#Masked to Obscurity - Anon | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

novaursa · 9 months ago

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Hello my love! I absolutely adore your writings and wanted to send a request that might prompt some imagination.

I would love a fic where the reader is velaryon (rhaenyras daughter) and married to cregan stark through a marriage alliance. They have grown to love eachother and have one child, a young son, and reader has a dragon. Reader is a dragon rider and may ride into battle with her dragon for her mother’s cause.

Whilst cregan is needed at the wall, a handful of men—sent by the greens in response to blood and cheese—sneak into winterfell with a mission; kill/take readers dragon or pay the price with her son. After killing the guards and a fight where reader tries to defend herself and her son, (maybe resulting in reader getting injured) the men give reader the option. Her dragon or her son. (I’ll leave the choice/what happens up to you 🤭)

cregan soon gets word about what has happened and rushes back to the aftermath.

it would be an honour if you were to even consider my ask 🥰

thank you for all you do and the joy you bring to this side of tumblr <3

The Cycle

- Summary: Cregan leaves with his duty to the Wall and you are left alone with a choice Larys Strong brings.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: The reader is Rhaenyra's daughter and is bonded with Grey Ghost.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Alternative scenario: one for the price of two

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

- A/N: I hope this is what you had in mind, dear anon. ☺️❤️

Winterfell is quieter than you have ever known it. The grand halls that once echoed with the clamor of swords and laughter are hushed, the absence of Cregan’s men leaving an emptiness that stretches through every corridor. Outside, the sky is smothered in a blanket of heavy clouds, the winds howling mournfully, as if they sense the danger that lingers just beyond the gates.

Your son, Eddard, sleeps soundly in his cradle, his tiny fists curled by his face, the sight of him softening the edges of your worry. You brush a gentle kiss to his brow, your thoughts drifting to Cregan, away at the Wall with his men, fulfilling his duties to the Night’s Watch. The last thing he said to you before leaving echoes in your mind.

“Winterfell is safe. You are safe.” His grey eyes were serious, his hand warm against your cheek as he spoke.

You had believed him then, believed in the strength of the castle walls and the loyalty of the men who guarded it. But you can’t shake the unease prickling at the back of your neck, a mother’s intuition whispering warnings in your ear.

The first scream splits the night like an axe through ice. You jolt upright, heart hammering, and before you can even grasp what is happening, the door to your chambers bursts open. Figures, shadowed and swift, flood the room. Larys Strong’s men, their faces obscured by masks, their blades gleaming in the dim light.

“Stay back!” you cry out, instinctively placing yourself between them and Eddard’s crib. Your hand reaches for the dagger hidden beneath your pillow, but one of them is faster, knocking it from your grip and seizing your wrist with bruising force.

“Princess Velaryon, or is it just Lady Stark now? There’s no need for heroics,” the leader sneers, his voice a sickly mix of mockery and menace. “We’re here to deliver a message.”

They drag you from the room, your protests muffled by a rough hand clamped over your mouth. Your heart pounds as they force you down the twisting stairs, through the empty halls, until you’re thrust out into the freezing night. Your breath plumes in the air as you look up, dread curling in your stomach.

Grey Ghost is there, your dragon, your bond. Chained and wounded, his scales stained with blood, his wings pinned cruelly to the ground. He lets out a weak, rumbling growl as he sees you, his eyes gleaming with pain and anger.

“No…” you whisper, struggling against the iron grip of your captors. “No, please—”

Larys Strong steps forward then, his smile a twisted, grotesque parody of civility. “You see, Y/N, the Dowager Queen in King’s Landing sends her regards. The blood of a child for the blood of a child, was it not?”

The horror of what he means dawns on you, a sickening wave of realization that turns your limbs to lead. The butcher and the ratcatcher. The trap your mother and Daemon had laid for the Greens. And now, here in the cold North, the Greens have come for you.

“Your dragon or your son,” Larys says softly, almost kindly, as if he were offering you a choice of fine wines. “One lives. One dies. You decide.”

You can barely breathe, the cold air clawing at your throat as you shake your head in disbelief. “No… please, don’t do this… Eddard is just a babe, he’s done nothing—”

Larys cocks his head, feigning sympathy. “Nor did little Jaehaerys. Yet your mother saw to his death, didn’t she?”

Tears blur your vision, but you force yourself to stand tall, to meet his gaze. “If you kill him, I swear on the gods, old and new, I will burn you all to ash.”

Larys’s smile widens, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Such fire. But threats won’t change anything, my lady. You have until the count of ten.”

The men around you tighten their grip, and you know, with a cold, sick certainty, that they will carry out his command. That you will lose one, either your sweet son, innocent and helpless, or Grey Ghost, who has fought beside you, who has bled and burned for your family’s cause.

“One,” Larys begins, his voice calm, measured.

You look at Eddard, bundled against the biting cold, his eyes wide and trusting as they meet yours. He doesn’t understand. He’s too young to understand what is being asked of you.

“Two.”

Grey Ghost lets out a low, mournful wail, his tail lashing weakly against the chains that bind him. You can feel his pain, his fear, through the bond you share, a connection forged in fire and blood.

“Three.”

The world narrows to the beat of your heart, the silent plea in Eddard’s eyes, the agony in Grey Ghost’s. How can you choose? How can any mother be asked to make such a choice?

“Four.”

Your hands are shaking, the words trapped in your throat. You want to scream, to beg, to offer anything, everything, if it will just make this nightmare end.

“Five.”

But there is no mercy in Larys’s gaze, no compassion in the men who hold you.

“Six.”

Grey Ghost’s roar rises, a desperate, broken sound that tears through the night.

“Seven.”

Eddard’s small, soft cry, frightened and confused, cuts through your soul.

“Eight.”

You look at Larys, the man who holds your fate in his hands, and you know that there is no victory here, no way to save them both.

“Nine.”

“I choose…” The words scrape out of you, each one a knife to your heart. “I choose my son.”

Larys’s smile is slow, triumphant, as if he had won some great game. He turns, gestures to his men. “Kill the dragon.”

“No!” The scream rips from your throat as they move toward Grey Ghost, their weapons drawn. You struggle, kicking, biting, but they hold you fast, forcing you to watch as the blades rise and fall, as your dragon, your beloved Grey Ghost, thrashes and roars, his blood staining the snow red.

You sob, your heart shattering with each cruel blow, each gasping breath your dragon takes. He fought for you, for your family, and now he dies, his life ended by your choice, your terrible, necessary choice.

When it is over, the silence is deafening, the night air thick with the smell of blood and death. Larys releases you then, his gaze almost pitying. “There, you see? It wasn’t so difficult.”

You collapse to your knees, your body shaking with grief and rage, unable to tear your eyes from Grey Ghost’s still form. Eddard cries out, and you gather him to you, clutching him close, his tiny warmth the only anchor in a world that has gone cold and dark.

Larys steps back, his work done, his men already withdrawing into the shadows. “Remember, Lady Stark,” he calls over his shoulder. “A debt paid in blood can always be collected again.”

As the night closes in around you, the promise of vengeance burns in your veins. You have lost so much, but you will not break. You will rise from this. For your son. For Grey Ghost. And you will see the Greens pay for every drop of blood they have spilled.

The journey back to Winterfell is swift and relentless, Cregan pushing his horse hard across the snow-swept landscape. There’s a weight in his chest, a gnawing dread that had taken root the moment he received the ravens’ grim message at the Wall. The North is no stranger to death and violence, but the attack on Winterfell, the heart of his home, is a scar he never thought he’d bear.

As the castle looms into view, his heart stutters at the sight. The once proud and imposing stronghold is shrouded in a somber silence, the gates barely guarded, the towers and walls bearing the signs of a vicious struggle. It’s as if the very soul of Winterfell has been drained away, leaving only a husk.

He rides through the gate, dismounting even before his horse fully stops. The few men left in the yard stand grim and silent, their eyes shadowed with exhaustion and grief. There are still bloodstains on the stones, patches of crimson stark against the pristine snow, a testament to the horrors that have transpired.

“Where is she?” he demands, his voice a low, urgent growl. “Where is my wife?”

One of his men, Ser Bryndon, steps forward, his face lined with fatigue and sorrow. “In the Great Hall, my lord. She’s… she hasn’t left her chambers much since the attack.”

Cregan’s heart clenches. He brushes past them, striding through the courtyard, the cold biting at his exposed skin, but he hardly feels it. Every step echoes in the eerily quiet halls, the silence pressing in around him like a vice.

When he reaches the Great Hall, he pauses, bracing himself for what he might find. The heavy wooden doors creak open under his hand, and he steps inside, his eyes sweeping the shadowed space.

There, at the far end of the hall, you sit by the fire, a small, fragile figure in the vast, empty room. You are clutching Eddard to your chest, his small form bundled in blankets, your body curled protectively around him. The flames cast flickering shadows across your face, highlighting the dark circles beneath your eyes, the pallor of your skin.

“Y/N…” His voice is rough, almost breaking, as he crosses the room in a few long strides.

You look up at the sound of his voice, your eyes red and hollow, and for a moment, you just stare at him as if unsure if he’s real or another cruel vision conjured by your grief. Then, with a broken sob, you are in his arms, clutching at his furs, your body trembling with the force of your anguish.

“Cregan…” Your voice is a ragged whisper, muffled against his chest. “They took him from me. They took Grey Ghost.”

He holds you tightly, one arm around your shoulders, the other cradling your son. His heart twists at the sight of you, at the haunted look in your eyes, the way you cling to him as if he is the only thing anchoring you to this world. “I’m here,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I’m so sorry, my love. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”

Your breath shudders out of you in a broken gasp, and you shake your head. “It’s not your fault… It’s them. Larys Strong… he made me choose, Cregan. He made me choose between Eddard and Grey Ghost.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He can feel your pain, your guilt, as if it were his own. He tightens his hold on you, his jaw clenched against the fury and helplessness threatening to overwhelm him. “You did what you had to do,” he says fiercely, his voice low and steady. “You protected our son. That’s what matters.”

But he knows, even as he says it, that it will never be enough to ease the agony in your heart. He can see it in your eyes, in the way you curl in on yourself, as if trying to shield yourself from a blow that has already struck. And the sight of it breaks something deep inside him.

“I should have been here,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I should have protected you both.”

You pull back slightly, your hand coming up to cup his face, your touch gentle despite the tremor in your fingers. “You are here now,” you say, your voice a soft, wavering thread. “That’s what I need. You and Eddard… we’ll get through this. Somehow.”

He nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat. He looks down at your son, at the innocence in his small face, the way he sleeps so peacefully despite the storm that has raged around him. Cregan’s heart aches with love and sorrow and a fierce, unyielding determination.

“I will make them pay,” he vows quietly, his voice hard with the promise. “For every drop of blood, for every tear, I will see them suffer.”

He can feel the weight of your gaze on him, the fire of your own resolve rekindling in the depths of your eyes. “We’ll make them pay,” you agree, your voice firmer now, a steel edge beneath the sorrow.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin as if he can somehow shield you from all the hurt and loss that has been inflicted upon you. “Rest now, Y/N. I’ll take care of everything.”

But even as he says the words, he knows there will be no rest for either of you, not truly. Not until the debt has been paid in blood and fire.

Later, when you’ve finally fallen into a fitful sleep, he steps outside, his breath fogging in the frigid air. The courtyard is almost deserted, the few men left tending to the grim task of clearing the bodies, the fallen. And there, on the far side, lies the massive, still form of Grey Ghost, his once-silver scales now dull and bloodstained.

Cregan approaches slowly, his heart heavy as he takes in the sight of your dragon, his body broken and scarred from the fight that cost him his life. He reaches out, his hand resting against the cooling scales, and he bows his head, grief and rage roiling within him.

“I swear,” he murmurs, his voice a low, fierce vow, “I will see justice for you, for my family. The Greens will pay for this treachery.”

The wind howls through the empty yard, the promise of vengeance carried on its bitter, biting breath.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark #cregan x reader #hotd cregan #grey ghost

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other-lxxahazel · 7 days ago

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could you do smth with y/n being oblivious to Alastor trying to court them but oddly enough y/n becomes fascinated with his shadows and he uses it to impress them 0^0 if not its okay ignore this, make sure to stay healthy!

✎ I'll take this request as part two of Oblivion because it's like it can be connected to it 😭 many are already asking for part two that's why I'm so FREAKING thankful to this anon for giving me an idea! (I want to add friend you so freaking bad Anon 😭😭)

╰┈➤ Oblivion (2)

The apple tarts, once baked, vanished with alarming speed, a testament to your baking prowess and the hotel residents' enduring sweet tooth. Alastor, to his internal chagrin, had even taken a bite, his smile fixed and unwavering as he offered a polite, if strained, compliment on its "fascinating texture." He'd endured it, savored the proximity you’d offered, yet the fundamental problem remained: your utterly impenetrable obliviousness. He’d orchestrated an entire baking charade, suffered the cloying scent of sugar, and still, you saw him merely as an enthusiastic, if clumsy, culinary student. The thought was enough to make his static crackle with a frustrated snarl.

He was Alastor, the Radio Demon, a being whose will was absolute, yet here he was, reduced to elaborate theatricals for the sole purpose of making a single, delightful soul realize he harbored an unprecedented, maddening affection for her. It was… undignified. It was infuriating. He found himself pacing his radio tower, the air thick with his mounting annoyance, the usual jazz music occasionally interrupted by sharp bursts of feedback. He knew, intellectually, that he was becoming desperate. A sliver of his rational mind screamed at him to simply state his intentions, to assert his claim as he would with any other territory or soul. But then, there was the matter of Pride.

His pride, sharp and unyielding as a freshly honed blade, forbade such a direct confession. To admit weakness, to lay bare such a vulnerable emotion, was anathema to his very being. He was the one who controlled, who manipulated, who held all the cards. To confess would be to surrender a piece of that control, to expose a facet of himself he’d spent eons burying. And then there was the dreadful, horrifying possibility of… rejection. The thought sent a jolt of ice through him, quickly masked by a furious burst of static. No, directness was out of the question. He had to maintain the illusion of casual interest, of detached amusement, even as his internal world churned with unfamiliar longing.

He observed you constantly, a silent, ever-present specter. He’d watch you reading, sketching, even simply tidying up the hotel’s often-chaotic common areas. He noted the way your eyes would light up when you spoke of your hobbies, the gentle curve of your smile when you were lost in thought. And it was during one such observation that he noticed something else, something peculiar and, to his surprise, potentially useful.

You were sitting by a sunbeam filtering through a grimy window, sketching in a worn notebook. His own shadow, always hovering near him, stretched across the floor, partially obscuring the light from your paper. Instead of being annoyed, you simply paused, tilting your head. Then, with a slow, almost curious movement, you reached out and gently, tentatively, petted the amorphous mass of his shadow. You stroked it like one might stroke a particularly docile pet, your fingers ghosting over the darkness. His shadow, a sentient extension of his will, rippled in response, a silent hum of surprise echoing in Alastor’s mind. You smiled, a soft, content expression, and then went back to your drawing, occasionally reaching out to absentmindedly stroke the shadow again.

A nefarious, yet brilliant, idea sparked in Alastor’s mind. He couldn't express vulnerability, or perform overtly affectionate gestures himself. It went against every fiber of his being, every carefully constructed façade of the ruthless Radio Demon. But his shadow… his shadow was another matter entirely. His shadow was an extension, yes, but also a separate entity, something he could command to do things he would never deign to do. It was the perfect scapegoat, the ideal intermediary. He could project his desires, his desperate yearning for affection, onto his shadow, and should you ever question it, he could simply blame the erratic nature of the demonic entity. Brilliant.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The next day, Alastor put his plan into action. He found you in the dining room, attempting to untangle a particularly stubborn knot in a long piece of decorative ribbon for some hotel event. You muttered under your breath, utterly absorbed. Alastor stepped into the room, his form casting a long, distinct shadow. He commanded it, silently, mentally: Engage.

His shadow rippled, detaching slightly from his feet, and flowed across the floor towards you like dark ink. You looked up, startled, but then your eyes widened in fascination as the shadow, instead of merely resting, began to shift. It lengthened, then narrowed into a slender, almost finger-like appendage. It reached out, hovered over the ribbon, and with surprising gentleness, began to prod and manipulate the knot. Its movements were fluid, almost delicate, a stark contrast to Alastor’s usual forceful precision. You watched, captivated, as the shadow patiently worked, subtly pulling here, nudging there, until with a final, almost imperceptible flick, the knot loosened and unraveled.

"Oh, wow!" you breathed, eyes wide. "Thank you, Alastor's shadow! That was amazing!" You leaned down, your fingers reaching out to lightly tap the shadow's 'surface' in appreciation.

Alastor felt a strange, almost physical thrum in his chest as you praised his shadow. He stood stiffly, a detached smile on his face, but internally, he was preening. He offered a noncommittal chuckle. "Ah, yes, my shadow can be… quite resourceful when it wishes to be. Always surprising me, that one." He infused his voice with a feigned annoyance, as if the shadow's helpfulness was an unexpected burden.

Over the next few days, the shadow became his primary instrument of "covert" affection. You had a messy strand of hair falling into your eyes while you worked? Alastor would appear, and his shadow would deftly lift the strand, tucking it behind your ear with a softness that he would never directly exhibit. You'd instinctively lean into the gentle touch, humming contentedly. Alastor, meanwhile, would simply observe, his internal monologue a chaotic blend of triumph and a strange, unfamiliar yearning. Yes, my dear, feel the gentle touch. This is what I long to give you, had my nature not been so… direct.

One particularly chilly evening, as you shivered slightly in the surprisingly drafty lounge, Alastor entered. Before you could even voice a complaint, his shadow stretched out, swirling around your shoulders like a living shawl, seemingly radiating a subtle warmth. You gasped, then giggled, snuggling into the inexplicable comfort. "Oh, Alastor's shadow, you're so cozy!" you murmured, your hand reaching up to pat the shadowy "fabric" wrapped around you.

Alastor felt a pang, sharp and unwelcome. He stood a few feet away, poker-faced, but his mind screamed. She's patting my shadow! She's comfortable with my shadow! She's getting warm from my shadow! He wanted to be the one providing the warmth, the comfort. He wanted your touch, your soft murmurs directed at him. But he couldn’t. His pride, his carefully constructed persona, forbade it. So he merely chuckled, a dry, radio-static laden sound. "Indeed. Quite the… obliging companion, isn't it?"

The shadow, however, seemed to revel in your attention. Alastor often found it stretching towards you of its own accord, almost as if sensing his unspoken commands, performing small acts of service or comfort. It would hold objects for you, shield your eyes from sudden flashes of light, or even, once, untangle a particularly stubborn shoelace while Alastor watched, a rigid smile plastered on his face, a growing sense of disquiet swirling within him.

You, meanwhile, had grown genuinely fond of Alastor's shadow. You spoke to it, thanked it, and sometimes, when you thought no one was looking, you'd reach out and gently stroke its form, as if petting a cherished companion. You'd even given it a silly little nickname: "Shady."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The "Shady" nickname grated on Alastor's nerves more than he cared to admit. It implied a familiarity, an almost intimacy, that you withheld from him. Yet, he persevered, instructing his shadow to perform increasingly complex and oddly tender acts.

One morning, you were humming a forgotten tune as you meticulously watered the hotel’s potted plants – some of which still occasionally tried to bite. A particularly thorny vine snagged on your sleeve, threatening to tear the fabric. Before you could react, Alastor’s shadow darted out. Instead of simply pulling it free, the shadow gently, almost coaxingly, untangled the tendril, its dark form shifting to mimic the delicate movements of fingers. It then lingered, its 'hand' briefly brushing yours before retracting. You looked up, a soft smile on your face. "Oh, Shady, you're so careful! Thank you." You leaned down and patted the shadow's surface, a gesture that made Alastor's internal static buzz with a frustrated mix of triumph and agony.

Another time, during one of Charlie's overly enthusiastic, yet ultimately ineffective, "team-building exercises," you found yourself awkwardly trying to balance a stack of wobbly, oddly-shaped demonic board game pieces. Just as they threatened to topple, Alastor’s shadow flowed around you, acting as an impromptu brace, holding the pieces steady until you could secure them. You glanced at Alastor, who merely offered his usual wide grin, but then turned back to the shadow. "You're always there when I need you, aren't you, Shady?" you murmured, a genuine fondness in your voice. Alastor felt a sharp, unwelcome stab in his chest. I am always there. I am the one orchestrating this!

He even commanded his shadow to do things that hinted at a softer, more protective nature he actively suppressed. If you coughed, the shadow would manifest a tiny, ethereal cup, seeming to offer a silent drink. If you sighed in exasperation, it would gently pat your arm. These were acts of pure, unadulterated solicitude, gestures Alastor would never permit himself to display openly. He watched, always watched, hoping to see a spark of recognition, a flicker of something more than just casual appreciation in your eyes. But you remained, frustratingly, adorably, oblivious. You simply took these acts as quirky, endearing traits of Alastor's unusual companion, attributing them to the shadow’s own, seemingly independent, personality.

This increasing personification of his shadow by you was becoming a serious problem. You’d chat with it, sometimes even confide in it about your day, treating it less like a sentient extension of a powerful demon and more like a quiet, comforting friend. You found joy in its silent presence, its helpfulness, its uncanny ability to anticipate your needs. Alastor heard these soft conversations, watched these gentle interactions, and felt a burning resentment blossom within him. It was getting harder to maintain his facade of detached amusement.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

This was where Alastor’s brilliant plan began to unravel. The thing he thought could be his unassailable advantage slowly, insidiously, became his torment. He found himself being jealous. Jealous of his own shadow.

The jealousy was a foreign, noxious emotion, coiling in his gut like a venomous snake. He, the Radio Demon, a being of immense power and cold ambition, was jealous of an extension of his own being. It was absurd. It was humiliating. And yet, there it was, burning hot and inescapable every time you offered his shadow a gentle touch, a fond word, a quiet smile that you never quite gave him with the same unreserved affection.

He yearned for what his shadow was earning from you. He yearned for your hand to rest on his arm, not merely brush against it. He yearned for your genuine, unguarded smile to be directed solely at him, not the amorphous dark shape he controlled. He yearned for you to lean into his presence, to find comfort and warmth in his proximity, not just his commanded reflection.

One afternoon, you were struggling to reach a particularly ancient, heavy tome on a high shelf in the hotel’s ridiculously tall library. Alastor appeared, as if on cue, his staff resting lightly against his shoulder. His shadow immediately extended, gracefully plucking the book down and placing it gently into your hands.

"Oh, Shady, you're the best!" you exclaimed, laughing softly as you patted the shadow, which rippled contentedly under your touch. "So much more helpful than Alastor sometimes!" You glanced at him and winked playfully, completely missing the flicker of something sharp in his crimson eyes. "No offense, Alastor!"

Alastor’s smile wavered, a barely perceptible twitch. No offense? No offense?! His shadow had just performed a task that he could have done with a snap of his fingers, a gesture that was meant to showcase his protective nature, and his own shadow was getting the credit, and worse, your playful affection. A low, almost inaudible growl rumbled in his chest, quickly covered by a cheerful burst of static. "None taken, my dear," he managed, though his grip on his staff tightened imperceptibly, his knuckles turning white beneath the red glove. His shadow, sensing his sudden, intense irritation, shrunk back slightly, as if attempting to placate its furious master.

The situation was getting… annoying. Beyond annoying. It was maddening. He had created the perfect shield for his pride, but in doing so, he had created a rival, a rival that was literally a part of him. He found himself resentful of his shadow’s successes, even though those successes were entirely by his own command. He wanted to snatch your hand away from it, to demand your attention be solely on him. He wanted to banish the damn shadow to the darkest corners of Hell if it meant getting your unadulterated affection.

He began subtly withdrawing the shadow, making it less readily available. He’d make it appear only briefly, perform its commanded task, and then retract it quickly, hoping you’d start to seek him out for help. But you, in your characteristic obliviousness, simply thought the shadow was busy, or perhaps just having an "off day," or that it was being "shy."

"Is Shady feeling alright?" you once asked him, your brow furrowed with genuine concern as his shadow flickered erratically before vanishing mid-gesture. "It seemed a bit… tired lately."

Alastor nearly choked on his internal scream. Tired? His shadow? It was an extension of his very being, powered by his own demonic energy! He was just trying to subtly redirect your adoration! "Perfectly fine, my dear. Perhaps it merely needed a moment of… quietude," he replied, his smile stretched thin, betraying none of the furious maelstrom churning within him.

The internal conflict raged. His pride demanded he maintain distance, his fear of vulnerability screamed against confession, but his burgeoning, desperate love for you yearned for connection. And his shadow, the very tool he'd designed to bridge that gap, had become a frustrating, affectionate barrier in itself. He wanted to feel your soft touch, to hear your affectionate words, not have them filtered through a demonic extension of himself.

As time passed, the thing he thought could be his advantage became not. He felt a burning jealousy every time your attention strayed to his shadow, every time you spoke to it with a familiarity you hadn't quite yet granted him. He found himself yearning for what his shadow was earning from her. He was Alastor, for crying out loud! The Radio Demon! He didn't yearn for anything, let alone affection from a mere soul, let alone affection his own shadow was monopolizing! It was getting… Annoying. And somewhere, deep within the tangled, unyielding fortress of his pride, Alastor knew, with a terrifying certainty, that his next move would have to be far more direct, far more perilous to his carefully constructed façade. Because if this continued, he might just find himself strangling his own shadow.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Alastor’s frustration simmered, a low, constant crackle beneath his usually composed façade. The jealousy, a bitter, acidic taste he found utterly repulsive, intensified with every affectionate murmur you directed at his shadow. He was the Radio Demon, for crying out loud! The very idea that his own extension, a mere projection of his will, was garnering more genuine, unguarded affection from you than he, the master behind it all, was almost unbearable. He found himself fantasizing about sending his shadow on permanent "vacation" to some desolate, lightless corner of Hell, just to see if your attention would, by sheer force of habit, finally gravitate towards him.

His pride, usually his unbreakable shield, felt like a brittle shell, cracking under the relentless pressure of this ridiculous, unprecedented emotion. To confess overtly was still out of the question – it reeked of weakness, of vulnerability, of a desperate plea for something that should simply be. Yet, the subtle machinations, the calculated displays of chivalry via his shadow, had clearly failed. You remained charmingly, maddeningly dense. He was trapped in a self-made purgatory of unexpressed affection, tormented by the success of his own proxy.

One sweltering afternoon, the hotel's antiquated air conditioning finally sputtered its last breath, sending a wave of oppressive heat through the building. Charlie, ever the delegator, had tasked everyone with finding solutions. You, ever resourceful, decided the best course was to try and clear out some of the dust and demonic cobwebs that had accumulated in the higher, usually ignored vents in the grand ballroom.

Alastor found you there, perched precariously on a rickety, ancient ladder, armed with a feather duster and a determined expression. The ballroom was unusually quiet, most residents having fled to cooler, shadier corners of the hotel. He watched, a faint hum of static building in his ears, as you stretched, reaching for a particularly stubborn patch of grime near the ceiling. The ladder wobbled ominously.

"My dear," Alastor drawled, stepping into the room, his voice sharp with a sudden, uncharacteristic edge of alarm. "Perhaps a sturdier apparatus would be… advisable?"

You giggled, not looking down. "Oh, this old thing's fine, Alastor! Just gotta lean into it." You stretched higher, a bead of sweat trickling down your temple. "Almost got it!"

But the ladder groaned, a splintering sound echoing through the cavernous room. Your eyes widened as it began to tilt violently, slowly, inevitably. Before you could even cry out, before your own reflexes could kick in, Alastor moved.

It wasn't a shadow’s gentle nudge this time. It was instinct, raw and unthinking, overriding centuries of careful detachment. In a flash of crimson, Alastor was there. His staff clattered forgotten to the floor. His large, gloved hands shot out, not to simply steady the ladder, but to catch you. He seized your waist, pulling you off the teetering contraption with a sudden, powerful yank, bringing you crashing against his chest.

You gasped, the air knocked from your lungs, your feather duster falling unheeded to the floor. Your face was pressed against the crisp fabric of his coat, the unsettlingly fast beat of a heart you hadn’t known he possessed thrumming against your ear. Your hands instinctively flattened against his chest, seeking balance.

"Are you quite alright, my dear?" Alastor's voice was devoid of its usual cheerful radio filter, stripped bare of all artifice. It was rough, urgent, laced with a genuine concern that made the hair on your arms stand on end. His crimson eyes, usually so amused and calculating, were wide, dilated, and filled with an intensity you had never witnessed. They bore into yours, devoid of his usual smile, showing a flash of pure, raw fear that was completely, utterly un-Alastor.

For the first time, in that suffocatingly close moment, pressed against his rigid form, the scent of brimstone and something uniquely him filling your senses, you saw it. The genuine alarm in his eyes. The way his hands, still gripping your waist with surprising tenderness, were trembling ever so slightly. The rapid thrum of his pulse beneath your palm. This wasn't the detached Alastor who joked about cannibalism. This wasn't the Alastor whose shadow lent a helping hand. This was him. Exposed. Vulnerable. And utterly, terrifyingly, worried about you.

His shadow, which had darted out the moment the ladder tilted, now hovered nearby, not intervening, but watching, almost with a knowing stillness. It seemed to have faded slightly, its edges less defined, as if its master's direct, unthinking action had momentarily usurped its role.

The silence in the ballroom stretched, broken only by the distant sounds of the hotel and the surprisingly loud thumping of Alastor’s heart. Your eyes, wide with a sudden, blinding realization, slowly drifted from his frantic gaze down to his gloved hands still clamped around your waist, then back up to his face.

The gifts. The constant proximity. The possessive stretches of his shadow. The way he always seemed to be there. The subtle brushes. The baking charade. All of it, every single confounding action, suddenly clicked into place with the sickening force of a falling domino. He wasn't being friendly. He wasn't being peculiar. He was… he was trying to court you. He was showing affection. And you, in your blissful, impenetrable ignorance, had missed every single sign.

Your cheeks flushed a deep, mortified crimson. Not from embarrassment about the fall, but from the horrifying realization of your own monumental obliviousness. And then, a new, exhilarating warmth spread through you, a feeling that had nothing to do with Hell's oppressive heat.

Alastor, sensing the shift in your gaze, the sudden change in your breath, slowly became aware of how intimately he was holding you. His eyes, though still intense, regained a sliver of their usual cunning. The moment of raw emotion, of unguarded vulnerability, had passed. His smile began to return, slowly, almost imperceptibly, stretching across his face, trying to rebuild the mask of nonchalance.

He loosened his grip slightly, though he did not fully release you. "Forgive my… abruptness, my dear," he purred, his radio filter returning, albeit with a faint, trembling undertone. "But one simply cannot allow such a delightful resident to suffer an unfortunate tumble. It would simply not do." He attempted a jaunty chuckle, but it sounded a little forced, a little strained.

You, however, were no longer listening to the words. You were staring at the single vein still throbbing ever so faintly at his temple, a physical manifestation of his barely contained emotion. You were looking at the raw fear that had momentarily consumed his eyes, a fear that was clearly for you.

"Alastor," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper, your eyes wide with revelation. "You… you like me." It wasn't a question, but a dawning, incredulous statement.

His smile froze. The radio static surrounding him spiked, a harsh, painful screech that reverberated through the ballroom, making the remaining light fixtures flicker erratically. His shadow, which had been observing, suddenly dissolved completely, as if unable to bear the directness of the moment. Alastor’s eyes, now back to their usual, unnervingly focused red, bore into yours. He had been caught. His carefully constructed wall of pride and control had just been breached by a single, simple, blindingly obvious statement.

A long, excruciating silence descended, broken only by the crackle of Alastor’s own internal turmoil. His facade was crumbling, and he knew it. There was no retreat, no witty deflection, no blaming the shadow now.

He cleared his throat, his smile wavering for the first time you had ever seen. He tightened his grip on your waist just for a fraction of a second, a small, possessive gesture that felt less like an accident and more like a silent, desperate confession. His voice, when it came, was lower, deeper than usual, completely devoid of its cheerful filter, barely above a murmur.

"My dear," Alastor said, his crimson eyes holding yours, an uncharacteristic sincerity bleeding through their depths. "It seems… that is no longer a secret, is it?"

And in that moment, as the realization solidified into an undeniable truth, and the Radio Demon stood before you, stripped of his usual theatricality, you knew everything had irrevocably changed. The era of oblivion was finally, wonderfully, over. And the dizzying dance of whatever came next had just begun.

· · ───── ·𖥸· ───── · ·

✎ It's end y'all 😭 but idk if you send good ideas i may continue it UwU

#alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #alastor x femreader #alastor x reader #alastor x y/n #alastor x you #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #the radio demon #other lxxahazel work #other LxxaHazel #alastor fanart #alastor fanfiction #Alastor request #anon I LOVE YOUR IDEA #UwU #Part two :D

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drabblejester · 8 months ago

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good day, mister jester :) I see youre taking request. sicne you yourself are a jester, might i ask how the archons would deal with having their own jester? (making silly jokes, harmless pranks etc) how they acquire said jester is up to you!

how the ARCHONS would treat you as their JESTER!

requested by: wonderful sillay anon!!

parings: all archons & jester!reader

content warnings: none!! just silliness

comments: take this as romantic(NOT FOR NAHIDA) or platonic idc HEEHEE!! this is a splendid ask thank u my liege <3 probably ooc

VENTI:

you’re jester’d by him after he found you on the street, while he was bumbling around drunk. thought you were funny, so he just tagged you along!!

and oooh he LOVES you!!! he writes so many songs for you to dance along to, happily singing and strumming his little lyre while you bust a move

if anything its the both of you that are the jesters… instead of you being in a ‘jester & god’ scenario, its more of a ‘jester & jester’ thing. you tell eachother jokes, sing with eachother, etc! and after yall have fun, you lay down in the grass together and snooze :3

ZHONGLI:

you’re jester’d by him after one of the millith recommend you to him, saying many good things about you and your antics!!! he meets you in person and it goes well!!

despite his strong and gentle demeanor, he will giggle and watch you happily. in fact, he actually HELPS you pull off pranks. ranging from replacing all of venti’s sugar with salt, painting on the hull of beidou’s ship, or snatching masks from fatuus, you’re having fun alongside him sometimes!!!

he treats you super well, lavishing you with yummy treats and delicious tea. he makes a little room for you somewhere in the inn, and always makes sure you’re happy and well taken care of.

RAIDEN:

you’re jester’d by her after miss sara almost puts you in jail. thankfully, your silly demeanor and joyous attitude captivated her. so you get to go free! as long as you can provide her some entertainment sometimes.

she actually doesn’t have you entertain her that often, just kinda keeps you around like a cool rock. more often, you’ll find yourself entertaining her guards and her loyal followers instead. which is still nice!

she’ll try her best to take care of you, but ultimately ends up just plopping you in the hands of the people she trusts. she isn’t too fond of your pranks but she loves your performances, so you’re equipped with props and costumes :3

NAHIDA:

you’re jester’d by her after you were grabbed by the scruff by a forest ranger, gently being ushered back into the city like a lost cat. which you might as well be! she saw you, you told her a few jokes and gave her some candy, and she got somewhat attached

she really likes your jokes!!! simple puns only, and the occasional riddle. a lot of the time, she’d actually be telling YOU riddles! sadly they’re very hard to figure out so good luck. you get to teach her about certain jokes but you have to explain the punchlines 50% of the time

life with her is very simple, she holds you as an equal (maybe even as a sibling figure?) unlike other archons like raiden or mavuika. you entertain her, and she entertains you! like a nice equal exchange of knowledge in the form of silly jokes.

FURINA:

you’re jester’d after being caught by the guardes for breaking some obscure law, probably related to a prank you pulled. you’re dragged into court (which breaks your silly heart…), furina sees you, and VERRYY dramatically calls for a halt. she runs away with you(and neuvillette on your tail).

she treats you like a secret, not in a weird way but in a.. whispers to you to go and check out the magazine selection and sends you off like her personal little scarab. it’s very obvious you two are hanging out because BOTH of you became 10x more dramatic, but she refuses everything.

your living situation is like roommates, despite her holding some power over you. neuvillette insisted that you get a separate apartment but you both complained enough to where you got to stay hanging out. you’re like best friends!! you eat sweets together, hang out, etc. she even teaches you some of her super secret acting techniques!!!

MAVUIKA:

you’re jester’d after you become hopelessly lost in natlan, miserably jingling across the floor, and winding up in a family of saurians. she finds you all sad and weeping and ue ue ue, and takes you in like a little baby birdie.

actually, you don’t do much entertaining with her! when you do, it’s usually her trying to train you to become strong. thankfully your little kicks and sad punches don’t do much to her. so to cheer you up, she lets you tell her riddles and stories and jokes. turns out she is a SUCKER for puns.

you get to hang out in natlan wherever you want, like tossing a bird in the air and letting it fly away for a bit. your best nap spot is in a very cramped little cave, all cozied up with one blanket to make the edges less sharp. surprisingly it’s very cozy! you can even curl up above on the rocks like a lizard!!!!

TSARITSA:

you’re jester’d by her after a few fatuus find you all sad and wet in the city, jingling about and being a general disturbance to the peace (as god intended). you’re dragged all the way to the palace, to get judged. you’re not put in as a harbinger but you get to be a fool one way or another!

speaking of harbingers, they either love you or hate you. the tsaritsa will always ensure your safety from the weirdness of dottore and the edginess of signora, but you can’t help but be a little upset by them. she’ll wipe your tears and allow you to dance around the palace to help you feel better :3

you get free reign over the palace whether the harbingers like it or not. curled up on lab tables, hunched under chairs, maybe stealing a fatuu grunt’s bed, etc. and they don’t get to say anything bad about you because you’re the tsaritsa’s special little jester! pierro is still upset that you stole his cool nickname though

eat up my liege… leave no crumbs either. i just swept the floor

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b1rds3ye · 2 years ago

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hi!! this is my first time doing a request so idk if I'm doing this right haha but uh, I was wondering if you could do like. yknow the masked one you made for the 141 (I can't remember the name rn💔)? I thought of like, a sequel idea. like, what if during combat an enemy manages to take reader's mask, and so reader panics and like, rips the enemies throat out with their teeth (or if that's too violent, just goes basically rabid on them lmao) and how they would react?? if this is too violent or specific dw you don't have to!! anyways, I love your content it's totally awesome ur writing is amazing! have a good day!!

YES I LOVE THE BADASSERY AND THE UNHINGEDNESS!! If I'm your first request I'm so flattered anon pls do feel free to drop by again <333 Also just going to do general rabidness because ngl the throat thing sounds like an infection speedrun and we want our masked reader to stay nice and healthy <333

Word Count: 1.2 (it got a little long WHOOPS)

Warning: Canon typical violence, reader does get a lil sadistic and unhinged <333

Beyond Task Force 141 and Laswell, many - if not all - allied soldiers wondered about what lay under your mask. Obscuring even the eyes, your visage was more unreadable than Ghost's. Larger than life, a soldier among men.

There was a running joke that there was just nothing under your mask, perhaps an eldritch horror of sorts. You let the new recruits entertain the thought, it kept morale up as they conjured more myths of you. They said that no one has seen you without your mask. They were partially right.

It simply was that no one lived to tell the tale.

You were never one for close combat, but fighting terrorists was never smooth sailing. The chaos of battle had all of the 141 separated against the tight streets of Las Almas. How uncanny that you could not see your allies but hear their gunfire. Running out of ammo, you couldn't lament at your misfortune as a shoulder pummeling into your chest, sending you to the ground and the air out of your lungs. Head bashing against the floor you groaned as you furiously clawed up to whatever heavy weight was crushing your body. You were starting to make up the figure of a man hovering over you through the blurry haze of a concussion that filled your sight. The distant static of Price's voice through the radio, probably asking where the hell were you but you had more pressing issues at hand.

Through your struggle and flailing limbs you managed to wring the enemy's pistol off of them with a painful twist of their wrist. And they retaliated tenfold, a large sweaty hand reaching down and pressing your head back against the ground. Your adrenaline makes you writhe further, he was going to suffocate you, or worse, poison you with how fucking awful his hand smelt as the stink of burning gunpowder replaced any of your oxygen. But no, he committed a far worse crime.

A singular pull and the grating tear of fabric as your mask is pulled off of your face.

A heavy moment where your enemy looks down at you and his gaze is not like before. It's clear, it's deep. It is not looking at your facade but at you and you are no longer a soldier. You are merely a human, so fragile, so weak. One that is on the verge of death in a foreign land surrounded by bodies of fallen comrades and enemies alike. One whose mythos is all but lost at the victorious and leering smirk of an enemy as they take in your face.

That simply won't do.

Pulling your knee up to create space between you and the man, you pull out your tactical knife from your waist and drive it into his torso. His smile falls only to land at settle on yours below him, just like his blood that trickles as forbidden crimson down your hands and seeps into your uniform. It's disgustingly warm. He grows heavier as he loses all control over his body and you heave to throw his figure off to the side. You stab him once again for good measure. And then again. And again. Quick, short jabs down with a sharpened blade that cuts through uniform, flesh and bone alike. You did not count how many times you drove your blade down, numbers were too complex when your mind was running faster than any comprehensible speed. There was only one goal. To make sure no one knows what happened.

A harsh grip on the shoulder yanks you back up and you swipe with your armed limb to cut your new assailant's neck but they were onto you. Catching your arm, they pull it up as they hold onto your shoulder once again with a tightening grip that digs into your uniform. But they do nothing more, no matter how much you thrash and kick.

"Wake up, Sergeant," your opponent seethes and that voice makes you still, a buoy that floats across through your rage. Deep and grounding and your captain's.

You nearly stumble back but Price catches you before you crumple to the ground in exhaustion. The adrenaline was escaping your body leaving you with barely the energy to stay upright. Your head lolls back for a second before you bring it to the side to look at your direct superior, the remnants of a concussion making your vision blurry.

"You broken?" he asks.

"Negative, sir,” you respond immediately but he looks a little doubtful, a singular eyebrow raised as he inspects you. Not your body, but your face. The dilated pupils and the taut muscles told more than any wound.

"Can't say the same about your wee friend over there," Soap whistles as he tilts his head to behind you. “Christ, you did a number on him.”

You dare turn to look over your shoulder but Ghost already situated himself in front of the body. But between his feet you could already make out the indistinguishable mass of tattered fabric and discoloured flesh. Fresh blood filled the rivets between the cobblestones, the remnants of the body inching its way closer to you-

"Was it the mask?" Simon brings your attention back to him. You nod dumbly. He only dips his head in what you can only describe as understanding as he folds his arms, fortifying his stance in front of the mess you made. You weren’t going to see your handiwork, he was too kind to ever let you.

John drops his hands down to his sides as Gaz approaches you with your mask.

"Remind me to never get on your bad side," Kyle offers you a sympathetic smile.

"Learnt that the first day I saw 'em on duty," Johnny retorts and you instinctively smile as you take your mask from Kyle. The hardened plaster of your mask had cracked, the fabric that hugged your neck had become torn but it'll do for the remainder of the mission. Slipping the mask back on, Simon offers a nod of approval while Johnny tugged at the fabric for a few finishing touches.

Ultimately the mission was successful. The task force returns to base and although none of the boys mentioned the carnage you left, there are still whispers of it on base. You had hurried to debrief and get your mask fixed but it seemed some privates caught sight of you and that was enough to spark rumours. Your mask had gotten so fractured that a shard was left back in the streets of Las Almas and revealed one of your eyes to the rest of the world. Such a small organ but so vivid. The privates saw, and more was added to the myth that was you. There was now no question about what was under the mask. No lovecraftian horror or empty space, no monster beyond comprehension. No, what was under your mask was terrifyingly human.

Masked Reader Masterlist Call of Duty Masterlist

#cod x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x you #task force 141 x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #anon mail ❤️#/*avery checks the mailbox*/#/*avery actually writes*/#/*cod x masked reader*/

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simplygojo · 8 months ago

Text

GhostFace Ep. 4 - Satoru Gojo

Author's Note: Episode 4 of the GhostFace Series is FINALLY out, I have included a few anon kinktober requests in this one, so I will respond to those requests with the link to this fic...I HOPE UR ALL ENJOYING THESE, KINKTOBER IS DRAINING ME BUT ITS WORTH IT I LOVE Y'ALL <3

Spooky Szn Masterlist

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f!reader

Kinks: Blindfold Kink & Sensory Deprivation

Word Count: 2.7K

Kinktober Taglist: @nanamisrighthand @simplyyyuji; @megumisdivinedogs; @lovleyredheadfairy

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, MDNI, oral, fingering, light spanking, overstimulation, sensory deprivation.

As you walked toward Gojo’s apartment, an eerie chill hung in the air, like a fog that clung to your skin. Gojo had teased you all day about a Halloween “surprise mission,” but you hadn’t expected the strange quiet that awaited you.

When you reached his door, it was already slightly ajar, the lock glinting faintly in the dim hallway light.

A sliver of unease wormed its way into your chest as you nudged the door open, peering into the shadowed room.

The usual warm ambiance was absent, replaced by a stark quiet that heightened your senses. A glance at the side table confirmed the phone was off the hook, emitting a faint static hum, underscoring the silence.

Every instinct warned you to turn back, but curiosity—and a thrill of anticipation—compelled you forward.

“Gojo?” Your voice was barely above a whisper as you stepped into the dim room, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that made your heart race.

You turned around towards the door you had walked through, and there he stood, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Surprise, y/n,” he drawled, his voice slipping through the mask, each word a blend of teasing danger and the familiar confidence that only Gojo could command.

He wore the infamous Ghostface mask, its dark, hollow eyes concealing his mischievous blue ones.

He wore no robe like in the movies, opting instead for a tightly fitted black T-shirt that clung to his chest and shoulders, showing off every defined line of muscle.

The fabric stretched taut over his biceps, accentuating the power in his arms as he leaned with a relaxed yet dangerous posture.

The sight of him like this, the usually playful and teasing Gojo now shrouded in this eerie, dominant persona, made your breath catch in your throat.

Something about the Ghostface mask paired with his physique—the tension of the shirt, the hint of strength radiating beneath it—ignited a deep thrill inside you, one that mixed arousal with an edge of fear.

You couldn’t look away; every inch of him was mesmerizing, from the way his chest rose and fell to the sharpness of his silhouette.

“What…what is all this?” You managed, a flicker of nervous excitement betraying you.

“Just a little game for Halloween,” he replied smoothly, his voice dropping into a husky whisper as he advanced toward you. “Don’t you trust me?”

He was close enough now that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with something sharper, like the thrill of an approaching storm.

Before you could respond, his fingers brushed your cheek, then slid into his pocket. When he pulled his hand back, you noticed the familiar black fabric that he usually wore over his eyes.

The sight of it sent your heart racing. He dangled it before you, a devilish grin no doubt hidden behind his mask.

“Eyes on me until you can’t anymore,” he murmured, stepping behind you.

You felt his breath, warm and steady against the side of your neck as he slipped the blindfold over your eyes, plunging you into absolute darkness.

With your vision obscured, the rest of your senses sharpened, each one waiting, straining for the next sound, the next sensation.

“Can you see anything?” His voice was low, resonant, like a spell that thrummed in the quiet.

“No,” you whispered, the thrill of surrender making your body hyper-aware of his proximity.

“Good,” he said softly, a smirk colouring his words. “Let’s keep it that way.”

He moved in front of you, his fingers grazing your collarbone, igniting a heat that spiralled outward, consuming any lingering hesitation.

The air grew heavy, and without your sight, you were acutely aware of every movement, every touch. His hand drifted down, his fingers teasing along your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“Do you feel that?” he whispered, fingers ghosting over your skin, barely making contact.

You nodded, every nerve ending attuned to his touch, the anticipation building to a near-unbearable level.

His hands trailed down to your wrists, firm but gentle, guiding them up as he pinned them above your head. A low chuckle escaped him as he shifted closer, pressing his body against yours.

With the blindfold still on, you could only imagine the look on his face.

“You’re trembling,” he noted, his tone somewhere between teasing and curious.

“I—” You began, but the words died on your lips as he tightened his grip slightly, heightening the sense of restraint. The feeling of him controlling every move, every shift, drove you wild.

The air shifted as he moved, his lips brushing your ear.

“Are you afraid yet?” He asked, his breath warm against your skin, making you shiver.

“Maybe,” you replied, your voice barely a murmur.

“Good.” His response was a low growl, a delicious edge that left you breathless.

He moved one hand lower, grazing your hip, pressing you back until your body was flush against the wall.

His fingers tightened around your wrist, and then you felt it—a sharp, stinging sensation as his hand came down in a swift, calculated spank against your ass.

The sting of it spread heat through you, a rush of adrenaline and desire that left you panting.

“What was that for?” You gasped, struggling to steady your voice.

“For testing my patience,” he replied smoothly, his fingers trailing along the curve of your hip. “I think you need a reminder to behave.”

You swallowed, breath coming in shallow gasps as he delivered another spank, harder this time, his hand lingering afterward, the warmth of his palm searing into your skin.

The pressure of his touch kept you grounded, the stinging warmth a constant reminder of his control.

“Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice low and dark, laced with a possessive edge that sent shivers down your spine.

“The way your body reacts when you can’t see?”

“Yes,” you breathed, voice trembling as he leaned in closer, the mask grazing your cheek.

With your vision gone, each touch felt amplified, each kiss more consuming.

You felt his fingers press firmly against your neck, tilting your head as he grazed his lips down your jawline, slow and teasing, his breath hot against your skin.

Your senses reeled, straining to capture every movement, every sound, every inch of him.

The sound of his laughter echoed in your ear, sending another thrill of excitement through you.

“You’re completely at my mercy now, y/n,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise. “And you’re going to love every second of it.”

He held you firmly as his other hand continued its exploration, dragging down your sides, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt as he pressed his body against yours, every inch of him demanding and relentless.

Each sensation, each teasing caress and firm grip, blurred together, becoming part of a visceral experience that consumed you.

Finally, you felt his hands slip to your waist, gripping you firmly as he brought his lips back to your ear.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, the hint of a smirk audible in his voice.

“No,” you whispered, every word weighted with desire. “Please… don’t stop.”

“Good girl.” The words sent a flush of warmth through you, and his grip tightened as he leaned in closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your neck before he dragged his lips downward, each movement slow and deliberate, his mouth a torturous blend of tenderness and dominance.

Every touch, every word, every whispered command heightened the sensation, his control absolute as he continued his exploration, making you feel as though you were suspended in the dark, caught between fear and longing, utterly and completely his.

His gloved hands slipped down your waist, pausing just below your hips before kneeling, his hot breath brushing against the skin of your inner thighs.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured, his tone so soft and deceptively comforting, as if he weren’t about to drive you out of your fucking mind.

One hand slid up, slipping between your thighs and nudging them apart.

His fingers grazed you with the lightest touch, teasing until you were aching, his chuckle reverberating in the quiet. “Already so needy, aren’t you?”

You bit back a moan, clenching your fists as his mouth closed over you, finally pressing his tongue against you. He started slowly, agonizingly gentle, savouring every reaction you gave him.

You gasped, gripping at the fabric of his shirt, completely helpless to the onslaught of sensations as his hands held you firmly in place, fingers digging into your hips.

The contrast between his soft, warm mouth and his unyielding grip sent jolts of pleasure racing through you, each stroke of his tongue a calculated torment.

His pace quickened, and soon, he was relentless—alternating between firm, slow licks and rapid flicks of his tongue, consuming every whimper, every breathless gasp you let slip.

“Please… Gojo,” you whispered, voice breaking as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge, his pace never faltering, only intensifying as your hips began to buck against him involuntarily.

“Oh, you’re begging already?” He taunted, pulling back for just a moment, letting his hot breath tease over your sensitive skin.

“I’m not stopping until I feel you fall apart.” With that, he returned, mouth working over you with an intensity that bordered on overwhelming.

His tongue teased and traced patterns, alternating between fast, shallow licks and deep, thorough strokes that left you writhing.

The pleasure built up so quickly, so intensely, that your legs began to tremble.

You tried to shift away, but his grip tightened, holding your hips steady as he took his time with you, relentless in his mission to coax every sound, every shiver, every broken gasp from your lips.

You were barely aware of anything except him—the feel of his hands, the insistent pressure of his mouth, and the blackness behind the blindfold that left you vulnerable to his every whim.

Finally, with a soft, desperate cry, you came, your body tensing as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

But Gojo didn’t stop. Instead, he continued, driving you higher, his mouth never leaving you as he licked and teased, drinking in every tremor, every aftershock.

The overstimulation hit hard, every stroke of his tongue now almost unbearable, sending jolts through your oversensitive nerves.

You tugged on his hair, gasping, “Please, Gojo—I can’t…”

“Oh, you can,” he replied, his voice low and commanding. “You’re going to keep taking it for me, just like that.”

His hands held you firmly, his mouth working with renewed vigour as he continued to draw sounds from you you didn’t even know you could make.

You were dizzy, your world a swirl of sensation as he mercilessly pushed you toward another peak, your body shuddering as the second wave of pleasure crashed over you.

Finally, when he seemed satisfied with your thoroughly spent state, he pulled back, leaving you panting, weak, and trembling.

He rose, tugging the blindfold slightly, letting his fingers trace lightly over your cheeks as he did.

You barely had a moment to recover before his lips brushed against your ear, voice low and commanding. “Now, turn around.”

Dazed and more than willing to obey, you turned, feeling his strong hands guiding you forward, pressing you up against the wall as he moved behind you.

His hands roamed down, gripping your hips as he nudged your legs apart with his knee, pulling you close until you could feel him, hot and insistent against you.

“Look at you,” he murmured with dark satisfaction, his hands sliding up to grip your waist as he positioned himself behind you.

He held you there, relishing the way your body stretched and adjusted to him.

A low, rumbling groan escaped Gojo’s lips as he began to move, each slow, agonizingly deep thrust pressing you harder against the wall, his hips meeting yours with a rhythm that was both relentless and electrifying.

The way he filled you—thick and hot, stretching you in ways that made your knees weak—left you breathless, gripping the wall for support as he set a pace that was anything but gentle.

Each inch of him pressed into you, nudging against every sensitive, over-stimulated spot that hadn’t yet recovered from the waves of pleasure he’d already pulled from you.

Your entire body felt hypersensitive, every nerve alive and attuned to the sensation of him inside you.

Each thrust was like a spark, setting off shudders that rolled through you as he sank into you fully, pulling back just enough to let you feel that maddening drag before plunging in again, harder, deeper.

You couldn’t help the soft whimpers that escaped, your body unable to keep up with the sheer intensity of his movements.

“Fuck… you feel so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction as his hands found your hips, holding you steady while he took his time, savouring every reaction you gave him.

His fingers dug into your skin, pulling you back to meet each thrust, leaving no room for escape, only the blissful, intoxicating friction as he buried himself to the hilt with each drive forward.

His pace grew more erratic, hips snapping harder against you, filling you so completely it was dizzying.

Overstimulated and utterly overwhelmed, each motion made your body clench around him, the pleasure bordering on too much as he continued, knowing just how to push you past every limit.

It was both unbearable and addictive—the heat, the fullness, the way he moved in you as if he were claiming every inch.

He groaned low and ragged, his voice rough in your ear as he whispered, “You’re so tight, so perfect… God, I could fuck you all night.”

Every thrust hit a different, more sensitive place inside you, igniting sparks of pleasure that grew with each movement.

The world faded, narrowing down to the heat of his body pressed against yours, the heavy slide of him filling you, stretching you in a way that made you tremble.

The intensity of it was all-consuming, your body completely given over to him as he continued to drive into you with that ruthless, almost punishing rhythm, each thrust pressing you closer to the edge.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured against your neck, his voice a mix of soft encouragement and unyielding command.

His hands tightened around your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he anchored you exactly where he wanted.

His hot breath tickled your ear, his mouth pressing soft, teasing kisses along your neck before he whispered again, voice dropping to a low, rough edge.

“I know you’ve got one more in you… don’t you?”

The depth of his thrusts sent a shiver down your spine, his cock filling you to the point of almost painful bliss, each movement coaxing you closer to the edge he was holding you at.

His grip on you didn’t falter, and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, a clear sign of just how hard he was holding himself back.

“I wanna feel you, every last bit of you,” he continued, his voice thick with need. His hips pressed even deeper, grinding into you as he thrust again, pulling a helpless moan from your lips.

“Come on,” he coaxed, his tone both a plea and a command, each word sending a fresh rush of desire through you.

“Cum for me, right here, right now, while I’m still inside you.” He didn’t relent, didn’t slow, his movements unyielding as he chased that final reaction from you, his voice breaking into a low groan as he added, “I want to feel every last bit of you falling apart around me.”

His hands found your wrists, pulling them behind your back, holding you in place as his pace quickened, his grip bruising as he drove into you with abandon.

With a final, desperate cry, you let yourself go, the pleasure blinding and overwhelming as you gave in completely, your body clenching around him as he groaned, hips bucking as he followed, his grip tightening as he held you close, riding out the waves of pleasure together.

He didn’t let go right away, keeping you pressed up against the wall, his body still flush against yours.

After a moment, he leaned close, a satisfied, almost cocky chuckle in his voice as he whispered in your ear, “Now, was that spooky enough for you?”

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concretejunglefm · 4 months ago

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So human error had me accidentally posting this instead of drafting; however, I hope this fits even remotely what you were hoping for, anon 💕 I hope you don't mind that I added a little angst at the end for something extra 🫣

CW: mentions of grinding, nipple play, light choking.

WC: 2.5k.

NSFW below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

Truthfully, Noah doesn't want to be here.

The moment he stepped through the door and realized this place was a strip club, he should’ve turned and walked back out immediately. But unfortunately, he didn’t.

Now, he’s stuck entertaining his friend, one he mentally chooses to exclude from his list of people to hang out with the next time he’s feeling stressed out and needs to unwind.

“Just a club soda for me, thanks,” he tells the waitress who happens to pass by them, which prompts his friend to roll his eyes and reach across, slapping him playfully on the chest.

“Come on, you’re here to have fun tonight.”

Noah grimaces at the thought. Watching girls dance half-naked and having a private lap dance isn’t exactly what he calls ‘fun.’ Even though the place is considered a high-end establishment, it’s simply not his scene, something obvious in the way his eyes constantly avoid looking at any of the dancers, offering only a brief nod and a forced smile of acknowledgement when they glance down at him when walking past.

“I think maybe I'm going to—”

“Ah, there she is!” Noah’s friend interrupts him as you approach, and all his plans about leaving vanish instantly when he locks eyes with you.

Like most of the dancers, you’re wearing something lacy, though it covers you enough to leave some areas to the imagination. Half of your face is obscured by a mask, like some of the others, presumably to conceal your identity and enhance the club’s allure. However, his eyes momentarily flicker to your lips and the shade of lipstick. Suddenly, he’s consumed by an intense desire to smudge it, to witness how your lips would appear plump and kiss-swollen.

He shakes his head, pushing those thoughts aside. After spending too much time in the studio, neglecting most of his needs, sexualizing the first woman he sees isn’t how he intends to resolve that issue. However, he can’t help but allow his eyes to wander back to you, this time more shyly, when he catches you actually moving towards him, your hand extending and resting upon his shoulder.

“Who’s your friend?”

Noah hadn’t caught the conversation between you and his friend, but his eyes widen almost comically when he raises his gaze to meet yours through the eye holes of your mask. “Noah…” he swallows, managing to utter the syllables of his name through a tightening throat.

“He’s been quite overworked lately. It seems he’s forgotten all about how to have some fun, if you know what I mean.” Noah shoots his friend a disapproving look, but your quick reach for his hand silences any protest.

“Well, I know a thing or two about helping with that,” you giggle, and it sounds smooth like honey, making his chest burst a little. He hesitates to follow you as you tug on his hand, a gentle indication for him to stand. He doesn’t want to slip away into some private room, which would make this encounter feel more seedy than it should be. Yet, he finds himself already completely enamored by you. Whether it’s the mystery of you hidden beneath the mask or the allure you generally radiate, he’s drawn to you as if there’s a magnetic pull keeping him from straying away.

“Have fun,” his friend calls out after him. Noah briefly glances back, finding himself almost on autopilot as he obediently follows you towards a private area near the club’s back.

When you’re alone in one of the private rooms, he falls into the seat you push him down into and slightly shifts, his nerves settling as he realizes you’re the only person he can now focus on.

“You don't have to do this.” Noah attempts to dismiss the offer, the dance, the opportunity to relax, or whatever is being presented to him at this moment, but your response is simply a scoff.

“Is this where you tell me that my dad loved me?” You roll your eyes, bracing yourself for the usual charade from a guy who expects to swoop in and ‘save’ you from this life. “Surprisingly, I have a great relationship with my family.” You move towards him, intending to settle down on his lap by straddling him, but pause before doing so.

“No, I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant… I’ve never done this before,” Noah confesses, feeling the tip of his ears turn red. He lifts a hand to his neck, rubbing his palm against it, and shifts in his seat.

“Wait, really?” You don’t mean for the surprise to escape in your voice as it does, and you step back a little, placing your hands on your hips as you observe his awkward shifts and continued avoidance of your gaze.

“Yes, does that really surprise you?” He chuckles, but it’s slightly forced, and his eyes finally meet yours once more. He’s once again captivated by the allure that seems to draw him in. There’s an odd sense of familiarity that sends a warmth through his chest, though he can’t quite place it. The way you’re looking at him now certainly makes his stomach flip. He can’t tell if you’re pitying him or ready to make him prey, but he doesn’t care either way.

“No, it’s just… I’ve noticed your friend here quite frequently.” You chuckle and shake your head. “I suppose I anticipated the same from anyone he brings here.”

“So, this is your first time? I suppose that implies I should be gentle with you.” You purr, leaning forward, your hands returning to his shoulders as you squeeze them for stability before moving closer and twisting yourself to position your back to him.

Reaching behind you, you place your hands on his thighs, spreading them as you use them to maintain your balance. Slowly, you lower your ass down to meet his lap. “Let me know if you need me to stop, and I’ll stop.”

“Okay,” Noah says, his voice strained.

As you lower yourself and rub your covered ass against his crotch, he feels his cock instantly harden within his pants. He’s already worked up, but the proximity of you to him, the intoxicating scent, and the magnetic pull all combine to send his head spinning with arousal. Instinctively, his hands reach out and grasp you at your waist, stopping you.

“It happens to every guy you know,” you say with a laugh, making him realize that you felt it. In your line of work, it’s more of a compliment than a form of harassment.

“I know it’s just... it’s been a while.” he says, his voice tinged with embarrassment. You imagine that if you turned to look at him now, he might have a beetroot-colored face. Instead, you take his hands and begin to gently guide them up your sides.

“Well, we do offer other services here.” While your clientele has always been those who come for either a show or a personal release, you rarely cater to the latter. However, you can’t help but feel compelled when you have a man as handsome as Noah beneath you, as you do right now.

“No that’s... wait really?”

“Mhm,” you nod, a smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth as you feel his fingers gently caress your skin in circular motions.

Suddenly, he pulls you down onto his lap.

“You mentioned it’s been a while. Could I ask why?” you ask, allowing him to take the initiative slightly as his fingers delicately traced the contours of your bare stomach.

“Work.” He responds with a single word, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. You deliberately press your hips down and grind your ass against his crotch.

“What do you do?”

“Music.” Another one-word answer, but you hear the groan he’s trying to suppress and choose to interpret it as a triumph. “I’ve been spending a lot of time in the studio and…” he gasps as you roll your hips, brushing against his bulge and feeling the outline of his cock against you. Suddenly, you feel the heat rising in your own stomach, especially when his hands shift to your thighs, gripping you almost possessively to hold you against him. It makes you tremble and as you try to move, you hear him growl, “Don’t.”

He can’t release you yet, not when he’s already been feeling worked up and touch-starved. You’ve barely touched him, yet he’s experiencing an entirely new surge of desire.

Instead of moving, you gently rock your hips, circling them as your ass drags and grinds against his crotch. You listen to the change in his breath and feel how his cock twitches beneath you, confined within his pants. “Please?” you almost plead, and it results in a strained whimper from him, his fingers only pressing harder against your thighs.

“Noah, tell me what you need.” Your voice lowers, becoming soft and alluring as you lean back against his chest, turning your head and gently brushing your cherry red painted lips against the apple tattoo that covers his Adam’s apple.

Your breath, warm against his skin, sends a wave of goosebumps across him, causing his breath to catch in his throat. He can’t possibly be contemplating asking and accepting your offer, can he? It feels selfish to request anything from you, especially since you’re just a stranger. Nevertheless, he can’t deny that you’ve somehow worked your way beneath his skin, a mysterious stranger who calls themselves honey, or perhaps cherry, or pixie? He can’t quite recall the exchange between you and his friend during introductions, but he’s certain he feels an overwhelming desire to have you.

“You…” he whispers, his fingers finally releasing their grip on your thighs before they begin to slide, gliding along your inner thighs before ascending, stroking across your stomach and further up the exposed area of your torso, before slipping beneath the lace that covers your chest.

Your back arches against him as his hand palms at your breast, his fingers playfully teasing your nipples and producing a faint sound from you. Normally, you’d swiftly slap away a client who dared to behave this boldly, yet you find yourself leaning into his touch, yearning for more of it, more of him. His name slips from your lips as a soft whisper as you begin to grind against him once more, and your head rests on his shoulder, savoring the sensation of his fingers twisting your nipple.

Noah’s other hand raises higher, fingers light against your skin as they close around your neck and gently press, causing you to gasp; “Harder.” Your eyes roll back at the faint pressure he adds, his fingers pinching harder at your nipples as your hips rock and grind, almost desperately trying to soothe the ache between your thighs instead of focusing solely on relieving him. However, Noah doesn’t seem to mind; you hear the encouraging whispers from him against the side of your head.

“Show me how needy you are.”, “Do you like being touched like this?”, “Do you like your nipples being toyed with?”

The only sounds you make are soft moans, accompanied by faint “yeses” that gradually fade into breathless gasps as you intensify your grinding and whines steadily increase the closer you feel yourself approaching the edge.

Beneath you, Noah can feel his cock straining against the restrictive fabric of his pants, yearning for freedom and an even greater desire to be inside you. However, he knows that he can’t bring himself to request that of you, instead choosing to accept this arrangement, allowing you to satisfy him in exchange for your own pleasure.

As your soft pleas continue to fall from your lips, you feel the intense heat of your climax building up in your stomach, causing you to buck your hips desperately on Noah. In response, he lifts himself to meet you, and your bodies collide, sending a wave of pleasure over you, leaving your body trembling against him as he presses you firmly onto his lap. Grinding himself right against your ass, he emits a guttural sound, holding you tightly against him as his own body trembles, and his cock twitches in his pants beneath you.

“Did you just...?”

“Yes,” he says with a voice devoid of shame, which makes you laugh. It’s not a mocking laugh, and Noah feels the wave of embarrassment that had threatened to overwhelm him dissipate.

“I can’t deny that you’re not the first, but I must admit, I’m flattered.” You whisper, tilting your head and brushing your nose against the column of his neck. You’re almost reluctant to move, savoring the warmth of his presence against you and the delicate scent of his cologne that tickles your senses.

Unbeknownst to you, Noah shares your sentiments. He’s completely intoxicated and makes no effort to move you from his lap or even release his possessive grip on your throat and chest. When one of them sinks away, it’s the one on your chest, slowly descending to rest on your stomach, his thumb moving in gentle circles against your skin.

If any post-nut clarity should prompt him to leave, it hasn’t manifested yet.

You’re the first one to shift, reluctantly pulling yourself away from his chest and bending forward to adjust the strap of your heel. As you do, the lace from the lingerie you’re wearing rises up, which hangs further down your back than your front. Noah’s eyes briefly flicker down to the newly exposed skin, and a breath catches in his throat at the sight of a familiar tattoo.

You hear him say your name, your real name—not the stage name you use in this club—and it makes your head turn and your brow perk up.

Standing, you look down at him, taking him in properly as you begin to scan his familiar facial features. Granted, he was much younger when you knew him—a lot younger, with much longer hair—but a closer look reveals that his features still look the same—that same familiar Virginia boy you once knew.

“Noah?” You utter his name as if it’s your first realization, as if you hadn’t mentioned it just moments ago while grinding against him.

As he stands, you notice his height—he appears even taller and more imposing now, having grown out of his skinny boyhood.

Reaching out a hand towards your face, he hesitantly grasps the corner of the mask that obscures half of your face and lifts it, revealing the rest of it to him and recognition flashes across his eyes. “It’s you…” his voice softens, and the corner of his mouth twitches, threatening to break out into a smile as he feels the familiar thumping in his chest.

“Yes, it’s me,” you softly laugh, feeling the gentle touch of his knuckles against your cheek.

To Noah, everything becomes clear; the irresistible attraction, the magnetic pull, the way his mind constantly revolved around thoughts centered around you—a once mysterious stranger, when no one else here had caught his attention in that manner, it was because there was something profound, something that had always been there; you were the one who got away.

“Perhaps we should consider taking this reunion somewhere else.” You suggest, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

“Oh, Absolutely.”

#anon ask 💕#bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian smut #bad omens smut #noah thots #concretejunglefm fics #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfic #bad omens fanfic

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thestarsaboveme · 1 month ago

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Lads men x Reader who's really into horror movies

masterlist

this was a request from a kind anon.

summary: reader who really likes horror movies.

rafayel | zayne | sylus | caleb

xavier x reader | fluff

The screen flickers in the darkened living room, casting long shadows over the blanket you've wrapped yourself in. The volume is low, hut how you like it when rewatching a horror movie for the sixth time. No, seventh? So you can better hear the scrawl of your pen in your notebook.

Well ''notebook'' might be generous. It's a Frankenstein monster of paper and tape, post-its and torn film pamphlets, a few dried flower petals. From Midsommar night, you tell people. Xavier had looked…concerned. And at least one coffee stain shaped suspiciously like that one slashers mask you had seen a couple nights ago.

Xavier lounges on the far end of the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped along the back. He's watching you, not the screen.

''Alright,'' he murmurs, voice deep and velvety in the low light, ''what's the kill count now?''

You glance up with a distracted smile, flipping a page filled with messy annotations and a crude sketch of the film's main set. ''Four so far, but technically it's five if you count the dog. And I do. You have to count the dog.''

He chuckles under his breath. ''Of course.''

''Also, okay, listen,'' you shift to face him fully, your chunky book resting open on your lap, ''the director, knew what he was doing with that mirror shot. It's not just for cheap tension. It's a metaphor.''

''For…?''

''For the fractured self! The protagonist is literally split between who they think they are and the monster they might become. It's so good. You can see it in the way the lighting shifts every time they walk past a reflective surface. It's subtle, but intentional. I have notes on the cinematographer's techniques somewhere in…wait…'' You begin flipping pages rapidly.

Xavier leans over slightly, eyes scanning the mass of scribbled ink, ticket stubs, and what might be a grocery list that says ''garlic (not vampire-related, real-life needs) in bold letters.

''You know,'' he says softly, with the kind of fond amusement that makes your heart thump, ''you ramble about murder and psychological horror with the same tone most people use to talk about puppies.''

You freeze. ''Is that…weird?''

''No.'' His answer was instant, gentle. ''It's you.''

You blink.

''Besides,'' he adds, reaching to tug a yellowed corner of a loose page back into the notebook, ''I think it's kind of adorable, how much you care about the craft. The way your eyes light up when you explain things. It's…warm.''

You look at him, and for a moment the only sound is the TV. ''Even when I talk about dismemberment theory in Hereditary?''

He smiles. ''Especially then.''

A beat.

''I can keep going?'' you ask, hopeful.

He tilts his head back against the couch and closes his eyes like he's listening to a lullaby. ''I'm all ears.''

And so, you do. You ramble about camera angles symbolism, quote obscure interviews, compare thematic motifs across horror eras. All while your chunky little notebook rests between you like a bridge, pages fluttering like wings. Xavier doesn't interrupt. He just listens, smiles, and once in a while, adds a quiet, ''Tell me more.''

In that quiet room, between shadows on screen and the soft hum of your voice, Xavier finds something scarier than any movie.

He's falling. And he doesn't want to stop.

#lads #lnds #love and deepspace #xavier #lads x reader #lnds x reader #love and deepspace x reader #xavier x reader #lads fluff #lnds fluff #love and deepspace fluff #xavier fluff

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painted-bees · 3 months ago

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sad ace hours over here. Maybe Raf can relate: has he ever felt like garbage for not finding his partner hot or sexy or whatever? Has he ever felt like he was robbing them of an important part of their relationship?

Oh no, anon Q nQ I am reaching through the computer screen with a hot, comforting beverage of your choice and much love.

Raf takes...a while to come to terms with the idea that a may...probably be ace, as he'd need to see a lot more people talking about it before he's even convinced that it's a thing. So, with that context, he--yeah, actually, haha. Less so with Margie because she's extremely communicative. But in his past relationships, his lack of sexual attraction was typically obscured to him by other forms of attraction that, in certain contexts, he would misinterpret as the bog standard sexual attraction that everyone feels. Confusingly, his attraction in romantic relationships rarely served any sexual motivations when he actually needed it to--and this had led him to assume that he was just... really fickle; some days, he was "in love" with his partner and other days, he really wasn't--and that's just the way he was. It always feels bad when a partner is trying to make moves and be sexy, and he has to mask his disinterest. He's a born and raised performer, so he can play a fair gig, but it felt dishonest to him, and he'd have definitely served time in his own mind wondering if he should keep "pretending" that he loves them when he clearly isn't feeling that fabled "spark" abt them.

But then, later, they do or say something smart/clever/funny typical of themselves and he'll think "no, I definately do love them, I'm just being weird abt it idk". Again, attributing it to being "fickle."

In his relationship with Alex, they were basically still kids [college kids are kids don't fite me on this] and Alex wasn't really observant enough to notice when Raf was kinda checked out and playing a script haha.

But Lacey sure fuckin' did. Lacey could tell the difference between a genuine Raf smile and a performed smile. And she haaated being on the receiving end of Raf's cordial performances. If he wasn't going to love her "for real" then she needed him to just not fuckin' bother. And this resulted in fights [a lot of things between them resulted in fights kfkd]. In some ways, it felt a lot worse that she wouldn't let him act out the part when she was able to clock it as a performance. But that's kinda because the performance itself is a guesture of love in its own right. Not an act of conciet [and he doesn't really figure that out himself until his relationship with Margie tbf].

His relationship with Lace was bad for a lot of reasons [they were both just...awful to one another in equal measures], but she really did make him feel like there was something deeply, distressingly, fundamentally wrong about his capacity to love sometimes. Like he'd never be able to fully love someone the way they deserved [and he blamed his upbringing for this, not his sexuality, rip].

His relationship with Margie is the first relationship he's had where he feels like...an emotionally mature adult lmao and the things about himself that he still needs to figure out, they're able to figure it out together. Again, Margie's compulsion towards transparency and her need to communicate all things has benefitted him hugely, even if he is naturally more of a "keep things close to the chest" sort of person himself. It leads them to little moments like this one that allows Raf the chance to be honest with her about what he is and isn't feeling, and for her to affirm that she understand where he's coming from and just wants to meet him where he's at [knowing well that the same is true vice versa].

#love is love is love is love.#when its good hot sexiness need not even apply #Hi-Note #Rafael #Magritte

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ask-the-rag-dolly · 1 year ago

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ok the askbox is open. im taking this opportunity to say ohhhhh im going crazy over the narrative constructed here. specifically with how audience (anon) interaction is intertwined with the main conflict.

because its like.. we are inherently a BAD THING. yes, some of us are actually malicious, but even if we do have kind intentions, and only want the best for ragatha.. just being there is a negative impact that outweighs any positives. we are a parasite, after all. and technically, the only positive action we could do is to simply.. stop engaging. leave the askblog alone. leave ragatha alone. except we could never do that, because we're too curious now, too attached- we want to see how the story continues, how it ends. we cant leave well enough alone, we just have to know. we need to know. so the cycle will continue nonetheless due to our nature. and we have to watch as our main character, the person we're rooting for, gets worse and worse. knowing that its our fault, because we're choosing to engage. we're choosing this path of pain. because we're curious, and that curiosity would kill us if we didn't feed it.

and of course its on a tadc tumblr ask blog of all things lol. no hate btw. im here enjoying it after all! though honestly i say that like this had any opportunity of existing outside of the askblog genre... or even the tumblr landscape itself- i feel like the anon feature itself is also a big part of this sort of narrative, as it allows those actively malicious anons to be even nastier. because it distances us from our actions. like.. we're given a mask, something that obscures our true identities (both to the other askers.. and to ragatha to an extent, as most all look the same to her. who knows, maybe that one supportive anon trying to cheer her up is the same one also encouraging her downfall! she cant tell!)- a thing that wipes our hands free of any consequences. a chance to become faceless and untraceable- so of course some people will indulge. be as horrible as possible. because, hey, its not like you'll be getting any consequences for it! no way to trace it back to you! no way to be held accountable! you can just sit back and watch the fire you made grow higher. more bright. thats the main goal, after all- to make a spectacle! to move the story along and make it exciting! thats the only thing that matters to you. that its entertaining. not the people you'll be harming in the process.

anyways sorry for the fucking. essay. in your askbox. i like talking and also i fucking love dissecting meta-aligned narratives like this. gggrrggrgrgrrrr chewing on this blog like a chewtoy. i hope everyone gets worse and this whole blog blows up!!!!!!!

i can't stop giggling at ' its on a tadc tumblr ask blog of all things ' . this was really originally supposed to just be a silly blog with little story but here we are . you really won't get this anywhere else

i get pretty happy when someone dissects this silly thing so no need to apologize !! i'm my own harshest critic when it comes to this blog so it's often difficult for me to grasp what meaning people get out of this lol truly thank you guys for wanting to see my insane , Unhinged ideas come through

and i love the dissection on the mean anons - a lot of this thing hinges on actions having consequences after all ! every little thing will have an impact on ragatha's mental state . i'll say i think the anons have potential to not be as harmful - as there was a point in the blog's time where they acted more like inner therapists to ragatha than reality-bending beings of chaos ( good times ) . it just really depends on being patient with an actually mentally ill person like ragatha - it does fascinate me how people's frustration with her echoes real life mental health situations .

but yeah thanks !!! i'll be kissing this essay and pinning it on the refrigerator that i call my brain (:

#[ ooc ]

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mistydeyes · 2 years ago

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Hello! How would the task force 141 members and los vaqueros react(?) to a fem reader who is a lot like Ghost? By that I mean in terms of appearance (I hc him as a blonde with blue eyes) and personality. I imagine that others would think that Ghost has a twin sister who he never mentioned. Feel free to ignore if it's too specific or anything.

I happen to be similar to Simon in terms of my appearance (although his appearance is hc'd) and even my name. My name's Simona (⁠´⁠-⁠﹏⁠-⁠`⁠；⁠)

anon plz that’s so funny ur genderbent simon! I loved this request and had a lot of fun with it :) Peep the little pharmacist cameo in Soap’s part!

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

You’re the newest addition to the 141, a joint decision by Laswell and Captain Price. You came from selection and were known for your specialties in sniping from near-impossible distances and your silent takedowns. You gained the name, Bones, based on how you left your many enemies lying at your feet. When you first met the team, you didn’t think much about your resemblance to the Lieutenant but loved some of their reactions (to most to least shocked).

Price

The captain is relatively unfazed. He picked you based on your merit and your lengthy resume. The recommendations about your takedowns on the field and weapons handling were a nice touch. He can’t deny the resemblance when Laswell first brings you to the team. You shook his hand confidently and he looked into your blue eyes, one’s that suspiciously resembled Ghost’s. “Nice to meet you,” he responded, “heard they call you Bones.” You nodded in response and he led you to meet the team. He appreciated your quiet demeanor, you’d offer a much-needed reprieve to his other chatty sergeants. “You’ll fit in well here, Sergeant,” he said and introduced you to the rest of his squad. Throughout the entire Graves and Hassan fiasco, he keeps his conspiracies quiet. That is until he celebrates with Laswell and the rest of the 141 and drunkenly asks her, “So how did you track down Simon’s sister?”

Alejandro

Similar to Price, Alejandro could’ve cared less. When he greets you, Soap, and Ghost as you get off the plane, he just assumes the resemblance is a coincidence. Throughout your time in Las Alma’s, you didn’t make much conversation and listened to his and Ghost’s orders intently. It wasn’t until the pestering of Rudy and seeing your sniping style during the Dark Water mission that makes him think you might be related. As you provided overwatch on the oil rig, he takes this time to ask. “Hey, can I ask you a quick question, Bones?” he whispers as your eyes are focused through the scope. “Sure Colonel, what do you want to know?” you respond. “Are you and Ghost related?” he asks bluntly and you can’t help but laugh. “No Alejandro, I promise you we aren’t,” you say and he never follows up, having his answer.

Rudy

Now we’re getting to the more shocked reactions. When Rudy sees you exiting the plane into the Las Almas heat, he can’t help but look at both you and Ghost. Something about your quiet and commanding demeanor to your blonde hair and blue eyes, makes him suspicious. Especially when he sees your light eyelashes, he just can feel in his heart that you and Ghost are related. He eyes you in the backseat, wedged in between Soap and Ghost, as they talk about the interesting political climate of the town. He even makes sure to lock eyes with you when he says that Ghost fits perfectly in the town. He just wants to ask if you’re his sibling, even his twin, but Alejandro stops him from prying. When he sees your sniping skills on the field, he comments to Alejandro, “Todo lo que necesita es una máscara.”

Translation

“Todo lo que necesita es una máscara” - “All she needs is a mask”

Gaz

When you first walked onto the base to meet the team, Gaz did a double take. While you didn’t have a mask obscuring your face, your light eyelashes and blue eyes were uncanny. He immediately looked at Ghost and accused him of using his familial ties to get you on his unit. He was embarrassed when his Lieutenant reprimanded him for the accusation and said you weren’t related. He tries to drop it but a part of his brain keeps him from letting it go. Eventually, as you are sitting on the plane to Chicago, he asks you personally. “Hey Bones, I just have to know before we die,” he begins to ask and you laugh a little at his nihilism. “Spit it out Gaz, stop being such a pessimist,” you reply and eye the man. “Are you sure your mum never shagged Ghost’s dad?” he asks. Before he has time to say anything more, you quickly deliver a punch to his shoulder which shuts him up.

Soap

Despite the verbal beatdown Gaz got, Soap still has a conspiracy theory that you’re Ghost’s twin. In fact, he even gets in trouble when he tries to convince the pharmacist to relinquish your medical file and family history. “Just ask them yourself, Sergeant, and stop asking me to violate HIPAA!” she yelled before kicking him out of the pharmacy. Despite all this, Soap will try to put all the pieces together about you and your “sibling.” He is relentless during the slow days at the base and on surveillance missions. “Are you SURE you weren’t separated by birth?” he pestered you on the comms. You rolled your eyes and looked as Ghost as you saw the Scotsman navigate El Sin Nombre’s base. “Shut up MacTavish!” you growled back and he stopped. At least for that day. You and Ghost take great care when you’re sent to spar with him. But be warned, he will make sure to note your clear similar fighting styles.

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Bonus! Ghost

Of course Ghost had heard of you, he likes to keep tabs on rising talent in the SAS. He tried to suppress the surprise when he finally saw you in person. He couldn’t deny that the rumors of your relation had some merit. Regardless, he kept this surprise secret and did his best to keep his team and the Los Vaqueros in line. But when he fell asleep at night, he would feel a pang of hurt as your face flashed in his mind. Why did you have to look like his late mother?

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