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mrderofcr0ws · 3 months ago

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HEADLOCK

JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES

that was the name written on a gravestone in brooklyn with no body below it since the sergeant had been pronounced dead in 1945.

the body that once belonged to that name was now hydra’s most prized possession— but the winter soldier was not the only danger locked away down in the remote siberian facility. you were there, too. a monster made from horrors most refused to believe could be real.

two trained killing machines.

one bound to commands and trigger words.

the other bound to instinct and bloodlust.

it had been a long time since either of you had seen the sun. you could get out with his help in the brief, painful moments of clarity he had. when he answered to that long forgotten name, you could escape together.

but bucky was often buried under that brooklyn headstone— and the winter soldier who slept in the bunk below you nearly every night was a danger to even you.

this is a fic that explores bucky’s time in hydra. the content warnings are as follows: torture, manipulation, angst, pain, psychological horror, graphic descriptions and language, poetic comparisons to cannibalism, hurt with minimal comfort at times, stockholm syndrome, smut, degrading, power imbalance, canon divergence. 18+ fic.

bucky x fem!reader (you have a given name in this fic for the sake of making writing easier, but it will be used sparingly)

word count: idk i write on tumblr. (roughly edited)

PART ONE —

— HALF DEAD

it was easy to remember the first time you saw him.

it was hard to tell which one of you had been made first. you took turns asleep. most memories you had these days were all black. large gaps in time that felt like nothing at all. it was hard to wake up every time they thawed you from the ice cold sleep that could’ve been death itself. you often wished it was. it would be easier if it was.

he was young.

you were young, too, and you knew that— but you hadn’t looked at yourself in a long time. many turns in the black sleep had robbed you of youth regardless of if it showed in your face or not. you would be nearing a hundred soon — so was he — even though you both still looked like you were in your late twenties.

they were putting you down as they were waking him up. that was the first time you saw him. the chains around your hands, ankles, and throat jingled as you walked. the iron slab around your mouth they used to muzzle a danger like you kept you from say anything— but you never said a word to anyone. not unless asked. not unless told. you were well behaved.

but not one of hydra’s weapons were as well behaved as him.

the winter soldier.

he was a whisper in the halls when you were awake— and you saw him with your own eyes as they laid you down in the chamber you’d spend at least fifteen years frozen in.

he looked at you.

as guards pulled him from his own cryochamber, he stared at you from across the dark, cold lab. his breath fogged as his chest rose and fell in slow, pitiful motions. the frost began to melt off his long, flat brown hair. it dripped in time with the clang of your chains. even as guards and scientists began to poke and prod at the two of you — readying you both for separate things — you stared only at each other.

‘hello, soldier,’ your eyes seemed to say.

the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘hello, monster.’

the likelihood of ever seeing him again was slim. you knew that. hydra was far too careful having made such dangers like the two of you. he would remain a whisper you’d overhear about in passing. perhaps for him, you’d remain the facility’s rumor of unimaginable horror. a nightmare that the guards were relived from once they put you to sleep with no intent of waking you for years.

if the guards were really lucky, hydra would keep the two of you underneath the floor boards until they got to retire.

you and the winter soldier were separate projects.

two separate missions.

two separate files.

two separate entities.

until you weren’t.

the first time you had been paired together, it nearly ended in catastrophe for hydra. as two stone-cold killers who lived to do nothing else, you did your jobs.

and you did them well.

in the dead of night, you were like whispers in the wind. you slipped into the soviet outpost together like creeping fog. your mission was covert. you were sent to seek and destroy— and you were nothing but shadows on the walls. soundless footprints on the floor.

you killed who you were sent to strike down in the warmth of their beds.

you found what secrets hydra sent you digging for and buried what was left in ash and rubble.

the overseer had predicted you two to do well—but he had overlooked your… appetite.

james buchanan barnes had been made into a super soldier. he was a dog that followed orders and submit to the will of whoever held that notebook with the star on it. all it took was a few hand-picked words to break him into shape.

but you…

you were something else entirely.

you submitted to nothing but the cold embrace of black, icy sleep.

you hungered for warmth. ice was so often the only thing that you were met with that you hungered for the warmth of skin. the warmth of blood— and that is what you sank your teeth into his neck to find.

red stained the snow outside the outpost as the winter soldier grappled with you.

the vampire.

while bucky had been made to counter the star spangled hero known as captain america— you had been made for the simple fact that they wanted to try. using a serum similar to the one that made the winter soldier so strong and an invasive set of surgeries that reconstructed your jaw, teeth, and tongue, hydra had made their very own vampire.

though they severely underestimated the strength of you when they let you run free on your first field test.

you had done your job. you had been trained to follow orders and you had— but once those orders were fulfilled….

you gave into the bloodlust that made a monster like you what you were.

it was only thanks to his metal arm that you were subdued that night. the cold kiss of his fist made you bleed instead— and you suckled on your bottom lip the whole plane ride back to camp c3 bound in chains from head to toe.

he sat across from you.

he stared at nothing but you as he clutched a sterile clump of gauze to the puncture wounds in his neck.

a monster indeed.

it comforted him to know that he was not the worst thing they cooked up in that lab.

but oh, how he wished to be you.

and you pitied the poor bastard for it.

they kept you awake together since that night. if you were put under, you were put under together. you awoke together. they trained you together. there was no mission done that was not done alongside the winter soldier. there was not a waking moment for you that didn’t revolve around him.

which meant you heard the terror in his screams as they broke his mind each and every time it tried to piece itself back together.

you were lucky.

you were a solid wall. nothing within you got out and nothing they could subject you to got in. they had taught you hard lessons, sure, but there was nothing they could strip you of the way they could strip him of things.

they had taught you not to hunger for your own blood. they had taught you to resist the urge to bite at your companion— but there was nothing they could do to you that could crack at your mind they way they cracked at his. you couldn’t remember your life before hydra. nothing of importance, anyways.

if it was important — though so few things were to you — you did well to never let it slip through the gaps of your teeth.

bucky had a harder time with that.

he would cry in his sleep for his mother.

he would mumble to himself about a friend he once had named steve.

it got him in trouble.

and they made you watch.

you weren’t sure as you stood there each and every time they would strap him down and fry his head with electricity and recite specific words from a notebook if they wanted you there so that it would deter you from making the same mistakes he did.

don’t ever be anything more than that we made you.

you weren’t sure, too, if they were hoping that by keeping you in his line of sight as they tortured him that the mere presence of you would keep james buchanan barnes from trying to dig himself free from his grave.

you were a monster— but they mistook your sharp teeth and affinity for blood as evil.

you weren’t evil.

you weren’t exactly good but you weren’t evil.

if they wanted bucky to be scared of you, they shouldn’t have locked you in the same room as him every night.

you did not scare bucky.

but the winter soldier scared you.

— ☆ —

you were fast.

you could outrun cars you were so fast.

but you were never fast enough to wake before he could get his hands on you.

a muffled scream escaped you as he dragged you down off the top bunk. his metal hand was firm, sharp, and cold against your lips as he twisted you below him. the mattress that belong to him sank under the weight of you both. the metal springs below hissed in protest. for a long time, the overseer had the guards keep you muzzled out of fear that you would leech off your roommate in the night.

the winter soldier ripped your muzzle off himself each and every time they put it on.

how else would he kiss you?

you huffed against his mouth as he pressed his lips onto yours. warm. his mouth was so warm. his metal hand slid down the column of your throat, grasping the soft skin firm enough to keep you in place underneath him. he always had to be the one in charge. he needed control.

winter was harsh.

and it was he who nipped at the apple of your cheek.

bucky was dead in brooklyn as of right now.

“i was sleeping, asshole.” you whispered against his lips. you didn’t care. this was better than sleeping— you just liked to push his buttons.

he grunted into your mouth, “sleep after.”

every kiss you shared set your nerves on fire. sweat began to pool on your back and bead at your hairline. it didn’t matter how cold the room was around you. together —tangled up and grinding on one and another — you could’ve started a fire in the sheets. you never got used to how it felt to kiss him even though you did not particularly like him.

“off,” you winced. you squirmed below him, struggling to free your hands from where they were crushed between your chests. you clutched the collar of his shirt and tugged at it. “off. take it off.”

he sat back on his knees as best he could despite the bunk bed above offering little room and pulled his red long sleeve shirt over his head. it was the start of the pile that would soon be your discarded clothes. he tossed it aside and your hands were quick to map every inch of that warm flesh you desired so deeply. you slid your hands up the length of his back as he settle down between your legs.

he shuddered as your fingers grazed the place by his shoulder blade where metal met flesh.

he closed his eyes as your lips scraped across the stubble roughening his jaw. your tongue flicked across the shell of his ear. you wrapped your lips around his lobe and sucked. he squeezed your throat, choking on a moan stuck in his own. you could feel the weight of his erection poking at you through your pants. kissing and licking his ears were the fastest way to make him hard.

him grasping you by the roots of your hair and shoving your face into the crook of his neck made the space between your legs weep.

he always let you have a taste.

you were convinced he liked it more than you did.

it was as fast as clicking a pen. you sank your teeth into the crook of his neck just deep enough to draw a small amount of blood and pulled them right back out. your clit cried for any kind of friction as the savory, hot, metallic blood spread across your lips. you sucked it into your mouth, tangling your fingers into the roots of his hair to lock him in place. he rested his forehead down onto your shoulder and gave you control.

it was the only time he ever did.

you swallowed all of him that you could before the tiny cuts your teeth had made in his skin began to heal themselves. you could’ve kept going. it was an easy fix. suck harder. bite deeper. prod and lick at the teeth marks to keep the blood flowing— but you were well trained to resist the way his blood in particular tasted.

you could’ve kept going.

a small part of you wanted to— but a bigger part of you wanted to suck on a different part of him.

you turned your head away, huffing as you fought to catch your breath. it was no easy feat to deny yourself blood. it put you into a frenzy that could’ve so easily become bloodlust if you were below anyone else— but you weren’t with anyone else.

you were with him and you had it beat into your bones that you were not to desire the blood that came from the veins of the winter soldier.

he was simply kind enough to let you have a taste because he held a twisted, prickly, unnatural sense of fondness for you in his chest.

it was the same unnerving, unkind, unwanted fondness you felt in your chest for him.

it wasn’t right to say heart. neither of you had hearts even though they thumped within the cages of your ribs right now. more so than any other time, your hearts were beating wildly.

but that didn’t make a difference.

you both were half-dead.

“up,” he commanded.

you raised yourself off the mattress on queue. he was quick to strip you of your shirt. he tossed it atop his own on the floor. when you slept, you didn’t bother to wear a bra. your nipples hardened in the cold and a shudder ran through you. a rare and fleeting grin curled across his lips at the sight. you found yourself smiling, too, as your eyes met. he cocked an eyebrow at you. you rolled your eyes.

you didn’t like him.

but you didn’t hate him, either.

he was the only tangible thing you had when you were awake besides your clothes and your pillow. nearly every decade you had been woken up together and locked in this room at night. you fought beside each other. you killed together. you planted seeds to destroy governments from within. you buried secrets that the world would never be able to find out. you ate together. showered together. trained together. bled together.

sometimes, it felt as though you would forget how to breathe if he was not near.

the two of you were incapable of love— but you came close to making it in his bed.

the rattle of the metal frame was the loudest sound in the cold, dark room you shared. he was soundless. you were soundless— but you couldn’t make a peep even if you wanted to. his cold metal hand clasped over your mouth each and every time he fucked himself into you. the only noise capable of escaping you were quiet breaths out of your nose.

his eyes bore into you as he thrusted the whole of himself in and out. he was rough — always rough — but he never rushed. his hips would snap forward with enough force to make your tits bounce but he would linger within you and pull out slow. over and over again each thrust was deliberate and intent as he stared down into your eyes.

he kissed you through the metal of his hand.

he could feel your jaw moving in his grasp. he could almost hear your teeth clenching together. soft huffs escaped your nose and you squeezed him from within.

he knew it felt good.

when it felt good, you couldn’t fight the urge to bite.

that’s why that damn metal hand stayed clamped over your lips.

he’d learned the hard way.

you wanted to kiss him. you wanted to feel his lips against yours. you wanted to suck on his tongue and taste him. the lingering metallic twang of blood on the roof of your mouth only made you all the more desperate for it. you framed his face in your hands and craned your neck, but his cold metal palm held you captive.

he kissed you through the metal and you kissed him back as though he’d be able to feel it.

you both liked to believe that he could.

a soft cry of ecstasy escaped you as your eyes rolled back. he smiled to himself as he sank all seven thick inches of his cock into you to the hilt. he savored the way your walls clenched around him. it felt as though you never wanted to let him go.

he was almost glad of it.

“that’s a good girl,” he breathed into your ear. he licked a warm, slow stripe up the side of your neck and nipped at your ear. “do you want to cum?”

“mm,” you tried to nod. you dug your fingers into his biceps— one was far more forgiving to your nails than the other.

“speak,” he demanded, creating a small enough space in the curve of his hand for you to move your mouth freely.

“yes,” you panted. the metal was hot with your breath. you nodded over and over again as you squirmed. “bucky, please.”

his metal hand clasped around your throat and you choked out a breath as he squeezed.

hard.

too hard.

you grabbed ahold of his wrists and coughed out nothing. no air. not a sound. blood rang in your ears. the expression on his face was volatile. his cock stilled inside of you as he grunted, watching your eyelids flutter. your lips went blue.

a loud, helpless heave escaped you as he let go of your throat. you choked on air, gasping for breath after breath. he watched the color flush to your cheeks now that the blood could flow freely. your lips pinked in an instant.

“don’t call me that.” he whispered. he met your eyes and shook his head once. “ever.”

“it slipped…”

“ever.”

“i��m sorry,” you breathed. you reached up and ran the backs of your fingers across his jaw. “forgive me.”

he stared at you for a long, quiet moment.

winter pulled out of you and nudged your waist. you rolled onto your left side. your nose nearly kissed the cold stone wall as he settled in behind you. you still hadn’t quite caught your breath back and it trembled in your throat as he guided you to slid your leg up. you fisted the old, stale sheets as he pressed the tip of his cock into you.

he hoarded you against his chest, his arms wrapped tight around you. he rested the side of his face against yours and pressed soft kisses to your cheek. he was giving you a chance to shove him off.

you did no such thing.

his hands cupped your breasts as he rutted into you from behind. breathless moans escaped you as he toyed with your nipples. you had a favorite hand— the warm, calloused, real one. and he knew that. he used that one to dip between your thighs as rub circles against your clit.

the springs below the mattress squeaked as you two moved together. grinding yourself on his hand, it only made it easier for him to thrust. he could go deep when you pressed down onto him. he could feel the weight of himself press into you against his wrist. slow and deliberate, every move he made was a kind of torture you were desperate to be the subject of.

“yes,” you gasped, throwing your head back. you squeezed your eyes shut as you felt pressure boiling over in the depths of your belly. the space between your legs was a wet mess that he slipped in and out of. you grabbed his metal arm as he captured your face between his fingers, squishing your cheeks between the cold, hard fingers. “more, more, more.”

he thrusted himself hard into you. at this angle, you could feel every vein in his cock. if you didn’t cum soon, he would— but once he kissed you, it was all over. you unraveled like a spool of yarn.

you came hard.

you always did.

a violent, toe-curling orgasm rippled through every muscle in your stomach so hard it was nearly agonizing. you moaned helplessly into his mouth and he ate each sound as he kissed you.

subdued by pleasure that left you brain dead, he kissed you without fear that you’d sink those sharp teeth into him.

you turned as he pulled out of you. he was such a large man it was almost funny how much he struggled to be on his knees in his cramped bunk below yours. his head bumped against the metal springs above but he cared not. you wiggled your way beside him and opened your mouth.

he was smarter than to shove his cock in your mouth after letting you get a taste of his blood— but he let you have a taste of something else.

where else was he supposed to cum, anyways?

you sighed as warm, thick ribbons of cum shot out of the tip of his dick. you swallowed the mouthful. it wasn’t great but you’d learned to love it. a piece of him you could enjoy freely. no one had ever told you couldn’t taste him that way.

a soft lick to the tip of his cock to clean the slit showed him that your dangerous mouth meant no harm— and it made his legs tremble.

the two of you redressed in silence. the floor was cold on your feet even through the socks. you could feel him watching you as you pulled your shirt back on. he was the only thing that could watch you in your shared cell of a room. hydra refused to replace the camera that should’ve been in the corner of your room any more.

he kept ripping it out.

when you glanced at him, you couldn’t tell what the expression on his unhelpfully pretty face meant.

he flicked his head towards your bunk.

as cold as ever, it seemed.

you froze as he took a hold of your waist before you could climb up into your bed. he lifted you up into it himself. you settled into your bed and he watched with those void, lifeless blue eyes. everything about him was winter and ice— and yet he placed the warmest kiss to the space between your brows as you laid your head down.

“go to sleep.” it was a command more than anything.

his kindest way to say goodnight.

you closed your eyes in reply and you curled up into your sheets. you only opened your eyes once you heard him get into his own bed. the metal frame trembled as he settled in, jostling you the smallest bit.

you hid underneath your covers and touched your throat. a small, shaky breath escaped you and you pinched your eyes shut. anger could’ve boiled in your veins but you were too tired to care. too defeated after all these years to want to feel any sort of hate for him.

the winter soldier had done worse than choke you.

he’d been forced to time and time again.

hydra has made sure the reason you did not seek to sink your teeth into him was him— and they made him break you down until the smell of his blood had you retching.

you shouldn’t have called him bucky.

a stupid mistake you would both sleep off.

— ☆ —

when the lights came on, you wanted to shrink away into the dark but they never let you. the guards threw open the door to your room and shouted at the two of you to get up, guns drawn and laser sights set on each of your foreheads. they threw fresh clothes for the two of you on the floor. towels, too.

he tossed you yours and left the room first.

guards lined the halls all the way down to the showers. such a welcoming was procedure for the two of you— but you were not the only things awake down in the cold siberian labs right now. you could hear them wailing in their rooms. you could hear them tearing apart their mattresses and punching at the walls.

the other super soldiers were awake.

the spray of lukewarm water was better than nothing. you let it pour down over the top of your head and tried to imagine it was rain. the harsh spray was nothing like it. if anything, it felt like hundreds and hundreds of pellets.

not even a shower here could be kind.

you rinsed the soap from your hair, tipping your head back and ringing out the strands with your hands. across from you, he was doing the same. to most who may not seem him, his metal arm was impressive. you preferred the real one. watching the way the hard, firm muscle moved was delightful. you enjoyed his body. out of all the sights you could see down here, he and his figure were the easiest on the eyes.

as you turned away to clean yourself off, you could feel him watching you.

he was always watching you.

sometimes, you thought he didn’t know any better. you spent so much time together that it was near habit to keep each other in your lines of sight.

most times, you thought of him as just another guard.

though the winter soldier was hydra’s hound that they could whistle up and bring to heel, he sure held your leash more than you held his.

you dressed quickly. once away from the water, it got cold fast. you pulled on the leather gear you wore to train and made sure to keep your hair back. it was harder to fight with your hair in your face. gel was one normal thing they gifted you. that, a toothbrush, and pads for when you bled.

before you could leave the wash room and step into the hallway lined with guards, he grabbed a hold of your chin.

you stared up into his eyes as he stopped you in your tracks. his expression was unreadable. always was. his eyes ate you up whole— but they lingered on the bruises on your throat. his brows twitched. a deep line creased between them.

you saw the ice in those eyes of his begin to crack away— and you did the only thing you could think of to keep him from that chair.

you rammed your knee up into his crotch.

the winter soldier doubled over and fell down onto his knees with a low, pitiful gasp.

you walked out of the bathroom without looking back.

‘sorry bucky,’ you would’ve whispered if you could. ‘you can’t come out to play right now.’

if anyone but you noticed the look in his eye, they would’ve strapped him down and broken him into millions of more pieces than there already were. it would do you no good. if bucky were surfacing once more, he could only do so in the safety of your room at night.

you wouldn’t snitch.

but the winter soldier would— and his absence alone was more than telling to those who wanted james barnes dead and gone for good.

you could hear his footsteps behind you. you could tell from heavy step alone that whatever sheen of clarity had graced him was gone.

maybe you did hold the leash around his throat more than you thought you did.

you hated it.

you hated that the two of you knew how to break each other down before they could break you first.

that isn’t what you wanted.

deep down, you knew he didn’t want it either.

that’s why he regretted those bruises on your neck.

the mess hall was a pitiful attempt at civility. the overhanging lights whirred and flickered. the tables around the room were stained. no one bothered to clean them. and only one was ever usually in use. the one you both sat at.

they served slop and stale bread. it turned your stomach. they created you to be a blood-sucking demon and yet they never let you get a taste unless you were on the field.

he pitied you for it.

that’s why he let you have a taste of him every now and again even though his blood had little appeal.

it was better than nothing.

and it was him.

a damning comfort.

he slid you his cup of orange juice.

you glanced at him but he did not bother to meet your gaze.

a peace offering.

sorry for choking you. we’re even.

you took the small cup of juice but you were not even. no where close to it. you’d saved him from the chair. whether or not he knew that in the scrambled mess that was the inside of his head, you settled for the juice because what else was there to gain?

nothing.

but there was always everything to lose even when you had nothing left to give.

hydra would find a way.

they always did.

and a pit festered in your stomach all the worse as the doors to the mess hall opened and in marched the group of five.

winter was not the only super soldier hydra possessed and he was no where near the strongest. his metal arm and ability to be a clean slate for commanding made him the favorite— but he was in danger when the others were awake.

what if they decided to replace him with another…

that was the only reason you were afraid.

you could eat them all for lunch if you wanted to.

“what is this?” you asked under your breath. it was a stupid question. neither of you ever knew what went on down here even when they told you. there were always other plans. other motives. other projects.

you took a sip of the orange juice he’d given you and swallowed hard. so many new smells in the room had you bouncing your leg under the table. you had seen them all before. once or twice. they were not strangers— but they were forever unaccustomed to your senses. the smell of them made your mouth water.

the winter soldier did not bother to look up from his plate and he toyed with the gruel. “who cares.”

you scowled at him and he bumped his knee against yours under the table to keep you in check. you huffed under your breath. he downplayed it because it would do no good to worry— but even he knew that if the others were awake, something terrible was on the rise.

terrible enough that he brushed his soft, human hand against yours and locked your pinkies together for a fleeting, fraction of a second.

you looked up at him, your eyes wide.

bucky.

hope you enjoyed. next part ->

#bucky x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #marvel #marvel fanfiction #mrderofcr0ws #the winter soldier x you #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier #HEADLOCK bucky barnes

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hylianane · 10 months ago

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I don’t know if I subscribe to the ‘sans is from Deltarune’ idea, I don’t think I do, but I think anyone who does should embrace feminism and accept that if he is from Deltarune, Alphys is, too.

People note the fact that sans and Papyrus don’t have a specific backstory in UT as evidence that they came from DR, with QC simply saying that they showed up one day and asserted themselves into town. Well, in Undertale, Alphys also doesn’t have an early history either. We don’t even know how old she is in comparison to other characters, like Undyne who speaks about training with Asgore in childhood, and Toriel and Asgore with their hundreds of years old history. THIS is the earliest bits of info we have on her.

She sought out Catty and Bratty… and then she sought out Mettaton… weird, huh? Almost like she’s trying to find things that are familiar ;)

People also bring up Sans’s crossword puzzle with a picture of Ice-E printed on it. A very strange thing indeed, considering we don’t see Ice-E’s Pezza mentioned anywhere else. Or… or do we? Because there’s a silly little fun value event you can get in Snowdin, in which a character with a familiar sound to her text tries to prank call a pizzeria. A character who is like. Absolutely, obviously Alphys. But there is no pizzeria in the underground as far as we know, right…?

Sans has al Ice-E, Alphys has a pizza… the fact that both moments, and the chance to speak to Clamgirl about Suzy and find the ‘Don’t Forget’ note, have fun values assigned to them is very telling. Wether it actually adds to the tinfoil hat theory I’m pitching or not, I’m gonna stay convinced that this event IS meant to be a Deltarune joke from Toby

And this is not the only secret Sans and Alphys share. The two are connected in a way that is never explicitly discussed or revealed. Most people brushed it off as them having maybe worked together on the amalgamates, but there is nothing in Alphy’s entries that could indicate this aside from some of them being written poorly.

and yet, they know each other so well, Alphys can predict his jokes before he says them.

But how can I prove that they know each other from Deltarune, specifically?

I can’t lol that’s not how these theories work

But the reason ‘Sans is from Deltarune’ became so wide spread and believable in the first place is because it answered the question of what he had hidden in his lab, and where it was that he wanted to return to. It solved the secret of his machine.

Well, my theory explains why Alphys had her name written in barely legible handwriting all over said machine’s blueprints. They were trying to return to Deltarune.

Wake UP ‘Sans is from Deltarune truthers, Alphys stocks are higher than they’ve ever been- even when compared to Undertale’s popularity peak in 2016. It is time to capitalize on it.

#this is pure. waiting for the newsletter brainrot dont listen to me #undertale #deltarune #utdr #alphys #sans undertale #sans deltarune #my post #deltarune theory

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yummyuta · 7 months ago

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teen spirit | l.m

♡ genre: smut - mdni! | slight angst | word count: 1,955

♡ pairing: ghost! mark lee x f. reader

♡ warnings: mentions of death, unprotected sex, riding, missionary, overstimulation

♡ summary: reader moves into an old apartment full of character but admist some strange and haunting occurrences she starts having vivid dreams about a boy named mark, who feels strikingly real.

♡ authors note: this story turned out a bit longer than i had anticipated, which is why it was released a little late, so my apologies for that. im really trying my best to stick to my schedule, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy reading!

octoberfest/kinktober masterlist

♡ song recommendation:

you shuddered, pulling your blanket closer having felt a chill in the air of your old apartment. you had moved in a few months ago seeking a fresh start after a rough breakup. the building with its peeling paint and creaky floors that groaned like weary bones captivated you. it was like every corner seemed to hold the weight of forgotten stories, and the air hummed with whispers that sent shivers down your spine.

you started to toss and turn in your sleep. this is the 3rd time this week that you have had a reccuring face show up in your dreams. he was a handsome man, with dark brown hair and eyes filled with so much light. he had a dorky smile and a comforting presence. you would meet up with him in hidden corners of your mind. wandering through moonlit parks, sharing secrets that felt too real to be mere fantasies.

days blurred into weeks, and the dreams of the mystery man grew increasingly vivid. each night, he felt more tangible, you would curl up in bed with him, as he touched and kissed you all over causing soft sighs to leave your mouth and echo off the walls. you would wake up in a cold sweat with an ache between your legs flustered and confused with what was happening.

on a cool evening, as you made your way to the laundry room down in the basement, you saw someone who looked vaguely familiar to you at the end of the hallway, leaning casually against the wall. his presence illuminating the dim space around him.

“hey,” he said, his voice smooth and inviting, a melody that sent a thrill through you. “i’ve seen you around. y/n right?"

your heart raced, a mixture of excitement and disbelief flooding your veins. “who's asking?", you responded cautiously.

"oh sorry, i'm mark funnily enough i used to live in your rental, but i moved to the floor below recently." he said, scratching the back of his neck.

you stood there chatting with him for a while as your nervousness dissapated. he helped you carry your laundry downstairs as you told him all about why you had moved in.

"its a bit creepy down here, isn't it? i swear this whole building might be haunted." you playfully said, throwing your clothes in the machine. mark stood frozen next to you for a few moments. you turned locking eyes with him, his pupils looked dilated in the dim light. "um mark..." you moved to touch his hand trying to bring his focus back to you. when you reached it it was ice cold, making you gasp. he snapped out of it, pulling his hand away from you. "sorry, you're right. i think i was a little freaked out just now." you quickly wrapped up what you were doing and invited him to your apartment for some hot chocolate, wanting to ease the tension and get to know the man of your literal dreams a bit more.

as months passed, you and mark grew inseparable. you didnt label your relationship but you definitely had feelings for one another. mark was like your saving grace. like clockwork he always showed up when you were having a bad day. things with him were easy in comparison to the daily stress that life has to offer. he made you forget about all your worries, and you felt like you he wouldnt judge you for anything.

time with him was even more perfect in real life than it was in your head. your evenings were filled with laughter, shared meals, and endless movie marathons. mark had a knack for finding the quirkiest films, often choosing horror flicks that made you jump and cling to him in mock terror.

“okay, next movie!” you said, turning to face him. mark leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against hers, sending sparks of electricity through you. he was always so cold, in comparison to his warm personality.

“how about that new horror film? you know, to really set the mood for this haunted place", he recommended.

“do you think you can handle it?” you teased, arching an eyebrow.

“please,” he grinned. “i’m not afraid of a little ghost.”

you laughed, the sound mingling with the rain tapping against the window. as the movie played, you found your body drawing closer to the man next to you. as a jump scare suddenly popped up on the screen, you nearly leaped into marks lap. your faces were so close together, there was a smell of mint wafting the air. his breathing causing goosebumps to form on your arms. "sorry... i got a bit startled" you managed to stutter out looking between his eyes and his lips.

"close your eyes" he whispered. you listened doing as you were told and felt his lips firmly press against yours. your head started spinning as your tongue slotted its way into his mouth, deepening the kiss. you positioned yourself on top of him, throwing your legs around his waist as the blanket you were sharing cascaded down to the floor. slowly, you began grinding, moving to the motion of your lips. mark began leaving open-mouthed kisses on your neck, causing you to throw your head back in ectasy. he reached his hands up, passed the hem of your shirt, brisk fingers digging into your waist and removing your top. you made quick work taking off the rest of your clothes before holding his hard cock in your hand and spreading it around your pussy.

it had been a while since you had last been physical with someone, and your legs were shaking in anticipation. once you felt ready, you sunk yourself down, meeting his hips. mark had his head placed on the arm rest of the couch, hand around his neck propping himself up to get a good look as you used his body for pleasure. you bounced on him steadily, using as much strength as you could to keep up a decent pace. both your hands placed on his pale chest, as your core clenched, and your moans got progressively louder. the walls of your apartment were thin, and you were certain you were pissing off your neighbors, but you didn't care. mark was glowing underneath you almost looking like an angel. sweat sticking to his forehead as he bit his lip trying to keep himself from fucking up into you.

you were getting close to your peak, riding him faster and harder. your thighs were on fire, as you grabbed his hand that was holding your waist, wrapping it around to play with your bundle of nerves. mark lazily grinned, impressed by your bold move to get yourself off. "my girl, let me see how beautiful you look when you cum." those words were enough to get you to release all over him. before you could come down from the high he quickly flipped you around, and began drilling into you at an unholy pace.

"mark...oh my fucking god" you choked out in sobs. it was like a flip had switched and he had turned into a completely different person. he was fucking you like it was the first and last time he would ever be able to do it. cherishing the way your walls clenched around him. watching as your tits bounced and eyes widened. the way your hands were gripping the cushions, he wanted nothing more than for you to touch him again.

he took your leg placing it over his shoulder and turning to press a kiss to the inside of your knee. that simple action made your stomach erupt in butterflies. he was a beast and a gentleman all at the same time. you could tell he was getting close as his hips began faltering. you looked deeply in his eyes, getting lost in the feeling of his skin surrounding you. he was still freezing despite the sheer amount of effort he was putting into getting you both to the edge.

"my boy, please" was all you needed to say and he painted your walls white. you saw stars for the second time pulling him into a desperate kiss. as you came down from your high, mark picked up the forgotten blanket from the floor bundling the two of you up. he kissed your forehead as your eyes began to close. "i have something to tell you" he said. "tell me in the morning" you responded with the sweetest smile before drifting off to sleep.

when you awoke, the room was eerily quiet, the credits rolling on the screen. confusion washed over you as you blinked into the dim light. the glow of the tv cast strange shadows, but mark was nowhere to be found.

“mark?” you called voice shaky, echoing in the stillness. silence responded, thick and oppressive.

you bolted upright, heart pounding. “he must have stepped out,” you reassured yourself, though a nagging doubt clawed at your insides. you waited, glancing at your phone, but there were no messages.

the minutes dragged on, stretching into what felt like an eternity. you found yourself slowly falling back into a slumber, hoping you would meet him again there.

the next morning, you awoke a sense of dread settled over you. you felt restless, as you wiped your eyes and they were wet. he didn't show up last night, and you couldn't feel him anymore almost like he never existed. how could he just leave? did you do something wrong? you were overwhelmed with a growing sense of loss, and you couldn't stand it. gathering your courage, you made your way to the landlord’s office.

“excuse me, do you have a moment?” you asked, stepping inside. the landlord, an old man with tired eyes and a graying beard, looked up from a cluttered desk.

“of course, what’s on your mind?” he replied, adjusting his glasses.

“i was wondering if you knew anything about a boy named mark who used to live in the same unit as me but he said he moved to a different one. do you know which one by any chance?,” you asked.

the landlord’s expression shifted, the corners of his mouth tightening. “mark? now that isn't a name i've heard in a long time". he paused as if trying to choose his words carefully. "yes, he lived here…long ago.”

no, that couldn't be right. i mean, you never went to his place, but surely he wouldnt have lied to you...right? "what happened to him?” you pressed, a lump forming in her throat.

the landlord hesitated, his gaze distant. “he died in an accident. what a loss too, he was a sweet and talented individual."

you felt the world tilt on its axis, the weight of his words crashing down on you. mark hadn’t just been a figment of your imagination; he was a spirit, forever tied to this building. your heart ached as realization dawned upon you.

as you walked back to your apartment, the whispers in the walls felt louder now, almost comforting in their persistence. the building had never been just a place to live; it was a sanctuary for lost souls, including mark.

that night, as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, body feeling heavy with the knowledge of his absence, you spoke out whispering into the dark hoping somehow into the beyond he could hear you. “i’ll always remember you, mark."

a tear fell down your face, as you felt a strange warmth envelop you. as if the air itself was wrapping you in a gentle embrace. the shadows danced along the walls, and you closed her eyes, letting the bittersweet memories wash over you. though he might be gone, the connection you had shared transcended the boundaries of life and death, echoing through the haunted halls of your heart.

#yummyuta #nct smut #nct hard hours #mark lee smut #kinktober

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baggebythesea · 3 months ago

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Princess kidnappings in She-Ra, princesses of power, ranked from worst to best

[Bonus abysmal attempt: Bow's and Glimmer's rescue attempt of Entrapta. I don't count it because they at no point were even close to kidnap an actual princess, just Catra, and they screwed that up too. AND the news that Entrapta didn't want to be rescued was one of their most devastating blows throughout the entire show.]

Glimmer and Bow kidnapping Adora Sorry, but this was just amateur hour. Abysmal fighting skills, wasted opportunities for 'I've got you now my pretty' and pivoting straight to the power of friendship without properly holding her captive before. Also, Adora wasn't even a princess when they started.

Horde Prime taking Entrapta hostage You kidnapped the magical HAIR princess by holding her in her HAIR? Come on, Prime. This is embarrassing even for you. I will admit that showing the kidnapping on interplanetary holographic tv was a bit stylish, and it worked out great as a motivator for Hordak, but as kidnapping goes it was just pitiful.

Horde Prime capturing Adora… …for all of five minutes, during which she hardly noticed because she was busy being horrified about her cat girlfriend. Don't get me wrong - everything concerning chipped Catra was amazing, but as for the actual princess capture, Prime miscalculated like the miscalculating dumbass he is.

Angella grounding Glimmer I only count this one on a technicality, but props for Angella for having even a modicum of success of restricting a princess with the power of teleportation. Also, well use of social protocol to force her to dinner. We rarely get to see Angella play to her strengths, but this was one of those times.

Chipping of Spinnerella, Mermista and Scorpia While brainwashing the princess has a lot of potential, Horde Prime totally wasted it. Little to no build-up, hardly any gloating and far too little taunting of their loved ones (Micah was used to good effect, but not the princesses). Bonus points to the chipped princesses themselves, though. Spinnerella and Mermista pulled off mean twist reveals, and Scorpia, Perfuma and Bow pulled off flawless 'fight, I know you are still in there' scenes. But again, no thanks to Prime.

Catra and Scorpia 'capturing' Entrapta Now, everything about this 'capture' was just pitiful, and I doubt Entrapta at any point registered that she was supposed to be a prisoner. BUT it was all worth it for Catra effortlessly pivoting from "I got you now my pretty" to "Poor princess, abandoned by your friends - we can be your new friends". Catra manipulation at its finest. Also, Scorpia being all 'Yay! New friend!' worked really well with the second half of the manipulation.

The princess alliance capturing Scorpia Serious minus points for the capture - Scorpia literary had to walk up to them to get taken. But everything after that was flawless. Inept but sincere 'comfy chair' prison. Top notch power of friendship speeches, great reversal of Scorpia's earlier belief that she would not be welcome in the princess alliance and delicious reconnecting Scorpia to her magical heritage (the best 'sinister power of friendship' use in the entire series). A cute flower princess adding the power of love with a bratty ice princess as little sister substitute was just the icing of the cake.

Catra capturing Adora in the Crimson Waste and holding her in the Fright Zone while Hordak and Entrapta finished the portal machine While the capture itself was clean enough, and played great into Catra's strengths of bending the Crimson Waste to her will (in contrast to the Best Friends Squad, who failed miserably at the same thing), the aftermath was plain messy, with Entrapta getting second thoughts of the portal machine, Hordak being to busy worrying about Catra coming back with a force of her own and Catra actively spiralling. But that all paled in comparison to the play between Catra and Adora. Raw emotions, mutual hurt, Adora pleading and it all ending on Catra spitefully activating the portal machine. Just delicious.

Shadow Weaver holding Glimmer prisoner and trying to brainwash Adora (I'm splitting this one in two - Catra and Scorpia capturing Glimmer and Bow get their own entry below) Now, for all her faults no one can deny that Shadow Weaver got style. Keeping Glimmer in a magic force field prison from which she can break out with the power of love while having Adora strapped to a board is just delicious. However, serious missed opportunity to gloat to/corrupting Glimmer. As always, Shadow Weaver is too hung up on Adora to properly focus on anything else.

Catra and Scorpia capturing Glimmer and Bow at princess prom Flawless. Exquisite. Stylish. This is why Catra is the real power of the Horde. Perfect manipulation, playing within the rules until the moment it didn't suit her, at which point she broke them hard, playing straight into Glimmer's and Bow's weaknesses AND laying the groundwork for Adora's capture and Entrapta turning. AND they did it all while looking sexy as fuck. This is what every other wanna be princess kidnapper should take notes of.

Horde Prime and Catra keeping Glimmer captive on the Velvet Glove. This! This is the good stuff. "I've got you now my pretty", faux chivalry as a thin coat of paint over horrible dehumanization. Space jello. Space TV showing the 'Oh no your poor friends will perish, if only you could help them' channel, presenting Glimmer with his oooooorb (and Glimmer immediately smashing said fucker's orb). Force field scene. Turning Catra to do one good thing. Self destructive rescue. I'll forgive Horde Prime for his previous entries on this list, just because of how perfect this was. Also, yet another proof that any princess kidnapping becomes so much better if you involve Catra.

#spop

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sepublic · 1 year ago

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Imagine the Ice Emperor's robotic nature, but from the perspective of the people of the Never-Realm, who have zero context for a being like him. They don't have robotics or particularly advanced technology, though they at least have magic to expand their imagination with, and are aware that (some of) the Blizzard Samurai are made of ice.

But still, machinery on the level of Zane must be totally foreign to them. Alien, even, and it technically is if we go by the strict definition of the term. People rightfully assume the Ice Emperor is made of, well, ice; But they aren't aware that he's metal. He has metal organs and bones unlike any creature they have ever seen before. He doesn't breathe; He doesn't eat, doesn't drink, doesn't even bleed. When he is 'asleep' it is like being in the presence of a lifeless statue, that is to say there is no presence, just impersonal cold; One looking for the Ice Emperor might even assume they've only found a statue in his likeness.

Imagine if during those sixty years, someone came close, really close, to defeating the Ice Emperor before the ninja arrived; But they failed and died because they could not have anticipated his nature as a machine. They tear apart the Ice Emperor, his head is rolling at their feet... And his eyes blink anyway. He's still alive. He bleeds not blood but sparks of lightning.

He puts himself back together like a puppet. He creaks and groans and emits strange noises. He does not 'live' in the sense that the Never-Realm understands; He is an uncanny mimicry, not quite moving the same, even more unimaginable beneath the already terrifying exterior. The Ice Emperor doesn't heal naturally, he must weld and fuse his body back into place. Imagine if the evil sorcerer plaguing your lands was finally taken down, only for him to have a second phase where it's revealed he's a Terminator. And when you consider that he's from the future, the comparison to the Terminator is even more apt.

His former Titanium Ninja moniker suggests he's made of the stuff. Had the Ice Emperor not awoken, had Akita gone through with stabbing him with her knife... Would it have just broken against the 'skin' beneath the armor? Would she have not found skin underneath the armor, not realizing the Ice Emperor is armor all the way through? If Akita had made a cut, would it have been enough to actually affect the Ice Emperor in a meaningful way, for a slashed neck is not as much to a machine as it is to one of flesh and blood?

There's just a lot of potential when it comes to exploring the Ice Emperor from an eldritch horror angle, an alien that even Vex is lowkey afraid of, because obviously he came from somewhere, someone made him; What is that world like? It'd be like meeting the Iron Giant and realizing he was built originally as a weapon. What if the rest of that world comes for us, wondering where their scout went?

#ninjago #ice emperor #zane julien

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youcouldmakealife · 11 months ago

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COTT 36: outtakes

Today's chapter was originally almost a full 1k longer, as James got downright Holden-esque in his rambling (he gets over-explain-y when unsettled, and yearning is very destabilizing, especially on top of his general roadie overwhelm.).

I cut it because it's, you know, almost 1k of rambling reminiscence, but if you are interested, here is James' Vending Machine Adventures, That Time James Forgot His Passport and James' Feelings About Family Ties and Cracked Pepper.

On face licking and vending machine stalking:

Nor something he plans on ever doing, yearning aside, as he is not a canine.

But then, James would have also said that he was above loitering around a vending machine at midnight, trying to look like he was having trouble making a decision to avoid arousing suspicion.

Every time he heard footsteps coming down the hall he would resignedly pull out his wallet for effect, already knowing it wasn’t Holden.

At some point James must have learned what Holden’s walk sounds like. He’s not sure when that happened, but he can’t say he’s surprised either, given the intensity of focus he’s aimed Holden’s way over the past several weeks, researching him like an opponent, a play, a — the comparisons break down at some point, Holden unlike anything James has been preoccupied with before.

After the first few disappointments, James handled two more passerby — one a harassed looking member of the hotel staff, who paid him no attention, the other a teammate who unfortunately took James’ presence as an invitation to socialize — before he finally gave up, buying a bottle of water so he didn’t return to his room empty handed.

He’s not sure why he bothered — it’s not like was expecting to have to explain himself to anyone. Maybe so he didn’t have to admit, even to himself, that he’d been waiting for Holden, though it was probably a little late for that, because he knew that was precisely what he was doing.

He didn’t even end up drinking that water. He forget it in hotel mini-bar. He’d like to think someone drank it, but most likely, they just threw it out, which makes him feel dimly guilty about the waste. He reminds himself how many bottles of water they must sell at every hockey game, but that only makes him feel worse, so he watches highlights on his phone until his head clears, a clean sheet of ice again.

On Passport Snafus and Secret Safes:

Holden waves his passport at him triumphantly from his spot in line, and James rolls his eyes.

He forgot his own passport once — just once — early in his career. The team has photocopies, in case someone’s is lost or stolen, and apparently that was an acceptable substitute. At least, they let him into Canada, but rather than risk trouble on the way home — as a citizen, they have to let him in, passport or no, but he doubts they’re required to make it a comfortable process — his super let a staff member into his apartment with his permission. She sent it to them via same-day courier, and it arrived in Toronto almost as soon as they did.

James had been storing his passport in his underwear drawer at the time. He’d figured that way he’d never forget where it was, and he was right, but it didn’t prevent him from forgetting it entirely. For years he couldn’t look at her. Was genuinely relieved when she was promoted to a more senior position, one that involved significantly less interaction with the players.

His underwear drawer has simply been an underwear drawer ever since. His passport’s in his coat pocket now, of course, but when he gets home, it will go back into a hollowed out calculus textbook that Finn bought for him after the Passport Incident.

That book has been sitting on his shelf, concealing his passport for years without incident, up until last week, when Holden got his hands on it. He’d been skimming James’ shelves, making comments about the players whose autobiographies were present, snide and otherwise, but when he came across the calculus textbook he immediately reached out like he was magnetized, laughing when he flipped it open to find James’ passport, birth certificate, all the papers he couldn’t afford to lose. James would have been offended, but it wasn’t a laugh of amusement, more of discovery, of delight. Apparently, he’s able to identify that by sound too.

When James asked how he knew it was something worth investigating, Holden pointed out it was the only thing that didn’t involve hockey in the hockey room. James does have to admit that was an oversight on his part, and a concern if he is ever robbed. But then, if he is, everything of worth he owns is in that room, almost all of it irreplaceable. Losing his passport would be the least of his problems.

Even so, he likes it as a hiding space, so he’s considering hollowing out a hockey book instead. A bad one, one of the ones that barely discuss hockey, so busy offering braggadocio and salacious details, so he won’t feel so guilty about it.

Until then, he’s not particularly worried about Holden stealing his passport from its default hiding place. He’s far more concerned about him misplacing his own, or forgetting it again.

On the Ericksons and Schneiders sitting together during games:

His father said it made sense to, since he and Finn were almost always on the ice at the same time and besides, the Schneiders didn’t talk during play, like some parents did. It makes James uncomfortable, them knowing one another, socializing independently of him, but at the same time, it’s a relief they get along.

On dinner add-ons:

James demurs cracked pepper, parmesan, while the Schneiders load up on both — he likes both, but not enough to ask a stranger to lean into his personal space, over his plate, cranking their little machine unbearably slowly until he tells them to stop.

#cards on the table #james ericksson #fic snippet

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nanaminokanojo · 1 year ago

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THAWING ICE QUEEN (part 102)

–one night of fooling around with the annoying campus king gojo satoru (he thinks so), turns into...well, something else more long term

CHARACTERS: gojo satoru x you | geto suguru | jjk characters

MASTERLIST | CHAPTER INDEX

<<prev part 102 next>>

A/N: This comes with prose.

"Didn't know we made things official."

Magnificent blue eyes darted towards the direction of your voice, their owner visibly perking up at the sight of you from where he was seated on the bed. It was like watching the sped up process of a wilting flower, only backwards as it came back to life. And you momentarily questioned your worth to have such an effect on one Gojo Satoru. You were one person in comparison to the multitude of others who wanted him and would kill to be in your place. Somehow you had to be the one for him; perhaps the one who makes him happy to a certain degree, but most definitely the one who's hurting him, too.

"At least hand me the memo before you go around announcing that I'm in an exclusive relationship with you."

An airy chuckle left his throat as he remained seated, his arms opening and beckoning you over. You obliged albeit taking each step cautiously, but he was impatient as always, pulling you by the hand the moment you were within reach and hooking an arm around your waist to draw you even closer to him. You remained standing between his legs while he possessively held you, his face buried on your stomach while your fingers delved into his silky, silvery hair. For a moment, the two of you breathed in sync, basking in the silence that followed.

It wasn't the first time you'll be in his bedroom at Suguru's place, but you've never really taken the time to look at the finer details. The condo he kept lacked personality, practically uninhabited and telling you nothing about the person in front of you. But in the space you found yourself in, you saw more of his essence.

Satoru was surprisingly organized. You already knew he had a taste for expensive things and he could probably afford to get new things whenever he pleases, but what he has, he obviously takes care of. You sort of expected him the opposite considering his chaotic personality. But over that, his sunny disposition reflected in his little corner of the world, too. Despite his preference for dark-toned accents, everything was bright and warm and cozy.

You looked around, taking in the small details. How his shelves were lined with books, a lot of them, the ones he pays attention to the most looking more battered than the rest, surprisingly turning out to be about aliens and mysteries. Or how there were a variety of tiny Lego people purposefully scattered in very random spots in little worlds of their own in animated suspension. One, you've noticed, was a pair standing under a cherry tree bonsai on an a corner table by the veranda.

You've guessed at it, but he really keeps a stash of sweets within reach from a small bowl of assorted candy by his nightstand to an actual gumball machine filled with Skittles near his desk. He always tasted a bit sugary when you kissed him and you doubted it was just whatever he uses to "take care of his smoochers," as he had termed it. Speaking of which, there were several lip balms lying around by his candies.

Satoru keeps a piece of home through a framed photograph of him with his parents on his other nightstand and surrounds himself with the people he cares about through random printed snapshots tacked to a corkboard by his desk.

"What's funny?" he asked.

You didn't even realize you were laughing until he mentioned it, your eyes trained to the photo you remembered taking with Suguru, Shoko and him when they first introduced the two of you. From the get-go he came on too strong, slinging an arm around your shoulders much to your annoyance. You wondered how it would be if you never got to know him, the warmth in your chest suddenly ebbing away as you looked down to meet his gaze.

Ignoring his question, you said, "I've decided..." You breathed in deeply, letting go of all the tension in your body as you focusrd in Satoru's warmth around you. You gently placed either of your hands on the sides of his face, looking at him as if he will disappear anytime. "I've decided to give myself what I want before I go to London."

His grip tightened around you at the mention of you leaving. "And what is it that you want?"

You smiled. "This guy with the bluest eyes I've ever seen."

He let out a chuckle, unable to help it despite himself. Giving in to his cheeky self, he lifted you up by the back of your thighs, making you yelp in surprise. He settled you on the bed with a slight bounce, laughter lighting up his countenance as he hovered over you. "Then you shall have him."

Reaching up, you pulled him down to you, slinging both of your arms around his neck as you kissed him, soft and easy, deliberately taking your precious time to savor his taste and every heartbeat which seemingly skipped at his bidding. And he returned the gesture in kind if not more until all you could feel was him and nothing else, trapping you into this bubble with nothing but the two of you.

"Stay with me," he spoke against your lips, speaking to your very soul, imploring. But you couldn't answer him; can't promise him something you couldn't give, and so you held on to him tightly as he lay his head against your chest.

If only time was kinder and stopped for your sake, you would give everything that you have just to make it so. It may not be the case, but you still wanted to make the best out of the time you two have left.

"Satoru..."

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

TAGS LIST: @arxliana @neeneee @charlie-xo @aelynaneedsalottathing @arizzu @cloudxp @justpuddinglol @mikkies @nyfwyeonjun @whats-humanity-lol @letthewindlead @whore-of-many-hot-men @localgaytrainwreck @pikibee @bloombb @mr-underhills-things @lysaray @chocoyanchan @poemzcheng @bookswillfindyouaway @dreamxiing @koutaroo @taelattecookie @kazuhasmaid @weebbuscuit @moonmalice @taengkatsu @reagan707 @to0ru @shirabane @yell0wdreams @r0ckst4rjk @megtheebimbo @tmvll9

PHOTO/IMAGE/GIF/FANART/ANY MEDIA CREDITS TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNERS.

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nerdanel01 · 10 months ago

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Another great day to practice necromancy 💀. How do you do? 💚

So, we know that Emmrich, as an esteemed member of Mortalitasi, is expected to attend the gatherings of the Nevarran nobles from time to time or visit them in their estates. Has Emmrich ever met Lord Halkias then, I mean Agnes's father? Was Agnes present? If not, did he tell her about it afterwards?

Or maybe they've met during or after the events of The Veilguard? How would such a meeting play out, I wonder?

in short: badly! 3.5k+ below the cut

9:51 Dragon

Emmrich had been told the extravagant excess of Tevinter’s Altus class made the indulgence of the Nevarran nobility look quaint by comparison—but truthfully, it tested the bounds of his creativity to imagine exactly how that could be the case.

At the Dietrich estate, the nobility glittered like a swarm of beetles, jewels dripping from fingers and ears and necks, women swanning in crystal-crusted dresses that gleamed from a distance like the most brilliant carapace. Two quintents had been booked, instead of the customary one, so that the music would continue ceaselessly when the first group of musicians took their rest. The wine flowed freely from two golden fountains at either side of the wide hall—both red and white. Flanking the walls were banquet tables piled high with food that looked almost too good to eat: butter and ice and sugar carved into elaborate shapes (the Necropolis; the Nevarran palace; the face of a revered Dietrich ancestor); pyramids of glacé fruit preserved at the peak of its freshness; flaky finger foods arrayed on plated towers. Indeed, it appeared that hardly anyone had touched it, preferring (if the general atmosphere of the room was any indication) to indulge in libations instead.

Emmrich himself had avoided the wine. He had never been a wistful drunk, not really… but over the past year or so he had learned that even the slightest taste of alcohol was likely to turn him morose.

And Johanna had dragged him here to be the opposite. It was a precarious time in Nevarra, with King Markus in such ill health, and still no clear heir to replace him. Already there were political machinations, assassinations and deals being cut to determine whom among the Nevarran nobility would be left sitting on that throne once King Markus passed, and who would wield the most influence over the country’s new regent. Worse, in recent years, the accusations that the Mortalitasi ruling by proxy through the weakened King had reached a fever pitch… not whispered as they used to be, but speculated out loud in the open. For his part, Emmrich could not say whether or not those rumors were true. That was the business of the priest-mages, not the Mourn Watch; and anyway, Emmrich had never been keen on politics.

But, “You are charming,” Johanna had implored him, though Emmrich thought that was not quite accurate—he had, perhaps, been charming once upon a time, but he felt himself growing more and more into a bitter, withdrawn old man with each passing month. “The nobles adore you,” Johanna had continued—that, maybe, was still true. He had spent much of the past year in seclusion, and had not yet burned the bridges of amicability and influence he had so carefully built during his time as part of the Mourn Watch. Finally, the coup de grace, her plea: “Please do not make me attend Lady Dietrich’s party by myself.”

Emmrich wanted nothing to do with parties—it was difficult to imagine he would ever be light hearted and mirthful enough to enjoy the gaiety of such gatherings ever again—but he did love Johanna with a strong, brotherly affection that was difficult to deny. She had been patient with him, this past year, as he had crumbled into a shadow of his former self. For as long as she could, Johanna had shielded him from the social responsibilities of his role, giving him time to grieve Agnes’ absence and the smothering guilt he carried for having caused it. More than once in the past year, he had behaved in such a way that Johanna could have dismissed him from the Mourn Watch—it would have been entirely right of her to do so—but she had not. She had protected him. And it was so small a thing: one evening, swanning among the nobility, eating fine food and pretending to laugh at bad jokes. It would not be pleasant, certainly, but it would not be terrible.

Or so Emmrich had thought.

Lady Dietrich had cornered him; literally, had backed him into the corner of the room and now stood in front of him, gesturing in such a way that it was difficult to get past her. Her efforts to bed him, never particularly subtle to begin with, had become more overt and outlandish in the year since her husband had passed. Regrettably, by now, Emmrich was quite used to her flirtations; he knew how to make her feel heard without really listening, when to nod his head or smile for emphasis, when and how demure in the face of her more lascivious suggestions without offending her. He occupied her thusly now as his eyes scanned the room, wondering how Johanna was fairing.

His eyes locked first, however, on a man he had never seen before. That was odd. Emmrich had been part of Nevarran society by blood before he had ever become Mortalitasi; there was scarcely a family in the noble class with whom he had not been acquainted since childhood. And yet there he was, this old man standing beside the nearest fountain and filling a wide goblet to the brim with more wine, his wrinkled face ruddy with drink, cheeks looking all the more splotched and red in contrast with his white beard.

Strangest of all was that—although Emmrich was quite sure he had never met the man before—there was something painfully familiar about him.

“Forgive me, Lady Dietrich,” he interjected, interrupting her as she was telling him (rather too pointedly) that the extravagant decorations she had imported from Minrathous for the party extended even to the estate’s bedrooms, “That gentleman over there, beside the fountain. I do not think I have had the pleasure of meeting him before. Who is he?”

Lady Dietrich blinked in surprise—Emmrich rarely interrupted her, and when he did, it was often with far more grace (or “charm,” he supposed, to use Johanna’s words)—then turned to follow his gaze. When she saw the old man, her lips curled back in distaste.

“That is Lord Halkias,” she answered disdainfully. “His estate is out west, you know. Far west, in the borderlands. Practically Orlais,” she intimated, her sense of superiority dripping from every word.

Emmrich had not drank a sip of wine yet that evening; suddenly, he dearly wished he had. Now that he had the man’s name, the resemblance between Halkias and his daughter was undeniable: the arch of his nose, the v-shaped peak of his hairline over his brow. The deep, sensual bow of his upper lip. It was not in fact Lord Halkias who had been painfully familiar to him; it had been the ghost of Agnes, staring out of her father’s face.

“His wife just passed,” Lady Dietrich continued, rattling off gossip; Emmrich barely heard her. “He accompanied her body to its final resting place in the Necropolis last week. Did you not know?”

He had not. He did not think for a minute that it was a coincidence. Johanna would have done everything in her power, no doubt, to prevent Emmrich from having anything to do with Lady Halkias’ last rites.

Emmrich tried and failed to keep the bite from his voice when he replied: “He does not appear to be grieving the loss of his wife too terribly.”

Lady Dietrich shot him a glance, surprised at the uncharacteristic venom in his tone. She leaned closer, whispered to him conspiratorially, not bothering to hide her distaste: “He has extended his visit to the city. There is great speculation he has done so in order to hunt for a prospective bride—although he is kidding himself if he thinks to accomplish that aim in this household. None of these self-respecting families would marry a daughter into a family such as his.”

Emmrich was staring. He knew he was staring. He could not pull his eyes away. Could not help but think how much it must have pained Agnes, to grow up and see the resemblance to her father marked so plainly on her face—her father who had abused her mother, her father who had been anything but fatherly to Agnes herself. Who had made every effort, for his own personal gain, to see Agnes forced into a marriage that would ultimately serve him. That Lord Halkias had failed spectacularly in his aim to sell off his daughter like a common whore did not make it any less despicable.

“Are you alright, dear? You’re looking rather pale.”

Lady Dietrich was looking up at him again, her watery blue eyes filled with uncharacteristic concern. Were Emmrich not so consumed by this feeling building inside of him (unnameable; ichorous; dark) he might have been touched. Instead, he made a hasty retreat.

“Yes, Lady Dietrich, I'm alright—just feeling a bit peckish—if you’ll excuse me…”

And he slipped past her, making his way towards one of the banquet tables. But he had no interest in eating. His heart was racing, his pulse thundering in his ears. He held his fingertips to his temples, rubbing them gently, trying to slow his breathing. But it was impossible. The food, the drink, the luxury, the excess—and the memory, seared into his skull, of how Agnes’ father had reacted to her desertion.

…because of course, though Emmrich had told Johanna emphatically and repeatedly that Agnes would prefer to die in the gutters of Nevarra City rather than return to her father’s estate, Johanna had sent guards to check it nevertheless. ‘Due diligence,’ Johanna had called it.

Lord Halkias had called it a ‘grave insult.’

Among the many gems of hard, crystallized hatred that had made up the missive he sent back with the soldiers, Emmrich would never forget how he had concluded the message:

‘If that ill-conceived, misbegotten issue of mine had dared to come back here, I would have beaten her bloody and senseless for the disgrace she has brought upon our family and my own good name. Whatever was left of her afterwards I would have returned without delay to the Mortalitasi, happy to be rid of her and happy for whatever additional punishment you sought to bring to bear upon her for her betrayal and her cowardice. When you do find her, be harsh with her. Tranquility is too mild a punishment for that thankless slut.’

At the memory alone, Emmrich was clenching his fists so hard his nails threatened to draw blood.

Food was not going to help him. Drink was likely not going to help him either, but at this point he was going to take his chances. Morose was not good company, but it was still preferable to murderous. Spinning on his heel, he let his feet carry him to the far fountain, opposite the fountain flowing with red wine that Lord Halkias was still lurking beside. Emmrich did not prefer white wine, but he also did not trust himself to secure a cup of red while fully resisting the urge to grab Lord Halkias by his white hair and hold him beneath the fountain’s surface, drowning him in the drink he was so besotted with.

But as he stood with his back against the wall, taking polite sips from his goblet (resisting the urge to down the glass in one long swallow) Emmrich did not feel his mood mellowing. On the contrary. As usual, the drink summoned visions and phantoms, memories. How Agnes would side-step any questions he used to ask her about her childhood; the cursory answers she would give about her family, her step-siblings. The upheaval that followed her mother’s death; the trauma of learning exactly who and what her father really was; the fear and injustice and lovelessness of being kept under his roof. Her obsession with neatness, with cleanliness, with cleverness; the remnants of the impossible standards she had been held to in Halkias’ household, never good enough, never as good as her legitimately born siblings. The last argument they had before Agnes had left: “you are not my father,” the words spat with more hatred and vitriol than Agnes had ever used with him before.

‘Indeed, I am nothing like her father,’ Emmrich thought to himself darkly, brooding over the rim of his goblet. ‘Unlike him, I loved her.’

And he should have told her that, then. Should never have tried to keep his love secret from Agnes, who had lived so much of her life starved of the love that her family should have given her, who had spent so many of her years feeling alone and was now alone again, for all Emmrich knew.

Perhaps if she had a father who loved her, Emmrich would not have felt obligated in some way to step into that role himself. To guide her. To protect her, to watch out for her in a way that no one else ever had. To protect her even from himself, when Emmrich’s desires and feelings for her became anything but fatherly. Perhaps he could have been honest with her, then; perhaps she would not have had to leave. Perhaps she would still pass her days in the Necropolis, safe and loved and cherished by him. Perhaps….

But ‘perhaps’ meant nothing now. Agnes was gone, and more likely than not, Emmrich would never see her again. His fault. More than a year had passed since her departure, but time had not blunted the ache of her absence one bit.

The ring Agnes had gifted him—the one he could not bear to wear on his fingers, that he could not endure the sight of any more than he could discard it—felt twice as heavy on the chain it hung on around his neck, resting beneath his shirt, close to his heart.

…and here was her father. Drunken, merry, undisturbed in the least by her disappearance. Worse than that, maybe. Gleeful that she was gone at last, that his bastard child, his eldest, his firstborn, had removed themselves from the picture and would never darken his doorway again.

“You are charming,” Johanna had said, “the nobles adore you.” But over the past year, Emmrich had discovered he was much more than that. Capable of a darkness he had never quite acknowledged before he sank into it. He had been charming, upbeat, optimistic, inquisitive. Now, he knew he was also spiteful, prone to isolating himself from others—and, occasionally—inclined toward acts of great cruelty.

The wine had loosened him up just enough that he no longer felt any inclination to resist those darker impulses.

Emmrich tucked his right hand behind the small of his back, near to the wall where no one else could see it. Affecting a calm and collected demeanor, he sipped politely from his goblet as behind him, his fingers curled, wrist revolving, spinning the magic out of the Fade into the waking, shaping it into horrors. It had been so long since he had cast magic without the foci of a staff. The danger and thrill of it was exhilarating.

No one else witnessed him, nor the curse, as it curled around the party-goers’ feet, slithering like an adder across the room towards Lord Halkias. Into it Emmrich poured all self-hatred, all his rage and his loneliness, all of his regret. Let Lord Halkias take a wife, if he so desired. She would never know a night of peace while she shared a bed with her husband.

Johanna grabbed him by the shoulder so tightly and abruptly he nearly spilled the rest of his wine over the front of her gown.

“What,” she hissed, low enough so that she would not be overheard, “do you think you are doing?”

“Nothing!” Emmrich answered, a little too loudly and perhaps too quickly. “I’m not doing anything.”

Emmrich could see her fighting to keep her face pleasant, just in case any of the other guests should look in their direction. But her nostrils were flaring, and the fixed grin on her face looked more like a grimace by the second. As a servant passed by them, Johanna plucked Emmrich’s wine goblet out of his hand and set it down upon the serving tray, the wine sloshing over the rim with the force of the impact. Then, with just as much authority and force, she steered him out of the main banquet hall, guiding him down the hallways of Lady Dietrich’s estate until she was satisfied they had found a corner where they would not be overheard.

Then she turned on him. And Johanna may have been a full head shorter than Emmrich, and he may have loved her like she was his sister, but she was still utterly terrifying to him when she was furious.

“I would not call hexing Lord Halkias nothing,” she said, her eyes shining with indignant rage. “Maker’s breath, Emmrich—the rumors about the Mortalitasi are bad enough already. Do you have to make it worse by putting a curse on one of the nobles in public? At a party?”

Emmrich folded his arms defensively over his chest. “It was a very light curse,” he lied through his teeth. This much, at least, was the truth: “He would not have even noticed it—not until he laid himself down to sleep tonight.” With a self-satisfied smirk, Emmrich could not help but add, “Or, well, until he tried to sleep. The night terrors would have kept him from true, restful sleep until the end of his days.”

Perhaps he should not have been so bold in public, that much was true. But Maker preserve him, he had been so close to succeeding, and it had felt so good.

And he had expected Johanna—all command and spitfire—to argue back at him. Instead she just stared at him, stunned.

Somehow, that was worse.

“And do you think that is appropriate behavior from one of the most senior ranking Mortalitasi of the Mourn Watch Guard?”

Probably not. But sometimes, exceptions needed to be made. “I think it is entirely appropriate, given what a brute he is. You are aware, are you not, of how he violates his servants?”

Or at least, that he had violated one. Forced her into submission more than once under the hot countryside sun—

“Emmrich…” Johanna began, entirely too much pity in her voice. She closed her eyes and sighed. “This is my fault. I should have known he would be here, after his wife’s final rites earlier this week—”

“—strange,” Emmrich interjected, “since as a senior ranking member of the Mourn Watch, I’d have thought I would have known about any recent interments—”

“Not strange, but calculated,” Johanna countered, the heat returning to her voice. “Brilliant, to keep it from you. Fucking prophetic of me, really, because I just knew you would not be able to act professionally about it, to get through it without pulling some shit like this.” She bared her clenched teeth, sucking an unsteady breath in to try and calm herself.

“It is my fault,” Johanna repeated, at last. “I should not have asked you to come. So now I will correct my mistake. Emmrich, go home.”

“What?”

The night was yet young. He had not yet had a chance to greet each of the nobles properly, as was custom. If he left now, his absence would be noticed… not least of all by their host, Lady Dietrich herself—

“I said go home, Emmrich!” Johanna was not shouting—she would not raise her voice loud enough to be overheard—but she was close to it. “I’ll make an excuse for you.”

“I don’t need you to—!”

“Agnes is gone.” Johanna articulated each word carefully, brought them down in him like a hammer in an anvil. “You are not defending her from anyone. You are not protecting her from anyone. And as I suspect she is not likely to return, you are unlikely to have the chance to regale or impress her by recounting your clever ‘little’ curse in the future. Your judgment is compromised; I am, quite frankly, embarrassed for you. Go home,” Johanna repeated, turning him around and shoving him in the direction of the estate’s entrance, back towards the street and the city. “I will not repeat myself again. And you will not enjoy the consequences if I am forced to escort you.”

On the carriage ride back to the Necropolis (the city streets at night were too haunted with memory for him to walk) Emmrich found himself replaying the argument with Johanna in his head over and over again, incensed. She was wrong, he was certain of that much, no matter how well she thought she knew him. Emmrich was not a fool. He knew Lord Halkias posed no further danger to Agnes—that cursing him, as Emmrich had intended to do, was not something he had done to defend or impress her.

But that left him with the nagging question of why he had done it. Because he did know better, or should have, had he not still been deep in the throes of his grief. With Agnes gone, his position in the Mourn Watch mattered more to him than ever. The work was the only reliable distraction, the only thing that kept his head above the waters of despair. What had possessed him, to make him risk it with so little thought?

The answer, as it turned out, was worse than anything Johanna had accused him of. It was guilt.

Guilt that he had driven Agnes away. Guilt that he had not seen her love for what it was and returned it with every breath, with every beat of his heart. Guilt that there was no amount of self-hatred or debasement or shame that would bring her back; guilt that he would never get the chance to tell her how sorry he was. Guilt for whatever it was she now suffered in the world, shut out from the shelter of the Mourn Watch that had been all she had known for over twenty years.

He could not punish himself enough for having caused her departure. And so he had tried to turn at least some of that pain and punishment upon her father.

…but what was the greater sin? To have never loved her, as a father ought to love a daughter? Or, as Emmrich had, to have loved her deeply—to have blindly spurned her love—and sent her to wander the wide and dangerous world, feeling rejected and unloved and alone?

Johanna was right, of course. No curse would ever fix that mistake.

Nothing would.

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afreakingdork · 5 months ago

Note

I have a question to ask based off your knowledge on the RotTMNT characters, specifically about Donnie. In most iterations (87, 03, 12) it seemed that Donnie is the "fixer" of the family and the one that everyone else pushes to do things and make things or come up with the brainy solution. Do you think the opposite is the case for 18? They don't seem to rely on him as much b/c magic is avail. so he tries to make himself useful and then feels bad if it doesn't work. I thought it was interesting.

Well you're a talker; I am too✨ /gen /aff

So first off I gotta open with, I don't know much about the older gen shows. I've watched exactly one episode of 87, 16 episodes of 03, and threeish episodes of 12, so I'm off your word in comparison.

Rise is what I live and breathe!

I genuinely think even before mystic magic became avaliable, the others didn't rely him much. I know in Crush Too Much and Sunshine Moonshine I had segments about him building the lair, but I don't put much credence in that.

Lets talk from a canon only standpoint:

I feel like we can pull a lot from the Donnie's Gifts episode and the ongoing drill gag. The boys are happy and excited in a way that read to me that this was a sort of uncommon occurance. It might not be the first time, but it's not something that happens every day. It felt like maybe he's sprung smaller surprised gifts on them before, but the drill is a different reaction. It's big and they make regular note of it which makes me think he never really made them big things, especially for battle. Then there's the moral of Donnie's Gifts: they work good in their individual ways, 'faults' and all, which even comes back at the end of season 1 with the Shredder.

Moreso, I think Donnie doesn't share. From Donnie vs. Witch Town to Smart Lair to Man vs. Sewer, it seems like Donnie more often hogs his inventions for himself. Both for his comfort, but also to make up for how he perceives he's less than his brothers in terms of skill. All fighting equipment he makes is to compensate for his own shortcomings, his tennis ball back massager is usually only for him, and he doesn't even think to share ice from his ice machine. In fact, I think he goes so far as to punish the others if they use his tech without his permission which can be inferred from The Fast and the Furriest.

So yeah, I agree! I don't think the others rely on him.

Donnie never even gave them the chance in the first place.

Add mystic powers and that only deepened Donnie's insecurities about being less.

However, I don't think he sought validation through tech. Instead, I think he uses tech for self-improvement because he feels he isn't enough and is easily replaceable. He may want validation from a parental aged adult, but he wants it for being him. He just wants to be acknowledged in general. He wants attention and not for what he can offer. He says exactly that in Turtle-dega Nights: The Ballad of Rat Man.

So to short answer your question, I can't say if it's the true opposite since I dont know the other iterations well, but it sounds different to me!

This was fun though! Thank you for sending this over ✨

#ask #rottmnt #rise donnie #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt donatello #rise donatello #character analysis #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt

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thatonedaydream · 1 year ago

Text

Don’t really wanna be Elevator Buddies (Sephiroth x Reader)

A/N: Part 1 here. im suffering sufficiently at my current job that im leaving that i think i can write something because i need an outlet and i also want sephiroth to make it better. also, i am so much older than when i wrote the first part; as such, my writing probably reads a lot more different - better, worse or same is up to you. to those who have requested a part 2 and have waited literal years (its been 4!!!!!), i love you, i'm so sorry its so late.

★★★★★

Staring at the message in your work inbox, you suddenly couldn’t summon the effort to care. Your mood instantly dropped and you needed to leave your desk. You kept your headset on as you wandered towards the small staff kitchen under the guise that you were still connected to a meeting and listening in, when really you just want to block people out. You didn’t want to be perceived.

You just wanted out.

ShinRa Inc wasn’t known as the best place to work, but the pay was good and it was better than any other options you had.

The coffee machine rumbled as you waited for it to process your order. You didn’t even want to drink the cheap, watered down stuff, you just didn’t want to be at your desk looking at that stupid fucking request. There wasn’t much that could get your out of these kinds of emotional troughs bar one thing that seemed to always work.

You felt the vibration of a notification from your phone in your pocket. Knowing what and who it was probably from, you eagerly checked the new message that had come through. It was just a photo of blue sky with some clouds—the tops of greenery you didn’t recognise lined the bottom. It was very abstract and out of context, but you were used to it now.

Putting aside your misery for the moment, you typed out a short response.

I can’t beat that. This is my view.

You took a photo of the ceiling above you. Stark, stale and claustrophobic in comparison to the natural sky you were given. You sent it off and only a few seconds later, received a thumbs up in response. It made you laugh.

Sephiroth was a terrible at texting sometimes, but it was endearing in way.

When you had first traded contact details a little after The Elevator Incident, it had taken a while before anything was sent from either of you. You were too scared of bothering him and he was more than likely too busy or just didn’t know what to send. It also felt like trading personal IDs was crossing into an entirely different friend territory that wasn’t as nonchalant as impromptu elevator conversations.

The messaging ice was broken when, one day, you got a single image of chocobo out in the wild with no context. If you didn’t have Sephiroth’s ID saved, you would have wondered if someone had messaged the wrong person. Your response was a quick ‘I love chocobos, they’re so cute!’, and your reward several hours later was a picture of a sweetly sleeping chocobo in a stable.

Sephiroth was a man of very few words, but he still found ways to communicate with you and that honestly made you feel… Well, you weren’t sure you wanted to admit what you were feeling too much. You knew you had feelings for the man, that you were attracted to him, but those feelings had no where to go. You couldn’t tell him.

For many reasons, you just couldn’t ever tell him about your ever growing affection for him.

You just couldn’t.

You wandered back to your desk, completely forgetting about the coffee you had made in the kitchen. The message from the 1st Class Soldier perked you up way more than the caffeine would have anyway. You scrolled through your requests again and sighed. It was probably going to be another late night in the office. Maybe you’d just call in sick tomorrow.

You worked a few more hours, eyeing your phone and hoping for more messages, but none came. Sephiroth was often the one to initiate conversation as you still felt like you would bother him if you sent something first. Still… You kind of really wanted to talk to someone—to him, specifically. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to send one message?

Picking up your phone you opened up your chat and tried to think of something to say. You typed out several things, but kept deleting them. ‘Hello’ felt too formal, ‘Hi!’ seemed too chipper.

Is something wrong?

The message popped up before you could send something yourself.

!!! No! I was just about to message you. How are you?

There was a pause—and then a short voice message.

▶• ıll— “Are you sure you’re alright? Was there something else you wanted to say to me?”

You could hear the smile in his words and you flushed upon the realisation that he must have seen your stupid three dots pop up and disappear constantly in the chat. You playfully hissed your own voice note back,

▶• ıll— “Ohhh shut up, I just didn’t want to bother you!”

Putting your phone down, you peeked over your divider and looked around to see if anyone else could hear you. It was fairly late in the office, way past usual business hours, so you could see some screens still lit up around the space, but there wasn’t anyone near you.

Your phone pinged a few times, indicating new messages. Some more photos, but this time of more a familiar sight—the Midgar cityscape.

I’m back.

It had been awhile since he had left on his last mission. You were glad he was back safe, not that you’d tell him that now. You sent off a quick, mildly motion blurred snap of your desk and sent it off.

A question mark? A question mark to what? The photo wasn’t that blurry.

It’s my desk.

Are you still working? It’s late.

Ohhhh… You cringed; it was late. Honestly if you didn’t procrastinate with absolute loathing and low morale earlier in the day you probably could have been home already, but you couldn’t push through the negativity.

Yeah, its been a rough day.

You waited for a response, but none came. Sephiroth went inactive spontaneously during your conversations, so it wasn’t surprising. Instead you put your phone down and continued on a project that was behind on its deadlines. Technically all of them were behind, but this one you at least had the energy to push through for now.

An hour later your phone pinged a couple times. A photo of the elevator you used everyday to get to up to your floor and:

Time to leave.

You stared at the message, biting your lip. Even if you wanted to leave, there was still things to be done and—

Do I have to drag you out?

▶• ıll— “Okay! Alright! I’m packing up, hold your damn chocobos. I’m leaving now.”

Who knew Sephiroth could be so pushy? During the long elevator ride down to the lobby, you wondered if maybe he only showed this side of himself to people he trusted or cared about. The thought made your stomach flip.

It could also have been that people never really gave Sephiroth the opportunity to be himself. It was an upsetting thought. He was the 1st Class Soldier, a warrior that couldn’t be toppled, a man way above the norm. Untouchable. Distant. You knew what his public image was like, but still somehow you couldn’t fathom how people couldn’t consider that there was another side to him.

The side of him that you always got to see.

The same Sephiroth that you saw was waiting for you as the elevator doors opened. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight. He stood by the empty reception desk with his arms crossed, looking out the front entrance. When he heard your footsteps he turned to face you almost immediately. The man’s expression would have seemed stoic to others, but you recognised the warmth in his mako-infused gaze.

What if you were the only person he looked at that way? You held your smile steady even as your heart argued with your head to accept that maybe that’s what you really wanted.

It felt like Sephiroth’s gaze only intensified as you approached him. “...You look awful.” His voice was low, quiet, but still teasing. There was a chuckle in there too, somewhere in his deep tone. Sure you had heard it recently in the voice message, but it wasn’t the same as hearing him speak to you in person.

“That’s so mean, Seph. Not even a proper greeting for me? Wow.” Even though you were exhausted, you automatically matched his manner. “You look…” Oh, you couldn’t tell him how you really felt about how he looked. There were so many adoring and affectionate words, yet somehow still not enough. “...Like you?” You finally sputtered out after filtering all the other things that your mouth wanted to say.

The 1st Class Soldier gifted you with a short laugh and you struggled to hold back the burst of emotions that bloomed in your chest. “You are so mean to me.” This interaction wasn’t like the others. This didn’t feel like the light playful chats in the elevator. When did these interactions change? When did all the same words that you used to use before suddenly mean something different?

Sephiroth suddenly leaned closer towards you, a small smirk crossing his lips. “I am nice to you.” The way he spoke was next to a purr, “Did you want me to be mean?” It felt like the mako glow in his eyes brightened for a moment; he was close enough that you could see specks of the otherworldly green in his irises.

You wanted to die on the spot. He was not flirting with you, no matter how much it felt like it. No way. However, before you could stop yourself, you replied quietly. “...I like it when you’re nice to me.” The look on Sephiroth’s face melted into something else—something just as warm, just as intense, but something so much more genuine and it immediately scared you. Before he could say anything more you let out dismissive laugh. “Phew, I am a lot more exhausted than I thought. I-I should probably get home.”

Maybe the fear was reflected in your expression. Sephiroth fell back into his usual cool and stoic demeanor and you wanted to apologise—it was hard not to feel as though you had just ruined something important. Casual conversation you could navigate. This? What was this?

Of course you’d find a way to make a bad day worse. Of course you’d ruin a good thing. Of course you’d—

A large hand pressed into your lower back and guided you forwards, interrupting your downward spiraling thoughts. When you looked up at Sephiroth beside you, he simply watched and waited for you to take the lead. Nothing in how he looked at you had changed from when you had first exited the elevator. “There’s a car waiting for you outside.” That voice you so adored, was steady and warm and sure. Still the same.

Quietly you stepped outside with Sephiroth in tow. He opened the car door for you, nodding to the driver who did the same in return. You sat in the back seat, with the soldier leaning outside on the vehicle, looking in to make sure you were comfortable.

“...Bye Seph.” You really did sound tired.

Sephiroth didn’t respond right away, but the silence wasn’t as heavy as the one inside the lobby. He placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head. “Goodnight.” You knew there was something else he wanted to say, but he held his tongue. There was another pause before he shut the door for you.

You leaned back in your seat and let the butterflies run rampant in your belly, let the buzz run through your veins, let it hum through your body. You covered your hands with your face. It felt like there was still something left to say, a conversation left unfinished.

From outside the ShinRa building, Sephiroth watched as you were driven away out of sight. He stood there, holding what he really wanted to say to you in his throat.

It was frustrating for him to know he could physically conquer any fight, any conflict, except for whatever he could see going on in your eyes. Did you know that he could see you becoming more and more tired with each interaction you had? It frustrated him to no end knowing that people took advantage of you and your time and your efforts. Idiots. Fools.

How could he put into words how you made him feel? Sephiroth was no good at words. He just wanted to keep you safe. He just wanted you not to be tired. He just wanted you to always smile when you saw him—a smile that said you were genuinely happy to see him. Not the 1st Class Soldier, but happy to see Sephiroth himself.

The man snapped out of his reverie as his phone pinged with a message. A voice note from you.

▶• ıll— “...I missed you, Sephiroth. Welcome home.”

Sephiroth stared at the screen of his phone.

And then he replayed the message, just to hear your voice again.

#reader x sephiroth #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #final fantasy 7 #ffvii #ff7 #final fantasy vii imagines #final fantasy 7 imagines #ffvii imagines #ff7 imagines #final fantasy imagines

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ya-boi-haru · 1 year ago

Text

You know what, I like you, let me share my headcannons/thoughts on an AU I recently mentioned...

Fable smp Coffee Shop AU...

• Sherb runs a 24/hr (or late opened) Cafe, The Alchemist Brew. They specialise is mixing different coffee flavours to create a new taste and can even create one for a persons specific need or even mood.

The people that have often come in say it was exactly what they needed; students coming in to study found they work best with Icarus' creations - jokes that they put a focusing chemical drug in it. People on first dates say they added an ingredient that was a big ice breaker for them to bond over. A few cases come in home sick and the drinks taste like home somehow.

• Rae runs another cafe in a different part of town. It's a more traditional place, more old fashioned, rustic aesthetic.

Rae got to take over this place a lot sooner than he thought.

His mother went missing when he was young and his step-dad, Fable, left a few years ago. Icarus' was supposed to take over the buisness but they wanted to do their own thing, especially since Rae and Icarus had different ideas on how they should run the place.

So Rae runs the Gilded Cafe. While keeping the more traditional things on the menu, Rae also explores the history with Coffee. Makes ones how they would make it 30, 50, 100 years ago and happily, shares it with their customers.

• Athena is learning how to open their own bakery (Flour Garden) with Jamie. They offer their goods as a trial to both Gilded and Alchemist Brew Cafe. This way they get to try new foods and have people taste test them and both Cafes get a unique item on their menus each week. The feedback from customers is always appreciated and it sparks new ideas for foods and types of foods.

• Momboo runs a flower and tea shop, The Pink Tulip, both as a seperate transaction but has a talent for getting sweet tastes out of nature's prettiest petals

• Which is a dramatic comparison to her sister, Ocie/Kai, who runs a bar, Sea Dragon, iconicly known for its underwater sailor/pirate aesthetic and strong drinks to match

• Wolf is a business analyst and has helped with the businesses as well as a few others around town

• His partner, Centross, helps manage the Sea Dragon. A couple years ago, he tried to start a buisness with Icarus and Easton (who is a real estate agent), but it crashed and burned real quick. Wolf talked to Kai and she was generous enough to help Centross get back on his feet and they ended up working really well together.

• Aax works in the Gilded Cafe with Rae. He came to Rae looking for work - one in a new town with no connection to the Telchin company. They were awful, treated their employees terribly, and they would use special artificial chemicals in their drinks to make it taste like flavours (Hazlenut, vanilla etc), never the real thing, even their machines were designed to cut corners with brewing.

• Ulysses is still with Telchin, casual, but is still in the town with his Partner. He used to be able to do beautiful coffee powder art, but since the accident in the shop he can't even hold a cup steady.

• Will runs little a Cafe - The Traveller - based on flavours around the world, some places he's been lucky to actually travel to. Seven helps him run the place and really good with machines so they never have to worry about things breaking.

• Now all these businesses have their challenges, but Icarus feels they have an extra one...

A night club across the street 2 doors down, "The World Port". It's an exclusive place and Icarus had heard a few things about it.

It's a jack of all trades types of place, has accommodation for any events, Bachelor party's, birthdays, buisness meetings, heck even wakes.

Icarus' problem is that - for some reason - the owner recommendeds The Alchemist Brew to their customers as a place to sober up. Which would be fine if that didn't mean nights of drunks coming in, making a mess and passing out. They somehow get their mail mixed up as well, and The World Port is loud and makes it hard to focus on work.

• The World Ports concept is to be a place for everyone. It's main area is a bar with a dance floor and great music. They have sectioned off rooms, identified by colour, each room can accommodate for certain events. You could hold 3 different events in once.

• Smaller Headcannons/Notes:

• Caspian comes into the Gilded Cafe as a place to write his stories. He started going there for the nice coffee and cozy vibes, but the manager seems really nice and passionate about his work, so he kept coming in and is now a regular. And the Barista working there is cute nice to talk to as well

• Rae grew to appreciate the small talks with Capsian while on shift. He's even made it into a few pages of Raes sketch book - that will never see the light of day - but that has nothing to do with anything! Rae always draws random customers for practice! Despite Aax pointing out that he draws Caspian more.

• Aax and Rae are dating and are peeking interest in Caspian.

• Wolf and Centross are dating, though Centross is showing interest in Kai. He would deny it to hell and back even though everyone can see it.

• Icarus gets new ingredients/inspiration from their friends. Athena and Jamie's creations, Momboos flowers etc

• During the business Icarus, Centross and Easton tried to run, Icarus made a purple drink that turned out to have an addicting side effect. Part of the reason thee business failed.

• Since the World Port is exclusive, Icarus can't get in to talk to the owner. However, there have been times when they've come into the Alchemist Brew, and Icarus has just not been in there at the right time to see them.

• If they don't want to deal with maintenance companies, the other owners ask Seven to come over and fix their equipment, especially if it should be a simple fix.

• Galahad works at The Traveller and suggested their own mix of a spicier blend

Feel free to add onto or suggest things!

#i kinda wanna cosplay from this-#partially cause i cant draw #itd be cool #fable smp #fable smp headcanon #fablesmpblr #fsmp #fable smp au #fable smp coffe shop au #coffee shop au

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