nape of his neck and using it to pull his head further to the left, allowing you greater access. Once more, Regulus let out a moan at the slight sting and you knew it was on purpose when he whispered another hoarse, “Amour.”

You hummed in appraisal against his throat as you kissed, feeling the vibrations move through him. Your free hand kept toying with his waistband, slipping your fingers just far enough beneath to cause his breath to catch, but never truly doing anything, instead enjoying having your love all to yourself and accepting of the doting you ached to give him. It had been a long journey to accept any form of affection, let alone worship, so now that you had him freely all to yourself, you never passed up the opportunity.

With your hand in his hair, you pulled his head further back, granting you better access to his throat and chest, pressing a soft kiss to where his throat was bobbing as he swallowed at your ministrations. You kissed your way down to the dip between his neck and shoulder, where you gave him a particularly rough lovebite. His hands on your hips jerked towards him, essentially dragging your core across his, eliciting groans from the both of you. “Oh, amour,” he whispered, looking down at you with husky bedroom eyes.

You let your tongue lap over your bite, kissing across his prominent collarbones instead, trailing them up and down with a feverish tongue. With your hand in his waistband, you slipped around to his backside, dipping the rest of your hand in to get a handful of his ass. You used the momentum of his hips bucking upwards to grind yourself down against him, smiling through your kisses at the lovely sounds he was making.

“Amour, amour, amour.” Regulus was chanting your term of endearment as if it was a prayer, a mantra to get you to continue; and you would never deny him anything he asked for. You continued rolling your hips back and forth on top of his, heat pooling in your stomach as you felt him twitch and jerk beneath you. You moved your hand from his hair to settle onto his chest for leverage, palm pushing firmly into his left nipple as your nails buried their way into his skin through his sheer tanktop. All the while you were kissing across his collarbones, nipping and then soothing the skin immediately with your tongue, leaving saliva-covered bruises in your wake. 

“You’re so good for me, my love,” you whispered into the dent between his collarbones, and he let out a sound that seemed to be the mix of a breathless laugh and a sullen moan.

“Told you I missed you,” he managed to quip out, breath hitching once more as you repositioned yourself slightly to roll your core directly against his, only separated by thin fabrics of clothing. “Comment pourrais-je ne pas le faire, alors que tu m'aimes tant?”

Your turn to groan as you leaned your forehead against his slightly slick skin. “Just love you,” you mumbled once more before continuing your attack on his lovely body.

With trembling fingers, Regulus slipped a hand across your cheek and into your hair, encouraging you to let go of the skin right above his tanktop – which you had half a mind to remove, if it didn’t accentuate his waist so beautifully – and brought your face back up to his.

The grin you were met with left nothing to the imagination as to what he was feeling, physically or emotionally. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pulled your face closer and closer until your lips were hovering millimetres above his own that were tilted to the side, ready to accept you in full. “Me laisserais-tu t'avoir, mon amour?”

You shuddered and tried to close the distance between you, but Regulus had regained some control as he regarded you with nothing short of marvel, and he held your head in place. “Hm?” he questioned then, teasing aligned in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you said,” you all but whined, in a quieter voice than you thought possible. Normally, you might have made some quip about it, but at the moment you were pure putty in his hands.

“I said,” he whispered, using his grip on the back of your head to tilt your head to the side, until it was the shell of your ear grazing his lips and not your own. “Would you let me have you, my love?”

Shivers ran down your spine at his tone, your hands clutching him harder, closer, wanting always to get closer. When he turned your head to meet his eyes once more, his pupils had nearly eclipsed the grey irises you loved so much.

His smile was somehow both devilish and soft at the same time as he took in how breathless he could make you with just a few words.

“Please.”

No sooner had you uttered the word before his lips were back on yours, hungry and loving, his hands moving to your ass to hoist you up into the air and carry you against him to your shared bedroom.

The perfect night of domestic bliss.

[quandledlngle69]

⸻ ミヒャエル・カイザ MICHEAL KAISER.

⋆˙⟡ synopsis; young kaiser has never had a birthday before, or eaten cake. you changed that for him, and he's grateful. a drabble, in the AU of this series. this takes place during the two months kaiser is with reader. can be a stand-alone. fem!reader, hurt with comfort. w.c; 0.9k.

kaiser watches as the lighter flickers to life, the mellow fire lighting the surrounding darkness with a soft, orange hue.

it moves, inching closer to him until it mingles with the wick of the candle, its blazing heat passed on. it illuminates his face, a gentle heat that caresses his skin and begins to slowly melt the wax. he observes your hand as you move the lighter with ease, fourteen other candles slowly being lit, one by one. 

the top surface of the cake glowed, the thick chocolate frost glistening against the natural light.

"micha," your soft call pulled him out of his deep trance, his eyes meeting your gentle ones. there's a tender look in them, one that makes his heart squeeze with something unfamiliar to him–until he met you. "do you know what to do?"

"no." he mumbles earnestly, eyes dipping back to the homemade cake in front of him. he's never had a birthday before, or a cake, or did any of the traditions everybody knows off by heart.

you hummed in response, crouching down beside him, crossed arms resting on the edge of the table, chin tucked on your forearm. "you have to close your eyes and make a wish. then, you blow out the candles. and don't say your wish out loud, otherwise it won't come true."

a small part of him thinks it's a stupid thing to believe in. he's wished and prayed for many things in his–now–fifteen years of living. and all of them have been left cruelly unanswered.

but for some reason, he wants to believe you. there's a sparkle in your eyes, amplified by the dancing candle light. you say it with such conviction, as if it's a fact, and he finds himself finally closing his eyes, crinkling with how hard he squeezes them as he searches his brain for something he wishes for.

he doesn't want to ask for any more presents, not when he has so many on the table; a handful still under the christmas tree, all for him. you already got him a new football, and he hasn't been trembling from the biting cold from ragged, flimsy clothes in weeks. he's not even hungry, that gnawing starvation long withered away.

so, he wishes for the opposite of what he's scared of.

parting from you.

so, he wishfully yearns with scrunched up features, the little voice inside his head repeating the words over and over until he's satisfied. and only then, does his lashes flutter open, blowing out the small; lit candles, one by one, until the only thing rising off is a stream line of smoke.

you brush some blonde, unruly stray hairs away from his face, tucking it behind his ear. "happy birthday, michael."

he doesn't respond to your words, but the swirl of gratefulness in his blues speaks to you more than words ever could. the lamp in the corner switches on, and he observes quietly as you cut him a slice of cake. he had noticed you making it earlier, the smell of cocoa powder still deep in his nose; "chocolate fudge cake", one of your mother's recipes, you had told him.

he sticks his fork in the spongy, moist, layer rather aggressively, lifting it into his mouth as he takes the first bite rather wearily.

"tell me how it tastes." you urge delicately.

he wants to tell you how ridiculously fucking sweet it is, how the sticky fudge is stuck on the roof of his mouth, his tongue, coating all of his teeth. there's definitely enough sugar to give him multiple cavities. he's sure he'll have to brush his teeth twice after this.

despite that, he takes another bite, and another, and another–borderline scoffing it down.

you insist for him to slow down before he chokes, even so, he doesn't pause for even a moment.

yet, it's in the havoc of his feral eating that he suddenly bursts into tears. his eyes glassy as they well up and sting, yet he continues to chew with a quivering lip. his blonde lashes clump up with wetness, darkening just a little.

there's an intense pressure in his chest, but it's not full of dreadful fear, but content and comfort. it feels as though another missing piece of him was filled entirely, one he didn't even know was missing. and realising that, more tears spilled from his eyes. it feels good–to cry. he didn't think it was possible. you never called him a crybaby like his father when he cried, or told him to shush.

he hears you coo with a fondness before embracing him warmly, not caring that the leftover chocolate smeared around his mouth is staining your nightgown. his hands fist the silk fabric on the back of your dress, his face concealed against your stomach. your fingers nimbly comb through his hair, patient as you waited, his sobs gradually falling away into little hiccups and whines. he only feels relief as he melts into your hold.

he sniffles before swallowing the last bite in his mouth.

"this is...r–really good...thank you." he whispers, peering up at you as your thumbs swipe away the rest of his stray tears.

"your welcome baby." you reply in the same tone, the handkerchief in your hand cleaning away the crumbs and leftover smudged fudge on the corner of his lips.

"it's still snowing micha," you said suddenly, his eyes following yours to the frosted world, just behind the glass window. snowflakes fell gracefully from the empty, dark sky. the tree outside of the apartment complex is bare, icicles of every size and shape hanging from drooping branches. the street was blanketed with powdered snow, covering everything in its path.

"would you like to dabble in the snow for a bit? you can wear your new coat if you want."

he nods silently, the scrapping chair echoing as he gets up, allowing you to lead him to the hallway, leaving the desolate kitchen in a peaceful tranquility.

Quandaledlngle69 © 2025

this is so fucking buns chat 💔

[ruesol]

What makes one an ex-convict part 2

(this drabble is based off of my ex-convict!sukuna x academically burnt out reader prompt)

Icy rain beats down on your shoulders even when the world is past the ides of October.

You push through the crowd of people at the train station, hoping to get home as fast as possible, The comfort of the semi-claustrophobic walls waiting for you.

Gojo had offered to drop you home but you needed space to process what you had just learned. Ears ringing, calves aching, and body drenched, yet all you can think about is how coolly Sukuna intervened your meetup and how easy it was for him to suggest harming your friend.

Grown middle aged men returning from work leer at you, catching a glimpse of the skin above your knees as you sat down, so you pulled your trench coat tighter around your body, feeling uncomfortable. Even then, protecting yourself felt secondary because your mind began to reel about how Sukuna’s men could be anywhere.

A drug lord.

You felt sick, your dinner bubbling up to your throat as your stomach churned. A phantom acrid flavor spreading on the back of your tongue.

Paranoid, your eyes search for him everywhere, hoping that he wasn’t following you. Every flash of pink sets your heart on fire.

When you’re about to shove your key into your apartment door’s keyhole, you notice that the door is already ajar and a hollowing realization sets itself in your mind.

Sukuna is already sitting on your bed, his weight on the flimsy mattress makes his knees bend at a comical angle—this only reminds you just how much space he takes up by existing alone.

His suit jacket is strewn on the floor, and the first three buttons of his dress-shirt are undone. When he looks up, all you can see is heady desire, and a desperate glint of curiosity.

“H-how did you get in?” You didn’t feel very tipsy on your way back, but you could still feel sobriety return to your system like a cold splash of water.

Sukuna stands up, making the springs in the mattress squeak when it retakes its shape, and he walks towards you. Chest-to-chest, red eyes staring into glassy ones. Your legs tremble in your too tall heels as you stumble back, but Sukuna secures a hand around your waist and leans down to your ear.

“No matter what corner of the world you go to, I will find you. You don’t understand how deep my connections run. Either come with me or live here.” His breath hits your ears like a puff of warm smoke. He smells like tobacco and sandalwood, you didn’t know many men to compare him to, but you could tell that his tastes were expensive despite how old his truck looked.

“Get out,” you rasp out, hands already on his chest to push him away.

But Sukuna gathered your wrists in a single hand and he tilts your chin up. “Be nice to me if you want your friend to live.”

“Okay.” You weren’t sure if he had even heard you at the volume you had spoken. Your mind was too discombobulated at the thought that you could go to jail for simply knowing him. Your frown deepens till your muscles hurt.

“Good. I better hear back from you soon.”

You don’t get to reply that you have an exam later that week when Sukuna pulls you in for a heated kiss. His tongue swipes along yours as he groans in your mouth. You taste faint traces of wine on him. It’s bitter compared to the one you had with Gojo.

He leaves one last peck on your forehead before slamming the door shut and you fall to your knees, going light-headed at the fact that you now had a drug lord on your tail.

—

taglist: @scorpiosugar @gradmacoco @sirenpearldust @bozos-r-us @onnikaedia @fangirlingbookworm1

[laylahluvsasians]

𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 || 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - the salesman kidnapped you in the motel after gi-hun pulled that stunt with his two buddies.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, slight manipulation.

You weren’t sure how long it had been since the Salesman had taken you. The dim light in the room made it hard to tell the time. Two days — you thought — maybe three. The memories blurred together like a fever dream. The sharp smell of cigarettes lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of rain that crept through the cracked window.

He hadn’t hurt you. Not physically, at least. That was the most unsettling part. No ropes, no chains — just the heavy presence of him, always watching. His voice was eerily calm when he spoke, polite even. The man in the suit, with his perfect smile and those calculating eyes, treated you like a guest.

But you weren’t a guest.

You were his.

You thought about running. Many times. The old wooden door was flimsy, the locks easy enough to pry open. But where would you go? He had a way of knowing. Like he could see right through you. And yet, the temptation gnawed at you.

On the second night, you tried.

The rain poured down in sheets, drowning the world in silver. His voice had drifted from the other room, low and distant as he spoke on the phone. You crept to the door, your heartbeat thundering in your chest. The lock clicked open. Freedom was just beyond the threshold.

But before you could step outside, his arms were around you.

“Where are you going?” The question came softly, almost like a whisper.

You twisted against him, but his grip was firm. Strong. His breath ghosted against your ear as he pulled you back inside. The warmth of him enveloped you, the steady rise and fall of his chest betraying no sign of panic. He wasn’t afraid of losing you. He knew you wouldn’t get far.

“Let me go,” you pleaded, but even to your own ears, your voice lacked conviction.

He chuckled — that low, knowing laugh that always made your stomach turn. “Why would I do that, darling?” His fingers brushed against your jaw, tilting your face to meet his gaze. “I’ve given you everything. Safety. Shelter. And yet you still try to leave.”

You hated the way your body reacted to his touch. How the heat of his palms lingered on your skin, how the dark gleam in his eyes made your chest tighten. You should have been terrified. Disgusted. But instead, a part of you clung to the warmth he offered.

“I hate you,” you spat, though the words trembled.

“And yet,” he murmured, his lips dangerously close to yours, “you’re still here.”

The days passed, and so did your resolve. His presence became a constant — a dark comfort. He brought you meals, sat with you, spoke to you like you were something precious. You could see it in the way he looked at you. Obsession, twisted and unchecked.

But then there was something else. A flicker of sincerity beneath the facade.

You didn’t know when it happened. Maybe it was the way his touch lingered, gentle instead of possessive. Maybe it was the moments when his walls cracked — when exhaustion dimmed the sharp glint in his eyes, and for a fleeting second, he seemed almost… human.

And maybe that’s why, when he kissed you for the first time, you didn’t pull away.

The Salesman had captured you. But somewhere along the way, you had captured him too.

-

Days blurred into nights. The ache of fear dulled, replaced by something far more dangerous. You hated the way your body responded to him, how your breath caught whenever he touched you — as if you had forgotten that he was your captor.

The Salesman was careful, always. Every movement deliberate. The way he smoothed his tie, lit his cigarettes, even the way he brushed your hair from your face — it was as if he thrived on control. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, that control cracked.

Like now.

You were curled up on the worn couch, the dim light casting shadows across the room. He sat on the edge, his suit jacket draped over a chair, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. The sight of him like this — undone — was a reminder that he wasn’t invincible. That he wasn’t just the enigmatic man in the suit who played twisted games with desperate people.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he said, his voice low, but not unkind. “Thinking of running again?”

You didn’t answer.

Because the truth was, you didn’t know.

He watched you, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. “You’re free to try. You always are.”

That was the game now. He had stopped locking the door. No chains. No threats. Just the constant, unspoken promise that no matter how far you ran, he would find you. And maybe worse — that you wouldn’t run at all.

“Why did you take me?” you asked finally.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Because I wanted to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He smiled — that infuriating smile — and reached for his cigarette. “No,” he agreed, “but it’s the truth.”

Silence stretched between you. You hated how easily he could unnerve you. How he seemed to revel in it. But what scared you more was how you had begun to crave it.

“Do you regret it?” His voice was softer now. “Not escaping when you had the chance?”

You should have said yes.

“I don’t know.”

His hand brushed against yours. The warmth of his skin sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine. You could still feel the ghost of his lips from that night — the moment when everything shifted. He hadn’t forced it. No, the worst part was that you had kissed him back.

And now, there was no pretending.

His eyes darkened as he studied you, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. “You want to hate me,” he murmured. “But you don’t.”

“I do.”

He laughed softly. “Liar.”

You pulled away, but his fingers curled beneath your chin, guiding you to face him. His touch was gentle, but there was no mistaking the possessiveness that simmered beneath.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your cheek. “And I’m yours. No matter how much you fight it.”

You hated him. You hated the way his words sank into your bones. But most of all, you hated that a part of you wanted to believe them.

Because the truth was, you weren’t sure if you could ever leave.

And maybe — just maybe — you didn’t want to.

[st4rgiirll]

heartbeat

percy jackson x afab!reader

percy is like 22 in this 😋

warnings: SMUT!! fingering, cum eating?, swearing, cheating, drinking, jealousy, percy’s ur ex, a little angsty lemme know if i missed any!

notes: i was listening to heartbeat by childish gambino while building chb on mc and this came to my head so enjoy!

the dim lights of the bar pulsed with the bassy rhythm of heartbeat by childish gambino. amidst the crowd of anonymous faces, a flash of familiar hair caught percy's eye. his heart stuttered, memories of passion and heartbreak rushing back. it was her - his ex, y/n. and she looked drop-dead gorgeous in that little black dress he'd bought her for valentine's day last year.

percy's eyes traced the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts barely contained by the flimsy fabric. the skirt hugged her hips and thighs, legs that used to be wrapped around him as he thrust into her. his body responded immediately, cock twitching in his jeans as a wave of desire crashed over him. but then he saw the hand at the small of her back, the tall man leaning in close to whisper in her ear. her new boyfriend. the one who had replaced him.

y/n stepped up to the bar, crossing one leg over the other as she leaned forward to place her drink order. percy's eyes locked on the smooth expanse of thigh revealed by the slit in her skirt. his hands itched to reach out, caress that soft skin, feel her tremble beneath his touch. but he was frozen in place, all the while picturing that boyfriend's hands on her body instead of his own.

the song ended and a new one began, the tempo faster, more urgent. it matched the racing of percy's pulse as y/n turned, drink in hand, her gaze scanning the room. for one breathless moment their eyes met and he saw it - the flicker of longing, the ghost of their past love still simmering in her eyes. but then she glanced away, said something to her date, and turned to leave.

percy couldn't let her go, not without a final word, a last chance to stake his claim even if he couldn't act on it. he strode after them, caught up just as they reached the exit. "y/n," he called out. she froze, then slowly turned to face him.

"percy," she said coolly, though he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes couldn't quite meet his. "funny running into you here."

"can we talk?" he asked, hating the desperation in his voice but unable to stop it. "please?"

she hesitated, glanced at her boyfriend who was looking between them with a scowl. "i… i don't know if that's a good idea…"

"five minutes," percy pressed. "that's all i'm asking for." he reached out, took her hand in his. "please, y/n."

her fingers tightened around his for the briefest moment before she pulled away. "fine. five minutes. and then i have to go."

percy nodded, leading her back into the bar and towards a quieter corner. they sat across from each other at a table, the charged silence stretching between them as they tried to find the words.

"so… you look good," percy finally said, because anything else felt too heavy, too important.

y/n smiled faintly. "thanks. you too." her eyes flicked over him appreciatively and he felt his body respond yet again, straining against his zipper. "how have you been?"

"alright," he replied, though it was a lie. he'd been miserable without her, but he wasn't about to admit that now. "and you? things are going well with…" he couldn't bring himself to say the name.

she nodded. "yes. he's great." but there was no warmth in her tone, no conviction.

they fell into an awkward silence again and percy searched frantically for something to say, anything to keep this conversation going because he knew once it ended, it would be over for good. no more stolen glances, no more brief encounters. just memories.

"what are you thinking about?" y/n asked softly, leaning forward a bit. the question startled him.

"nothing," he lied.

"come on, percy. tell me." her eyes were imploring now, searching his face for answers he wasn't sure he had. "i can see it written all over you."

he sighed, knowing he couldn't hide from her any more than he could hide from himself. "i was just thinking… about us. about what we had."

she looked away then, lips pressed together. "don't do this," she whispered.

"why not?" he challenged, leaning closer. "it's true, isn't it? we had something special and you threw it away."

"because i needed more!" she burst out, turning back to him with fiery eyes. "you couldn't give me what i needed so i found it elsewhere."

the words stung but percy refused to back down. "and is that what he gives you? satisfaction?" he reached out, traced the line of her jaw with his fingertips. "because I remember a time when you were satisfied with me…"

y/n shuddered under his touch, her eyes darkening with remembered desire. "don't," she pleaded weakly even as she leaned into his hand. "we can't…"

"why not?" percy murmured, sliding his hand down to wrap around her throat. "no one has to know." his other hand found her thigh under the table, stroked along the silky skin as he pulled her closer.

y/n made a little mewling sound, thighs clenching together as his fingers slid higher. "percy," she gasped. "i… i can't…"

but she was already lifting her hips off the seat, giving him access to her core. he could feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her panties and groaned low in his throat. "fuck y/n," he growled, rubbing her through the damp material. "you're already so wet for me."

"oh god," she whimpered, head falling back as he increased the pressure. her hands clenched on the tabletop, nails digging into the wood.

"you want this, don't you?" percy purred, lips brushing her ear. "you want me to touch you, taste you… make you scream my name." he nipped at her earlobe and she cried out, back arching.

"yes," she moaned, shameless now in her need. "please percy… please…"

he chuckled darkly, hand sliding under her skirt to push her panties aside. two fingers delved into her wet heat and she nearly screamed. "that's it baby," he crooned, pumping into her slowly. "let me hear you."

y/n's head thrashed from side to side as he fingered her deeply, his thumb rubbing tight circles around her clit. her inner muscles clenched greedily around his fingers, trying to draw him deeper. percy could feel her desperation mounting, see it in the flush of her skin, hear it in the sharp little gasps and whimpers falling from her lips.

he brought his mouth to her neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive flesh as he increased his pace. his fingers pumped hard and fast into her fluttering sheath, curling to hit that secret spot that made her wild. she was so close, embarrassingly so, he could tell by the way she was trembling under his hands, the little broken cries she was making.

"come on baby," percy urged gruffly in her ear. "let go for me… come all over my fingers like a good girl." he captured her lips in a searing kiss, swallowing her moans as he pushed her over the edge.

y/n came apart in his arms with a muffled scream, body convulsing as pleasure crashed through her. percy worked her through it, fingers never ceasing their movements until she was a limp, shuddering mess in his embrace.

when it was over, he withdrew his hand and brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan of satisfaction. y/n watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

"that was… wow," she whispered hoarsely.

percy grinned wolfishly at her. "i know, right? and that was just with my fingers." he winked suggestively and she laughed breathlessly.

"i don't think i can handle much more," she admitted, face still flushed. she started to pull away but percy held onto her wrist.

"what if i told you that was just an appetizer?" he raised an eyebrow at her invitingly. "we could head back to my place… or yours… and i could show you what else we've been missing."

y/n bit her lip indecisively but he could see the lust still smoldering in her gaze. she wanted him, needed him just as badly as he needed her. all she had to do was say yes…

"i can't," she said softly but with regret. she glanced away again. "it wouldn't be right."

percy's heart sank but he tried not to show it on his face. of course she wouldn't leave her boyfriend for him. not after everything that had happened between them. he'd known this was a stupid idea from the start.

"right," he said quietly, releasing her hand. "you're probably right." he stood abruptly, ready to end this before he humiliated himself any further.

"percy," y/n said, voice pleading as she reached for him again. but he stepped back out of range.

"no, it's okay. you have to do what's best for you." even if it destroyed him inside. "i'll see you around."

and with that he turned and walked away, leaving y/n alone at the table with her thoughts and the fading echoes of their passionate encounter.

[ninibeingdelulu]

Am I in love with just a theme ? ✧

Plot: You watch your boyfriend becoming a serial killer…

An eerie hush permeated the modest bedroom save for the scratching of Light's pen etching yet another convicted criminal's name into that innocuous black notebook.

You couldn't tear your gaze away, stomach roiling in uneasy revulsion at how...casually he wielded such monstrous power these days.

Like some self-appointed deity passing judgment with a flick of his wrist.

This merciless, arrogant demigod bore only the barest fleeting resemblance to the brilliant yet tenderhearted boyfriend you once adored.

Since acquiring the Death Note's insidious abilities, your Light had steadily devolved into a twisted shell of his former self, driven by an all-consuming messiah complex.

You barely recognized him anymore - the Light you knew would've recoiled in horror over such wanton slaughter, dismissing the very notion as abhorrent. These days? He didn't so much as blink as person after person perished at his whim, swaths of human lives extinguished with infuriatingly casual indifference.

Swallowing thickly, you finally found your voice. Hesitant, yet brimming with desperation to reach whatever tattered remnants of the man you loved still lurked beneath Kira's pitiless exterior.

"Light?"

When those russet eyes flickered up towards you, glacial and utterly devoid of warmth, the words shriveled in your throat for an agonizing heartbeat.

Plunging onwards with a strained exhale, you barrelled through before your nerve could crumble entirely.

"Why don't you just...pass the notebook off to someone else?" Achingly wistful, you curled your arms across your midsection like a flimsy shield.

"You don't...you don't have to keep doing this yourself. We could go back to how things were before and-"

"Enough." Light cut you off with a curt growl, snapping the Death Note closed with a dull thud that made you flinch.

Abruptly he stood, stalking towards the bed with leonine grace yet stiff, clipped movements radiating frigid menace. Too late, you shrank from his imposing form looming over you now.

Face to face, scarcely inches apart, you could see the fanatical glint smoldering behind those impassive, handsome features.

A shudder slithered down your vertebrae under his unnerving scrutiny.

"I can't let this power slip into anyone else's hands."

The words emerged through gritted teeth, a muscle feathering along Light's taut jawline.

"I was chosen to become the God of this new world, to execute divine justice and establish true order with my own hands. No one else is worthy."

An errant tear slipped from the corner of your eye, tracing a glistening trail down your cheek in the tense standoff's wake. You tried valiantly to fortify your resolve, to not flinch away from the sheer gravity of that unnervingly cold, callous resolution etched into his very marrow.

But it was too much.

"Light, please..."

The words gurgled out in a desperate rasp, thick with anguished pleading and unshed tears.

"I love you, b-but I can't keep watching as you lose every shred of your humanity like this! If you won't give up that thing, then...then I have to go. I can't stay by and watch this anymore!"

At the achingly soft admission spilling through your wobbling lips, Light's expression didn't flicker for a protracted, agonizing heartbeat.

But then his mouth curled into the ghost of a smirk, utterly devoid of genuine mirth - just cruel, calculating self-assurance.

"Go ahead and try," he crooned with scathing disinterest, callused fingers seizing a rough fistful of your hair to forcibly tilt your face up towards his. Tears spilled freely now, sobs raking your trembling frame.

"You don't honestly think I'd let you walk away with everything you know about me still intact, do you?"

The icy finality behind those mocking words washed over you in a suffocating wave, stealing what little tenuous purchase on hope you still possessed.

You sagged, terror-fuelled adrenaline rapidly leaching away into numb hopelessness and misery.

Without ceremony, Light shoved you away with a scoff, leaving you sprawled across the mattress amidst your pitiful puddle of grief.

With a few perfunctory swipes of his sleeve across those chiseled features, he'd already vanished whatever fleeting glimpses of genuine emotion had flickered there just moments ago.

"You'll stay right here, powerless and silent as my humble concubine," the words emerged crisp, cold, and utterly inflexible as he returned to the Death Note splayed open in indifferent expectation.

"Embrace your purpose, devote yourself to watching over the birth of a new utopia...or perish like any other obstacle beneath my heel."

Through a fresh torrent of searing tears, you could only bring yourself to rasp out a pitiful whimper of surrender.

Beaten. Broken.

Any facade of control or dignity had long fled along with the better parts of Light's withering soul.

Beneath the weight of sickening realization settling like a shroud, darkness crept across your vision as the soft scratching of pen against paper resumed.

You were well and truly his hapless pawn now.

[sukunasurface]

#Caleb would look around then looked away. School has already been over; in fact, he is past an hour. He is looking for a perfect spot in school. And when he is satisfied, he would grab your arm and pull you into an empty music room. Before dropping your arms from his grip, he takes a few steps back because he wants you to come running into his arms before he crushes his lips against you. Gods know how many romance novels he read behind his parents' and Zayne's backs to get the thoroughly enjoyed and well-versed First Kiss. No Caleb is smart he doesn't want to kiss under the bench and call it a day. He wants you to know what kiss is so even if you get your hands on those smutty novels, he knows that you know how your man kisses naturally.

When you come running into his arms, he twirls you to provoke a genuine laugh. Caleb again is a simple guy; he smiles to see you smile. So when you smile, he smiles louder in a challenging way. To which you never back down. He edged in for a spell; it felt like he was eager to see if your lips harmonized with his, and sweet mercy, he had never tasted anything on his lips so delightful, not even a scrumptious ice cream he stole from your hands. Something much better and sweeter. He didn't even let your feet touch the ground; he held your hips before pushing his lips against yours. I never learned this from those trashy novels, but as anyone can guess, he deepened into the space with your lips. He knows the drill; heck, he made color-coded notes the first time in this life because you think this method is clinically, mythologically, mythically, scientifically accurate and tested by Jesus to memorize things.

1. You initiated a kiss but made her comfortable—well, you jumped on him. He made you laugh like an idiot.

2. You leaned in at the start to see if the your beloved is interested—well, you didn't slap so he is good!

3. Slowly hold the body of your beloved to guide—he has a dead grip on you from the start.

Caleb is an Attentive Guy. But he kicked this quality of his with associated the movement you flimsy runs your mouth to mimic you little pip-squeak. He smiles before he sucks your bottom lip; he did see your teenage body shiver in his confusion but always so persistent, and you wrapped your hands around his neck, pushing yourself closer; Caleb no longer needs to lean in. You are up to his nose. He never met someone so equal and his at the same time. He tilted his face to find a rhythm; he was moving his lips fast but not at a scary rate.

7. Don't push; let your beloved know that they need to enjoy this shared movement together.

All of these color-coded charts show how to kiss someone thrown away the second your tongue gazes at his. Onto this logical reasoning, he knows you want to breathe, but dear lord. He tightens his grip—nodding into himself—praying for dear heaven as he pushes his tongue inside your warm mouth, the first "don't" in his chart.

28. Never push your tongue inside her mouth on a first kiss—first date.

Initially, he let his tongue run wild and free inside your mouth before slowing down the pace, letting you have a space if it was even psychologically possible. But you let out a disappointing noise as you felt this slow change of momentum. To follow through with the chase for elevation, you take the initiative, tightening your grip around his neck and curling your smooth tongue around his, flipping the narrative. Orders were flimsy; drill was never made. Yet charges were shifting. You moved to suck his lips in a brief pause of breath. Your lips were never apart before sucking it all over again. But he can see you are truly tired, kissing his mid-air to maintain a rhythm. Which is the biggest no in his book called "Rules to Live By for Caleb - Never Let Pip-Squeak Be Frustrated," which has enough range of motivations he claims your lips again. With conviction and affection, you without hesitation match his action with flow. As if you studied his color coded Notes. Color coded notes which include reference drawings, do's and don'ts, appropriate spots, appropriate times, and Precautions. YES PRECAUTIONS

Muscle fatigue is real. This can dampen the whole experience.

Caleb is A Caring Guy. the studies diversely to understand the one must put their put down at the right time. He sees you investing every ounce of core strength into this delicate balance. Your body steadies itself in his arms, a testament to trust and poise. In this intimate moment, you embrace vulnerability, dancing between stability and surrender. With each breath, you create a seamless connection, gracefully defying the odds. And you seem not to be someone to do so. He gradually begins strolling toward the long-forsaken piano without interrupting the kiss he caringly positioned on it, keeping you close while gliding his hands over your back as if he is shifting the pace of his lips from vigorous to soft and slow, ultimately pulling back, beaming, observing a giggle as he caught sight of your rosy cheeks and gently pursed lips before snickering.

"What was that Pip-squeakkk?"

A/n: I dreamt this, so world building is ass. I woke up and chose to write an extra long kissing scene.

[toastytrusty]

one of the things i love so much about hickey as a character is how Human he feels. how natural all of his shifting opinions are. he goes into the expedition with firmly held convictions about britain and the world, tries to convince himself through the expedition that those beliefs Aren't true, only to come out of it believing them even more strongly. he has his one-sided attachment to crozier, then has a one-sided fall out with crozier, then he wants his approval again, then he wants him gone again, and he's constantly bouncing around on how he feels about crozier and the navy and various other people he interacts with (cough gibson cough) all the time and it's present throughout every aspect of his character. it never feels like unsure storytelling or a flimsy character thesis or anything like that, though. it feels natural. it feels human. it feels like he's so lost in his own head about what he's here to do and what he wants from people and what he wants people to want from him that he forgets. he forgets who he is supposed to be and how he is supposed to feel. he has moments where genuine beliefs come through, genuine insecurities, genuine desires, because he isn't Good at putting up an act. and he Wants people to see through him. he's in constant turmoil with himself in a way that isn't overt or accentuated. there is no attention drawn to it. we're watching him figure things out as he goes; watching him half-come to conclusions, as he entertains an idea or possibility for some short period of time, before discarding it as he realizes it isn't what he believes. he doesn't feel overly erratic, or ideologically wishy washy, or like a particularly enthusiastic or skilled performer. he just comes off (to Me) as someone terribly unsure of the world and trying to figure it out in a way that makes sense to him

[bad-system]

henry & foils: markvart von aulitz

i was rewatching the henry & dying von aulitz scene and i'm always startled by how incredible this game's theme and messages come through in this scene. i think i would call it a culmination of KCD1 & 2's story, even more so than henry's and istvan's death scene. it truly sets us up with KCD3.

the theme that is so interwoven with henry is revenge.

henry's master is revenge, and his secondary masters are the nobles who serve an idle king, who is established as bad both for the country and its people. the only reason henry is aligned with wenceslaus is because sigismund torched his village, and thus begins his story of revenge. otherwise, his beliefs are flimsy, and i believe if you asked henry about his actual convictions at any point of KCD2, even at the end of the game, you would get a defensive answer at best- because he himself doesn't know what he stands for yet.

you could argue that hans capon is where his true loyalties lie but then we circle back again to henry not having beliefs of his own again. and while that might be a reason enough to some people, i don't think a protagonist of the story should be left on such an unstable moral ground.

but! this is a good choice narratively actually. it drives his character towards a point at which he MUST decide what he believes in, not only who he wants to follow. it would mark the next chapter of henry's story.

i believe it's what the game has been trying to tell you since hans nearly got hanged; it's about chamberlain ulrich playing at judge. even von bergow sees this and tells him to stop that immediately.

and then we have the semine's.

the game has warned you about playing the judge, like ulrich, and now like hashek. hashek wants to enact his revenge in blind fury, sparing not even the innocent. it shows how revenge can grow so blind in its lust.

you are even given the option to burn the village at maleshov for the sake of your cause- something that literally happened to henry. at this point the player realizes just how far revenge has gotten henry; it has gotten him to the point where he is the one with the hand on the torch, at the precipice of something truly awful.

and if you do that- ha! you're just like istvan indeed. istvan; an orphan turned glorified royal bandit who did not stop at repeating the very tragedy that took away everything from him. i love henry's foils.

so whichever choice you decide to pursue in case of von aulitz, i believe the story the game is trying to tell you is that this is a moment where henry should realize the gross weight of revenge he's holding onto, and that this is the moment of realization that cracks the flimsy foundations he's been building on up until now. that he cannot keep being the Judge, Jury and Executioner.

this would also be the perfect mirror to istvan toth's erik- someone henry had wronged so terribly, that it is hinted at even in KCD2 that erik is unlikely to let go of that and that we definitely haven't seen the last of him. while henry lets go, erik begins the same cycle of revenge. and isn't that a tragedy?

this would also mark the moment where henry decides to take a side not out of fear, like istvan, but out of courage.

as for the choice of song during markvart's scene.

did the writers mean for the meaning to run this deep? maybe. maybe not. but i chose to cover this anyways because of how perfectly it falls into place.

lacrimosa, the last part of dies irae, is a poem about a sinner looking for his own salvation. it is a plea, but it ends with the sinner asking for salvation of others rather than himself; a voice that asks for eternal rest rather for the departed than for the petitioner.

henry, the guilty man, the judge, the fire!

markvart's scene is set in front of a fireplace! in front of the guilty judge's flame!

and what does henry do when markvart dies in the chair?

he crosses himself! for markvart von aulitz, not himself!

— "Therefore spare him, O God, Merciful Lord Jesus, grant them eternal rest. Amen."

absolute cinema.

and thus the judge's verdict moves past the living and the dead, and he prepares to judge the world with fire anew.

why do i highlight the word 'world'? henry's horizons are about to vastly expand past the current horizons, both geographically and metaphorically, in the next installments of the story. the world- maybe hussites? it's time for him to look at the bigger picture!

and finally; something that occured to me while writing this.

i believe istvan toth to be henry's foil in fear. during henry's and istvan's conversation before their duel in trosky, istvan reveals he is an orphan too, thanks to turks. and tragically, he reveals that he sided with the stronger dog- because standing behind someone strong will protect you from being harmed again. however, where istvan engages in the cycle of violence by inflicting the same violence on people that was enacted on him, you as the player have a choice- to stop henry from allowing a massacre to happen. you have a choice to prove istvan that you're NOT like him.

i also believe markvart von aulitz to be henry's foil in guilt. hence; in regards to the semine massacre. if you let henry enable hashek, you watch as the guards kill every man and woman on the estate. and then remember aulitz's words;

"And are you sure you didn't kill someone's father? Or Mother?"

and you get to prove him wrong. you get to prove him wrong because you watched ulrich play at judge, jury and executioner and you realized that henry would not enable it.

oh, and finally; erik. the biggest wildcard foil of them all. while henry has a chance to put a stop to hashek's and von aulitz's foils reflecting in him, in erik you are actually the one who creates the foil by killing istvan! like i mentioned previously, you enable erik's cycle of revenge. why?

you killed his lover. out of revenge.

this is not an outcome the game allows you to avoid. it is a purposefully constructed narrative. why? well, the one event i kept repeating was chamberlain ulrich. the first. and likely- the last.

it's the only scene left that makes sense for the third foil. the only time where you don't get to stop it from happening, except watch helplessly. henry watches on as his lover is about to be executed without being able to prevent it. just like erik hadn't had a chance to prevent istvan's death. so, imagine the final foil, of revenge, being reversed by the promised return of erik. what if erik exacts his revenge by killing henry? lover for lover.

________

sorry for this. i'm highly caffeinated and enjoy the conveniently placed narratives by warhorse. these games truly are a sandbox that allows so much creativity. this would probably be better off as a fic, but i'm not a good enough writer for that so it ended up as one post. I'm just playing with the tools we have been given and no, this isn't the one and only true definitive reading of KCD's story. i'm just connecting the dots we were so generously presented with. you can go connect your own dots if you want tho, here the red string 🧵. let's become delirious together.

[levanswrites]

who you gonna call when it gets dark?

pairing: steve rogers x agent!reader

summary: His conviction in permanence has been scrubbed raw like wood against sandpaper—loss turned into anger turned into despair, eventually whittled down into disappointment. You’re one of the last threads holding it together. 

One more brush, one more stroke—and he’d be gone.

warnings: heavy angst, hurt/comfort, pain, mild description of injury/blood, slow build, inside the tortured mind™ of steven grant rogers

word count: 3.4k

a/n: pt. 3 of my mini series: what's it gonna take?, but this can be read as a stand-alone piece. title by FINNEAS

06:48

It’s safe to say that Steve doesn’t get a lick of sleep, playing back the images of you in the gym like a sick refrain: struggling beneath his grip, straddling his chest, stepping over him—hell, nearly stepping on him—to get across.  

So when he trudges into the communal kitchen the next morning, looking like he hasn’t slept in a century, the others take immediate notice.

“Woah, Steve, you alright man? You look like death.” Sam blurts out, never one to mince his words.

He barely registers Sam’s face, eyes glazing past where he’s sat next to Bucky on the kitchen island. 

But there’s no missing you. 

Perched on the other end of the counter, legs crossed under an oversized band tee, sipping from a glass of bright orange juice. You smirk knowingly over the rim, as if you know exactly why he’s got bags under his eyes the size of dinner plates.

“Captain Muscle’s been burning the midnight oil, gettin' his reps in.” Natasha teases by the coffee machine, arms crossed, mug in hand.

“Damn, Steve,” Sam pipes up, “you getting laid, man?”

And just like that, he’s feeling a little more alert, pivoting to shoot Sam a look. 

“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” Sam grins, arms raised defensively. “You gotta work off that energy somehow. When’s the last time you brought a girl back here?”

Amused by the very idea, he chuckles, shaking his head as he continues his weary march toward the fridge. 

“Here? Never.”      

The clink of bottles echoes as he opens the steel door, itching for something cold.

From behind, Sam persists: “Ah, but you did somewhere, huh?”

He chooses to ignore him, grabbing a bottle of water instead. Takes a long, slow swig, feeling it cool him down from the inside. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that you’re still sitting there, out of the corner of his eye, pretending to be absorbed in your phone. As if he doesn’t know you’re locked in on every word.

“I’m telling you, man.” Sam leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head. “Online dating’s where it’s at. One word that you’re an Avenger, and these girls are sending you all kinds of—”

“—careful, Wilson.” Natasha interrupts, a crimson-polished fingertip pointing in your direction. “There’s children present.”

Your head lifts from your phone at that, and as all the attention shifts over to you, you let out a small huff, flashing a sarcastic grin in Nat’s direction before slipping off the counter. Steve takes it as opportunity to look too, and silently wonders if you’re still a little bothered by the offhand comments about your age.

From beside him, Sam groans, turning to you with renewed interest.

“Oh c’mon, she’s plenty grown. Hey, Ace, lemme ask you something.”

You glance over on your way to the sink, setting your empty glass down before swiveling around, hand on your hip.

“Sam.” Steve mutters a sideways warning, trying not to appear invested. Yet, the soft crinkle of his water bottle betrays him, his grip tightening around the flimsy plastic.

When his eyes flicker back to you, you’re still watching.

“Say you’re scrolling on tinder and you come across Captain America. Would you swipe right?”

Steve’s stomach drops, breath hitching in his throat.

“Don’t answer that.” He mutters, raising an eyebrow at you. And he immediately regrets saying anything, because his voice completely misses the casual air he intended, coming out like a strained command instead. If he had any chance of playing the nonchalant card to begin with, it certainly wasn’t an option now. 

And Steve isn’t the type to hate anyone. 

But in this moment, he thinks he might just hate you—standing there with your knowing smile, as if you’d waited your whole life to answer that question.

“Hmm. I don’t know…” 

He can practically taste the satisfaction on his tongue when your eyes land back on him, observing the way he stares. Slowly sucks in your bottom lip, letting it go with a soft ‘pop’ before you flash a devilish grin.

With your gaze still locked on him, you shrug:

“…personally? I’m more of a Winter Soldier girl.”

The silence that follows is sharp. Sam bursts out laughing. Bucky gives you a sidelong glance, clearly amused but playing along.

"When did I get roped into this?”

Yet, your gaze lingers on him, stretching the moment just a fraction longer, savoring the details of his expression. He notes the soft flicker of your eyes, darting between his with a quiet intensity, as though you're searching for something he can’t quite place. 

And the stunned look on his face must have been all the answer you needed, because the next moment, you’re promptly turning on your heels and exiting the kitchen, leaving him staring after you.

“So you and Ace, huh, Bucky? How long has that been a thing?”  

“Shut up, Wilson.”  

As the noisy banter fades into static, all he can comprehend is the pounding in his ears, and the look in your eyes when you had answered Sam’s question.  

Did you find it? What you were looking for?

And when his mind eventually comes to, he realizes the water bottle in his hand’s been reduced to a shriveled-up heap of plastic. He stares down at the bottom half of his shirt—soaked through and clinging sticky-cold against his skin—and sighs. 

21:27

“Negative, Fury. We’re boxed in, asset’s KIA. We have to pull back. Now.”

In his line of work, they’ve got all kinds of slang for situations like this—Charlie Foxtrot, FUBAR, SNAFU. 

Or, to put it bluntly, a real goddamn mess.

Minimal gear, no real prep, just a routine asset extraction in a neutral zone.  

Less than ten minutes after touchdown, they’re ambushed in the middle of a crowded market, surrounded by enemy forces with no escape route. A nearby apartment building reduced to ruins by a stray grenade, hundreds of civilians on the ground caught in the crossfire.  

They’ve barely scraped by with their own lives intact, but it doesn’t matter.

It’s the kind of loss where the ride back home is deafeningly silent, the air hanging thick and heavy over the cabin.

You take it the hardest, running point on the job. 

Steve knows from experience that there’s nothing more to be done. No point in mourning any alternatives. 

But when you yank your earpiece out and haul it at the ground, a sharp crack piercing the silence before the plastic skitters across the floor, he knows a million different scenarios are running through your mind right now.

The kind of spiraling that never ends.

Even Sam, with all his years of counseling, can’t seem to reach you, his words hushed and careful as he approaches you in the back corner of the cabin. You remain motionless, slumped in your seat like a wounded animal too tired to flee.

When the Quinjet touches down, you’re the first one out, sprinting across the tarmac before the ramp can fully lower. It’s a blur—your boots pounding against the metal, the cold air rushing past him. He watches a trail of dust flare in your wake. Maybe blood. He can’t tell.

It’s not too late to catch up to you, but he remains motionless, eyes lingering on the small limp in your step as you disappear inside the building. Then, with a heavy roll of his shoulders, he turns his attention to the grim task behind him, helping the medical staff carry the most severe injuries off the jet. 

22:51

38 civilian casualties. 2 agents in critical condition. Estimated $14 million in damages. 

Steve’s pacing by the exit to the recovery room, hands gripping the edge of a tablet, eyes fixed on the damage assessment flickering across the screen. But his mind’s somewhere far off. 

“You alright?”

Bucky’s voice cuts through the noise—he’s observing from one of the treatment beds nearby, holding pressure against a shallow bullet wound. 

Steve doesn’t have to answer.

He sighs, feeling the weight of his friend’s gaze as he goes to set the tablet down, feet already pointed toward the door. 

“I’ll be back.”

23:19

The halls of the compound feel long. Empty. 

His combat boots drag like chains, scuffing the pristine linoleum with dark streaks. They halt in front of your door, and his bloodied knuckles tremble as they hover, inches from the metal. Over the ridges of his bone-white fists, the smaller cuts are already knitting themselves back together. 

He stays suspended there, breath hitching in his chest, before exhaling and landing two sharp knocks.

Radio silence.

But then again, not really. Not when his enhanced hearing picks up the faint rustling from inside. 

He calls your name, softly. Then again, a little louder.

The third time provokes a response. 

“Go away.” Your voice is muffled but sharp, the kind of tone that brooks no argument.

He’s not in the mood to argue either, but he reaches for the door and steps inside anyway.

His eyes find you immediately, the dark outline of your silhouette curled up on the edge of the couch—knees drawn tight, shoulders hunched like you’re trying to fold in on yourself. A lamp in the far corner casts a muted glow, stretching your shadow long and sinuous across the wall.

The rest of the room is barely lit, though there’s not much else to see. Identical to his own—bed, dresser, sofa, tv. If he were playing ‘spot the difference,’ he’d point to the quilted beige throw hanging off the back of your couch, though most of it’s obscured behind your frame.

You’ve got your own place outside the compound—somewhere in the city, he recalls—yet you choose to spend most of your nights here, ready to deploy at a moment’s notice.

Plus, Tony’s got free HBO and Disney. 

Your head snaps up at the intrusion, and the despair that flickers across your face is immediately chased away by the sharp edge of irritation.

Your lip quivers when you snap, rolling your eyes:

“What part of go away is so hard to understand?” 

He takes another step forward, feet dragging against the coarse carpet. His best attempt at a smile is a stiff twitch of his lips, mouth drawn in a tight line.

"Guess I’m getting hard of hearing.”

The words hang uselessly in the air, doing nothing to soften the harsh lines of your brow. You retreat further into yourself, chin tucked behind your knees, glaring at him warily like a cornered stray. 

And there’s anger there, sure, but it’s something else too—beneath all the layers of pain, frustration—a bone-deep exhaustion he knows all too well.

“I don’t need—”

“—I know.” Nylon fibers cling to his sole as he kicks, boot scuffing against the carpet. “Just wanted to see how you’re holding up.”

It’s a lousy line, he knows. But it works, if only to crack through your cold façade. 

“Holding up?” You laugh, a dry sound that sucks all the air from the room. “I’m fine. Perfectly okay. Just like those thirty-eight civilians. Like Jones and Meyers in the IC-U.”

Your voice breaks on the last syllable, arms unraveling like a broken slinky as they fall limp over your lap, your feet sliding to the floor. He sees it, then—a flash of white beneath the hem of your shorts, deep crimson staining the gauze from the inside out. 

And something in his stomach twists. Breaths quickening, fingers twitching at his sides—he’d noticed the limp earlier, but this seems worse.

Urgency flares in his chest as he steps closer. The edges of your makeshift dressing are frayed, the dimensions of the wound too large to hide. Only then does he register the emergency med kit splayed open on the coffee table, its contents scattered about haphazardly.

His eyes lock in on the heap of gauze pads nearby—soaked through with your blood, darkening the fabric in patches—and his breathing stops. 

“What happened?”

You freeze, realization flashing across your face.

“Nothing.”

Brows furrowed, he steps in closer, trying to tamp down the strange irritation bubbling in his chest. “It’s clearly not—“

A sharp, heaving breath cuts him off, halfway between a sigh and a scream, and you lurch upright.

“—Jesus christ, it’s nothing, just,” Your hands rake through your hair, fingers clawing at your scalp, “god, can you just—” 

You collapse back down, palms digging into your eyes as you let the couch swallow you whole. He holds his breath, biting his tongue at how quickly it had all happened. 

The first sob hits after a long, suffocating pause. Your body crumples like parchment, folding inward, the lines of you trembling like branches caught in the wind.

His eyes trail back to the pile of blood-soaked bandages, your muffled sobs pounding against his eardrums. And the knot in his stomach tightens another notch.

Because all he can think is—this is it.

What he’s been running from since the day he met you. 

The most terrifying, fundamental truth.

For all your indomitable spirit, you aren’t him. Not shielded by the same untouchable strength. That miraculous concoction that lets him sidestep his reckoning at every turn.

It’s a fickle thing, mortality. He’s teetered over its shadowed edges, more times than he can count. Yet, even when he chose the drop, 80 years ago in the middle of the Arctic, it had failed to claim him—some twisted stroke of man-made fate suspending his corpus and careening him into a new century. 

Your mortality doesn’t play by the same rules—a newly lit match, flickering brightly at one turn, snuffed out the next.  

And he realizes the knot in his stomach is fear.

He’s terrified. Of you. Of the way you make him yearn for a predestined loss. 

His conviction in permanence has been scrubbed raw like wood against sandpaper—loss turned into anger turned into despair, eventually whittled down into disappointment. You’re one of the last threads holding it together. 

One more brush, one more stroke—and he’d be gone.

“…I should’ve clocked it,” your muffled voice breaks the spiral. “Fuck, I should’ve known.”  

“Hey, hey.” 

He steps forward, bending one knee to the floor, his hand rising to brush the side of your arm, hovering as if to offer solace. He swallows hard, dislodging the words caught in his throat.

"It was an ambush. None of us could’ve seen that coming.”

You shake your head, rubbing the corner of your cheek so roughly it makes him wince. 

Then the words that slip from your chapped lips nearly break him.

“It should’ve been me.”

He shakes his head, swallowing back a wave of nausea, the taste of bile rising sharp and bitter on his tongue.

“It shouldn’t have been anyone.”

The rest of his words claw at the back of his throat, burning.

No, not you. 

Never you.

You snort, wiping away the wetness from your eyes as you straighten.

“Look, if you’re here for a pep talk, can this wait till tomorrow? I’m kinda tired right now.”  

But his gaze is already wandering downward, tracing the path of your injured leg.

And he murmurs:

“Let me fix it.”

A soft tap against your bare knee, and it makes your eyes grow wide. The tears clinging to your lashes turn sharper than cut glass, refracting crystalline and jagged under the dim light. 

You cock your head and blink, incredulous. 

“The dressing’s too loose. You can’t leave it like that.”

You sigh out a laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Oh, so now you’re a medic too?”

He lets his gaze drop, the weight of it settling on the floor as he shuffles forward, dropping his other leg to the ground. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs, even quieter now, giving your knee another tap. 

You release a heavy breath before you oblige, brows furrowed, lifting your leg so he can peel off the bandaging looped around your thigh, wincing when the cotton clings stubbornly to the raw edges of your wound.  

As exhaustion drags your leg downward, his hand finds the hollow behind your knee, steadying you, warm and achingly soft against the calloused edges of his palm.

At the sight of your wound uncovered, he swallows—a ragged gash stretching across your thigh, too long, too deep.

His lungs feels tight, each breath snagging like the time he fractured half his ribcage.

“Did you even clean this out?”

Your silence answers for you, loud and clear. 

And even in the weight of the moment, he can’t help but glance up and give you a look. The kind of chiding, quiet disapproval that would normally have you rolling your eyes all the way back.

Now, the only energy you can muster is a subtle tilt of your head, your gaze soft and unfocused, blinking slowly as he averts his eyes back down. 

He reaches for the first aid kit, still strung out on the coffee table, and his hands quiver when he tips the bottle of iodine against a cotton pad, the copper liquid staining it with a sickly gleam. The acrid scent punctures the air, thick and harsh as he holds it up against your raw wound.

You exhale sharply, a pained breath caught between your teeth.

"Fuck." You groan, tensing immediately. ”God, son of a—"

And this must really hurt, because you’re one of the few people he knows who can match his chronically abnormal pain tolerance. 

“I know,” his voice is thick with restraint, shoulders tipped forward and crowding the space between your legs. His left hand moves to splay across your knee, tension rippling beneath his palm, your breaths growing heavy when he has to start pressing deeper. 

Once so deep that you let out an involuntary gasp, your hand shooting out to grab at his wrist, fingers curling tight. He freezes, eyes fluttering shut to avoid looking up, because he’s pretty sure that’d be the thing to undo him completely. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough. Waits for your grip to loosen, that trembling, frantic hold slipping just enough for him to continue.

“…almost done, promise.” Desperation seizes his chest as he tries to work quicker, and the only taste in his mouth is metal now—’cause if you’d had just let him bring you to med bay, they could’ve given you something, topical cream, lidocaine shots, whatever, to make this go away. 

He bites down harder to try and block out the sight of your hands in his periphery, the way your fingertips turn ghostly white, digging into the scratchy upholstery to resist reaching for him again. But no matter how hard he tries, there’s no reprieve from that grating sound of your nails against the fabric, the way it scrapes and claws every time he lowers his hand, your body jerking to try and brace against the agony.

23:54

Slow and mechanical, the bandage wraps around leg in measured turns, like tape over his knuckles before he steps up to a punching bag.   

He gently tugs on the bandaging, his eyes lifting for the first time since he’s been down here. He takes your tired nod as confirmation, immediately occupying himself with rustling, scrunching up empty packages and crinkly plastic into a tight fist as he closes up the kit.

“You still need to get that checked out, looks like it might need stitches.”

“Uh huh.” 

And the knot in his stomach grows, cause he’d be willing to bet everything that you won’t. 

But then, you say:

“Steve.” 

And he stares back, incredulous, at the slow curve of your smile, the swell of your cheeks catching the light. Your eyes glint up at him, and his stomach does another lurch—this time for a different reason altogether. 

“…thank you.”

He nods, clearing his throat as he rises to his feet, knees creaking like old floorboards and hell, maybe he is getting old. 

“Make sure you’re not putting weight on that leg, means no running or lifting for a while.”

“Yessir.”

A lazy smile accompanied by a salute, and he has to fight the wave of nostalgia of that day in Lagos. 

And—because old habits die hard and the habits of this job die harder—a parting remark starts to formulate in the back of his throat. Something profound about their line of work, about doing the best you can. 

Don't beat yourself up, you did everything you could.  

But instead, he settles on a silent nod, heavy ache simmering in his chest.

He casts one last look at your tired frame, draped loosely over the couch, and leaves the same way he came in. 

00:00

a/n: soo i had finished this chapter a while back, but ended up rewriting it and decided to go in a completely different direction. hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading :) feedback is always welcome!